The Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon (2 page)

Mma Ramotswe had another theory. ‘I think she’s worried about asking for time off to have the baby. She’s very conscientious, you know. I think she may have been putting it off because of that.’

Mr J. L. B. Matekoni listened, but he wondered whether Mma Makutsi might not for some other reason be trying to hide her situation. He remembered a case of concealed pregnancy that had occurred in the family of one of his clients. ‘There is a man with an old Land Cruiser,’ he said. He often identified people by their cars and Mma Ramotswe was quite used to this. ‘This man with the Land Cruiser – a very reliable car, you know, Mma, although it’s now almost twenty-five years old – anyway, this man told me one day that his daughter had had a baby. And you know what, Mma Ramotswe?’

She waited for him to continue.

‘You know what, Mma? This daughter – the daughter of the man —’

‘Yes, Rra, the daughter of the man with the Land Cruiser…’

‘Yes, that man: this daughter of his said one day that she wanted to go into town to see a friend and so she asked her father whether he could take her in his Land Cruiser.’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, she got into the Land Cruiser and they set off. They lived on a farm out Tlokweng way – about half an hour from town. Anyway, there they were in the Land Cruiser and suddenly she started to cry out. Her father thought it was because the road was very bumpy; their track had been washed away in places by the rains and there were big holes in it – big ones, Mma. That Land Cruiser’s suspension…’ He shook his head, whether in admiration of the suspension’s capacity for endurance or sympathy for its ordeal, Mma Ramotswe was uncertain.

She knew what was coming. ‘She was about to have a baby?’

She noticed his disappointment that she had guessed, and so she quickly said, ‘Of course, it must have been a big surprise for him, Rra. I normally wouldn’t have thought of that.’

‘The baby was born in the Land Cruiser,’ said Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. ‘In the back.’ He paused. ‘They are big vehicles, of course.’

‘That sort of thing is quite common among teenage girls,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘They don’t want to tell their parents and everybody just thinks they are putting on a bit of weight. Then suddenly there is another mouth to feed.’ She paused. ‘But Mma Makutsi is not a teenager. She is a responsible woman and she has a good husband to support her and any number of babies. Her case is quite different.’

‘She is definitely pregnant,’ said Mr J. L. B. Matekoni, and then added, mischievously: ‘I must say, Mma, I would have thought a great detective would have worked that out much earlier than this.’

She took this remark in good humour. ‘Actually, I did, Rra. I have suspected it for a little while but I have not wanted to embarrass her. And then…’ She paused before continuing. ‘I am not a great detective, Rra. I am a person who runs a detective agency – that is all.’

He reached out to touch her gently on the arm. ‘You are the greatest detective in the history of Botswana,’ he said. ‘I know that. The whole world knows that.’

She thanked him. It was now time for her to go into the kitchen and prepare their meal. You could be a great detective, but you still had to cook supper.

She looked at Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. He had never cooked anything in all the time they had been married, except on one occasion when he had tried to bake a cake and had failed miserably.

‘Would you like to cook supper one day, Rra?’ she asked.

He stared at her with incredulity. ‘What was that, Mma? I thought you asked me whether I would like to cook supper.’

‘I did,’ she said.

His jaw dropped. ‘I am a mechanic, Mma…’

‘Mechanics can cook. Ladies can fix cars. It’s different these days, Rra. Men can do things. Women can do things. There is no work that is reserved just for one sort of person. Not any more.’

He looked injured. ‘But what would I cook?’

‘Anything,’ she said. ‘The same things that I cook.’

His injured expression now turned to one of misery. ‘But I do not think that it would taste very good, Mma.’

She spoke gently. ‘We can talk about it some other time. I like to cook for you, Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. And for the children too. I am teaching Motholeli to cook now and she is getting better and better. It is not a chore.’

‘And I would teach Puso how to cook,’ muttered Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. ‘If I knew how, that is…’

Mma Ramotswe smiled at this. ‘Yes, it is best to learn first, then teach.’

