Now, thinking of children, he wondered whether he would have the energy to deal with them. He was approaching the point in life when he wanted a quiet and orderly time. He wanted to be able to fix engines in his own garage during the day and to spend his evenings with Mma Ramotswe. That would be bliss! Would children not introduce a note of stress into their domestic life? Children needed to be taken to school and put in the bathtub and taken to the nurse for injections. Parents always seemed so worn out by their children and he wondered whether he and Mma Ramotswe would really want that.

“I can tell that you’re thinking about it,” said Mma Potokwane. “I think your mind is almost made up.”

“I don’t know …”

“What you should do is just take the plunge,” she went on. “You could give the children to Mma Ramotswe as a wedding present. Women love children. She will be very pleased. She’ll be getting a husband and some children all on the same day! Any lady would love that, believe me.”

“But …”

Mma Potokwane cut him short. “Now there are two children who would be very happy to go and live with you,” she said. “Let them come on trial. You can decide after a month or so whether they can stay.”

“Two children? There are two?” stuttered Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I thought …”

“They are a brother and sister,” Mma Potokwane went on hurriedly. “We do not like to split up brothers and sisters. The girl is twelve and the boy is just five. They are very nice children.”

“I don’t know … I would have to …”

“In fact,” said Mma Potokwane, rising to her feet. “I think that you have met one of them already. The girl who brought you water. The child who cannot walk.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni said nothing. He remembered the child, who had been very polite and appreciative. But would it not be rather burdensome to look after a handicapped child? Mma Potokwane had said nothing about this when she had first raised the subject. She had slipped in an extra child—the brother—and now she was casually mentioning the wheelchair, as if it made no difference. He stopped himself. He could be in that chair himself.

Mma Potokwane was looking out of the window. Now she turned to address him.

“Would you like me to call that child?” she asked. “I am not trying to force you, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, but would you like to meet her again, and the little boy?”

The room was silent, apart from a sudden creak from the tin roof, expanding in the heat. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked down at his shoes, and remembered, for a moment, how it was to be a child, back in the village, all those years ago. And remembered how he had experienced the kindness of the local mechanic, who had let him polish trucks and help with the mending of punctures, and who by this kindness had revealed and nurtured a vocation. It was easy to make a difference to other people’s lives, so easy to change the little room in which people lived their life.