Mma Manchwe seemed genuinely surprised. ‘Harm her? Why should I want to harm her?’ She stopped. She was looking at Mma Ramotswe with some distrust now. ‘Why are you asking me, Mma? Are you wanting to get somebody to help you harm her? Is that what’s happening?’

Mma Makutsi intervened. ‘Certainly not,’ she exploded. ‘We would never do that sort of thing, Mma.’

‘I am only asking,’ said Mma Manchwe. ‘You never know these days.’ She looked at her watch before she continued. ‘I’m sorry, Mma Ramotswe and Mma…’

‘Makutsi. Makutsi.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry, Mma Makutsi, but I am going to have to get on with my work. Let me give you my leaflet here, though, as it explains my charges. If you can get a lower per copy price anywhere in Gaborone – and I mean anywhere – then I will do your copying free. How about that? You take that leaflet, Mma, and get back to me if you have any copying to be done. You will get very good service from me – I promise you that.’

Mma Manchwe smiled as she gave them the leaflet. It was not the smile of one who would send a ground hornbill feather to another, nor was it the smile of one who would spread false rumours aimed at destroying somebody’s business. But there was something odd about the smile, thought Mma Ramotswe. Although you could say what it was not, you could not necessarily say what it was.

Chapter Thirteen

Bless You, and Your Shoes

Mma Ramotswe was late home that evening. The school that Motholeli and Puso attended had arranged for parents – including, of course, foster parents – to visit their children’s classrooms and speak to their teachers. Since most of the parents worked, these meetings took place after five-thirty, which gave time for everybody to reach the school through the after-work traffic. After a chat with the teachers, the school choirs, of which there were four, were due to entertain the parents before they went home. Both Motholeli and Puso were in a choir, but in different ones. Puso was in a choir of boys whose voices were yet to break, which sang traditional Botswana songs; Motholeli was in a mixed choir – boys and girls – which sang gospel music and occasional jazz.

Motholeli’s teacher was happy with the progress that she had made over the year. ‘She is very good with her hands,’ she said. ‘She is one of those children who will be able to make anything.’

‘She wants to be a mechanic,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘She has always wanted that.’

The teacher nodded. ‘Your husband…’

‘Yes, he is a mechanic. But it is not because of that. He has never tried to persuade her. She is naturally good at it.’

The teacher smiled. ‘And she is brave too.’

Mma Ramotswe lowered her eyes. ‘It is not always easy for her.’

They sat in silence. The teacher knew.