Blue Shoes and Happiness by Alexander McCall Smith Page B

J.L.B. Matekoni, and thank you, Mma. He is a very good man.”
    â€œI would like to find a man like that,” said the woman. “I have a husband down in Lobatse. He never comes to see me. And when I go down there, he is never in.”
    Mma Ramotswe made a clucking sound of sympathy, and disapproval—sympathy for the woman in her plight, and disapproval of what she thought was only-too-common masculine behaviour. There were many good men in Botswana, but there were some who seemed to think that their women were only there to flatter them and give them a good time when they felt in need. These men did not think of what women themselves needed, which was comfort and support, and a bit of help in the hundred and one tasks which women had to perform if homes were to be kept going. Who did the cooking? Who kept the yard tidy? Who washed and fed the children and put them to bed at night? Who weeded the fields? Women did all these things, and it would be nice, thought Mma Ramotswe, if men could occasionally lend a hand.
    It was particularly hard for women now, when there were so many children left without parents because of this cruel sickness. These children had to be looked after by somebody, and this task usually fell to the grandmothers. But in many cases the grandmothers were finding it difficult to cope because there were simply so many children coming to them. Mma Ramotswe had met one woman who had been looking after twelve grandchildren, all orphaned. And there this woman was at seventy-five, at a time when a person should be allowed to sit in the sun and look up at the sky, cooking and washing and scraping around for food for the hungry mouths of all those children. And if that grandmother should become late, she thought, what then?
    The woman led them back towards the office, a round building, made of stone, with a thatched roof that came down in low eaves. A man stepped from the door, looked momentarily surprised when he saw Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi, and then gave a broad grin.
    â€œDumela, Mma Ramotswe,” he said, raising a hand in greeting. “And Mma …”
    â€œThis is Mma Makutsi, Neil,” said Mma Ramotswe.
    â€œOf course,” said Neil. “This is the lady who keeps cobras under her desk!”
    Mma Makutsi laughed. “I do not wish to think about cobras, Rra,” she said. “I am only glad that you came when you did. I do not like snakes.”
    â€œThose apprentices were not going about it the right way,” said Neil, smiling at the recollection. “You don’t throw spanners at snakes. It doesn’t help.”
    He gestured for the two women to follow him to the terrace in front of the verandah. Several chairs were set under the shade of a tree, and they sat on these and looked out over the tops of the trees to the hills in the distance. A cicada was screeching somewhere in the grass nearby, a shrill, persistent sound, a call for another cicada, a warning, a protest against some injustice down in the insect world. The sky above was clear, a great echoing bowl of blue, drenched in light. There could be nothing wrong.
    â€œIt is very beautiful here,” said Mma Ramotswe. “If I worked here I would do no work, I think. I would sit and look at the hills.”
    â€œYou are welcome to come and look at these hills any time, Mma,” said Neil. He paused before continuing. “Are you here on business?”
    Mma Ramotswe nodded. “Yes, we are.”
    Neil signalled to a young woman to bring them tea. “One of our people is in trouble? Is that it?” He frowned as he spoke.
    For a moment Mma Ramotswe looked confused. Then she realised. “No, not my business—Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s business. Garage business.”
    The misunderstanding cleared up, they sat and waited for the tea. Their conversation wandered. Mma Makutsi seemed to be thinking of something else, and Mma Ramotswe found herself expressing a view on