While Mr J. L. B. Matekoni was attending his first class on how to be a modern husband, Mma Ramotswe was on her way to visit Mma Makutsi. She had telephoned her assistant to arrange the visit and had been surprised that the telephone had been answered by Mma Makutsi herself, rather than by Phuti’s aunt. Had the aunt answered, she had no doubt at all that reasons would have been given for the visit not to take place, but Mma Makutsi, by contrast, was keen that she should come.

‘My baby is making a lot of progress,’ she said. ‘He’s taken very great strides, Mma.’

‘He’s not walking already, Mma?’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘Surely it is a bit early for that.’

Mma Makutsi laughed. ‘No, I do not mean that, Mma. He will walk in good time, but not yet.’

Mma Ramotswe continued the joke. ‘I thought that perhaps up in Bobonong babies walked earlier than down here. I thought maybe they walked back from the hospital with their mother – holding her hand, of course.’

A shriek of laughter came down the line. ‘Mma Ramotswe! You are very funny. You are making my stomach hurt with laughter.’

A time was agreed, and now Mma Ramotswe had closed the Radiphuti gate behind her and was driving her tiny white van cautiously up the rough driveway to the house. The painters who had been working on the outside had made great strides too and had almost finished with the guttering, which was being painted purple. That, thought Mma Ramotswe, was a Makutsi touch, as she had always had a liking for purple shoes. It was something to do with Bobonong, perhaps, where there were whole fields of those strange rocks which, when broken open, revealed purple crystals. Mma Makutsi had brought one into the office to use as a paperweight, and it caught the light sometimes, sending dancing specks of light on to the walls, as if a colourful hand had touched them and left its purple fingerprints.

Mma Ramotswe had hoped that Phuti’s aunt would not be in, but it was she who opened the front door.

‘It is you,’ said the aunt abruptly. ‘Yes?’

Mma Ramotswe made an effort to control herself. The rudeness of this woman was almost beyond belief. ‘Yes, it is me, Mma. I’m sorry, but it’s me.’

‘And?’ snapped the aunt.

‘I am here to see Mma Makutsi.’

‘Mma Radiphuti,’ shot back the aunt. ‘What is this nonsense about keeping names. She is a Radiphuti now.’

Mma Ramotswe took a deep breath. ‘And a Makutsi. I am a Ramotswe and a Matekoni. We can use both names, Mma, if that is what we want to do.’

The aunt wrinkled her nose. ‘She is very tired. You should come back some other time.’

Mma Ramotswe ignored this. ‘Thank you, Mma. You are very kind, but I can show myself in. Thank you very much.’