Mma Makutsi’s spectacles caught the light. “Hah!” she said. “That is something that can turn you upside down. Upside down. Like that.”
“Well it did for me,” said Susan. “As I told you, I wasn’t very happy when we went off to Saskatoon. And I wasn’t happy all through high school there. I didn’t fit in, you see—the others had all grown up together, so I was the outsider. And so I was quite happy to go away to college, which I did when I was eighteen. I thought that would be a new beginning and it was, I suppose. I met new people. I made friends. My whole world opened out.”
Mma Makutsi nodded. “When I came to the Botswana Secretarial College…,” she began. But Mma Ramotswe looked at her, and she stopped.
“I went to university in a place called Kingston,” said Susan. “And I was happy there. Then I met a young man and I fell in love with him. I had never imagined what it was like to fall in love, Mma; I had no idea. I could only think of him, just of him, all the time. Nothing else mattered.”
“That is what it is like,” muttered Mma Makutsi. “It is a very strange feeling.”
“You were lucky,” said Mma Ramotswe. She hesitated. “As long as…as long as he loved you back.”
“That is very important,” said Mma Makutsi. “If you fall in love and the other person does not notice you, you can feel very, very sad.”
“He did,” said Susan. “He felt the same way. He told me that. We were very happy.”
Mma Ramotswe shifted in her seat. She was beginning to feel anxious about this story. Was Susan expecting her to find this young man who had disappeared from her life? If so, how did Botswana come into it? Had the young man come here for some reason?
“You were very fortunate, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi.
“I was,” said Susan. “But I’m afraid it did not work out as I hoped it would. We went to Toronto together and we lived there for a few years and then…well, then, I’m afraid he went off with somebody else. And that was that.”
“I’m very sorry,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“And I’m sorry too,” said Mma Makutsi.
Susan turned to smile at Mma Makutsi. “You’re very kind. Thank you. But that is not what I’ve come to see you about. I haven’t come here to tell you about that.”
They waited. Through the wall, from the garage, there came the sound of metal striking metal.
“There is a garage next door,” explained Mma Ramotswe. “It is my husband’s. Sometimes they make a noise.”
“Sometimes a very big noise,” added Mma Makutsi. “This is not much of a noise.”
The metallic sound stopped.
“There,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We can talk again.”
Susan took her cue. “I decided to come back to Botswana,” she said, “because I’d been so happy here. I wanted to see the place I loved so much. I wanted to see some of the people.”
Mma Ramotswe wrote on her pad: Place. People.
“May I show you a photograph, Mma Ramotswe?”
Susan dug into the handbag she was carrying and extracted a black-and-white photograph. It was a large print, the size of a paperback book, and its edges were scuffed. As she passed it to Mma Ramotswe, Mma Makutsi rose from her chair and came to look over her shoulder.
“That is me when I was about seven,” said Susan. “And that lady was the nurse my parents engaged to help look after me. She was called Rosie. She had a Setswana name, but I’m afraid I don’t know what it was.” She looked apologetic. “I wish I could ask my parents—they might have known, but my mother died, you see, a few years back and my father…well, his memory is very weak now—he’s in a home. He can’t remember much about Botswana.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded sympathetically. “It is very sad to lose your world.”
Susan pointed to the photograph. “You see her face?”
Mma Ramotswe peered at the photograph. A young girl wearing a faded frock, barefoot, stood beside a woman somewhere in her late twenties—or so it seemed; it was difficult enough, even in the flesh, to tell ages with faces that did not line; harder yet with a photograph such as this, which was blurred. It was as if a filter had been placed across it, softening the edges, draining definition. Mma Ramotswe could tell that the woman was a Motswana—there was something familiar about the face, the bone structure, that enabled her to recognise a kinswoman.
The woman was smiling—not in the strained way in which people may smile in photographs, told to do so by the photographer, but in the natural way of one who wants to smile; who is happy; who is with somebody she loves.
