Morality for Beautiful Girls tn1lda-3

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Mma Ramotswe, with a show of reluctance, returned to her original rock, while Mr Sipoleli settled himself down.

  “I am drinking tea, Rra,” she said. “But I have enough for you. I would like you to have some, since I am sitting on your rock.”

  Mr Sipoleli smiled. “You are very kind, Mma. I love to drink tea. I drink a lot of tea in my office. I am a civil servant, you see.”

  “Oh?” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is a good job. You must be important.”

  Mr Sipoleli laughed. “No,” he said. “I am not at all important. I am a junior clerk. But I am lucky to be that. There are people with degrees being recruited into my level of job. I have my Cambridge Certificate, that is all. I feel that I have done well enough.”

  Mma Ramotswe listened to this as she poured his tea. She was surprised by what she had heard; she had expected a rather different sort of person, a minor official puffed up with his importance and eager for greater status. Here, by contrast, was a man who seemed to be quite content with what he was and where he had got himself.

  “Could you not be promoted, Rra? Would it not be possible to go further up?”

  Mr Sipoleli considered her question carefully. “I suppose it would,” he said after a few moments’ thought. “The problem is that I would have to spend a lot of time getting on the right side of more senior people. Then I would have to say the right things and write bad reports on my juniors. That is not what I would like to do. I am not an ambitious man. I am happy where I am, really I am.”

  Mma Ramotswe’s hand faltered in the act of passing him his tea. This was not at all what she had expected, and suddenly she remembered Clovis Andersen’s words of advice. Never make any prior assumptions, he had written. Never decide in advance what’s what or who’s who. This may set you off on the wrong track altogether.

  She decided to offer him a sandwich, which she pulled out of her plastic bag. He was pleased, but chose the smallest of the sandwiches; another indication, she thought, of a modest personality. The Mr Sipoleli of her imagining would have taken the largest sandwich without hesitation.

  “Do you have family in Gaborone, Rra?” she asked innocently.

  Mr Sipoleli finished his mouthful of corned beef before answering. “I have three daughters,” he said. “Two are nurses, one at the Princess Marina and the other out at Molepolole. Then there is my firstborn, who did very well at school and went to the university. We are very proud of her.”

  “She lives in Gaborone?” asked Mma Ramotswe, passing him another sandwich.

  “No,” he replied. “She is living somewhere else. She married a young man she met while she was studying. They live out that way. Over there.”

  “And this son-in-law of yours,” said Mma Ramotswe. “What about him? Is he good to her?”

  “Yes,” said Mr Sipoleli. “He is a very good man. They are very happy, and I hope that they have many children. I am looking forward to being a grandfather.”

  Mma Ramotswe thought for a moment. Then she said: “The best thing about seeing one’s children married must be the thought that they will be able to look after you when you are old.”

  Mr Sipoleli smiled. “Well, that is probably true. But in my case, my wife and I have different plans. We intend to go back to Mahalapye. I have some cattle there—just a few—and some lands. We will be happy up there. That is all we want.”

  Mma Ramotswe was silent. This patently good man was obviously telling the truth. Her suspicion that he could be behind a plot to kill his son-in-law was an absurd conclusion to have reached, and she felt thoroughly ashamed of herself. To hide her confusion, she offered him another cup of tea, which he accepted gratefully. Then, after fifteen minutes of further conversation about matters of the day, she stood up, dusted down her skirt, and thanked him for sharing his lunch hour with her. She had found out what she wanted to know, at least about him. But the meeting with the father also threw some doubt on her surmises as to the daughter. If the daughter was at all like the father, then she could not possibly be a poisoner. This good unassuming man was unlikely to have raised a daughter who would do a thing like that. Or was he? It was always possible for bad children to spring from the loins of good parents; it did not require much experience of life to realise that. Yet, at the same time, it tended to be unlikely, and this meant that the next stage of the investigation would require a considerably more open mind than had characterised the initial stage.

