Part 6 (1/2)

”So we looked at those wires, which are very important wires for a car-the ones which are connected to the ignition, and we saw that two of them were touching, or almost touching, just where the mice had gnawed off the covering. This would mean that the engine would think that the ignition was off when the wires touched and power would go to the wipers. So that is what happened. In the meantime, the mice had run out of the car because they had been found. Mma Makutsi took out their nest and threw it away. Then she bound the wires with some tape that we gave her and now the car is fixed. It has a mouse problem no longer, all because this woman is such a good detective.”

”She is a mechanic detective,” said the other apprentice. ”She would make a man very happy, but very tired, I think. Ow!”

”Quiet,” said Mma Makutsi, playfully. ”You boys must get back to work. I am the Acting Manager here. I am not one of the girls you pick up in bars. Get back to your work.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. ”You obviously have a talent for finding things out, Mma. Perhaps being a detective and being a mechanic are not so different after all.”

They went into the office. Mma Ramotswe immediately noticed that Mma Makutsi had made a great impression on the chaos. Although Mr J.L.B. Matekoni's desk was still covered with papers, these appeared to have been sorted into piles. Bills to be sent out had been placed in one pile, while bills to be paid had been put in another. Catalogues from suppliers had been stacked on top of a filing cabinet, and car manuals had been replaced on the shelf above his desk. And at one end of the room, leaning against the wall, was a s.h.i.+ny white board on which Mma Makutsi had drawn two columns headed CARS IN and CARS OUT.

”They taught us at the Botswana Secretarial College,” said Mma Makutsi, ”that it is very important to have a system. If you have a system which tells you where you are, then you will never be lost.”

”That is true,” agreed Mma Ramotswe. ”They obviously knew how to run a business there.”

Mma Makutsi beamed with pleasure. ”And there is another thing,” she said. ”I think that it would be helpful if I made you a list.”

”A list?”

”Yes,” said Mma Makutsi, handing her a large red file. ”I have put your list in there. Each day I shall bring this list up to date. You will see that there are three columns. URGENT, NOT URGENT, and FUTURE SOMETIME.”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. She did not want another list, but equally she did not want to discourage Mma Makutsi, who certainly knew how to run a garage.

”Thank you, Mma,” she said, opening the file. ”I see that you have already started my list.”

”Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. ”Mma Potokwane telephoned from the orphan farm. She wanted to speak to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, but I told her that he was not here. So she said that she was going to get in touch with you anyway and could you telephone her. You'll see that I have put it in the NOT URGENT column.”

”I shall phone her,” said Mma Ramotswe. ”It must be something to do with the children. I had better phone her straightaway.”

Mma Makutsi went back to the workshop, where Mma Ramotswe heard her calling out some instructions to the apprentices. She picked up the telephone-covered, she noticed, with greasy fingerprints, and dialled the number which Mma Makutsi had written on her list. While the telephone rang, she placed a large red tick opposite the solitary item on the list.

Mma Potokwane answered.

”Very kind of you to telephone, Mma Ramotswe. I hope that the children are well?”

”They are very settled,” said Mma Ramotswe.

”Good. Now, Mma, could I ask you a favour?”

Mma Ramotswe knew that this is how the orphan farm operated. It needed help, and of course everybody was prepared to help. n.o.body could refuse Mma Silvia Potokwane.

”I will help you, Mma. Just tell me what it is.”

”I would like you to come and drink tea with me,” said Mma Potokwane. ”This afternoon, if possible. There is something you should see.”

”Can you not tell me what it is?”

”No, Mma,” said Mma Potokwane. ”It is difficult to describe over the telephone. It would be better to see for yourself.”

CHAPTER NINE.

AT THE ORPHAN FARM.

T HE ORPHAN farm was some twenty minutes' drive out of town. Mma Ramotswe had been there on several occasions, although not as frequently as Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who paid regular visits to deal with bits and pieces of machinery that seemed always to be going wrong. There was a borehole pump in particular that required his regular attention, and then there was their minibus, the brakes of which constantly needed attention. He never begrudged them his time, and they thought highly of him, as everybody did.

Mma Ramotswe liked Mma Potokwane, to whom she was very distantly connected through her mother's side of the family. It was not uncommon to be connected to somebody in Botswana, a lesson which foreigners were quick to learn when they realised that if they made a critical remark of somebody they were inevitably speaking to that person's distant cousin.

Mma Potokwane was standing outside the office, talking to one of the staff, when Mma Ramotswe arrived. She directed the tiny white van to a visitors' parking place under a shady syringa tree, and then invited her guest inside.