‘And I like to eat the food you cook, Mma. I shall try to help you more. Maybe I could —’

She stopped him. ‘You have always been very good with the washing up,’ she said. ‘Many men are good at that.’ She paused. ‘If they remember, that is.’

As it happened, Mma Makutsi did bring up the issue of her pregnancy only a few days after this conversation. She broached the subject quite casually, during a silence in the office while they were waiting for the kettle to boil.

‘I should tell you that I am pregnant,’ she announced. ‘I have been pregnant now for many months.’

Mma Ramotswe clapped her hands with delight. ‘I thought you might be, Mma. This is very good news.’

Mma Makutsi accepted the congratulations with due solemnity. ‘We are both very pleased. Phuti is excited.’

‘It is natural that he is excited,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘Men like these things just as much as women – mostly.’ She paused. ‘Well, not always, but very often.’

What Mma Makutsi said next rather surprised her. ‘I don’t want to talk about it, Mma. I hope you do not mind, but I do not wish to talk about something that has not yet happened – in case it might not happen.’

‘I can understand that, Mma,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘But it’s good to plan…’

Mma Makutsi shook her head. ‘I do not want to discuss it. Things can go wrong if you discuss things before it is time to discuss them.’

It was clear that there was to be no further conversation about pregnancy and no mention, therefore, of the issue of maternity leave.

Later that day, when Mma Ramotswe told Mr J. L. B. Matekoni about this exchange, he shook his head. ‘You won’t get her to change; you know what she’s like.’

‘But how can I make arrangements for cover while she is away?’ asked Mma Ramotswe. ‘I have no idea when she wants to go off, and for how long. She hasn’t even told me when the baby is due, and I can’t raise it with her.’

‘You will have to wait,’ said Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. ‘It is very inconsiderate of her, but there we are. You cannot change people who will not be changed – and that is probably even more true when they’re pregnant.’

Over the months that followed, Mma Makutsi’s pregnancy became increasingly obvious, but her disinclination to discuss maternity leave remained.

‘It’s like having an elephant in the room and not mentioning it,’ Mma Ramotswe said to Mr J. L. B. Matekoni.

‘That is a very funny remark, Mma Ramotswe,’ said Mr J. L. B. Matekoni, adding: ‘In the circumstances.’

M
ma Sheba Kutso was an unusually tall woman, which was why Mma Makutsi said, ‘Here comes that giraffe lady, Mma Ramotswe.’

She said this as she was gazing out of the window in the office the next morning at the very time that Mma Kutso’s car drew up and nosed into the shade under the acacia tree that was already half-occupied by Mma Ramotswe’s tiny white van.

Mma Ramotswe looked in her assistant’s direction. She was puzzled by the reference to a giraffe lady, but then Mma Makutsi was known to say strange, unexpected things – things that often seemed unconnected with anything else.

‘Giraffe lady, Mma?’ she asked. ‘Who is this giraffe lady?’

‘That woman,’ answered Mma Makutsi. ‘You know the one – the tall one who calls herself a lawyer. She’s parking right next to your van, Mma. Don’t get too close… Ow!’

Mma Ramotswe sprang to her feet. ‘Has she hit my van?’

‘No,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘Almost, but not quite. Now she is getting out – look at her. And… Ow! I think she has scratched the van with her door, Mma. Look, she’s bending down to examine it.’

They watched as Mma Kutso, unaware that she was being observed, moistened a finger on her tongue and then dabbed at the paintwork of Mma Ramotswe’s van. Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow but managed to appear not overly concerned.

‘My van has had worse experiences than that,’ she said. She paused before continuing. ‘And Mma Sheba is a proper lawyer, you know, Mma Makutsi.’

Mma Makutsi shrugged. ‘People should be more careful, especially lawyers.’ She paused, and then muttered, ‘So-called.’