  I have learned a lesson, Mma Ramotswe told herself as she walked back to the tiny white van. She was deep in thought, and she barely noticed Mr Pilai, still standing outside the optician’s shop, gazing at the branches of the tree above his head.

  “I have been thinking about what you said to me, Mma,” he remarked, as she walked past. “It was a very thought-provoking remark.”

  “Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe, slightly taken aback. “And I am afraid I do not know what the answer is. I simply do not.”

  Mr Pilai shook his head. “Then we shall have to think about it some more,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We shall.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MMA POTOKWANE OBLIGES

  THE GOVERNMENT Man had given Mma Ramotswe a telephone number which she could use at any time and which would circumvent his secretaries and assistants. That afternoon she tried the number for the first time, and got straight through to her client. He sounded pleased to hear from her, and expressed his pleasure that the investigation had begun.

  “I would like to go down to the house next week,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Have you contacted your father?”

  “I have done that,” said the Government Man. “I have told him that you will be coming to stay for a rest. I told him that you have found many votes for me amongst the women and that I must repay you. You will be well looked after.”

  Details were agreed, and Mma Ramotswe was given directions to the farm, which lay off the Francistown Road, to the north of Pilane.

  “I am sure that you will find evidence of wickedness,” said the Government Man. “Then we can save my poor brother.”

  Mma Ramotswe was noncommittal. “We shall see. I can’t guarantee anything. I shall have to see.”

  “Of course, Mma,” the Government Man said hurriedly. “But I have complete confidence in your ability to find out what is happening. I know that you will be able to find evidence against that wicked woman. Let’s just hope that you are in time.”

  After the telephone call, Mma Ramotswe sat at her desk and stared at the wall. She had just taken a whole week out of her diary, and that meant that all the other tasks on her list were consigned to an uncertain future. At least she need not worry about the garage for the time being, nor indeed need she worry about dealing with enquiries at the agency. Mma Makutsi could do all that and if, as was increasingly often the case these days, she was under a car at the time, then the apprentices had been trained to answer the telephone on her behalf.

  But what about Mr J.L.B. Matekoni? That was the one really difficult issue which remained untouched, and she realised that she would have to do something quickly. She had finished reading the book on depression and she now felt more confident in dealing with its puzzling symptoms. But there was always a danger with that illness that the sufferer might do something rash—the book had been quite explicit about that—and she dreaded the thought of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni being driven to such extremes by his feelings of lowness and self-disesteem. She would have to get him to Dr Moffat somehow, so that treatment could begin. But when she had told him that he was to see a doctor, he had flatly refused. If she tried again, she would probably get the same response.

  She wondered whether there was any way of getting him to take the pills by trickery. She did not like the idea of using underhand methods with Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, but when a person’s reason was disturbed, then she thought that any means were justified in getting them better. It was as if a person had been kidnapped by some evil being and held ransom. You would not hesitate, she f
elt, to resort to trickery to defeat the evil being. In her view, that was perfectly in line with the old Botswana morality, or indeed with any other sort of morality.

  She had wondered whether she could conceal the tablets in his food. This might have been possible if she had been attending to his every meal, but she was not. He had stopped coming round to her house for his evening meal, and it would look very strange if she suddenly arrived at his house to cater for him. Anyway, she suspected that he was not eating very much in his state of depression—the book had warned about this—as he appeared to be losing weight quite markedly. It would be impossible, then, to administer the drugs to him in this way, even if she decided that this was the proper thing to do.

  She sighed. It was unlike her to sit and stare at a wall, and for a moment the thought crossed her mind that she, too, might be becoming depressed. But the thought passed quickly; it would be out of the question for Mma Ramotswe to become ill. Everything depended on her: the garage, the agency, the children, Mr J.L.B Matekoni, Mma Makutsi—not to mention Mma Makutsi’s people up in Bobonong. She simply could not afford the time to be ill. So she rose to her feet, straightened her dress, and made her way to the telephone on the other side of the room. She took out the small book in which she noted down telephone numbers. Potokwane, Silvia. Matron. Orphan Farm.

