The Saturday Big Tent Wedding Party by Alexander McCall Smith Page B

tractor side by side with an ancient donkey-cart. Mr. Moeti pointed to the cart and told Mma Ramotswe how he believed that the old ways of doing things still had their place. “Donkeys don’t go wrong,” he said. “Tractors do. And the same goes for everything else. An old radio, for example, has very few buttons. A new one? There are somany buttons that you don’t know what to do, even if you’re an engineer.”
    “My husband would agree with you,” said Mma Ramotswe. “When people bring in their cars these days, he needs a computer to do everything. He says you even need a computer to work out if you’ve run out of petrol.”
    In a small paddock not far from the barn, they saw the donkeys in question, three dispirited creatures standing under the shade of a tree, their heads lowered in that air of utter defeat, of dejection, that marks out their species. A young herd boy, aged no more than seven or eight, was standing beside the donkeys, staring at his employer and Mma Ramotswe as they walked past.
    “That child?”
    Mr. Moeti glanced in the boy’s direction. “Just a herd boy. That was his mother back there in the house.”
    “Does he know anything?”
    Mr. Moeti looked at her in surprise. “No. He’s just a boy.”
    “They have eyes,” said Mma Ramotswe quietly—so quietly that he did not hear her and had to ask her to repeat what she had said.
    “And?” he asked.
    “I have found that children—especially boys—see things and can give you very important information. They notice.”
    Mr. Moeti shrugged. “You can ask him if you like.”
    Without waiting, he whistled and gestured for the boy to come over. The child hesitated, and then approached them. He brought flies with him, Mma Ramotswe noticed.
    “This lady wants to ask you something,” Mr. Moeti said. His tone was gruff, and he stared at the boy as he spoke.
    Mma Ramotswe bent down to speak to the boy, reaching for his hand as she addressed him. She asked him his name, and he gave it. He was Mpho.
    “So, Mpho, you know about this bad thing with the cattle?”
    He moved his head slightly—a nod, but a reluctant one. His eyes, she saw, were fixed on Mr. Moeti.
    “Did you see anything?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
    He was still watching Mr. Moeti, and Mma Ramotswe glanced up discouragingly at the farmer. “Maybe I should speak to him by himself,” she said. “It is sometimes better to speak to children on their own.”
    “No need,” snapped Mr. Moeti. “Mpho, you answer the auntie: You saw nothing, right?”
    Mpho shook his head. “I have seen nothing, Mma. I know nothing.”
    “Are you sure?” she asked.
    The boy shivered. He looked up at Mr. Moeti again and then lowered his gaze to the ground. “I am sure, Mma. Can I go now?”
    She squeezed his hand. “Of course you can. Goodbye, Mpho,
go siame.
” They continued on their way.
    “That’s an odd little boy,” Mr. Moeti remarked, smiling. “He stands there by the donkeys half the time, doing nothing, or just playing with stones he picks up.”
    “He’s a child,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Children should be allowed to spend their time doing things like that.”
    “He has cattle to watch. That’s what he’s paid to do.”
    She did not reply. The child’s fear had been so obvious, and she was surprised that Mr. Moeti had not felt obliged to explain it away. Did he imagine she had not noticed it? And the cause of the child’s fear was equally apparent: the herd boy was frightened of Mr. Moeti. He had seen something—of course he had—but he knew that he was not supposed to talk about it. She could find out what the child knew, if she really wanted to; if she had the chance to speak to the child by himself, then it would not be difficult to encourage him to speak. All you had to say to a child was that you knew what the secret was, and it would all come tumbling out. Nochild could keep a secret for long; they claimed to, but it was usually beyond them.
    But of course it was not