“You were fond of that woman?” asked Mma Makutsi.
“Very,” said Susan. “Very, very fond. She was like a second mother to me.”
“That can happen,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is why it is a fortunate thing to have a nursemaid. You have one mother, and then you have another mother.”
Susan reached out to touch the photograph. Mma Ramotswe noticed the gentleness—the reverence—with which she did this. And she thought of the photograph that she kept in the living room at Zebra Drive—the photograph of her late father, Obed Ramotswe, and of what it meant to her. The photographs of late people had a power beyond that of the photographs of those who were still with us…She stopped. This woman, this Rosie, was not necessarily late; and that, Mma Ramotswe realised, was why Susan was here.
“You want me to find this lady?” she asked, tapping the photograph. “That is why you are here, Mma?”
Susan reached out to reclaim the photograph. “If you can, Mma. But I also want you to find out other things. There was a girl I was at school with—I have her full name. And the house we lived in—I don’t have an address for it, and when I went to look for it I couldn’t work out which one it was. I’d like you to find that. And a few other things too.”
“Your life in Botswana?” said Mma Makutsi. “You want us to find the life you lost? Is that it, Mma?”
Susan took a few moments to answer. Then she said, “I suppose it is. I suppose that’s exactly what I want.” She paused, and looked anxiously first at Mma Ramotswe and then at Mma Makutsi. “You don’t think that foolish, do you? You don’t think it ridiculous to come here and try to find a past that took place a long time ago? Thirty years, in fact.”
Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “Not at all, Mma. You should hear some of the things we are asked to do—then you’d realise that your request is not at all foolish.”
“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “We have been asked to do far stranger things than this. There was this man who came in, Mma, and he asked us—”
There was a warning glance from Mma Ramotswe.
“We must be careful of confidentiality, Mma Makutsi.” And to Susan she said, “You can be assured, Mma, that we will not talk about your case to anybody.”
“Except when necessary,” interjected Mma Makutsi. “There may be circumstances in which we have to reveal something in order to get further information. There was a case once where this man had asked us to watch his wife because she was taking so many lovers, and we—”
“Exactly,” Mma Ramotswe cut in. “Confidentiality is very important, Mma.”
“I have nothing to hide, anyway,” said Susan.
“That is good,” said Mma Makutsi. “We have had clients in here with a lot to hide, Mma—I can tell you. In fact, there was—”
“Mma Makutsi!” said Mma Ramotswe.
“In fact, there was a case I cannot tell you about,” concluded Mma Makutsi. “But it was definitely a case of that sort.”
Susan leaned forward in her chair. “So you’ll be able to help me, Mma Ramotswe?”
Mma Ramotswe did not hesitate. “Of course, I shall try, Mma.”
Susan expressed her gratitude. “You have made me very happy,” she said.
But Mma Ramotswe was cautious. “Try to help you, Mma…try to help you. I cannot guarantee anything. Thirty years, you see, is a long time.”
“I know that,” said Susan. “But we can try, can’t we?”
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“Of course we can, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “If we didn’t try, then we would get nothing done.”
“That is very true,” said Susan.
“Mma Ramotswe often says things that are true,” said Mma Makutsi. “She is a very truthful lady, you see.” And then she added, “That is well known.”
“That is why I came here,” said Susan quietly. “For the truth.”