  MMA POTOKWANE was interviewing a prospective foster parent when Mma Ramotswe arrived. Sitting in the waiting room, Mma Ramotswe watched a small, pale gecko stalk a fly on the ceiling above her head. Both the gecko and the fly were upside down; the gecko relying on minute suction pads on each of its toes, the fly on its spurs. The gecko suddenly darted forward, but was too slow for the fly, which launched itself into a victory roll before settling on the windowsill.

  Mma Ramotswe turned to the magazines that littered the table. There was a Government brochure with a picture of senior officials. She looked at the faces—she knew many of these people, and in one or two cases knew rather more about them than would be published in Government brochures. And there was the face of her Government Man, smiling confidently into the camera, while all the time, as she knew, he was eaten up by anxiety for his younger brother and imagining plots against his life. “Mma Ramotswe?”

  Mma Potokwane had ushered the foster parent out and now stood looking down on Mma Ramotswe. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Mma, but I think I have found a home for a very difficult child. I had to make sure that the woman was the right sort of person.”

  They went into the matron’s room, where a crumb-littered plate bore witness to the last serving of fruitcake.

  “You have come about the boy?” asked Mma Potokwane. “You must have had an idea.”

  Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “Sorry, Mma. I have not had time to think about that boy. I have been very busy with other things.”

  Mma Potokwane smiled. “You are always a busy person.”

  “I’ve come to ask you a favour,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  “Ah!” Mma Potokwane was beaming with pleasure. “Usually it is I who do that. Now it is different, and I am pleased.”

  “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni is ill,” explained Mma Ramotswe. “I think that he has an illness called depression.”

  “Ow!” interrupted Mma Potokwane. “I know all about that. Remember that I used to be a nurse. I spent a year working at the mental hospital at Lobatse. I have seen what that illness can do. But at least it can be treated these days. You can get better from depression.”

  “I have read that,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But you have to take the drugs. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni won’t even see a doctor. He says he’s not ill.”

  “That’s nonsense,” said Mma Potokwane. “He should go to the doctor immediately. You should tell him.”

  “I tried,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He said there was nothing wrong with him. I need to get somebody to take him to the doctor. Somebody …”

  “Somebody like me?” cut in Mma Potokwane.

  “Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He has always done what you have asked him to do. He wouldn’t dare refuse you.”

  “But he’ll need to take the drugs,” said Mma Potokwane. “I wouldn’t be there to stand over him.”

  “Well,” mused Mma Ramotswe, “if you brought him here, you could nurse him. You could make sure that he took the drugs and became better.”

  “You mean that I should bring him to the orphan farm?”

  “Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Bring him here until he’s better.”

  Mma Potokwane tapped her desk. “And if he says that he does not want to come?”

  “He would not dare to contradict you, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He would be too scared.”

  “Oh,” said Mma Potokwane. “Am I like that, then?”

  “A little bit,” said Mma Ramotswe, gently. “But only to men. Men respect a matron.”

  Mma Potokwane thought for a moment. Then she spoke. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni has been a good friend to the orphan farm. He has done a great deal for us. I will do this thing for you, Mma. When shall I go to see him?”

  “Today,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Take him to Dr Moffat. Then bring him right back here.”

  “Very well,” said Mma Potokwane, warming to her task. “I shall go and find out what all this nonsense is about. Not wanting to go to the doctor? What nonsense! I shall sort all this out for you, Mma. You just trust me.”

  Mma Potokwane showed Mma Ramotswe to her car.

  “You won’t forget the boy, will you, Mma?” she asked. “You will remember to think about him?”

  “Don’t worry, Mma,” she replied. “You have taken a big weight off my mind. Now I shall try to take one off yours.”

  DR MOFFAT saw Mr J.L.B. Matekoni in the study at the end of his verandah, while Mma Potokwane drank a cup of tea with Mrs Moffat in the kitchen. The doctor’s wife, who was a librarian, knew a great deal, and Mma Potokwane had occasionally consulted her for pieces of information. It was evening, and in the doctor’s study insects which had penetrated the fly screens were drunkenly circling the bulb of the desk lamp, throwing themselves against the shade and then, singed by the heat, fluttering wing-injured away. On the desk were a stethoscope and a sphygmomanometer, with its rubber bulb hanging over the edge; on the wall, an old engraving of Kuruman Mission in the mid-nineteenth century.

