‘Yes, but that makes him easier to carry. And I think it’s good for babies to get out and about; I am a modern person in that respect, Mma Ramotswe.’ She paused. ‘So, if you have no objection, Mma…’

Mma Ramotswe smiled. ‘I have no objection, Mma.’

‘I’ll come in for a few hours at a time.’

‘As you wish, Mma Makutsi.’

They remained silent after that, sitting in the silence of a friendship that was the greatest and deepest and most valuable friendship that either of them had ever had, or ever would have. Then it was time for a further cup of tea and the conversation shifted to the subject of husbands, on which they both declared themselves to be most fortunate.

‘I would not want Phuti to change,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘He is perfect just as he is.’

‘And I would not like Mr J. L. B. Matekoni to change either,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘For the same reason.’

This was not strictly speaking true. Neither husband was perfect – as both wives knew – but then who among us is perfect? Nobody, thought Mma Ramotswe. And Mma Makutsi thought much the same thing, but perhaps slightly more forcefully.

Chapter Twelve

Shoes Are Wasted on Men

Mma Soleti had given Mma Ramotswe the name of her enemy and Mma Ramotswe had written it down on a scrap of paper. The following day, sitting in the office of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, she examined what she had written. Daisy Manchwe, runs a photocopy shop in town. That was all that Mma Soleti had said about her; she clearly found the subject distasteful. That did not surprise Mma Ramotswe a great deal: we do not, in general, like to discuss those we have wronged, and it seemed to her that whatever Mma Soleti said about Daisy Manchwe’s husband being ready to leave, it was likely that this was a simple case of husband-grabbing. In her experience, those who took the husbands or wives of others could rewrite history – not always, but often – and the marriage they had broken up would be portrayed as being in much worse condition than it really was.