Mma Ramotswe let the remark pass. She did not hold it against her visitor that she parked a bit too close to her van; it was never easy to judge these things exactly. Mma Makutsi was perhaps a bit too ready to comment adversely on the driving of others, when she herself was not the possessor of a driving licence and was only now getting round to having lessons from Patrick’s Patient Driving School.

‘Your lessons, Mma,’ Mma Ramotswe asked. ‘How is your own parking progressing?’

‘It is very accurate,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘We have done going forward into the parking place and now we are doing going backwards into same. Next it will be parallel parking.’ She began to make her way to the door to admit Mma Sheba. ‘I expect I shall achieve high marks in the test, when I take it.’

Ninety-seven per cent, thought Mma Ramotswe but did not say it, though she might have done so had Mma Sheba not entered the room.

The visitor greeted Mma Ramotswe courteously, asking after not only her own health but also the health of Mr J. L. B. Matekoni, of Motholeli and of Puso. She received a full answer to each of these enquiries: Mr J. L. B. Matekoni was in good shape, but could do to lose a small amount of weight; Motholeli had suffered from an in-growing toenail but this had been dealt with satisfactorily and she was far more comfortable now; and Puso was growing quickly, but still seemed to have a great deal of energy left to run about the place, ride his bicycle and climb trees.

‘And I am very well too, Mma,’ said Mma Makutsi loudly.

The lawyer turned round. Although the tone of Mma Makutsi’s voice had been tetchy, she smiled civilly at their visitor.

‘I’m pleased to hear that, Mma,’ Mma Sheba said. ‘You are certainly looking very well.’

Mma Ramotswe joined in. ‘Mma Makutsi was married recently, Mma. You may have heard of it. It was a very good wedding.’

Mma Sheba nodded. ‘I know the Radiphuti family – not very well, but a bit.’ She smiled at Mma Makutsi again. ‘You are a very lucky woman to have a husband like that. There were many ladies who could have been in your position.’

Mma Makutsi seemed taken aback by this remark, and it took her a few moments to react. When she spoke, her voice was strained. ‘What are you saying, Mma?’ she asked. ‘I am not sure if I understand.’

Again Mma Ramotswe tried to defuse the situation. ‘I don’t think that Mma Sheba is saying that Phuti had lots of girlfriends before you. I’m sure he had none.’

Now both Mma Sheba and Mma Makutsi glared at Mma Ramotswe.

‘I mean,’ said Mma Ramotswe in a flustered tone, ‘that he was not one of these men who spent a lot of time chasing girls – men like Charlie, for instance.’

‘But why did you say he had none?’ asked Mma Makutsi. ‘There is a big difference between chasing lots of girls and having no girlfriends at all.’

‘That is a very big difference,’ contributed Mma Sheba. ‘I certainly didn’t say that he had no girlfriends at all. I do not know whether he had any… or none. I just do not know.’

‘Then why did you say what you did say, Mma?’ snapped Mma Makutsi.

Mma Sheba looked anxiously at Mma Ramotswe. ‘But all that I meant was that he was a very good catch. And I meant, too, that there were many ladies who would have liked to catch him, had they even known him, which they didn’t, I think.’

Mma Ramotswe threw a warning glance at Mma Makutsi. ‘The important thing,’ she said, ‘is that we are all well. That is what counts.’

Mma Sheba, equally eager to prevent needless confrontation, quickly agreed with this sentiment.

‘And now, Mma Makutsi,’ said Mma Ramotswe, ‘I’m sure that Mma Sheba would like a cup of tea.’ She smiled at her visitor. ‘Am I right, Mma?’

Mma Sheba nodded. ‘That would be very good. It is never too late, or too early, for tea.’

‘My view too,’ agreed Mma Ramotswe. ‘Now, what would you like? We have redbush tea or we have ordinary tea. Both are available.’

‘Not everybody likes redbush,’ said Mma Makutsi, hovering behind Mma Sheba’s chair. ‘I myself prefer what Mma Ramotswe calls ordinary tea, but which can be far from ordinary – if made correctly.’

