THE NEXT DAY she drove out to the Orphan Farm to visit Mma Potokwane. She had a great deal to tell her friend, who liked to be kept up with developments. There was news of Mr. Polopetsi—Mma Potokwane had not heard about the sorting out of that problem, and would be pleased with the outcome. That had been a troubling situation that could have ended very differently. Then there was the remarkable outcome of the Woman of the Year Award. Mma Potokwane would not be at all pleased to hear that Violet had won that, but she was robust and would get over the shock. And finally there was the Susan story. Mma Ramotswe would enjoy telling her friend all about that and about the outcome, which was clearly a good one. Anger, and its close cousin revenge, had come off second best to forgiveness and to the realisation that current unhappiness is not always helped by delving into the past, but can be dealt with by other, more productive means. “People often make that discovery themselves,” observed Mma Potokwane. “All they need is a bit of a push.”

They went to visit one of the housemothers. She received them warmly and took them into one of the small bedrooms that made up each house. It was afternoon rest time for the younger children, and there, on the lower bunk, lying head to toe, were the brother and sister whom Mma Ramotswe had seen on her last visit. And on the bed with them, curled up and comfortable—against all the regulations—was Fanwell’s dog. When they entered the room he awoke and gave a low, protective growl.

“He is looking after them,” said the housemother. “He is very fond of them.”

Mma Ramotswe turned away. She did not want others to see her tears.

“It is good to have somebody to watch over you,” said Mma Potokwane. “It is very good.” And then she looked at her watch. “And somebody to make you tea too.”

“That is very good,” said Mma Ramotswe, just managing to keep her voice even.

They walked back to Mma Potokwane’s office in silence. Above them the sky of Botswana was empty, except for a small corner in the distance, behind the wind, beyond the hills—a small patch of purple that was a great cloud of life-giving rain, the rain the parched land so yearned for; small now, but heading their way like an angel of mercy on great wings.

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