In the Company of Cheerful Ladies Read online

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni said nothing for a moment. He did not appear to be rejecting the idea out of hand, and so Mma Ramotswe continued.

  “There is somebody I met who is looking for a job,” she said. “I would like to try him out. We could take him for a month maybe, and see how he does. If he is good, then he might be able to help us both.”

  “Who is this person?” asked Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “Do you know anything about him?”

  “He is a person I happened to bump into,” said Mma Ramotswe, and then laughed. “Or I would have bumped into him if he had not swerved on his bicycle.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sighed. “You do not have to give him a job just because you almost knocked him over. You do not have to do that.”

  “I know that. And that is not the reason.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni lifted up his mug and drained it of the last of his bush tea. “And do you know anything about him?” he asked. “What was his last job? How did he lose it?”

  Mma Ramotswe thought carefully. She could not lie to her husband, but she realised that if she revealed that the man had been in prison, then it would be extremely unlikely that he would agree to employ him. They would then be no different from everybody else who was refusing to give him work because of his past. He would never get a job in these circumstances.

  “I do not know exactly what happened,” she said, truthfully. “But I shall ask him to speak to you himself. Then he could explain what happened.”

  It was some time before Mr J.L.B. Matekoni replied, but after a period, during which he seemed deep in reflection, he agreed to speak to the man when he came to collect his bicycle. This was all that Mma Ramotswe wanted. Now, with their tea finished, she thought that they might take a short stroll around the garden, in the last of the afternoon light, and discuss the other problem that needed to be resolved—the Charlie problem.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A TEA DISASTER … AND WORSE

  T HERE WAS an unusually large pile of mail awaiting them the next morning at the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. Letters for both businesses were opened in the same office, Mma Ramotswe normally dealing with those addressed to the agency and Mma Makutsi going through the garage mail. It was their policy to reply immediately to everything, and this often took up much of the morning. People wrote to the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency about all sorts of things, and with impossible requests. Some of them were under the impression that they were a branch of the police force and made allegations against others, usually anonymously. There was one such letter that morning.

  “Dear Mma Ramotswe,” it read, “I saw an article about you in the Botswana Daily News. It said that you are the only ladies’ detective agency in Botswana. Men will not deal with this thing, and so that is why I am writing to you. I want to bring to your notice something that is happening in our village. I have not been able to talk about this thing to anybody here, because there are many people who would not believe me and would only say that I am lying and trying to make trouble. I wish to complain about some teachers at the school. They are always drinking and taking girl pupils to bars where they give them strong drink and make them dance with them. I have seen this thing myself many times, and I think that it is something which the police should deal with. But the police here are also dancing in these bars. So please will you do something about this. I cannot give you my real name and address because I know that they will threaten me if they hear about this. I am one such girl. That is how I know about this. Please do something.”

  Mma Ramotswe read the letter aloud to Mma Makutsi, who laid aside the spare-parts bill she was dealing with and listened attentively.

  “Well, Mma?” said Mma Ramotswe after she had finished. “What do we do about that?”

  “Which village is this?” asked Mma Makutsi. “We could pass it on to somebody. Maybe the district police superintendent, or somebody like that.”

  Mma Ramotswe studied the letter again, and sighed. “There is no address,” she said. “This girl has not told us where she is writing from.”

  “And the postmark?” Mma Makutsi enquired.

  “I cannot make it out,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is very indistinct. It could be anywhere. It could be out near Ghanzi for all we know. It could be somewhere very far away. There’s nothing we can do. Nothing.”

  They both stared at the simple, ruled letter which Mma Ramotswe was holding. It was a piece of paper in which a great deal of anxiety had been invested.

  “I am sure that this is true,” said Mma Ramotswe, as she reluctantly let the letter fall into the wastepaper bin. “I am sure that this thing is really happening. I have heard about the bad behaviour of some teachers these days. They have forgotten what it is to be a teacher. They have forgotten that they should be worthy of respect.”

  Mma Makutsi agreed with this, but that, she thought, was not the whole story. Teachers may have started behaving badly, like everybody else, but this was not altogether their fault. They now had to put up with children who had not been taught the basics of good behaviour, and it was difficult in such circumstances for the teachers to maintain discipline.

  “It is not always the teachers’ fault, Mma Ramotswe,” she said. “The children are very bad too these days.”

  They sat in silence for a moment. There had been no alternative but to dispose of the letter, but that did not make it any easier to do. That girl, wherever and whoever she was, would be looking for justice, for the restoration of the balance between right and wrong, and her pleas would continue to go unheard.

  Mma Ramotswe looked at the next letter on her desk and picked up her letter knife. “This is sometimes not a very easy job, is it?” she said.

  Mma Makutsi spread her hands in a gesture of resignation. “No, it is not easy, Mma.”

  “But we get by, don’t we?” Mma Ramotswe went on, more cheerfully. “Sometimes we are able to do something that helps somebody else. That’s the important thing. That makes our job a good one.”

  “Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “That is it. And you have helped me, Mma. I shall always remember that.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked surprised. “I don’t think I have, Mma. You have helped yourself.”

