‘The children in this house eat well,’ said Mma Potokwani with a smile. ‘They do not know how lucky they are, having one of the best cooks in Botswana as their housemother. They are all… well-built children.’

Mmamodise turned to Mma Ramotswe. ‘They are always hungry, Mma. Children, and men too, are always hungry.’

‘That is true,’ said Mma Ramotswe, looking about the room into which Mmamodise had led them. She noticed the red concrete floor, so highly polished that it shone; she noticed the yellow curtains that looked as if they had been ironed; she saw the framed portrait high on the wall (almost too high, she thought, for the children to see it), of a young President Khama with the coat of arms of Botswana, that lovely emblem with its zebra supporter, reminding one of what it meant to be part of this country they all loved so much – a country that had tried to lead a good life and, she thought, had succeeded.

The picture gave her an idea. ‘You used to work with the Molapo family, I hear, Mma,’ she began. She looked up at the picture. ‘I believe that the old man, the father of Rra Edgar, worked in the government with Seretse Khama.’

Mmamodise nodded. ‘That is so, Mma. He was a good friend of Seretse Khama. I saw him come to the house many times. They would talk and talk.’

Mma Ramotswe encouraged her. ‘I saw him too – in Mochudi. My father did not know him, but he met him once and he talked to him about cattle.’

At first, Mmamodise had nothing to add to this, but then, appearing to realise that some comment was required from her, she said, ‘Those days are in the past now, Mma.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘We live in the present day, but the past… the past is still there, I think, Mma.’ She paused. Mma Potokwani was staring at the ceiling thoughtfully. ‘You know that Rra Edgar is now late, Mma? You know that, I assume?’

Mmamodise did know that. ‘I was at the funeral, Mma. There were many, many people. He was well known throughout the country; maybe because of his father, but still well known.’

‘And now the sister is living on the farm,’ prompted Mma Ramotswe.

‘Yes, she has been there for some time. Rra Edgar built her a house. I don’t think that she liked it very much. She always said it was too hot.’

‘That might be the country, not the house.’

The two of them laughed. Mma Potokwani was still gazing at the ceiling, apparently lost in her own thoughts.

Mma Ramotswe clasped her hands together. ‘Now the farm is going to go to the nephew – to Liso.’

She watched Mmamodise as she spoke and saw immediately that what she said triggered a response. It was almost imperceptible, but it was there. A tiny electric wire, a filament, had touched a nerve and made a connection.