Charlie shrugged. “I could not even get it brought here,” he said. “The police mechanic looked at it. He said…” He moved his hand in a gesture of helplessness.

“A write-off?” asked the younger apprentice.

Charlie moved a hand up to cover his mouth. From behind his fingers, his voice was muffled. “Yes. He said that it would cost far more than it was worth to try to fix it. Yes, it’s a write-off.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked up at the sky. He had brought these boys here, he had done his best, and everything they did, everything, went wrong. He asked himself if he had been like this as a young man, as prone to disaster, as incapable of getting anything right. He had made mistakes, of course; there had been several false starts, but nothing ever approaching the level of incompetence that these young men so effortlessly achieved.

He felt a sudden urge to shout at Charlie, to seize him by the lapels of his jacket and shake him; to shake him until some sense came into that head of his, full, as it was, with thoughts of girls and flashy clothes and the like. It was tempting, almost overpoweringly so, but he did not. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had never laid an angry hand on another and would not start now. The dangerous moment passed.

“I was wondering, Boss,” Charlie began. “I was wondering if I could come back here.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni bit his lip. This was undoubtedly his chance to get rid of Charlie, if he wished to do so, but he realised, just as the possibility entered his head, that he was, in fact, relieved to have him back, even in these difficult circumstances. The car was still covered by his own insurance, but with the deductible element he would still be left out of pocket on its loss—almost to the tune of five thousand pula, he imagined. That was five thousand pula which Charlie’s accident would cost him, and the young man would never have any means of paying that back. But these boys were part of the life of the garage. They were like demanding relatives, like drought, like bad debts—things that were always there, and to which one became accustomed.

He sighed. “Very well. You may start again tomorrow.”

The younger apprentice, overjoyed, seized Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni by the arm and squeezed hard. “Oh, Boss, you are such a kind man. You are so kind to Charlie.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni said nothing. He carefully extricated himself from the young man’s grip and walked back into the workshop. There were more grease stains where the younger apprentice had held him. He could have fumed about those, but did not. What was the point? he thought. Some things just are.