  Mma Makutsi shook her head. “No, you are the one who has helped me. You gave me this job and you kept me on even when we were not making any money. Remember that time? Remember how we had very few cases and you said that it didn’t matter and I could stay on? I thought that I was going to be out of a job then, but you were kind to me and promoted me. That’s what you did.”

  “You deserved it,” said Mma Ramotswe modestly.

  “I shall never forget,” said Mma Makutsi. “And I shall never forget how kind you were to me when my brother was called.”

  “You were good to your brother,” said Mma Ramotswe gently. “I saw what you did for him. He could not have wished for a better sister. And he is at peace now.”

  Mma Makutsi said nothing. She looked down at her desk, and then took off her large round spectacles and polished them with the threadbare lace handkerchief that she liked to carry. Mma Ramotswe glanced at her quickly, and then picked up the next letter and began to slit it open.

  “This looks like a bill,” she said, in a businesslike manner.

  WHEN THE TIME CAME for morning tea, they had replied to just about all the letters and sorted out all the bills, both outgoing and incoming.

  “This morning’s going very quickly,” said Mma Ramotswe, as she looked at her watch. “I am ready for tea.”

  Mma Makutsi agreed. She had a slight tendency to stiffness if she sat at her desk too long, and so she rose to her feet and rocked from side to side for a few moments, stretching her arms up and down as she did so. Then she turned round to get her tea-pot off the shelf behind her desk.

  Mma Ramotswe looked up sharply when she heard the exclamation.

  “My new tea-pot!” said Mma Makutsi. “Have you seen my tea-pot?”

  “It was on that shelf,” said Mma Ramotswe. �
��Next to the files.”

  “It is not there any longer,” said Mma Makutsi. “Somebody has stolen it.”

  “But who would steal it?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “Nobody has been in here since we locked up last.”

  “Well, where is it, then?” retorted her assistant. “Tea-pots don’t just walk. If it’s not here, then somebody has taken it.”

  Mma Ramotswe scratched her head. “Maybe Mr J.L.B. Matekoni took it to make himself some tea. He came in very early this morning—before I did. That must be what happened.”

  Mma Makutsi thought about this. It was just possible that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had moved the tea-pot, but it seemed unlikely. If he had wanted to make himself tea, then surely he would have used the normal tea-pot which Mma Ramotswe used. And what was more, she could not remember ever seeing him make tea himself, which again made the explanation somewhat unlikely.

  Mma Ramotswe had now got up from her chair and was making her way to the door.

  “Let’s go and ask,” she said. “I’m sure that it will turn up. Tea-pots don’t just vanish.”

  Mma Makutsi followed her out into the garage workshop. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, together with the two apprentices, was standing at the far side. He had in his hand a piece of an engine, and was pointing out something to the two young men, who were peering at the part with interest. As the two women came into the garage, he looked over in their direction.

  “Have you seen …” Mma Ramotswe began to call out, but then stopped. At the very same instant, she and Mma Makutsi had seen the tea-pot, sitting on top of an upturned oil drum.

  Mma Makutsi was smiling with relief. “There it is,” she said. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni must have made tea, as you said.”

  She walked over to the oil drum and picked up the tea-pot, only immediately to replace it on the surface of the drum. Watching her, Mma Ramotswe instantly knew that something was very wrong. She hurried over to join Mma Makutsi, who was standing in mute dismay, peering into the open top of the tea-pot.

  “Diesel oil,” Mma Makutsi muttered. “Somebody has filled it with diesel oil.”

  Mma Ramotswe bent down and sniffed at the tea-pot. The unmistakable smell of diesel was strong in her nostrils.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Who has done this? Who has done this?”

  She turned and looked at the three men. They stood there, two of them looking puzzled and a third looking sheepishly down at his overalls.

  “Charlie!” shouted Mma Ramotswe. “You come over here right now! Right now!”

  Charlie sauntered over, accompanied by Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.

  “What is all this?” asked Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, wiping his hands on a piece of cotton lint. “What is all this fuss?”

  “He’s put diesel oil in my new tea-pot,” wailed Mma Makutsi. “Why did he do that?”

  There was a defensive note in Charlie’s voice. “I was draining a tank,” he explained. “I had nothing to catch the diesel. So I found that thing in the office and it was empty. I thought I’d use it. Don’t worry, I’ll wash it.”

  “Can’t you see it’s a tea-pot?” snapped Mma Ramotswe. “Can’t you see even that?”

  “It is not the usual tea-pot,” said Charlie defiantly. “The tea-pot we use does not look like that.”

  “That’s because it’s my new tea-pot,” interjected Mma Makutsi. “You stupid, stupid boy. You are more stupid than a cow.”

  Charlie bristled at the insult. “Don’t you call me stupid, Mma. Just because you got ninety per cent.”

  “Ninety-seven per cent,” shouted Mma Makutsi. “You can’t even get that right. You are as stupid as a warthog.”

  “She must not call me a warthog,” Charlie protested to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “Boss, you cannot let this foolish woman call me a warthog. She is the warthog. A warthog with big round glasses.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni wagged a finger. “You must not say that, Charlie. You are the one who is in the wrong here. You put diesel oil in Mma Makutsi’s new tea-pot. That is not a clever thing to do.”

