He removed his hand from her shoulder and stood up. ‘I will make you tea,’ he said.

She looked at him with fondness. For some reason, Mr J. L. B. Matekoni did not make very good tea. It was something to do with the quantities of tea he put in the pot, or with not allowing the water to boil properly, or with the way he poured it. For whatever reason, his tea was never quite of the standard achieved by her or by Mma Makutsi. So she thanked him and said that it would be good for her to do something instead of sitting at her desk and moping, and then she made the tea for herself and for her husband, and for Charlie and Fanwell too, and Mr J. L. B. Matekoni took his cup back into the garage where he sipped at it thoughtfully while he decided what to do.

Later that afternoon, on the pretext of taking a recently repaired car for a test drive, Mr J. L. B. Matekoni went out along the Tlokweng Road in the direction of the orphan farm. There was a good reason for taking that particular car on that particular road – he had fitted new shock absorbers and he wanted to check that they were properly bedded in – but his real motive was to see Mma Potokwani. Mr J. L. B. Matekoni held the matron in high regard, in spite of her habit of finding something for him to fix whenever she saw him, and he wanted to talk to her about what had happened earlier that day.

She was in her office when he arrived and happened to be looking out of the window.

‘So, Mr J. L. B. Matekoni,’ she called out to him as he got out of the car. ‘So you’re coming to see me.’

He waved to her and made his way into the small building from which Mma Potokwani, as matron and general manager, ran the lives of the children under her care. She welcomed him warmly and enquired after the health of Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi.

‘Mma Makutsi is doing fine,’ he said. ‘She has a baby now.’

‘So I’ve heard,’ said Mma Potokwani. ‘That is very good for her and for Mr Radiphuti. They will be very happy.’

‘They are, although Mma Ramotswe tells me that Phuti’s aunt has moved in. I think that is difficult for her.’

Mma Potokwani made a face. ‘That is a very sour woman, that aunt. I think she eats too many lemons.’ She paused. ‘And Mma Ramotswe, Rra? What about her?’

He suspected that she had sensed that something was wrong.

His reply was hesitant. ‘I think that in general she is all right, but…’

She waited for him to go on. He looked down at his hands. It was sometimes difficult for him, as a mechanic, to find the words that seemed to come easily to women.