Mma Boko laid down the spoon with which she had been stirring her jam.

“Of course she is still alive,” she said, laughing. “Of course she is still alive. She is now called Mma Tshenyego.”

Mma Ramotswe’s surprise showed itself in a broad smile. She had not imagined that it would be this easy, but her instinct to ask Mma Boko had proved correct. It was always the best way of finding out information; just go and ask a woman who keeps her eyes and ears open and who likes to talk. It always worked. It was no use asking men; they simply were not interested enough in other people and the ordinary doings of people. That is why the real historians of Africa had always been the grandmothers, who remembered the lineage and the stories that went with it.

“I am very glad to hear that, Mma,” she said. “Can you tell me where she is?”

“Over there,” answered Mma Boko. “She is right there. At that house over there. Do you see it? And look, there she is herself, coming out of the house with one of the children, that girl, who is sixteen now. That is her firstborn, her first daughter.”

Mma Ramotswe looked in the direction in which Mma Boko was pointing. She saw a woman coming out of the house, together with a girl in a yellow dress. The woman threw some grain to the chickens in the yard, and then they stood and watched the chickens peck away at the food.

“She has many hens,” said Mma Boko, “and she is also one of those ladies who makes good jam. She is always in that house, cleaning and cooking and making things. She is a good person.”

“So she did not become a nurse?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

“No, she is not a nurse,” said Mma Boko. “But she is a clever lady and she could have been a nurse. Maybe one of her daughters will become a nurse.”

Mma Ramotswe rose to take her leave.

“I must go and see that lady,” she said to Mma Boko. “But first I must give you a present which I have brought for you. It is in my van.”

She walked over to the van and took out a parcel wrapped in brown paper. This she gave to Mma Boko, who unwrapped it and saw that it contained a length of printed cotton, enough for a dress. Mma Boko held the material up against her.

“You are a very kind lady, Mma Ramotswe,” she said. “This will be a very fine dress.”

“And you are a useful friend,” said Mma Ramotswe.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

MR. MOLEFELO arrived at the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency the following morning. Mma Ramotswe had telephoned him the previous evening and had suggested an appointment in a few days’ time, but such had been his eagerness to hear what she had found out that he begged her to see him sooner.

“Please, Mma,” he had pleaded. “I cannot wait. After all this time, I must know soon. Please do not make me wait. I shall be sitting here thinking, thinking, all the time.”

There were other things that Mma Ramotswe had to do, but these were not urgent and she understood his anxiety. So she agreed to see him at her office the next day when, she said, she would be able to give him the information he wanted. This required arrangements to be made, of course, and there was the older apprentice to dispatch on an errand. But that could be done.

Mr. Molefelo was punctual, waiting outside in his car until exactly eleven o’clock, the time at which Mma Ramotswe had agreed to see him. Mma Makutsi showed him into the office and then returned to her desk. Mr. Molefelo greeted Mma Ramotswe and then looked at Mma Makutsi.

“I wonder, Mma…” he began.

Mma Ramotswe caught Mma Makutsi’s eye, and that was enough. They both understood that there were things that could be said to one but not to two. And there were other reasons.

“I have to go to the post, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “Should I go now?”

“A very good idea,” said Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Makutsi left the office, throwing an injured look in Mr. Molefelo’s direction, but he did not notice. As soon as she had left, Mr. Molefelo spoke.

“I must know, Mma,” he said, wringing his hands as he spoke. “I must know. Are they late? Are they late?”

“No, they are not late, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Mr. Tsolamosese has died, but his widow is still alive. You came to me in time.”

Mr. Molefelo’s relief was palpable. “In that case, I can do what I need to do.”

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You can do what needs to be done.” She paused. “I shall tell you first about Tebogo. I found her, you know.”

Mr. Molefelo nodded eagerly. “Good. And… and what had happened to her? Was she well?”

“She was fine,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I found her in Molepolole, very easily. I drank tea with her and we talked. She told me about her life.”

“I am…” Mr. Molefelo tried to speak but found that he had nothing to say.

“She said that she did not train as a nurse after all. She was very upset when you made her deal with the baby in that way. She said that she cried and cried, and for many months she had bad dreams about what she had done.”

“That was my fault,” said Mr. Molefelo. “My fault.”

“Yes it was,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But you were a young man then, weren’t you? Young men do these things. It is only later that they regret them.”

“It was wrong of me to say that she should end that baby. I know that.”

Mma Ramotswe looked at him. “It is not that simple, Rra. There are times when you cannot expect a woman to have a baby. It is not always right. Many women would tell you that.”

“I am not questioning that,” said Mr. Molefelo meekly. “I am just telling you what I feel.”

“She was upset about you, too, you know,” went on Mma Ramotswe. “She said that she loved you and that you had told her that, too. Then you changed your mind, and she was very upset. She said that you had a hard heart.”

Mr. Molefelo looked down at the floor. “It is true. I had a hard heart…”

“But then she said that she met another boy and he asked her to marry him. He joined the police, and then later on he found a job as a bus driver. They live out at Molepolole, and they have been happy. They have five children. I met the oldest girl.”

Mr. Molefelo listened attentively. “Is that all?” he said. “Is that all that happened? Did you tell her how sorry I was?”

“I did,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“And what did she say?”

“She said that you must not worry. She said that her life had turned out very well and she bore you no ill will. She said that she hoped that you had been happy, too.” She paused. “I think that you wanted to help her in some way, didn’t you, Rra?”

Mr. Molefelo was smiling. “I said that, Mma, and I meant it. I want to give her some money.”

“That might not be the best way to do it,” said Mma Ramotswe. “What do you think the husband of this woman would think if she received money from an old boyfriend? He might not like it at all.”

“Then what can I do?”

“I met her daughter,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I told you that. She is a clever girl. She is the one who would like to be a nurse now. She is very keen. I spoke to her about it. But there are not many places for nurse training, and it is the girls who get the best results who will get the places.”

“Is she clever?” asked Mr. Molefelo. “Her mother was clever.”

“She is clever enough, I think,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But she would stand an even better chance if she went for a year or two to one of those schools where they charge high fees. They teach the children very carefully there. It would be a very good chance for her.”

Mr. Molefelo was silent. “The fees are high,” he said. “That costs a lot of money.”

Mma Ramotswe looked at him, meeting his gaze. “I do not think that you can make up for things cheaply, Rra. Do you?”

Mr. Molefelo looked at her, hesitated, and then he smiled. “You are a very astute lady, Mma, and I think you are right. I will pay for that girl to go to one of those schools here in Gaborone. I will pay that.”