  Charlie took a deep breath. His eyes had widened now, and his nostrils were flaring slightly. It was clear that he was very angry.

  “I may be stupid,” he said. “But I am not stupid enough to stay in this useless garage. That’s it, Boss. I quit now. Right now.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni grasped the apprentice’s arm in an attempt to reassure him, but was brushed off. “But what about the apprenticeship?” he said quietly. “You cannot give that up.”

  “Oh, can’t I?” said Charlie. “You’ll see. I am not a slave, Boss. I am a free Motswana. I can go when I want. Now I am looked after by a friend. I have a rich friend. I have a Mercedes-Benz—have you not seen me? I do not have to work any more.”

  He turned away and started to unbutton his overalls. He then ripped these off, and threw them into a puddle of oil on the floor.

  “You cannot go,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “We can talk about this.”

  “No, I am not talking,” said Charlie. “I have had enough of being treated like a dog. I am going to have a better life now.”

  It had all been so sudden and so dramatic that it was difficult to take it all in. But after a few minutes, as they watched Charlie walking quickly away in the direction of the town, they realised that something serious and potentially irremediable had happened. They saw before them the ruins of a career; the wrecking of a life.

  MR J.L.B. MATEKONI sat astride the client’s chair in the office of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, his head sunk in his hands, his expression glum.

  “I have always tried very hard with that young man,” he said to Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi. “I really have. He has been with me now for two years, and I have worked and worked to make him into a good mechanic. And now this has happened.”

  “It is not your fault, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni,” said Mma Ramotswe reassuringly. “We know what you have done. We have seen it, haven’t we, Mma Makutsi?”

  Mma Makutsi nodded vigorously. She was particularly shocked by the apprentice’s outburst and wondered whether in the eyes of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and Mma Ramotswe she was responsible for his abrupt resignation and departure. It had been wrong of her, perhaps, to lose her temper with Charlie, and she regretted that, but at the same time there was the question of her new tea-pot and its ignominious fate as a receptacle for diesel oil. She doubted whether she would be able to get the smell of fuel out of it now, and tea was such a sensitive substance—the slightest contamination could make it taste peculiar. She had once been served tea out of a flask that had been regularly used for coffee, and she remembered how long the acrid, confusing taste had lingered in her mouth. But she would not have shouted at him like that if she had imagined that it would lead to this—the garage could ill afford the loss of one set of hands, particularly a trained set, if one could call Charlie’s hands that.

  “I’m very sorry,” she said quietly. “I should not have been so cross with him. I’m sorry. I did not think that he would run away like that.”

  Mma Ramotswe raised a hand to stop her. “You do not need to apologise, Mma,” she said firmly. “It was Charlie who called you a warthog. He had no right to say that. I shall not have the Assistant Detective at the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency called a warthog.”

  She looked at Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, as if to challenge him to defend the indefensible. It was true that Mma Makutsi had initiated the trade of insults, but that was only under the gravest provocation. Had Charlie apologised for ruining the tea-pot, then Mma Makutsi would surely not have spoken in the intemperate way in which she did speak.

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, it transpired, was of much the same view.

  “It is not Mma Makutsi’s fault at all,” he said simply. “It is just not her fault. That young man has been heading this way for some time. You told me only a little time ago about this woman of his. I was foolish and did not speak to him firmly. Now he has decided that he can give everything up just because his rich lady is running after him in her Mercedes-Be
nz. Oh dear! Those cars have a lot to answer for.”

  Mma Ramotswe nodded her head in vigorous agreement. “They do, Rra. They certainly do. They turn people’s heads, I think. That is what they do.”

  “And women turn heads too,” continued Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “Women turn the heads of young men and make them do silly things.”

  There was a short silence. Mma Makutsi was about to say something, but decided against it. It was arguable, she thought, whether women turned the heads of men any more than men turned the heads of women. She would have thought that responsibility was shared in that respect. But this was not the time to engage in debate on this issue.

  “So what do we do now?” asked Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “Should I go and try to talk to him tonight? Should I see if I can persuade him to come back?”

  Mma Ramotswe thought about this suggestion. If Mr J.L.B. Matekoni were to try to persuade the apprentice to return, it might work, but at the same time it could have dire consequences for his future behaviour. It was not right that an employer should run after a subordinate like that; that would mean that the young man could throw his weight around in the future because he would know that ultimately he could get away with anything. It would also give him the impression that he was in the right and Mma Makutsi was in the wrong, and that was simply unfair. No, she thought, if Charlie were to come back, it would have to be at his own request, and preferably accompanied by a proper apology to Mma Makutsi, not only for calling her a warthog but also for spoiling her tea-pot. In fact, he should probably be obliged to buy her a new tea-pot, but they would not press that aspect of the matter in these delicate circumstances. An apology, then, would suffice.

  She looked directly at Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I don’t think that is a good idea,” she said. “You are the boss. He is a young man who has run away from work after being rude to a superior. It would not look good, would it, if the boss were to run after the young man and beg him to come back? No, he should be allowed to come back, but only when he has said sorry.”