Alexander Smith - Tea Time for the Traditionally Built People

Mma Ramotswe looked at Mma Makutsi. “I do not think that we need to do anything more, Mma,” she said. “Phuti now knows about the…”

“Bad woman in his bed,” supplied Mma Makutsi, adding, quickly, “department.”

OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS the staff of the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency-that is, Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi, with some assistance from Mr. Polopetsi-were more than usually busy. The atmosphere in the office, though, was not as strained as it sometimes was during busy periods; in fact, it was rather light-hearted, not dissimilar to the mood that prevailed in the weeks before Christmas, when everybody was looking forward to parties and celebrations. Christmas was, of course, still some time away; what led to the lightness of mood now was the evident happiness of Mma Makutsi. The tensions that had arisen on the appointment of Violet had disappeared the very afternoon of Mma Ramotswe's exposure of the real reason for her sales success. Phuti Radiphuti, an upright man, had been profoundly shocked to hear of her sales technique, and had dismissed Violet immediately. The enraged former manager of the bed department had stormed out, meeting Mma Ramotswe and the others, still standing beside the van in the car park.

“It is you, Mma Ramotswe, who has done this thing to me,” she hissed. “I shall not forget it.” And then, seeing Mma Makutsi waiting in the van, she had shaken a finger at her erstwhile classmate and shouted abuse in her direction. “And you, Grace Makutsi! Don't you think that I don't know that you've been involved in this. Well, if I were you, I'd hang on to your precious Phuti Radiphuti very tight. He really likes me, you know. He couldn't keep his hands off me, you know. And he an engaged man!”

“Don't believe her,” called out Mma Ramotswe as she approached the van. “Phuti would never.”

“Oh yes he would,” yelled Violet. “And he did.”

Mma Ramotswe was now at the van and she climbed into the cab, emphasising to Mma Makutsi the meretricious nature of everything that Violet said. “Do not believe that woman,” she said. “She is jealous of you. And Phuti is a good, upright man. He is still your fiancé-that is what Violet cannot stand.”

“I trust Phuti,” said Mma Makutsi. “He would never go near a woman like her. And I never thought he would.”

This, thought Mma Ramotswe, was not strictly true-Mma Makutsi had been convinced that Violet presented a very real danger-but she did not argue. The important thing was that Mma Makutsi's mood was back to normal and that they would be able to get on with their work on the Molofololo case in reasonably good spirits. Not that Mma Ramotswe dared hope that they were getting anywhere with that inquiry-indeed, it was remarkable how similar were the responses of all the other players they had spoken to that week.

Even Rops Thobega, who was interviewed by Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi together, had much the same view as Big Man Tafa and the others about the interference of Mr. Molofololo. “He means well,” said Rops, “but I wish he would stop meaning quite so well. He's always changing things, you know. Do things this way-no, do them this way. All the time. And then six months ago he went and changed all our kit-shorts, strips, socks, boots, the lot. He had some new sponsor who got him all this kit and he made us use it. It's never-ending. Change, change, change. Nag, nag, nag. And he never listens to us. Never.”

She had wondered about Big Man, and about one or two of the others, but had decided, in the end, that there really was nobody at whom the finger could be pointed. Nor a nose either.

At the end of the week, Mma Ramotswe began to draft the report that she planned to submit to Mr. Molofololo the following Monday. She dictated it to Mma Makutsi, sitting in their office, in the heat of mid-morning, watching the flies on the ceiling as she spoke.

“My assistant and I have jointly spoken to every member of the team. We have found no notable instances of disloyalty. Every member appears to be fond of the Kalahari Swoopers, and we found no evidence that any one of them would willingly do anything to ensure that opposing teams won. At the same time we found that there was…”

She paused. “How should I put that, Mma?” she asked Mma Makutsi.

“We found that there was some dissatisfaction,” suggested Mma Makutsi.

“Very good. We found that there was some dissatisfaction with the style that you yourself adopt in telling the team what to do. We do not wish to give offence, Rra, but we must tell you that the team might play better if you did not spend so much time changing tactics and telling them what to do. In conclusion, therefore…”

Again Mma Makutsi provided the form of words. “You should say, In conclusion, we think that there is no evidence of a traitor and all inquiries of this nature should be terminated-after payment of our bill, which we now append to this report as appendix 1(a).”

“That is very good,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You are very good with words, Mma. And I am happy enough with this report now, even though it says really very little…”

“It says nothing,” said Mma Makutsi, closing her notebook with a flourish. “But that, Mma, is because there are some cases in which there is nothing to say.”

WHEN SATURDAY CAME, Mma Ramotswe arranged for Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni to drop Puso off at the football ground where the Kalahari Swoopers were due to play the Molepolole Squibs. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had toyed with the idea of going too, but had decided, in the end, to catch up on his accounts, which he had sorely neglected over the last month. If you don't send bills, Mma Ramotswe had pointed out to him, then people forget to pay you. He knew that was true, and yet there always seemed so many other things to do-more important things, he felt, such as finding what was wrong with a particularly cantankerous car, or looking for a spare part for Mma Potokwane's old van, or any of the other things that a generous-hearted mechanic finds himself asked to do. Of course it would have been simpler had he insisted on payment in every case before a vehicle was removed-every other garage did that-but how could he turn away a car in need simply because of its owner's temporary impecuniosity? He could not, and Mma Ramotswe-and everybody else, particularly impecunious drivers-loved him for it.

So it was accounts, rather than football, for Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, and for Mma Ramotswe it was, to her immense satisfaction, a perfectly ordinary Saturday. She would do her shopping with Motholeli before dropping her off to play at a friend's house. Then she would have tea at the President Hotel, perhaps call in on a friend for a further cup of tea, walk in her garden, sit on her verandah, plan the evening meal, and have an afternoon nap on her bed with the latest copy of her favourite magazine. That would be the best part of it all-lying on the bed reading helpful household hints and about the exotic, patently doomed romance of some distant person, before allowing the magazine to slip out of her hand as sleep-dreamless afternoon sleep-overtook her.

Puso, of course, was bursting with excitement as he prepared for his football outing. This excitement was mixed with a certain self-importance: he had been told to report to Mr. Molofololo when he arrived at the game, and he would be allowed to help the team get ready. He now spoke of the team as “us” and Mr. Molofololo as “my friend, Rra Molofololo.” But he was realistic, too, for all his enthusiasm, and told Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni as they drove to the match that he thought it likely that the Molepolole Squibs would win.

“You never know,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “You never know what can happen.”