Mma Tsau had folded her hands on her lap and was staring down at them. She did not respond to Mma Ramotswe’s remark. In the confines of the van, her breathing was audibly laboured. Mma Ramotswe said nothing for a moment, allowing her to get her breath back. But there was no change in Mma Tsau’s breathing, which sounded as if the air was working its way through a small thicket of leaves, a rustling sound, the sound of a tree in the wind. She turned and looked at her visitor. She had been prepared to dislike this woman who had been stealing food from the college; this woman who had so unfairly threatened the inoffensive Poppy with dismissal. But now, in the flesh, with her laboured breathing and her odd walk, it was difficult not to feel sympathy. And of course it was always difficult for Mma Ramotswe not to feel sympathy for another, however objectionable his conduct might be, however flawed his character, simply because she understood, at the most intuitive, profound level what it was to be a human being, which is not easy. Everybody, she felt, could do evil, so easily; could be weak, so easily; could be selfish, so easily. This meant that she could understand—and did—which was not the same thing as condoning—which she did not—or taking the view—which she did not—that one should not judge others. Of course one could judge others, and Mma Ramotswe used the standards of the old Botswana morality to make these judgements. But there was nothing in the old Botswana morality which said that one could not forgive those who were weak; indeed, there was much in the old Botswana morality that was very specifically about forgiveness. One should not hold a grudge against another, it said, because to harbour grudges was to disturb the social peace, the bond between people.

She felt sorry, then, for Mma Tsau, and instinctively, without giving it any thought, she reached out and touched the other woman gently on the forearm, and left her hand there. Mma Tsau tensed, and the breath caught in her throat, but then she turned her head and looked at Mma Ramotswe, and her eyes were moist with tears.

“You are the mother of one of those girls,” Mma Tsau said quietly. It was not a question; it was a statement. Her earlier confidence was drained from her, and she seemed even smaller now, hunched in her seat.