Mr. Putumelo burst out laughing. “That is not the point, Rra. Women are very good at cleaning houses, but that does not mean that they know how to make them.” He reached for a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the corner of his mouth; a curious, rather fussy gesture. “But I must not stop you from telling me what your wife thinks, Rra. I am sure it is very interesting.” The last remark was heavy with sarcasm.

Phuti told the builder of Grace’s requirements. Mr. Putumelo reached for a pen and made a few notes; he looked sceptical as he wrote, as an unhelpful bank manager might look as he entertained a risky client’s request for a loan. “I have written that down,” he said, once Phuti had finished. “We shall see what can be done.” He examined his own note. “There are some requests here that are not very practical, of course. And this business of two cookers: Where does that nonsense come from? Has your wife seen some picture in a magazine? Two cookers! Have we each got two mouths, Rra, so that we need to have two dinners at the same time?”

Phuti winced. It had been his suggestion, even if Grace had readily agreed to it, and he should have the courage to say as much to Mr. Putumelo. He should say: “No, that was not my wife’s idea, Rra—it was mine, and I am the client. If I want two cookers, then I can have them. You are only the builder and I am paying you to do what I want. Understand?” That is what he should have said, he knew; but he did not say it. Instead, he said, “Two cookers are not an important element of the design, Rra. One will do quite well.”

Mr. Putumelo appeared to take no notice of the concession. “And as for this business about floor tiles,” the builder said. “All floor tiles are of much the same composition. I shall choose the right ones, and do not need to be reminded of what is necessary.”