Gwithie shrugged. ‘Next week? I have somebody who helps me in the kitchen who has an uncanny habit of knowing when the rains will start. She’s been right year after year. It’s extraordinary.’

‘And she says next week?’

Gwithie nodded. ‘Towards the end of next week, and she says the rains will be good.’

‘I am very happy to hear that,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘My own garden is looking very sad now. It is very thirsty. And my husband’s vegetables…’ She sighed. Mr J. L. B. Matekoni grew beans, but the plants had shrivelled under the onslaught of the sun and she found it hard to imagine that they would recover once the rains arrived. But plants did survive the harshness of even prolonged drought; they somehow kept themselves alive. The soil could be dry and dusty, parched and apparently lifeless, and yet under it there would be seeds and roots ready to spring into life within hours of the first rainfall.

‘Things will grow, in spite of everything.’ Gwithie paused. ‘Were you on your way somewhere?’

‘I was passing by,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘I had to go to the Molapo Farm. You must know the place – it’s on the other side of the Lobatse Road, not far really.’

‘I know it,’ said Gwithie. ‘We used to see a bit of Edgar Molapo. We don’t know his sister at all well. She keeps to herself, and always has done.’

‘I met her for the first time this morning.’

Gwithie was looking at her with interest. ‘You were there professionally?’

Mma Ramotswe was careful. Even with friends, she knew the importance of confidentiality. Her clients told her things that she should not reveal and she always observed that trust, difficult though it was at times.

‘Nothing serious,’ she said non-committally.

Gwithie did not press her. ‘They say that the farm is going to Edgar’s nephew from Swaziland.’

‘So they say,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘Do you know him – the boy?’

Gwithie shook her head. ‘He used to come over to Botswana a lot when he was younger. We never saw him then.’

‘He speaks very good Setswana,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘He must have spent a lot of time in this country.’

‘Yes,’ said Gwithie. ‘I met him the other day. But we spoke in English.’

Mma Ramotswe was interested. ‘He came here? With the aunt?’

‘Yes,’ said Gwithie. ‘They were interested in buying cattle from a man who’s been working on one of the buildings here. Some complicated transaction, so Edgar’s sister came over to do it. She brought the boy – well, I suppose he’s a young man now – with her. He was interested in some fruit trees I’ve been trying to grow and I showed him. Nice young man.’

‘He is,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘He has good manners.’

Gwithie seemed to remember something. ‘It was a bit odd, though. He said something that made him very flustered.’