For something very bad had happened, something that now placed her, she felt, in an impossible position. This new development was not entirely her fault; if anybody should be blamed it was Mma Potokwane, but the redoubtable matron of the orphan farm was showing herself to be quite cavalier in her attitude to what she had done; there had been no apology from that quarter. And now Mma Ramotswe would have to do something about it—there was no doubt in her mind about that—but she could not bring herself to face the prospect. Like an animal in the lights of an oncoming car, she found herself incapable of moving.

She turned to Mma Makutsi for help. Her assistant was sympathetic, immediately launching into spirited criticism of Mma Potokwane, whom she had always regarded as excessively pushy and—“Did I not tell you, Mma Ramotswe?”—now downright irresponsible. But Mma Makutsi did not volunteer to do for Mma Ramotswe the thing that she was dreading; Mma Ramotswe would have to do that herself.

“You’ll have to go and see her,” said Mma Makutsi. “I’m sorry, Mma, but there’s no other way. You’ll have to go and see Mma Sebina and tell her.”

Mma Ramotswe groaned inwardly. “I know, Mma. You’re quite right. I cannot run away from this.”

“Of course it’s all Mma Potokwane’s fault, Mma,” Mma Makutsi went on, shaking her head in disbelief. “You would think, wouldn’t you, Mma Ramotswe, that when it came to something as important as that she would bother to check her facts. But did she? She did not, Mma! She said to you, just like that, ‘Oh yes, I remember those children. I remember that there were two—a brother and a sister.’ And then she phones up and says, ‘Oh, Mma Ramotswe, there has been a mistake. That man, that Mr. Sekape who works at the Standard Bank, he was not the brother of the girl who went to Otse. The brother of that girl died when she was still quite young. I am sorry, Mma, but that means she has no brother.’ How could she do that, Mma? How could she be so stupid?”

Mma Makutsi stared at Mma Ramotswe in triumph: there could be no defence for Mma Potokwane, none at all. And as she thought this, she glanced down at her shoes, her green shoes with the sky-blue linings, and it seemed to her that even her shoes, contrary as they were at times, agreed with her. Quite right, Boss! Mma Potokwane’s shoes are pretty stupid too! Stupid lady, stupid shoes!

“Oh, I know it’s a silly mistake,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But it must be easy enough to make, with all those children going through her hands. I don’t know how she remembers all their names.”

“She doesn’t,” said Mma Makutsi simply. “She gets them wrong. As we have seen.”