Mma Ramotswe was slightly surprised by the intensity of Mma Makutsi’s reaction to this story. Although her assistant had previously not enjoyed the best of friendships with Mma Potokwane, relations between the two of them had been rather better recently. And now, hearing of Mma Potokwane’s misfortune, any past disagreements seemed immediately forgotten. “That is terrible, Mma,” wailed Mma Makutsi. “Oh, it is so unfair, so unfair. And on the same day as Fanwell’s arrest—and he is innocent, Mma, as we both know. Mma Potokwane too. They are both the victims of some very bad things. Oh, Mma …”

And with that, Mma Makutsi began to sob. Mma Ramotswe immediately rose from her desk and went to put an arm around the other woman. “It is very bad,” she said consolingly. “It is a very bad day for everybody.”

Mma Makutsi’s sobbing became louder. “Poor Fanwell,” she spluttered. “He is looking after that whole family, and there will be no money now. And Mma Potokwane. What will she eat? It is all so wrong, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe felt the tears begin to roll down her own cheeks. She closed her eyes and saw Mma Potokwane sitting on her sofa, staring so blankly and hopelessly ahead. She had given her working life to those children; she had spent every waking hour, it seemed, battling to give the children a decent start. She was tireless in her efforts on their behalf. And there was her fruit cake too, that she used as a means of ensnaring others to help the orphans; that fruit cake, that tea, those hours spent together talking about anything and everything. And the wisdom that the matron had, the understanding, the deep wells of kindness under that imposing exterior; all that, it seemed, meant nothing to the juggernaut of reform and efficiency and cost-cutting.

She wiped away the tears with the back of her wrist: salt against skin, our human tears. “Mma Makutsi,” she managed to say.

Mma Makutsi looked up. Her voice, when she spoke, was half choked with sorrow. “Yes, Mma?”

“I am going to make some tea. We shall drink a cup of tea.”

Mma Makutsi nodded, and sniffed. “It is always the best thing to do, Mma.”

It was, of course. The sound of the kettle boiling was in itself the sound of normality, of reason, the sound of a fight back against the sadness of things. And the making of tea—ordinary black tea for Mma Makutsi and red bush for Mma Ramotswe—was the first step in restoring a sense of order and control into their disturbed universe. Then, sitting close together for company, nursing their mugs of tea, they began to discuss what they should do.

“Clovis Andersen,” said Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Makutsi nodded. “We must speak to him. He will know what to do.”