But then Mma Makutsi looked up at her and said, “Phuti is in hospital. There has been an accident.” And she began to weep, dropping her head onto her forearms and rocking backwards and forwards in that curious motion that is perhaps a subconscious attempt to mimic the movement that brings comfort to a tiny baby. That we should in moments of sorrow seek to return to a time when the harshness of the world could be forfended by the simple reassurances of our parents; that we should do that …

“Oh, Mma Makutsi …”

“He is having an operation. Now, I think.”

Mma Ramotswe bent forward and put both her arms around Mma Makutsi, and for a while they were silent. Then she asked what had happened, and was given the only account that the other woman had—the story as told by Mr. Gaethele.

“If it is only his leg, then that is surely not too bad.”

This brought little comfort to Mma Makutsi.

“And they have the best surgeons at that hospital,” said Mma Ramotswe. “They are miracle-workers.”

Mma Makutsi looked at Mma Ramotswe. “But if it is only his leg, then why will they need a miracle?” She started to sob again.

Mma Ramotswe moved back to her desk. “I shall drive you to the hospital, Mma. We can go and wait there until the operation is over.”

“They do not want us.”

“Who says that?”

Mma Makutsi explained about the aunt and her prohibition of visitors until later that day. Mma Ramotswe, though, was not prepared to accept this; an aunt may have a role in the life of an unmarried man, but in the case of a married man—and an engaged man was as good as married in her view—aunts took second place.

“We shall go to the Princess Marina, right now. In my white van.” She checked herself. “In my van.” She had momentarily forgotten that the tiny white van was no more, and that its successor, mechanically superior though it might be, was no real substitute. But this was not the time for such melancholy thoughts; not when Mma Makutsi was in distress and Phuti Radiphuti, that quiet, inoffensive man who had so dramatically improved Mma Makutsi’s prospects, was, for all they knew, fighting for his life in the operating theatre, or, worse still, was being wheeled out, one of the unlucky ones in that—what was it she had read?—one per cent of those who enter the theatre who do not come out alive. One in one hundred. She would not mention that figure to Mma Makutsi, for whom it might not provide the comfort that, if looked at rationally, it might be expected to provide.

CHAPTER FIVE

THEY GO TO THE HOSPITAL