‘You choose,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘And you must not let others –’ and here she looked directly at Mma Makutsi – ‘interfere in your choice.’

‘Information is not interference,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘There is a difference, I think.’

‘I think I’ll try redbush,’ said Mma Sheba. ‘I have a friend who drinks it, and she swears by it.’

‘As do I,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘It has no caffeine and therefore you can drink it even when you are about to go to sleep. And it is very good for the skin, I’m told.’

‘Where’s the proof?’ muttered Mma Makutsi. But this question, barbed as it was, was ignored by Mma Ramotswe, who now looked expectantly at Mma Sheba.

‘We have only met once before,’ said Mma Sheba. ‘Do you remember? It was at that lunch in the President Hotel some years ago – the Gaborone Professional Ladies’ Lunch. Remember? We sat next to one another.’

Mma Ramotswe now recalled. ‘Of course! I knew we had met somewhere, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.’

Remembering the occasion, Mma Ramotswe felt a flush of ancient, rekindled embarrassment. The lunch had been an ordeal from start to finish. She had gone at the invitation of one of her clients, an accountant, who had thought it would be interesting for a group that consisted largely of lawyers, doctors and accountants to have a businesswoman from an entirely different field. This friend had been solicitous but had been unable to sit next to her guest at the table as the club’s policy was to break up friends and mix people together. As a result, Mma Ramotswe had found herself seated next to Mma Sheba on one side, and a surgeon on the other. The surgeon was newly qualified but very conscious of her position. She had spoken to Mma Ramotswe politely at first, and then had asked her where she had done her training.

‘But I have not had any training, Mma,’ said Mma Ramotswe. She wondered whether reading Clovis Andersen’s
The Principles of Private Detection
would count, but decided that it would not. Private detection was largely a matter of common sense, she had concluded.

The surgeon had shown surprise. ‘No training?’ she asked. ‘So anybody can do what you do?’

Mma Ramotswe weighed her answer. ‘Anybody? Probably not anybody, Mma. Some people might not be very good private detectives because they… well, they might not understand people very well. You have to be able to understand people.’

The surgeon smiled. ‘If that’s all, then it must be very easy. Even my grandmother could be a private detective.’

Mma Ramotswe did not say anything and simply looked down at her place setting. A grandmother would make a very good detective, she thought: grandmothers had seen a lot of human nature and could use that knowledge well.

‘Frankly,’ said the surgeon, ‘I’m not sure that private detection counts as a profession. No offence to you, Mma, but if something requires no training, then, well, I wonder whether it should be considered a profession at all.’

Mma Ramotswe kept her eyes fixed on her place setting before her. She soon became aware of a reaction from Mma Sheba beside her.

‘Excuse me, Mma,’ said Mma Sheba. ‘I, for one, think that being a detective is a very important profession. I do not agree with you, but I suppose that you know no better, being so young and inexperienced in the world. Maybe you will think differently when you have the experience that our colleague –’ she laid heavy emphasis on the word
colleague
– ‘here has.’

That had ended the conversation, although Mma Sheba made a point of talking to Mma Ramotswe for the remainder of the lunch. The surgeon, smarting, had confined herself to talking to the woman on her other side. Mma Ramotswe had been grateful for the support, but her enjoyment of the lunch had been spoiled and she was relieved when it was over. Since then, she had not seen Mma Sheba.

‘I have seen you,’ said Mma Makutsi from the other side of the office. ‘I have seen you going into your office in town. You are a lawyer.’

Mma Sheba half-turned to reply. ‘You’re very observant, Mma. But I suppose that is what comes with being a detective. You have to notice things in your job.’

‘And in your job too, Mma,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘When you’re reading through papers, you must always be looking for things that shouldn’t be there.’

Mma Sheba laughed. ‘Yes, you must. People will try to put things into contracts in the hope that the other side won’t see them. We have to be on our toes.’

‘So, Mma…’ prompted Mma Ramotswe.

