Yet Mma Ramotswe had to admit that there were aspects about Puso’s behaviour that people could well point to and say, “Well, there you are! That is because he is thinking of the Kalahari all the time and wants to be out in the bush. It is just the way his heart works.” Well, thought Mma Ramotswe, that might be so; perhaps there stirred within this strange little boy some ancient yearnings which came to him from his people. But even if this were so, then what difference did it make? The important thing was that he should be happy, and in his way he was. He would never be a mechanic, he would never take over the business from Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, but then did that matter all that much? His sister, to the surprise of all, had shown great interest in machinery and had declared her intention of training as a mechanic. So that left it open for him to pursue some quite different career, even if it was difficult to think at the moment what such a career might be. He liked to chase lizards and to sit under trees and look up at the birds. He also liked to make small piles of rocks—they were all over the yard—on which Mma Ramo-tswe’s maid, Rose, sometimes stubbed her toes when she went to hang out the washing. What might such a boy expect to do when he grew up? What clues did such pursuits give to the turn his life would take?

“There are jobs with the game department,” Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had pointed out. “They need people who can track animals. Maybe he will be happy out there in the bush, tracking giraffe or whatever it is they do. For some people that is the best job there is.”

On that evening, after the awful encounter with Note Mokoti, the children had noticed that there was something wrong with Mma Ramotswe. Puso had asked a question to which she had begun to respond before she had trailed off into silence, as if her thoughts had drifted off elsewhere. He had repeated his question, but this time she had said nothing, and he had gone off in puzzlement. Motholeli, finding her standing in the kitchen staring blankly out of the window, had offered to help her with the preparation of the evening meal, and had received a similar, rather distracted response. She had waited for Mma Ramotswe to say something else, and when nothing further came she had asked her whether there was anything wrong.

“I am thinking of something,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I’m sorry if I am not listening to you. I am thinking of something that happened today.”

“Was it a bad thing?” asked Motholeli.

“It was,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I cannot talk about it now. I’m sorry. I am feeling sad and I do not want to talk.”