CHAPTER FOUR
MR. POLOPETSI’S GREAT IDEA
THEIR CONVERSATION WITH SUSAN lasted until shortly after twelve. At that point, with instructions taken and having agreed to see her again in two days’ time, Mma Ramotswe left Mma Makutsi in charge of the office. She was to meet Mma Potokwane for lunch, out at the Orphan Farm—an engagement that the two of them had every few weeks. The meeting always took the same form, with the two of them visiting one of the housemothers to have lunch with the children, and, after that, sharing a cup of tea in Mma Potokwane’s office. That involved an exchange of information; Mma Potokwane was always keen to hear of the latest cases—always anonymised, of course, to preserve the client’s confidence. She also liked to hear the latest observations from Mma Makutsi and news of Fanwell, of Charlie, and of the garage. In return she brought Mma Ramotswe up to date on orphanage affairs, on the activities of the Tlokweng council, and on the bulletins Mma Potokwane received from her extensive network of friends and relatives throughout Botswana. Had anybody ever compared Mma Potokwane’s briefings of Mma Ramotswe with those that the government of Botswana received from its intelligence services, there may have been little to distinguish the two in terms of reach, complexity, and accuracy.
“So, Mma Ramotswe,” Mma Potokwane announced as her friend knocked on her office door. “I have been sitting here thinking When will my good friend Mma Ramotswe arrive for lunch? and even as I think that, I hear your knock on the door.”
“And I have been thinking, What good things will my friend Mma Potokwane have arranged for us to have for lunch?”
“I’ve spoken to one of the housemothers,” said Mma Potokwane. “She will be cooking goat. And there will be plenty.”
They left the office and made their way to one of the cottages behind the main buildings. Each of these cottages, neat red-roofed buildings, was home to eight children looked after by a housemother. She cooked for the children, ironed their clothes, bathed them, dealt with their nightmares, wiped away tears, and made up, as far as was humanly possible, for the loss that each of the children had suffered.
Mma Kentse, the housemother, greeted them at the entrance and led them into the living room. A table had been laid for six, three places for the adults and three at the end for the older children, the younger children having already been fed. Once they were seated, one of the children, a girl of ten, fetched a pot from the kitchen and placed it on the table. Mma Ramotswe sniffed appreciatively at the aroma of the stew. Goat was one of her favourites, but it was not a dish that they had very often at Zebra Dive, as Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was indifferent to it, preferring chicken, even if it were served every day for an entire week.
They joined hands as Mma Potokwane said grace, their eyes lowered.
“This good food is given to us by the land,” she said. “There are many who do not have this and we think of them now. And we think, too, of the mothers and fathers of these children who are gathered to the Lord and who are at his table today. They are looking down on their children here, and they are pleased that their children have a full plate. So we give thanks.”
Mma Ramotswe glanced at the girl who had brought the pot to the table. She was seated next to her and she saw that she was wearing a thin bracelet of knotted wool, home-made. Her heart went out to her. She knew what it was not to have a mother, but she, at least, had had her father; how could any child bear the loss of both? The girl was staring at her plate; now, she raised her eyes, and for a moment looked directly at Mma Ramotswe, who smiled and gently took her hand under the table, squeezing it in encouragement.
The three children at the table had been told to speak to Mma Ramotswe about their schoolwork. She heard of how they were drawing a map of Botswana with all the roads outlined in red and with contour lines to show the heights of hills. They were learning cookery and carpentry; they had been taught all about birds and their habitats.
“You are learning all the things you need to know,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You will know a lot by this time next year.”
“There is always more to learn,” said Mma Potokwane. “I am still learning things.”
“But you must know everything, Mma,” said one of the children.
“I wish that were true,” said Mma Potokwane, smiling. “I shall be happy if I eventually know as much as Mma Ramotswe.”
The goat was every bit as delicious as Mma Ramotswe had expected; pressed to do so by the combined forces of Mma Potokwane and Mma Kentse, she had three helpings before the pot was carried back to the kitchen.
“Three helpings is not too much,” said Mma Potokwane. “It is a vote of confidence in the cook. It is a compliment.”
The children left to do the washing-up and then, after a short discussion with Mma Kentse about one of the children who was new to the house and who was having difficulty settling, Mma Potokwane and Mma Ramotswe returned to the office for the post-lunch cup of tea.
“She is a good housemother, that one,” said Mma Ramotswe.