  “I have not seen you for some time, Rra,” Dr Moffat said. “My car has been behaving itself well.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni started to smile, but the effort seemed to defeat him. “I have not …” He tailed off. Dr Moffat waited, but nothing more came.

  “You have not been feeling very well?”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni nodded. “I am very tired. I cannot sleep.”

  “That is very hard. If we do not sleep, then we feel bad.” He paused. “Are you troubled by anything in particular? Are there things that worry you?”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni thought. His jaws worked, as if he was trying to articulate impossible words, and then he replied. “I am worried that bad things I did a long time ago will come back. Then I shall be in disgrace. They will all throw stones at me. It will be the end.”

  “And these bad things? What are they? You know that you can speak to me about them and I shall not tell anybody.”

  “They are bad things I did a long time ago. They are very bad things. I cannot speak to anybody about them, not even you.”

  “And is that all you want to tell me about them?”

  “Yes.”

  Dr Moffat watched Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. He noticed the collar, fastened at the wrong button; he saw the shoes, with their broken laces; he saw the eyes, almost lachrymose in their anguish, and he knew.

  “I am going to give you some medicine that will help you to get well,” he said. “Mma Potokwane out there says that she will look after you while you are getting better.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni nodded dumbly.

  “And you will promise me that you will take this medicine,” Dr Moffat went on. “Will you give me your word that you will do
that?”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s gaze, firmly fixed on the floor, did not move up. “My word is worth nothing,” he said quietly.

  “That is the illness speaking,” Dr Moffat said gently. “Your word is worth a great deal.”

  MMA POTOKWANE led him to her car and opened the passenger door for him. She looked at Dr Moffat and his wife, who were standing at the gate, and she waved to them. They waved back before returning to the house. Then she drove off, back to the orphan farm, passing Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors as she did so. The garage, deserted and forlorn in the darkness, got no glance from its proprietor, its begetter, as he rode past.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  FAMILY BUSINESS

  SHE LEFT in the cool of the morning, although the journey would take little more than an hour. Rose had prepared breakfast, and she ate it with the children, sitting on the verandah of her house on Zebra Drive. It was a quiet time, as little traffic passed along their road before seven, when people would start to go to work. There were a few people walking by—a tall man, with shabby trousers, eating a fire-charred corn cob, a woman carrying a baby, strapped to her back with its shawl, the baby’s head nodding in sleep. One of her neighbour’s yellow dogs, lean and undernourished, slunk by, occupied in some mysterious, but quite purposeful canine business. Mma Ramotswe tolerated dogs, but she had a strong distaste for the foul-smelling yellow creatures that lived next door. Their howling at night disturbed her—they would bark at shadows, at the moon, at gusts of wind—and she was sure that they deterred birds, which she did like, from coming to her garden. Every house, except hers, seemed to have its quota of dogs, and occasionally these dogs, overcoming the restrictions of imposed loyalties, would rise above their mutual animosity and walk down the street in a pack, chasing cars and frightening cyclists.

  Mma Ramotswe poured bush tea for herself and Motholeli; Puso refused to get used to tea and had a glass of warm milk, into which Mma Ramotswe had stirred two generous spoons of sugar. He had a sweet tooth, possibly as a result of sweet foods which his sister had given him when she was caring for him in that yard up in Francistown. She would try to wean him onto healthier things, but that change would require patience. Rose had made them porridge, which stood in bowls, dark molasses trailed across its surface, and there were sections of paw-paw on a plate. It was a healthy breakfast for a child, thought Mma Ramotswe. What would these children have eaten had they stayed with their people, she wondered? Those people survived on next to nothing; roots dug up from the ground, grubs, the eggs of birds; yet they could hunt as nobody else could, and there would have been ostrich meat and duiker, which people in towns could rarely afford.