The Full Cupboard of Life

by Alexander McCall Smith

  So far, the recovery had seemed complete, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had been as equable and as constant as he always had been. There had been no sign of the lassitude that had come with the illness; no sign of the dark, introspective brooding which had so reduced him. But perhaps this was it coming back. Perhaps the cloud had blown over and had covered his sky.

  Mma Ramotswe thanked Mma Makutsi and made her way into the garage. The two apprentices were bent over the engine of a car, spanners in hand, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was sitting on his old canvas chair near the compressor, his head sunk in his hands, just as Mma Makutsi had seen him.

  “Now then, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni,” said Mma Ramotswe breezily. “You seem to be thinking very hard about something. Can I make you a cup of tea to help you think?”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked up, and as he did so Mma Ramotswe realised, with relief, that the illness had not returned. He looked worried, certainly, but it was a very different look from the haunted look he had developed during the illness. This was a real worry, she thought; not a worry about shadows and imaginary wrongs and dying; all those things which had so tormented him when he was ill.

  “Yes, I am thinking,” he said. “I am thinking that I have dug myself into a mess. I am like a potato in …” He stopped, unable to complete the metaphor.

  “Like a potato?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

  “Like a potato in a …” He stopped again. “I don’t know. But I have done a very foolish thing in involving myself in this business.”

  Mma Ramotswe was perplexed, and asked him what business he meant.

  “This whole business with that butcher’s car,” he said. “I went round to First Class Motors yesterday afternoon.”

  “Ah!” said Mma Ramotswe, and thought: this is my fault. I urged him to go and now this has happened. So, rather than say Ah! again, she said, “Oh!”

  “Yes,” went on Mr J.L.B. Matekoni miserably. “I went up there yesterday afternoon. The man who runs the place was at a funeral in Molepolole, and so I spoke to one of his assistants. And this man said that he had seen the butcher’s car round at my garage and he had mentioned it to his boss, who was very cross. He said that I was taking his clients, and that he was going to come round and see me about it this morning, when he arrived back from Molepolole. He said that his boss was going to ‘sort me out.’ That’s what he said, Mma Ramotswe. Those were his words. I didn’t even have the chance to complain, as I had intended to. I didn’t even have the chance.”

  Mma Ramotswe folded her arms. “Who is this man?” she snapped angrily. “What is his name, and who does he think he is? Where is he from?”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sighed. “He is called Molefi. He is a horrible man from Tlokweng. People are scared of him. He gives mechanics a bad name.”

  Mma Ramotswe said nothing for a moment. She felt sorry for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who was a very peaceful man and who did not like conflict. He was not one to start an argument, and yet she rather wished that he would stand up to this Molefi man a bit more. Such people were bullies and the only thing to do was to stand up to them. If only Mr J.L.B. Matekoni were a bit braver … Did she really want him to fight, though? It was quite out of character, and that was just as well. She could not abide men who threw their weight around, and that was one of the reasons why she so admired Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. Although he was physically strong from all that lifting of engines, he was gentle. And she loved him for that, as did so many others.

  She unfolded her arms and walked over to stand beside Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “When is this man coming?” she asked.

  “Any time now. They said this morning. That is all they said.”

  “I see.” She turned away, intending to go over to the apprentices and have a word with them. They would have to rally round to deal with this Molefi person. They were young men … She stopped. Tlokweng. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had said that Molefi was from Tlokweng, and Tlokweng was where the orphan farm was, and the orphan farm made her think of Mma Potokwane.

  She turned back again, ignoring the apprentices, and walked briskly back into her office. Mma Makutsi looked up at her expectantly as she came in.

  “Is he all right? I was worried.”

  “He is fine,” she said. “He is worried about something. That man at First Class Motors has been threatening him. That’s what’s going on.”

  Mma Makutsi whistled softly, as she sometimes did in moments of crisis. “That is very bad, Mma. That is very bad.”

