It was a nice compliment to receive, and Mma Ramotswe thought about it again that evening, when she prepared the evening meal for herself and Puso. It was strange there just being the two of them in the house, but it gave her an opportunity to talk more to Puso and find out what was going on at school. He was playing football, he said, and learning sums. He liked both of those, but he did not like the hours they spent practising their handwriting. Having to do things like that when one was young, explained Mma Ramotswe, was necessary for when one was older.

“When you are big,” she said, “and you write with very nice, neat handwriting, then you will thank that teacher who forced you to spend so much time practising. You will say, ‘He was a very good teacher and I am very grateful to him.’”

“Never,” said Puso.

THE NEXT MORNING, when Mma Ramotswe came into the office after dropping Puso off at the school, she found Mma Makutsi already at her desk. On the way to school Puso had talked about football, and Mma Ramotswe had listened with only half an ear—if that. But at the end of the trip, as they approached the school gate, he had turned to her and said, “What is that knocking sound, Mma? Is there somebody in the engine?”

“I think there is something loose,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Maybe a nut and a bolt need to be tightened up. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni will do that in two minutes.”

“It is getting louder,” said Puso. “Soon people will be shouting out, ‘Come in!’ as you drive past.”

She had laughed the comment off, but it had worried her. If even Puso was beginning to notice that something was wrong with the tiny white van, then matters were indeed becoming serious. Sooner or later she would have to speak to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni about it, but she could not think about that now, particularly since a development of an altogether more interesting stripe had occurred: there was something very different about Mma Makutsi.

It took Mma Ramotswe a moment or two to realise what had happened. As she entered the office, Mma Makutsi looked up from her desk and smiled at her, exchanging the normal, polite greeting. Mma Ramotswe returned the greeting and put the bag she was carrying down on her own desk. Then she stopped. It was Mma Makutsi, was it not? One takes so much for granted, in familiar surroundings at least, that one might quite easily enter a room and not take in the fact that an entirely unexpected person was there. Mma Makutsi’s chair was occupied, but could it be somebody other than Mma Makutsi in it, some Mma Makutsi–looking person, but not the real Mma Makutsi; some relative or friend, perhaps, of the same general conformation?

She turned round slowly. “Mma Makutsi?”