After the meetings with the teachers, Mma Ramotswe made her way into the school hall, where the choirs were to perform. Puso’s was on first, and she listened intently as they sang one of the songs that she remembered being taught as a girl, all those years ago, in Mochudi. Then Motholeli’s choir came on and sang ‘Shall We Gather By the River?’ She knew that song, and liked it. Soon we’ll reach the shining river. She closed her eyes. The voices of the children were pure; their hearts were pure. Some of them had already discovered how hard life could be; others had yet to do so and probably did not fully understand what the world could be. We wanted to protect them, she thought, of course we did, but we knew that we could not and they would have to deal with the disappointments and shocks of life as best they could. All we could do was to give them that one thing that they could use to protect themselves from all of that. At least we could do that. That thing was love, of course.

She stayed to the end, although some of the parents slipped out early. Then they travelled back to the house together, where they saw that Mr J. L. B. Matekoni was already at home and in the kitchen. Leaving the children to do their homework, Mma Ramotswe joined her husband. She was surprised to find him standing over the sink, a pot before him.

‘What are you doing, Rra?’

He turned round almost guiltily.

‘I am cooking the potatoes, Mma Ramotswe. I am helping you with the evening meal.’

She looked over his shoulder and into the pot. It was tricky to work out exactly what he was doing. ‘What is happening inside this pot, Mr J. L. B. Matekoni?’

He shot her a puzzled glance. ‘I thought we might have mashed potatoes. I know you like those.’

‘I do. So you are mashing them now?’

He nodded. ‘And it’s rather hard work, Mma.’

‘You’re mashing them even before you have cooked them, Rra?’

He frowned. ‘You cook them first?’

Mma Ramotswe reached around him and took the pan from his hands. It was half-filled with water in which fragments of raw potato floated morosely, like a soup. Very gently she poured the mixture down the drain. ‘I will show you how to start with new ones,’ she said. ‘You cook the potatoes first and then you take them out and mash them up with butter and salt. That is how mashed potatoes are made, Rra.’

He turned away sheepishly. ‘I was only trying to help, Mma.’

She felt a warm rush of affection for the man beside her. ‘But of course you were, Rra. But I am quite happy to cook mashed potatoes. I do not mind.’

‘I want to be a more modern husband, Mma.’