  Mma Ramotswe nodded. “Mma Makutsi,” she said. “I am going out to Tlokweng right now. This very minute. Please telephone Mma Potokwane and tell her that I am coming to fetch her in my van and that we need her help. Please do that right now. I am going.”

  WHEN MMA RAMOTSWE arrived at the orphan farm, Mma Potokwane was not in her office. The door was open, but the large, rather shabby chair in which Mma Potokwane was often to be found—when she was not bustling round the kitchens or the houses—was empty. Mma Ramotswe rushed outside again and looked about anxiously. It had not occurred to her that Mma Potokwane might not be found; she was always on duty, it seemed. And yet she could be in town, doing some shopping, or she could even be far away, down in Lobatse, perhaps, picking up some new orphan.

  “Mma Ramotswe?”

  She gave a start, looking about her. It was Mma Potokwane’s voice, but where was she?

  “Here!” came the voice. “Under this tree! Here I am, Mma Ramotswe.”

  The matron of the orphan farm was in the shade of a large mango tree, merging with the shadows. Mma Ramotswe had looked right past her, but now Mma Potokwane stepped out from under the drooping branches of the tree.

  “I have been watching a special mango,” she said. “It is almost ready and I have told the children that they are not to pick it. I am keeping it for my husband, who likes to eat a good mango.” She dusted her hands on her skirts as she walked towards Mma Ramotswe. “Would you like to see this mango, Mma Ramotswe?” she asked. “It is very fine. Very yellow now.”

  “You are very kind, Mma,” called out Mma Ramotswe. “I will come and see it some other time, I think. Right now there is something urgent to talk to you about. Something very urgent.”

  Mma Potokwane joined her friend outside the office, and Mma Ramotswe quickly explained that she needed her to come to the garage, “to help with Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.” Mma Potokwane listened gravely and nodded her agreement. They could go straight away, she said. No, she would not need to fetch anything from her office. “All I need is my voice,” she said, pointing to her chest. “And it is all there. Ready to be used.”

  They travelled back to the garage in the tiny white van, now heavily laden and riding low on its shock absorbers. Mma Ramotswe drove more quickly than she normally did, sounding the horn impatiently at indolent donkeys and children on wobbling cycles. There was only one hold-up—a small herd of rickety cattle, badly looked after by all appearances, which blocked the road until Mma Potokwane opened her window and shouted at them in a stentorian voice. The cattle looked surprised, and indignant, but they moved, and the tiny white van continued its journey.

  They drew up at Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors a few minutes after the arrival of Molefi. A large red truck was parked outside the garage, blocking the entrance, and on this was written FIRST CLASS MOTORS in ostentatious lettering. Mma Potokwane, to whom the situation had been explained by Mma Ramotswe on the way back, saw this and snorted.

  “Big letters,” she murmured. “Big nothing.”

  Mma Ramotswe smiled. She was sure that the summoning of Mma Potokwane was the right thing to do and this remark made her even more certain. Now, as they negotiated their way round the aggressively parked truck and she saw Molefi standing in front of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who was looking down at the ground as his visitor remonstrated with him, she realised that they had not arrived a minute too early.

  Mma Potokwane bustled forward. “So,” she said. “Who do we find here in Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s garage? Molefi? It’s you, isn’t it? You’ve
come to discuss some difficult mechanical problem with Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, have you? Come for his advice?”

  Molefi looked round and glowered. “I am here on business, Mma. It’s business between me and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.” His tone was rude and he compounded the offence by turning his back on Mma Potokwane and facing Mr J.L.B. Matekoni again. Mma Potokwane glanced at Mma Ramotswe, who shook her head in disapproval of Molefi’s rudeness.

  “Excuse me, Rra,” said Mma Potokwane, stepping forward. “I think that perhaps you might have forgotten who I am, but I certainly know exactly who you are.”