‘Let me tell you a little about myself,’ said Mma Sheba. ‘Then you will feel that you know me better. And then…’ She paused, with the air of one about to reveal an important secret. ‘Then I shall tell you about why I have come to see you.’

‘As you know, Mma,’ said Mma Sheba, ‘I am an attorney. My office – the one that your assistant —’

‘Associate detective,’ interrupted Mma Makutsi.

‘That your associate detective mentioned. I have two partners in the firm, Mma. One of them is a woman, and one is a man. We all get on very well together and we have different areas of speciality. I am the one who does trusts and executories: I look after people’s wills and estates after their death. We are quite busy these days, not because more people are becoming late but because there is more money in the country. The more money you have, then the more money there is in your estate after your death. I have one assistant, who is newly qualified, and I might even need to get another one before too long.’

‘You are fortunate that your business is doing so well,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘Not everybody is in that position these days.’

‘Indeed they are not,’ said Mma Sheba. ‘One of my partners handles insolvencies. He’s very busy these days.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘People who have built up a good business over the years, who have worked hard all their lives, suddenly find that the economic climate is very different.’

‘It is very sad for them,’ said Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Makutsi had now made the tea and brought two mugs that she placed before Mma Ramotswe and Mma Sheba. ‘These are both redbush,’ she said. ‘I shall be drinking ordinary tea myself.’

Mma Sheba thanked her, and Mma Ramotswe was pleased to see that some of Mma Makutsi’s prickliness disappeared.

Mma Sheba continued with her tale. ‘I drew up a will about four years ago,’ she said. ‘It was for a man who had been a client of my firm for some time – a farmer called Rra Molapo.’

‘I know that family,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘Or rather, I know of them. Was his father not one of Seretse Khama’s ministers?’

Mma Sheba nodded. ‘Yes, he was in the government then. The Khamas and the Molapos were good friends, but I think the old man – that’s the father of my client – became a bit bored with politics and so he bought a farm down on the other side of the Gaborone Dam. It was quite a good farm, and of course land was cheaper in those days. He was a skilled farmer, and the land was in good order when my client, that’s Edgar Molapo, took over. The old man died and Rra Edgar took on the running of the farm. He did quite well: he won prizes for his Brahman bulls and I think they even used some of them for breeding on the other side of the border. He made a fair amount of money out of cattle.’

Mma Ramotswe thought of her own father, Obed Ramotswe, whom she referred to as her ‘late daddy’. Whenever anybody mentioned cattle, memories of him came back to her, and she was at his side again, at the cattle post, admiring the herd that he had built up through being able to judge them so well. She heard their lowing, and she smelled the sweet smell that always hung in the air above them – the smell of forage and dust, the smell of their hides when wet, the very smell of her country.

‘There is nothing like a good herd of cattle,’ she mused.

Mma Sheba agreed. ‘No, there is nothing, Mma. And Rra Edgar was a happy man, I think. Except for one thing – he did not have any children of his own.’

Mma Ramotswe held Mma Sheba’s gaze. And that is me too, she thought, although she had Motholeli and Puso, and she was grateful, and she loved them.

‘So when he became ill and knew that his days were not going to be very long, he came to see me. His wife had died a few years back and the nearest relative was his sister. There had been three of them in the family – Rra Edgar, this sister, and a brother who had gone to Swaziland and had married a Swazi woman. He ran a hotel in the Ezulweni Valley and never came back to Botswana. He and Rra Edgar had fallen out with one another and did not speak. He was killed in a car crash over in Swaziland – you know what their roads are like – and then, of course, it was too late for any reconciliation. I think that Rra Edgar regretted this and he got his sister to arrange with his brother’s widow, the Swazi woman, to send over his nephew, whom he had never met. He wanted this boy to come and stay on the farm during his school holidays, and that is what happened. Rra Edgar doted on him, as childless uncles can do. He picked up Setswana and became quite fluent in the language. Eventually he was just like a Motswana born and bred – you would never have known that he had been born in Swaziland.