Mma Potokwane agreed. “Whenever I hear people say that the country is going to the dogs—and there are such people, you know, Mma…”
“Oh, I know that,” agreed Mma Ramotswe. “There are always people who say that things are getting worse and that the old ways are disappearing…” She paused. She was one of those people, she realised; not that she said that all the time, but she did occasionally say that, because it was so obviously true. Things were changing; she had noticed that a long time ago, and other people had noticed it too. People were less concerned about other people, less prepared to help them, not so ready to listen to them. Did that mean that things were getting worse? Well, in her view it did—at least as far as those matters were concerned; in other respects, things were undoubtedly getting better. People had more of a chance in life no matter where they came from; those who worked for other people had more rights, were protected against the cruelty that employers could show in the past. That was an improvement. And the hospitals were better, and school bullies found it a bit harder to bully people; and there were fewer cruel nicknames; and fewer power cuts just when you wanted to cook the evening meal.
She looked at Mma Potokwane. The matron was staring up at the ceiling, and Mma Ramotswe realised that her friend was probably thinking exactly the same thoughts that she was, even if she had made the original comment about people saying that things were getting worse.
“Of course,” mused Mma Potokwane, “you might say…”
Mma Ramotswe waited, but the sentence remained unfinished, hanging in the air like an immense question mark over the state of the world.
“You might say,” Mma Ramotswe suggested, “that in some ways—just in some ways, Mma—things are going to the dogs.”
“Maybe the dogs don’t want it that way,” said Mma Potokwane. “Maybe the dogs say: Why are they giving all this to us, when we are just dogs and we have enough to do scratching ourselves for fleas and looking for things to eat? Maybe that is what the dogs are thinking, Mma.”
They both laughed.
“What I was going to say, Mma Ramotswe,” continued Mma Potokwane, “is that even if some people say that things are becoming worse—and I’m not saying they don’t have their reasons for thinking that—there are some things that are not changing.” She paused to take a sip of her tea. “And one of those things is the women of this country. We are still making women like that housemother—like Mma Kentse. Those ladies are still here, Mma.”
“I am very glad,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“So when I put an advertisement in the paper for a housemother, I am over
whelmed by the replies, Mma. Thirty, forty ladies apply—sometimes as many as fifty. And when I interview them, almost every single one of them has what it takes to be a housemother. Would you believe that, Mma Ramotswe?”
Mma Ramotswe had heard of the large numbers of people who applied for jobs, and she wondered how employers managed to select from such a wide field. Was everyone interviewed? And even if that happened, how did one distinguish one applicant from another when they all probably had roughly the same qualifications?
She asked Mma Potokwane how she made her selection.
“It is very difficult,” replied the matron. “You have thirty ladies—all wanting an interview. You cannot speak to them for very long.”
“No, you cannot do that. That would take days.”
“Weeks,” said Mma Potokwane. “Because they all like talking in an interview. And they want to show you how well they can cook. They go on and on about their recipes. And their children. They tell you about their children so that you will know what a good mother they are. Some of them bring the children to the interview and the child starts telling you why her mother should get the job. That is a very difficult situation, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe could imagine that. She felt glad that she had never had to interview anybody for a job. When Mma Makutsi was appointed, it was she—Mma Ramotswe—who had been interviewed by Mma Makutsi, not the other way round. And other people who had worked for the agency—such as Mr. Polopetsi—had been taken on without an interview because she felt sorry for them.
“So do you look at references?” she asked.
Mma Potokwane looked thoughtful. “Sometimes references are useful, but only if they tell the truth. Most references, I’m afraid, are not very truthful.”
“And why is that, Mma?”
“Because people are too kind,” said Mma Potokwane. “People do not like to write unkind things about other people. So they say that this person is very good at her job and shows plenty of initiative, and so on. They say that she is a quick learner and has been a great asset to the company. They say that everybody in the office likes her. They say all these things, Mma, because a person who works for you is often like your child—you feel you have a duty to say nice things.”