But could she talk to Mma Ramotswe about the noise that her tiny white van was undoubtedly making? The problem here, thought Mma Potokwane, might be one of simple denial; people denied things, pretended that they did not exist; wished noises, and other things, out of existence. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had confessed to the matron that he thought it was high time that Mma Ramotswe got rid of the van and bought a more modern and indeed more commodious vehicle—one more suited to a person of her standing in society, which was, of course, that of the owner of a small, but nonetheless moderately successful, business. Mma Potokwane had agreed with this view, but had expressed the reservation that Mma Ramotswe appeared inordinately attached to her tiny white van and might be difficult to prise out of the driver’s seat. She had intended this as a metaphor, but that did not stop her imagining a scene in which a struggling Mma Ramotswe, tenaciously hanging on to the steering wheel, was being pried out of the seat by Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni and Charlie, each wielding one of those levers that they used to take tyres off the wheels of cars.

Mma Potokwane decided that she could—indeed should—mention the noise. Friendship required this, if nothing else did. After all, we might not hear the noises made by our own cars, since we generally travelled away from them, leaving them to be heard by those behind us. And if friends did not refer to the fact that one was making a noise, then who would? At this point Mma Potokwane remembered the delicate situation she had found herself in when she had felt herself obliged to draw the attention of one of the orphan farm housemothers to the fact that her stomach was constantly making noises which, on occasion, frightened the smaller children. That had been a delicate interview in which the subject of diet had been raised; beans, suggested Mma Potokwane, were not the ideal food for one in that position, and perhaps the housemother should try eating something less voluble. That had led to an icy silence, ended only by the housemother’s stomach.

“It’s a sort of rattle,” said Mma Potokwane. “Or shall I say it’s a knocking sound. Like this.” She tapped on the surface of her desk.

“But that is the sound that any engine makes,” said Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Potokwane smiled. “I don’t think so, Mma. Engines normally go like this…” Here she imitated an engine. “That is how they go, Mma. They do not make a knocking sound…” She paused, and then concluded, “Unless there is something wrong.”