They could go and have tea in the café on River Walk, the one where you could sit and look out over the car park with the eucalyptus trees in the distance, but they could just as easily have tea in the office and, with minimum craning of the neck, see the edge of that very same stand of eucalyptus trees. Or they could go down to Mokolodi and have tea in the restaurant there; that was perhaps a bit more exciting, but it would require a half-hour trip in the tiny white van to get there, and the tiny white van was not really in a position to make such a trip at present. It was true that it was running, but only just; walking, perhaps, would have been a better word to describe it.

She pushed her plate to the side of her desk. The thought of her van filled her with dread. That morning Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had left for work first, and when Mma Ramotswe arrived he was standing in front of the garage, chatting to Fanwell, when the tiny white van limped into its parking place at the side of the building. Seeing him, Mma Ramotswe had put her foot down on the accelerator, hoping that the van might just rise to the occasion and drive up at a normal speed. It had not, and the sudden strain on the engine had produced a frightening grinding sound, more serious, it seemed, than any noise the van had previously emitted.

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni broke off his conversation with his apprentice and walked briskly over to the van.

“What a terrible sound,” he said. “Mma Ramotswe! How long has your van been making that sound?”

Mma Ramotswe swallowed hard. “A sound, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni? You say that it's making a strange sound? Are you sure it was not some other vehicle?” She looked desperately over her shoulder to see if anything was passing on the Tlokweng Road. The road was quite empty.

“No, it is your van,” he said. “There must be something very wrong with it. I'll take a look at it right away. We've got a couple of hours before the next job is due in.”

Mma Ramotswe realised that she had no escape. “I don't want to be any trouble,” she muttered. “Maybe some other time.”

“Nonsense!” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “I am your husband, Mma. I cannot have my own wife driving round in a van that makes a noise like that. Think of my reputation—just think of it. What would they say?” He looked at her reproachfully before answering his own question. “They would say that I was not much of a mechanic if that was the sound that my own wife's van made. Everyone would be saying that.”

Mma Ramotswe caught Fanwell's eye. He shrugged, as if to say, I told you, Mma Ramotswe. I told you that there was no hope.

She went into the office, her heart quite cold within her. She knew what would happen, and that a mechanical sentence of doom, uttered in words as powerful and as grave as those of any doctor imparting bad news, would soon be uttered. She decided, though, that there was no point in doing anything but put it out of her mind for the time being. When there is nothing you can do to stop the march of adverse events, then the best thing, she felt, was to get on with life and not to worry. And at that particular moment, Mma Makutsi had come in with the doughnuts, which would be a balm, if only a temporary one, to the anxiety she felt.