Mma Potokwane shook her head in wonderment. “There is more to Mma Makutsi than meets the eye,” she said. “Is it true that she talks to her shoes?”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “Or they talk to her. Yes, I believe that something like that is going on, although I cannot believe that shoes would ever talk. That’s just nonsense, Mma.”

The practical side of Mma Potokwane was in firm agreement. “Of course it is. I suppose that it’s a question of her imagination. She imagines that her shoes are talking to her, but it’s really all in her mind. You see a lot of that with children, you know. They imagine things.”

“Oh yes, Mma. They do that all right.”

Mma Potokwane pointed in the direction of one of the cottages. “There’s a child in that cottage over there—a very imaginative child. She told the housemother that she has a friend who comes to visit her—a friend called Dolly. She seems convinced that this friend lives somewhere over in the Kalahari and rides a giraffe. Such nonsense. And yet she insists it’s all true. She even made a small cake for this friend the other day and left it out for her. Of course the ants got it first.”

“I have heard that children do that, especially if they’re lonely.”

Mma Potokwane looked thoughtful. “I suppose that if I didn’t have a real friend called Mma Ramotswe, I could invent one. I could say that this lady comes out here to see me in a tiny white van and we drink tea and eat fruit cake together. I could make up something like that—if I had to.”

Mma Ramotswe looked pointedly at the saucer beneath her teacup. That saucer was often used for a piece of Mma Potokwane’s fruit cake, but for some reason none had been offered that day.

“Oh, my goodness!” exclaimed Mma Potokwane. “What a thoughtless person I am—I have forgotten to offer you a piece of fruit cake, Mma. I thought after three helpings of goat stew you might not…”

“That was some time ago, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe politely. “A piece of fruit cake would be most welcome, now that you mention it.”