“Mma Ramotswe will be here soon,” he said. “She and Mma Makutsi are off on some business or other. But until they come in, you are in charge. Is that all right? You look after everything.”

Charlie smiled. “A-one, Boss,” he said. “Trust me.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni raised an eyebrow. “Mmm,” he began, but said no more. Running a business involved anxieties—that was inevitable. It was bad enough worrying about two feckless young employees; how much more difficult it must be to run a very large company with hundreds of people working for you. Or running a country—that must be a terribly demanding job, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni wondered how it was possible for people such as prime ministers and presidents to sleep at night with all the problems of the world weighing down upon them. It could not be an easy job being President of Botswana, and if Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had a choice between living in State House or being the proprietor of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, he was in no doubt about which one of these options he would choose. That is not to say that it would be uncomfortable occupying State House, with its cool rooms and its shaded gardens. That would be a very pleasant existence, but how difficult it must be for the President when everybody who came to see you, or almost everybody, wanted something: please do this, sir; please do that; please allow this, that, or the next thing. Mind you, his own existence was not all that different; just about everybody he saw wanted him to fix their car, preferably that very day. Mma Potokwane was an example of that, with her constant requests to attend to bits and pieces of malfunctioning machinery out at the orphan farm. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni thought that if he could not resist Mma Potokwane and her demands, then he would not be a very good candidate for the presidency of Botswana. Of course, the President had probably not met Mma Potokwane, and even he might find it a bit difficult to stand up to that most forceful of ladies, with her fruit cake and her way of wheedling things out of people.

The apprentices did not have long to themselves that morning. Shortly after Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had left, they had found themselves comfortable seats on two old upturned oil drums from which they were able to observe the passers-by on the road outside. Young women who walked past, aware of the eyes upon them, might look away or affect a lack of interest, but would hear the young men’s appreciative comments nonetheless. This was fine sport for the apprentices, and they were disappointed by the sudden appearance of Mma Ramotswe’s tiny white van only ten minutes or so after the departure of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.

“What were you doing sitting about like that?” shouted out Mma Makutsi, as she climbed out of the passenger seat. “Don’t think we didn’t see you.”

Charlie looked at her with an expression of injured innocence. “We are as entitled to a tea break as much as anybody else,” he replied. “You don’t work all the time, do you? You drink tea too. I’ve seen you.”