THE RADIPHUTI AUNT had a face which was markedly too wide for her thin body; like a watermelon on sticks, Mma Makutsi had thought when Phuti had first shown her a photograph of her; but she had not said that, of course, remarking, instead, “You are lucky to have an aunt who loves you so much, Phuti.” The impression of disproportion conveyed by this mismatch between head and body was exacerbated by feet which appeared considerably too big for the relatively spindly legs that went up into a skirt made of the brown print fabric favoured by the more conventional sort of middle-aged woman in Botswana. Mma Makutsi had only met her once before, and then briefly, but recognised her and pointed her out to Mma Ramotswe.

“That is Phuti’s aunt. That is her. That lady there.”

Mma Ramotswe looked in the direction indicated by Mma Makutsi. The aunt was sitting under a tree in the grounds of the hospital. Another woman, accompanied by a young girl, sat at the other end of the bench placed there. A village dog, emaciated and flyblown, lay at the girl’s feet, somnolent in the growing heat of the morning, its mouth open, its preternaturally long tongue exposed to the sun.

Mma Ramotswe gestured for Mma Makutsi to follow her, although her assistant seemed anxious about doing so.

“We will speak to her,” she said. “Come.”

Mma Makutsi was hesitant. “She said that we should not come here until she told us. She said that …”

Mma Ramotswe gripped Mma Makutsi’s arm. “You are the fiancée, Mma! You are almost Mrs. Radiphuti! You are the one who should be at his bedside. He will want to see you, Mma, not his aunt.”

They walked towards the aunt, who turned as they approached and fixed them with a discouraging stare. Mma Ramotswe retained her grip on Mma Makutsi’s arm. “Never be put off by rudeness, Mma,” she whispered. “It is the rude person who is rude, not you.”

This advice, puzzling at first, encouraged Mma Makutsi. “You are right,” she whispered back. “I am not afraid of this woman. I am not afraid of a great big melon.” She looked furtively at Mma Ramotswe, momentarily embarrassed by the childish nature of the insult. It was the sort of thing that Charlie would say, and not a fitting remark for the fiancée of the owner—virtually—of the Double Comfort Furniture Shop and an assistant private detective. But Mma Ramotswe had not heard, or had chosen not to hear.

The aunt glared at them as they came up to her. “You should not be here, Grace Makutsi,” she said sharply, rising to her feet. “Did they not tell you that I would say when you could come? Did Gaethele not give you my message?”