  Molefi turned around in irritation. “Listen, Mma …”

  “No, you listen to me, Rra,” Mma Potokwane said, her voice rising sharply. “I know you, Herbert Molefi. I know your mother. She is my friend. And I have often felt sorry for her, with a son like you.”

  Molefi opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came.

  “Oh yes,” went on Mma Potokwane, shaking a finger at him. “You were a bad little boy, and now you are a bad man. You are just a bully, that’s what you are. And I have heard this thing about the butcher’s car. Oh, yes, I have heard it. And I wonder whether your mother knows it, or your uncles? Do they know it?”

  Molefi’s collapse was sudden and complete. Mma Ramotswe watched the effect of these words and saw the burly figure shrink visibly in the face of Mma Potokwane’s tongue-lashing.

  “No? They have not heard about it?” she pressed on. “Well, I think I might just let them know. And you, you, Herbert Molefi, who thinks that he can go round bullying people like Mr J.L.B. Matekoni here, had better think again. Your mother can still tell you a thing or two, can’t she? And your uncles. They will not be pleased and they might just give their cattle to somebody else when they die, might they not? I think so, Rra. I think so.”

  “Now, Mma,” said Molefi. “I am just talking to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, that is all I am doing.”

  “Pah!” retorted Mma Potokwane. “Don’t you try to tell me your lies. You just shut that useless mouth of yours for a little while and let Mr J.L.B. Matekoni tell you what to do about that poor man you’ve cheated. And I’ll just stand here and listen, just in case. Then we’ll think about whether your people out at Tlokweng need to be told about this.”

  Molefi was silent, and he remained silent while Mr J.L.B. Matekoni quietly and reasonably told him that he would have to make a refund to the butcher and that he should be careful in the future, as other garages in the town would be watching what he did. “You let us all down, you see,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “If one mechanic cheats, then all mechanics are blamed. That is what happens, and that is why you should change your ways.”

  “Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe, making her first contribution. “You just be careful in future, or Mma Potokwane will hear of it. Do you understand?”

  Molefi nodded silently.

  “Has a goat eaten your tongue?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

  “No,” said Molefi quietly. “I understand what you have said, Mma.”

  “Good,” said Mma Potokwane. “Now the best thing you can do is to move that truck of yours and get back to your garage. I think that you will have an envelope in your office. That will do for the letter you are going to write to that man in Lobatse.” She paused before adding, “And send me a copy, if you don’t mind.”

  There was not much more to be said after that. Molefi reversed his truck and drove angrily away. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni thanked Mma Potokwane, rather sheepishly, thought Mma Ramotswe, and the two women went into the office of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, where Mma Makutsi had boiled the kettle for tea. Mma Makutsi had listened to the encounter from the doorway. She was somewhat in awe of Mma Potokwane, but now she asked her a question.

  “Is his mother that fierce?”

  “I have no idea,” said Mma Potokwane. “I’ve only seen his mother; I’ve never met her, and I took a bit of a risk with that. But usually bullies have severe mothers and bad fathers, and they are usually frightened of them. That is why they are bullies, I think. There is something wrong at home. I have found that with children in general and this applies to men as well. I think that I shall have to write about that if I ever write a book about how to run an orphan farm.”

  “You must write that book, Mma,” urged Mma Ramotswe. “I would read it, even if I was not planning to run an orphan farm.”

  “Thank you,” said Mma Potokwane. “Maybe I shall do that one day. But at the moment I am so busy looking after all those orphans and making tea and baking fruit cake and all those things. There seems very little time for writing books.”

