Alexander McCall Smith: Tears of the Giraffe

MR J.L.B. Matekoni transferred his gaze to his desk and to the open page of his diary. He had noted down that today was his day to go to the orphan farm; if he left immediately he could do that before lunch and be back in time to check up on his apprentices' work before the owners came to collect their cars at four o'clock. There was nothing wrong with either car; all that they required was their regular service and that was well within the range of the apprentices' ability. He had to watch them, though; they liked to tweak engines in such a way that they ran at maximum capacity, and he would often have to tune the engines down before they left the garage.

"We are not meant to be making racing cars," he reminded them. "The people who drive these cars are not speedy types like you. They are respectable citizens."

"Then why are we called Speedy Motors?" asked one of the apprentices.

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had looked at his apprentice. There were times that he wanted to shout at him, and this perhaps was one, but he always controlled his temper.

"We are called Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors," he replied patiently, "because our work is speedy. Do you understand the distinction? We do not keep the customer waiting for days and days like some garages do. We turn the job round quickly, and carefully, too, as I keep having to tell you."

"Some people like speedy cars," chipped in the other apprentice. "There are some people who like to go fast."

"That may be so," said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "But not everyone is like that. There are some people who know that going fast is not always the best way of getting there, is it? It is better to be late than the late, is it not?"

The apprentices had stared at him uncomprehendingly, and he had sighed; again, it was the fault of the Ministry of Education and their modern ideas. These two boys would never be able to understand half of what he said. And one of these days they were going to have a bad accident.

HE DROVE out to the orphan farm, pressing vigorously on his horn, as he always did, when he arrived at the gate. He enjoyed his visits for more than one reason. He liked to see the children, of course, and he usually brought a fistful of sweets which he would distribute when they came flocking round him. But he also liked seeing Mrs Silvia Potokwane, who was the matron in charge. She had been a friend of his mother's, and he had known her all his life. For this reason it was natural that he should take on the task of fixing any machinery which needed attending to, as well as maintaining the two trucks and the battered old minibus which served as the farm's transport. He was not paid for this, but that was not to be expected. Everybody helped the orphan farm if they could, and he would not have accepted payment had it been pressed on him.

Mma Potokwane was in her office when he arrived. She leaned out of the window and beckoned him in.

"Tea is ready, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni," she called. "There will be cake too, if you hurry."

He parked his truck under the shady boughs of a monkey-bread tree. Several children had already appeared, and skipped along beside him as he made his way to the office block.

"Have you children been good?" asked Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, reaching into his pockets.

"We have been very good children," said the oldest child. "We have been doing good things all week. We are tired out now from all the good things we have been doing."

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni chuckled. "In that case, you may have some sweets."

He handed a fistful of sweets over to the oldest child, who received them politely, with both hands extended, in the proper Botswana fashion.

"Do not spoil those children," shouted Mma Potokwane from her window. "They are very bad children, those ones."

The children laughed and scampered off, while Mr J.L.B. Matekoni walked through the office door. Inside, he found Mma Potokwane, her husband, who was a retired policeman, and a couple of the housemothers. Each had a mug of tea and a plate with a piece of fruitcake on it.

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sipped on his tea as Mma Potokwane told him about the problems they were having with one of their borehole pumps. The pump was overheating after less than half an hour's use and they were worried that it would seize up altogether.

"Oil," said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "A pump without oil gets hot. There must be a leak. A broken seal or something like that."

"And then there are the brakes on the minibus," said Mr Potokwane. "They make a very bad noise now."

"Brake pads," said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "It's about time we replaced them. They get so much dust in them in this weather and it wears them down. I'll take a look, but you'll probably have to bring it into the garage for the work to be done."

They nodded, and the conversation moved to events at the orphan farm. One of the orphans had just been given a job and would be moving to Francistown to take it up. Another orphan had received a pair of running shoes from a Swedish donor who sent gifts from time to time. He was the best runner on the farm and now he would be able to enter in competitions. I hen there was a silence, and Mma Potokwane looked expec-lantly at Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.

"I hear that you have some news," she said after a while. "I hear that you're getting married."

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked down at his shoes. They had told nobody, as far as he knew, but that would not be enough to stop news getting out in Botswana. It must have been his maid, he thought. She would have told one of the other maids and they would have spread it to their employers. Everybody would know now.

"I'm marrying Mma Ramotswe," he began. "She is..."

"She's the detective lady, isn't she?" said Mma Potokwane. "I have heard all about her. That will make life very exciting for you. You will be lurking about all the time. Spying on people."

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni drew in his breath. "I shall be doing no such thing," he said. "I am not going to be a detective. That is Mma Ramotswe's business."

Mma Potokwane seemed disappointed. But then, she brightened up. "You will be buying her a diamond ring, I suppose," she said. "An engaged lady these days must wear a diamond ring to show that she is engaged."

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni stared at her. "Is it necessary?" he asked.

"It is very necessary," said Mma Potokwane. "If you read any of the magazines, you will see that there are advertisements for diamond rings. They say that they are for engagements."

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was silent. Then: "Diamonds are rather expensive, aren't they?"

"Very expensive," said one of the housemothers. "One thousand pula for a tiny, tiny diamond."

"More than that," said Mr Potokwane. "Some diamonds cost two hundred thousand pula. Just one diamond."

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked despondent. He was not a mean man, and was as generous with presents as he was with his time, but he was against any waste of money and it seemed to him that to spend that much on a diamond, even for a special occasion, was entirely wasteful.

"I shall speak to Mma Ramotswe about it," he said firmly, to bring the awkward topic to a close. "Perhaps she does not believe in diamonds."

"No," said Mma Potokwane. "She will believe in diamonds. All ladies believe in diamonds. That is one thing on which all ladies agree."

MR J.L.B. Matekoni crouched down and looked at the pump. After he had finished tea with Mma Potokwane, he had fol-lowed the path that led to the pump-house. It was one of those peculiar paths that seemed to wander, but which eventually reached its destination. This path made a lazy loop round some pumpkin fields before it dipped through a donga, a deep eroded ditch, and ended up in front of the small lean-to that protected the pump. The pump-house was itself shaded by a stand of umbrella-like thorn trees, which, when Mr J.L.B. Matekoni arrived, provided a welcome circle of shade. A tin-roofed shack, like the pump-house was, could become impossibly hot in the direct rays of the sun and that would not help any machinery inside.