”It is so hot these days, Mma Ramotswe,” she said. ”But I have a very powerful fan in my office. If I turn it on to its highest setting, it can blow people out of the room. It is a very useful weapon.”

”I hope that you will not do that to me,” said Mma Ramotswe. For a moment she had a vision of herself being blown out of Mma Potokwane's office, her skirts all about her, up into the sky where she could look down on the trees and the paths and the cattle staring up at her in astonishment.

”Of course not,” said Mma Potokwane. ”You're the sort of visitor I like to receive. The sort I don't like are interfering people. People who try to tell me how to be the matron of an orphan farm. Sometimes we get these people. People who stick their noses in. They think they know about orphans, but they don't. The people who know the most about orphans are those ladies out there.” She pointed out of her window, to where two of the housemothers, stout women in blue housecoats, were taking two toddlers for a walk along a path, the tiny hands firmly grasped, the hesitant, wobbly steps gently encouraged.

”Yes,” went on Mma Potokwane. ”Those ladies know. They can deal with any sort of child. A very sad child, who cries for its late mother all the time. A very wicked child, who has been taught to steal. A very cheeky child who has not learned to respect its elders and who uses bad words. Those ladies can deal with all those children.”

”They are very good women,” said Mma Ramotswe. ”The two orphans whom Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and I took say that they were very happy here. Only yesterday, Motholeli read me a story which she had written at school. The story of her life. She referred to you, Mma.”

”I am glad that she was happy here,” said Mma Potokwane. ”She is a very brave girl, that one.” She paused. ”But I did not ask you out here to talk about those children, Mma. I wanted to tell you about a very strange thing that has happened here. It is so strange that even the housemothers cannot deal with it. That is why I thought that I would ask you. I was phoning Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to get your number.”

She reached across her desk and poured Mma Ramotswe a cup of tea. Then she cut into a large fruitcake which was on a plate to the side of the tea tray. ”This cake is made by our senior girls,” she said. ”We train them to cook.”

Mma Ramotswe accepted her large slice of cake and looked at the rich fruit within it. There were at least seven hundred calories in that, she thought, but it did not matter; she was a traditionally built lady and she did not have to worry about such things.

”You know that we take all sorts of children,” continued Mma Potokwane. ”Usually they are brought to us when the mother dies and n.o.body knows who the father is. Often the grandmother cannot cope, because she is too ill or too poor, and then the children have n.o.body. We get them from the social work people or from the police sometimes. Sometimes they might just be left somewhere and a member of the public gets in touch with us.”

”They are lucky to get here,” said Mma Ramotswe.

”Yes. And usually, whatever has happened to them in the past, we have seen something like it before. Nothing shocks us. But every now and then a very unusual case comes in and we don't know what to do.”

”And there is such a child now?”

”Yes,” said Mma Potokwane. ”After you have finished eating that big piece of cake I will take you and show you a boy who arrived with no name. If they have no name, we always give them one. We find a good Botswana name and they get that. But that is usually only with babies. Older children normally tell us their names. This boy didn't. In fact, he doesn't seem to have learned how to speak at all. So we decided to call him Mataila.”

Mma Ramotswe finished her cake and drained the dregs of her tea. Then, together with Mma Potokwane, she walked over to one of the houses at the very edge of the circle of buildings in which the orphans lived. There were beans growing there, and the small yard in front of the door was neatly swept. This was a housemother who knew how to keep a house, thought Mma Ramotswe. And if that was the case, then how could she be defeated by a mere boy?

The housemother, Mma Kerileng, was in the kitchen. Drying her hands on her ap.r.o.n, she greeted Mma Ramotswe warmly and invited the two women into the living room. This was a cheerfully decorated room, with pictures drawn by the children pinned up on a large notice board. A box in one corner was filled with toys.

Mma Kerileng waited until her guests were seated before she lowered herself into one of the bulky armchairs which were arranged around a low central table.

”I have heard of you, Mma,” she said to Mma Ramotswe. ”I have seen your picture in the newspaper. And of course I have met Mr J.L.B. Matekoni when he has been out here fixing all the machines that are always breaking. You are a lucky lady to be marrying a man who can fix things. Most husbands just break things.”

Mma Ramotswe inclined her head at the compliment. ”He is a good man,” she said. ”He is not well at the moment, but I am hoping that he will be better very soon.”

”I hope so too,” said Mma Kerileng. She looked expectantly at Mma Potokwane.