For a while nothing was said, either by Mma Ramotswe or by Mma Potokwane. Through the window in the office, the same window through which Mma Potokwane had shouted her welcome, came the sound of children singing. Mma Ramotswe tried to make out the words of the song; it was one of those tunes one knew but did not know, and for a moment she put Mma Potokwane’s comment out of her mind.

“Such a funny little song, that,” said Mma Ramotswe, her head tilted to the side, as if the better to catch the words as they drifted in. “About the baboons. Yes, it is. I remember it now.”

“It is about the wedding of the baboons,” said Mma Potokwane. “It’s about what the baboons were wearing to their wedding. What the guests were wearing too. A pair of overalls and an old maternity dress.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. She was trying to remember when she had heard that song last; it must have been when she was a girl, quite a small girl, in Mochudi. The aunt of one of her friends had sung those songs, and they had sat at her feet. It was so long ago and she could not remember any of the details; the face of the aunt was a blur, and even her recollection of her friend herself was hazy. But there was warmth, and sun, the memory of sun; and the aunt’s voice came back to her like the sound of a scratchy old recording of the sort that they played on Radio Botswana when they were talking about things that had happened a long time ago, the voices of old chiefs discussing the things that were important then but now were nothing very much.

From laughter to tears: it happened so quickly, and inexplicably; just those memories were enough. Mma Potokwane immediately sprang to her feet. “Mma Ramotswe. Mma Ramotswe. I am sorry, Mma. I am very sorry.” She had not imagined that there would be tears for that old white van, but she must love it; of course she loves it, and oh, I am a very tactless person, thought Mma Potokwane. This is my friend and I tell her that her van is dying. I am a very tactless person indeed.

“I should not have said that about your van,” she said, moving over to place her arm round Mma Ramotswe’s shoulder. “Even if it is making a noise—and it is not a very loud noise—it can surely be fixed. You’re married to the best mechanic in Botswana by far. By far, Mma. If anybody can fix that van, it is Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.”

Mma Ramotswe wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I am the one who should say sorry, Mma. I have come to your office and I am crying. I am sorry.”

“Your van will be fine,” said Mma Potokwane soothingly.