Mma Makutsi nodded. “Of course.”

“But they are now being worn in Gaborone too,” went on the assistant. “By our own more fashionable ladies.”

Mma Makutsi sat down silently on one of the chairs while the assistant, having given her the other shoe, fetched small nylon socks. The decision to try the shoes had been made wordlessly, but everything was well understood. The assistant knew what was going on in Mma Makutsi's mind and would leave her to conduct the internal struggle by herself; no help was needed from her. Other than to remark, perhaps, that the shoes were made of a leather which looked very like crocodile, but which was not. It was crocodile-look, apparently, which was not the same thing. “It is better for the crocodiles,” explained the assistant. “And it is just as beautiful. Many people would think that you are wearing crocodile if they saw those shoes. That is what they would think, Mma.”

Mma Makutsi slipped the shoes onto her feet. They were exactly the right size and fitted perfectly. She glanced at the assistant, who nodded encouragingly. She stood up.

“I am not sure when I would wear these shoes,” she said as she took a tentative step.

The assistant spread her hands. “Oh, Mma, you could wear them to all sorts of parties. They are ideal party shoes.”

Mma Makutsi looked down at the shoes. “I do not go to many parties,” she said. “In fact, I go to none.” This was true. Mma Makutsi was not a party-goer, and Phuti had never so much as suggested going to one.

“Or not,” the assistant added hurriedly. “These shoes do not need to go to parties. You can wear these to work. When you are entertaining a client. Or even for ordinary wear-when you feel that you want to look smart, even if you are doing nothing special. You could wear these shoes all the time, you know.”

“They are very pretty,” said Mma Makutsi. “Very elegant.”

The assistant nodded. “That is what I thought when I first saw them. I thought that these are the most elegant shoes we have had in the shop for a long time.”

Mma Makutsi asked the price. It was steep, but then she told herself: I am the fiancée of a wealthy man-still-and he has often said that he would buy me shoes and clothes. And I have never taken advantage of that; never. She looked into her purse. She had been to the bank to draw money and there was just enough for the shoes, even if nothing would be left over for the food.

It was a stark choice: shoes or food; beauty or sustenance; the sensible or the self-indulgent.

“I'll take these shoes,” she said firmly.

The assistant smiled broadly. “You'll never regret it, Mma,” she said. “Never. Not once.”

MMA MAKUTSI CAUGHT a minibus home. She was empty-handed, apart from the shoes, which had been placed in their elegant box and then in a plastic carrier bag. This bag sat on her lap where, had she not thrown caution to the winds, her shopping bag of groceries would have been. But had she bought groceries, she would not be experiencing that extraordinary feeling of renewal that an exciting purchase can bring. And did she really need groceries? There were some potatoes at home, and some spinach. There were also a couple of eggs and some bread. With a little ingenuity, what food there was could be combined to produce a tasty enough morsel for Phuti Radiphuti's dinner-a potato and spinach omelette perhaps, or fried egg and chips, a simple meal, but one which was exactly the sort of thing that men liked to eat.

She alighted from the minibus and walked the short distance to her house. Once inside, she sat down on one of the chairs at her table and took off her old shoes. Then, standing up, she walked around the room in the new shoes. The old shoes watched, looking at her reproachfully: Off with the old and on with the new, Boss, they said. So much for loyalty.

She shook her head. She would not be throwing the old shoes away; they should know that. You are still important to me, she said.

The shoes said nothing. They were sceptical.

The new shoes, once on, looked proudly at the old shoes. Eat your heart out, old ones, they said. You're history.

They are not, thought Mma Makutsi. They are not history. There's a place for all sorts and conditions of shoes.

Yeah, Boss, said the old shoes. Kind words, but the bottom line is this: we're history. Well, you'd better look out, Boss! What if you're history yourself?

She sat down again. The shoes, both old and new, were silent. Shoes cannot talk, she thought; it's just me talking to myself.

History, whispered the old shoes.

She looked down. The shoes, lying on the floor, were silent, their tongues loose, mere scraps of leather really, but with the look of self-satisfaction that came from having issued a well-timed and much-needed warning.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN. HOW WE WORRY

I AM GOING NOW,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, standing at the kitchen door the following morning. “It's a Lobatse day.”

“Of course,” said Mma Ramotswe. She had forgotten, but was now reminded, that this was one of the days when Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni went to help a friend who owned a garage in Lobatse. This friend, who had recently bought the business, was struggling to cope after an employee's premature retirement. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had stepped into the breach, offering to spend a day every two weeks-taking Charlie with him-helping to get through the backlog of work. It was typical of him, thought Mma Ramotswe fondly, that he should come to the rescue in this way. But inevitably there was more work than he and Charlie could manage, and the Lobatse days were long ones.

“I'll try to be back in time for my dinner,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “But you know how it is.”

Mma Ramotswe did know. He would not be back until ten that night, perhaps even later, and she would worry about him until she saw the lights of his truck at the front gate. That journey could be perilous at night, what with bad drivers and with animals straying onto the road. She knew of so many people who had collided with cattle at night; one moment the road was clear and then, with very little or no warning at all, a cow or a donkey would nonchalantly wander out in front of the car. But you could worry too much about these things, thought Mma Ramotswe, and she knew that worrying about things was no help at all. Of course you were concerned for those you loved; it would be impossible not to be so. She worried about Motholeli; about the sort of future that lay ahead for a girl in a wheelchair. It helped if such a girl was as plucky as Motholeli, but would pluck be enough to get her through the disappointments that must surely lie ahead? What if she wanted to marry and have a family? Would there be a young man ready to take on the responsibility of a handicapped wife? And Mma Ramotswe was not even sure whether it would be possible for Motholeli to have a child, even if there was a husband to hand. She had not really given it much thought, but the time would come when she would have to do so.

And Puso, what about him? He was a strange boy-a little bit distant, which was to be expected, perhaps, from a child who had had such a difficult start in life. She felt now that they were getting through to him, but sometimes she wondered how he would turn out. Had he been the natural son of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, then she might have said that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni's gentle breeding would come through; but he was not, he was the son of a man whom they would never know anything about.

Such doubts were only to be expected, and it would be strange if foster parents never thought of these things. Yet there was no point in allowing niggling doubts to flower into consuming worries. The important thing was to get on with life and to give the children the love they deserved. She did that, and she knew that in their hearts they loved her back.