Mma Ramotswe had seen him playing with the other boys, running after a ball with them in one of those strange spontaneous games which boys will make up for themselves. And she had seen his efforts to keep up, in vain because he had to drag his misshapen left foot behind him.

“That is a brave boy, that one,” Mma Potokwane had said. “He is always trying to do things. He tries to climb trees, but he cannot because of that foot. And he would like to play football, but he cannot kick the ball. He is a brave boy.”

Mma Ramotswe had noticed that look in Mma Potokwane’s eyes as she spoke, that look of determination; and it was no surprise to her to hear some months ago that the matron had packed the boy onto a bus with her and had made the long journey to Johannesburg. There she had taken him to the surgery of a doctor she had heard about and had insisted that he see the boy. It was an act of breathtaking bravery. She had later heard, from Mma Potokwane herself, who related the story with frequent chuckles, how she had taken the boy into the waiting room of this doctor, a waiting room in a glittering tall building, and had ignored the protestations of the receptionist that the doctor would never be able to see her.

“The doctor can decide that,” Mma Potokwane had announced. “You cannot speak for the doctor. He can look at this boy and then he can tell me, himself, whether he will see him or not.”

She had waited and waited, and at last the doctor had poked his head round the door and this had been the signal for Mma Potokwane to leap to her feet and take from her bag a large fruit cake that she had prepared. This was thrust into the astonished man’s hands, while the boy, hanging on to Mma Potokwane’s skirts, had followed her into the doctor’s office.

“He could not say no after that,” said Mma Potokwane. “I cut a piece of the cake straightaway and told him that he could eat it while the boy took his shoes and socks off. So he did. He ate the cake and then he could not say that he would not look at the boy. And once he had done that, I asked him when he could do the operation, and while he was trying to think of something to say I cut another piece of fruit cake for him. So that boy had his foot repaired and now it is not too bad at all. He still limps, but not nearly so badly. He can play football. He can even run. That was a very good doctor. And he did not charge anything either. He said that the fruit cake was payment enough.”