  “That is a pity,” said Mma Makutsi. It had just occurred to her that she might write a book herself, if Mma Potokwane, of all people, was considering doing so. The Principles of Typing, perhaps, although that was not perhaps the most exciting title one might imagine. How to Get Ninety-Seven Per Cent. Now that was much, much better, and would be bought by all those people, those many, many people who would love to get ninety-seven per cent in whatever it was that they were doing and who knew that perhaps they never would. At least they could hope, which was an important thing. We must be able to hope. We simply must.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  MMA POTOKWANE AND MMA RAMOTSWE DISCUSS MARRIAGE

  THESE MATTERS were distractions, of course, but at least the matter of the butcher’s car was now sorted out and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, only so recently worried on two fronts—the parachute jump and First Class Motors—could now look forward to the immediate future with greater equanimity. Mma Potokwane had been magnificent, as she always was, and had dispatched the bullying Herbert Molefi with the same ease as she dealt with ten-year-old bullies. She had been happy to do this, as she owed Mr J.L.B. Matekoni a great deal, with his constant and unquestioning availability to fix bits and pieces of machinery on the orphan farm. And Mma Potokwane, like everybody else who came into contact with him, recognised in Mr J.L.B. Matekoni those qualities which endeared him to so many and which meant that most people would do anything for him: his courtesy, his reliability, his sheer decency. If only all men, or even more men, were like that, thought Mma Potokwane, indeed thought all the women of Botswana. If only you could trust men in the same way in which you could trust a close woman friend; instead of which, men tended to let women down, not always deliberately, but just because they were selfish or they became bored, or their heads were turned in some way. It was very easy to turn a man’s head; a glamorous woman could do it just by looking at a man and lowering her eyelids once or twice. That could make an apparently steadfast man quite unpredictable, particularly if that man were of an age where he was starting to feel unsure of himself as a man.

  Mma Ramotswe was lucky to be engaged to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, thought Mma Potokwane. He was exactly the right choice for her, as she was a fine woman and she deserved a good man like Mr J.L.B. Matekoni with whom to share her life. It was hard being a woman by oneself, particularly when one was in a job such as Mma Ramotswe’s, and it was important to have a man on whom one could call for assistance and support. So Mma Ramotswe had made a wise choice, even if all those years ago she had shown a distinct lack of judgment in marrying Note Mokoti, the trumpet player. Mokoti, Matekoni: similar names, reflected Mma Potokwane, but how different the men who bore the names.

  Of course there was the question of the length of the engagement and the slowness with which preparations were being made for the wedding, indeed if any preparations were being made at all. This was a puzzle to Mma Potokwane, and while Mma Makutsi made tea that day, after the disposal of Herbert Molefi, Mma Potokwane decided to raise the matter with Mma Ramotswe. She was direct rather than allusive; rather too direct, thought Mma Makutsi, who listened but did not say anything. She tended to feel inhibited in the presence of Mma Potokwane, largely because she felt the other woman was so much more confident and experienced than she was. There was also an element of disapproval in Mma Makutsi’s attitude—not that she would ever have expressed it. She thought that Mma
Potokwane was too ready to take advantage of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s good nature. The kindness of men like that could be exploited by forceful women, and there was no doubt but that Mma Potokwane was in the vanguard of the forceful women of Botswana, their very standard bearer, their champion.

  So Mma Makutsi said nothing, but listened very carefully as Mma Potokwane raised the subject of marriage and weddings, virtually under the nose of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who had resumed work on a car next door. And what if he had walked in the door and heard her speaking in these terms; what then? Mma Makutsi was astonished at the matron’s tactlessness.

  “Such a very good man,” came the opening gambit. “He has been very helpful to us at the orphan farm. All the children love him and call him their special uncle. So there he is an uncle, but not yet a husband!”

  Mma Ramotswe smiled. “Yes, he is a fine man. And he will make a good husband one day. That is why I agreed to his proposal.”

  Mma Potokwane looked at her fingernails, as if absorbed by some cuticular matter. “One day?” she said. “Which day? When is this day you are talking about? Next week, do you think? Or next year?”

  “Not next week,” said Mma Ramotswe evenly. “Maybe next year. Who knows?”

  Mma Potokwane was quick to press home on this question. “But does he know? That’s the important thing. Does Mr J.L.B. Matekoni know?”