“You’re thinking of something, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Whenever I see you polishing your glasses like that, I know that you are thinking of something.”

Mma Makutsi looked round sharply, disturbed by the sudden sound of her employer’s voice. “You surprised me, Mma,” she said. “I was sitting here and I suddenly heard your voice. It made me jump.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni says that I creep up on him too. But I do not mean to do that.” She paused. “So what were you thinking about, Mma?”

Mma Makutsi replaced her glasses and adjusted their position on the bridge of her nose. She had been thinking about Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and his parachute drop and about how Mma Ramotswe would react to the news, that is assuming that she had not heard it already.

“Have you seen the paper today?” she asked.

Mma Ramotswe shook her head as she walked over to her desk. “I have not seen it,” she said. “I have been busy taking the children here and there. I have had no time to sit down.” She threw Mma Makutsi a quizzical glance. “Is there something special in it?”

So she does not know, thought Mma Makutsi. Well, she would have to tell her, and it would probably be a shock for her.

“Mr J.L.B. Matekoni is going to jump,” she said. “It is in the paper this morning.”

Mma Ramotswe stared at Mma Makutsi. What was she talking about? What was this nonsense about Mr J.L.B. Matekoni jumping?

“Out of a plane,” went on Mma Makutsi quickly. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni is going to do a parachute jump.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. “What nonsense!” she said. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni would never do something like that. Who has put such nonsense in the newspapers?”

“It’s true,” said Mma Makutsi. “It’s one of these charity jumps. Mma Potokwane…”

She had to say no more. At the mention of Mma Potokwane’s name, Mma Ramotswe’s expression changed. “Mma Potokwane?” she said sharply. “She has been forcing Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to do things again? A parachute jump?”

Mma Makutsi nodded. “It is in the paper,” she said. “And I have spoken to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni myself. He has confirmed that it is true.”

Mma Ramotswe sat quite still. For a moment she said nothing, as the implications of Mma Makutsi’s revelations sank in. Then she thought, I shall be a widow. I shall be a widow before I am even married.

Mma Makutsi could see the effect the news was having on Mma Ramotswe and she searched for words that might help.

“I don’t think he wants to do it,” she said quietly. “But now he is trapped. Mma Potokwane has told the newspapers.”

Mma Ramotswe said nothing, while Mma Makutsi continued. “You must go into the garage right now,” she said. “You must put a stop to it. You must forbid him. It is too dangerous.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “I do not think that it is a good idea. But I’m not sure that I can forbid him. He is not a child.”

“But you are his wife,” said Mma Makutsi. “Or you are almost his wife. You have the right to stop him doing something dangerous.”

Mma Ramotswe frowned. “No, I do not have that right. I can talk to him about it, but if you try to stop people from doing things they can resent it. I do not want Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to think that I am telling him what to do all the time. That is not a good start for a marriage.”

“But it hasn’t started yet,” protested Mma Makutsi. “You are just an engaged lady. And you’ve been an engaged lady for a long time now. There is no sign of a wedding.” She stopped, realising that perhaps she had gone too far. What she said was quite true, but it did not help to draw attention to their long engagement and to the conspicuous absence of any wedding plans.

Mma Ramotswe was not offended. “You are right,” she said. “I am a very engaged lady. I have been waiting for a long time. But you cannot push men around. They do not like it. They like to feel that they are making their own decisions.”

“Even when they are not?” interjected Mma Makutsi.

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We all know that it is women who take the decisions, but we have to let men think that the decisions are theirs. It is an act of kindness on the part of women.”

Mma Makutsi took off her glasses and polished them on her lace handkerchief, now threadbare but so loved. This was the handkerchief that she had bought when she was at the Botswana Secretarial College, at a time when she had virtually nothing else, and it meant a great deal to her.

“So we should say nothing at the moment?” she said. “And then…”

“And then we find a chance to say something very small,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We shall find some way to get Mr J.L.B. Matekoni out of this. But it will be done carefully, and he will think that he has changed his mind.”

Mma Makutsi smiled. “You are very clever with men, Mma. You know how their minds work.”

Mma Ramotswe shrugged. “When I was a girl I used to watch little boys playing and I saw what they did. Now that I am a lady, I know that there is not much difference. Boys and men are the same people, in different clothes. Boys wear short trousers and men wear long trousers. But they are just the same if you take their trousers off.”

Mma Makutsi stared at Mma Ramotswe, who, suddenly flustered, added quickly, “That is not what I meant to say. What I meant to say is that trousers mean nothing. Men think like boys, and if you understand boys, then you understand men. That is what I meant to say.”

“I thought so,” said Mma Makutsi. “I did not think that you meant anything else.”

“Good,” said Mma Ramotswe briskly. “Then let us have a cup of tea and think about how we are going to deal with this problem which Mma Holonga brought us the other day. We cannot sit here all day talking about men. We must get down to work. There is much to do.”

Mma Makutsi made the bush tea and they sipped on the dark red liquid as they discussed the best approach to the issue of Mma Holonga’s suitors. Tea, of course, made the problem seem smaller, as it always does, and by the time they reached the bottom of their cups, and Mma Makutsi had reached for the slightly chipped tea-pot to pour a refill, it had become clear what they would have to do.

AT THE end of that day’s work Mma Ramotswe so engineered matters that she was standing at the door of her tiny white van at precisely the time-one minute to five-that the two apprentices came out of the garage entrance, wiping their greasy hands on a handful of the loose white lint provided by Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni knew all about oil-dermatitis, the condition which stalked mechanics and which had struck several of his brother mechanics over the years, and he made every effort to drum the lesson into the heads of his apprentices. Not that this worked, of course; they were still inclined to limit themselves to a quick plunge of the hands into a bucket of lukewarm water, but at least on occasion they resorted to lint and made some effort to do it properly. There was an old barrel for the used lint, and for other detritus of their calling, but they tended to ignore this and now Mma Ramotswe saw the lint tossed casually to the ground. As they did so, the older apprentice looked up and saw her watching them. He muttered something to his friend, and they dutifully picked up the lint and walked off to deposit it in the barrel.

“You are very tidy,” called out Mma Ramotswe when they re-emerged. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni will be pleased.”

“We were going to put it there anyway,” said the younger apprentice reproachfully. “You don’t have to tell us to do it, Mma.”

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I knew that. I thought perhaps you had just dropped it by mistake. That sometimes happens, doesn’t it? I have often seen you drop things by mistake. Sweet papers. Chip bags. Newspapers.”