She did not wait for an answer to her question, but continued, “And now you are bringing the whole world. This woman here, what business has she?” She gestured dismissively towards Mma Ramotswe. “Did anybody give you permission to bring her? This is not a cattle show, you know.”

The sheer rudeness of this welcome made Mma Makutsi start; Mma Ramotswe felt it in her arm, a shocked movement.

“Dumela, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe quickly, extending the traditional greeting. “I hope you have slept well.”

Even the aunt, in all her bristling hostility, could not overcome the ancient habit; she returned the greeting gruffly, but then immediately turned again to Mma Makutsi. “Well? Did Gaethele give you my message?”

Mma Ramotswe intercepted the question. “I think he did, Mma. But Mma Makutsi is the fiancée, you see, and I was the one who said to her that she should come to the hospital. I was the one.”

The aunt stood quite still, absorbing this provocative piece of information. Then, without looking at Mma Ramotswe, she said to Mma Makutsi, “Who is this large person, Mma?”

“I am Precious Ramotswe,” said Mma Ramotswe evenly. “Mma Makutsi works for me.”

Mma Makutsi would have preferred it if Mma Ramotswe had said “works with me,” but did not feel that this was the time for concern over status, important though such questions might be.

The aunt now looked at her adversary directly. Mma Makutsi was right, thought Mma Ramotswe; she does look like a melon. “So you are that woman,” said the aunt. “I have heard of you and your detective nonsense. I do not want to think about such business now. The important thing is this: my Phuti is having a big operation. He is in there now. Now, now, while we speak. And I do not want him to see people until he is strong enough. That is all, Mma.”

She stopped, and fixed Mma Ramotswe with the stare of one who has given a full and perfectly reasonable explanation.

“Have you spoken to the doctor?” asked Mma Ramotswe. She sounded neither angry nor offended; her tone was perfectly even.

“Yes, yes,” snapped the aunt. “I have spoken to them and signed a piece of paper. They told me all about the operation that they would have to do. It is very sad.”

Mma Makutsi caught her breath. “Why sad?”

“Any operation is sad,” said Mma Ramotswe hurriedly. “It is sad for the person having an operation. Sad for the system. That is well known.”

The aunt raised an eyebrow. There was something triumphant in her expression. “They gave me all the details,” she said. “The doctor was very kind. He was Ghanaian. They are always kind, those people from that place.”

Mma Ramotswe probed. “Maybe you could tell Mma Makutsi what he said. She is the fiancée, so she has the right to know.”