Mr Radiphuti did not seem to notice her shoes. “What do you do, Mma? Do you have a job? My son has spoken about you many times, but he has not told me what you do.”

“I work at the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency,” said Mma Makutsi. “I am an assistant there. There is a lady …”

“Called Mma Ramotswe,” said Mr Radiphuti.

“You know her?”

“Of course I do,” said the old man. “And I knew her father too. He was called Obed Ramotswe and he was a very good man. I bought cattle from him, you know, and I still have some of the descendants of those cattle down on my farm near Lobatse. They are fine beasts.” He paused. “So you work with Precious Ramotswe. Well, that is very interesting. Do you solve many cases?”

“I solved one today,” said Mma Makutsi lightly. “I almost found a man who had taken a lot of money.”

“Almost? Did he get away?”

Mma Makutsi laughed, and explained about the information that she had obtained which would enable people in Johannesburg to track him down. The old man listened carefully and smiled with pleasure.

“I can tell that you are very clever,” he said. “That is good.”

Mma Makutsi did not know how to take this remark. Why was it good that she was clever? Why would it make any difference to this old man? For a brief moment she wondered whether she should tell him about her ninety-seven per cent at the Botswana Secretarial College, but eventually decided against it: one should not speak too often about these things.

They talked for a few minutes more, mostly about the shop and the furniture which it sold. Then Phuti Radiphuti returned with a tray on which three cups of tea were balanced, and they drank this before he offered to run her back to her house in his car, and she accepted. It would be good, she thought, not to have to walk too far in these new red shoes, which were beginning to pinch a little bit on the right foot—not a great deal, but noticeable nonetheless.

When they arrived at her house, Phuti Radiphuti stopped the engine of his car. Then he reached into the back and took out a large parcel, which he gave to Mma Makutsi.

“This is a present for you, Mma,” he said. “I hope that you like it.”

Mma Makutsi looked at the carefully wrapped gift. “May I open it now?” she asked.

Phuti Radiphuti nodded proudly. “It is from the shop,” he said.

Mma Makutsi tore open the paper. Inside was a cushion, an ornate gold velvet cushion. It was the most beautiful thing she had seen for a good while, and she struggled with her tears. He was a fine man this, a good man, who liked her enough to give her this beautiful cushion.