The apprentice thought for a moment. “And you think that the papers will write about me?”

“Of course they will,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I shall get Mma Potokwane to talk to them again. She is always giving them stories about the orphan farm. She will tell them to put a big photograph of you on the front page. That will certainly be read by the sort of girl we are talking about.”

Mma Ramotswe slowed down. A small herd of donkeys had wandered onto the road ahead of them and had stopped in the middle, looking at the tiny white van as if they had never before encountered a vehicle. She brought the van to a halt, glancing quickly at the apprentice as she did so. Psychology, she thought; that is what they called it these days, but in her view it was something much older than that. It was woman’s knowledge, that was what it was; knowledge of how men behaved and how they could be persuaded to do something if one approached the matter in the right way. She had told the apprentice no lies; there were girls who would be impressed by a young man who did a parachute jump and who had his photograph in the papers. If men were prepared to use psychology, which they usually were not, then they too could get women to do what they wanted them to do. Perhaps it was fortunate, then, that men were so bad at psychology. Men got women to do what they wanted through making them feel sorry for them, or making them feel guilty. Men did not do this deliberately, of course, but that was the effect.

The apprentice leaned out of his window and shouted at the donkeys, who looked at him balefully before they began to move slowly out of the way. Then, sitting back in his seat, he turned to Mma Ramotswe. “I think I will do it, Mma. I think that maybe it is a good idea to help the orphan farm. We should all do that we can.”

WHEN MMA RAMOTSWE returned to Zebra Drive it was already beginning to get dark. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s truck was parked at the side of the house, in the special spot that she had set aside for him, and she tucked the tiny white van into its own place near the kitchen door. Lights were on in the house, and she heard the sound of voices. They would be wondering, she thought, where she was, and they would be hungry.

She went into the kitchen, kicking off her shoes as she entered. Motholeli was in her wheelchair, behind the kitchen table, chopping carrots, and Puso was stirring something on the stove. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, standing just behind the boy, was dropping a pinch of salt into the mixture in the pot.

“We are cooking your dinner tonight,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “You can go and sit down, with your feet on a stool. We will call you when everything is ready.”

Mma Ramotswe gave a cry of delight. “That is a very big treat for me,” she said. “I am very tired for some reason.”

She went through to the sitting room and dropped into her favourite chair. Although the children helped in the kitchen, it was unusual for them to cook a full meal. It must have been Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s idea, she reflected, and the thought filled her with gratitude that she had such a man who would think to cook a meal. Most husbands would never do that-would regard it as beneath their dignity to work in the house-but Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was different. It was as if he knew what it was like to be a woman, to have all that cooking to do, for the rest of one’s life, a whole procession of pots and pans stretching out into the distance, seemingly endless. Women knew all about that, and dreamed about cooking and pots and the like, but here was a man who seemed to understand.

When they sat down to table half an hour later, Mma Ramotswe watched proudly as Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and Puso brought in the plates of good rich food and set them at each place. Then she said grace, as she always did, her eyes lowered to the tablecloth, as was proper.

“May the Lord look down kindly on Botswana,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And now we thank Him for the food on our plates which has been cooked so well.” She paused. There was more to be said about that, but for the time being she felt that what she had said was enough and since everybody was very hungry they should all begin.

“This is very good,” she said after the first mouthful. “I am very happy that I have such good cooks right here in my own house.”

“It was Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s idea,” said Motholeli. “Maybe he could start a Tlokweng Road Speedy Restaurant.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni laughed. “I could not do that. I am only good at fixing cars. That is all I can do.”

“But you can jump by parachute,” said Motholeli. “You can do that too. They were talking about it at school.”

There was a sudden silence, and it seemed as if a cloud had passed over the gathering. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s fork paused where it was, half way to his mouth, and Mma Ramotswe’s knife stopped cutting into a large piece of pumpkin. She looked up at Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who held her glance only for a moment before he looked away.

“Oh that,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is all a mistake. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was going to do a parachute jump, but now Charlie, the apprentice at the garage, has offered to do it instead. I have already spoken to Mma Potokwane about it and she is very pleased with the new arrangements. She said that she was sure that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni would want to give that young man a chance, and I said I would ask him what he thought.”

They all looked at Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, whose eyes had opened wide as Mma Ramotswe spoke.

“Well?” said Mma Ramotswe, returning to her task of cutting the pumpkin. “What would you like to do, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni? Would you like to give that boy a chance?”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked up at the ceiling. “I could do, I suppose,” he said.

“Good,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You are a very generous man. Charlie will be very pleased.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. “It is nothing,” he said. “Nothing.”

They continued with the meal. Mma Ramotswe noticed that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni appeared to be in a very good mood and made several amusing remarks about the day’s events, including a joke about a gearbox, which they all laughed at but which none of them understood. Then, when the plates were cleared away and the children were out of the room, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni left his chair and, standing over Mma Ramotswe’s chair, he took her hand and said, “You are a kind woman, Mma Ramotswe, and I am very lucky to have found a lady like you. My life is a very happy one now.”

“And I am happy too,” said Mma Ramotswe. She was not going to be a widow after all, and she had managed to make it seem as if it had been his decision. That was what men liked-she was sure of it-and why should men not be allowed to think that they were getting what they liked, occasionally at least? She saw no reason why not.

MR J.L.B. Matekoni was, of course, immensely relieved that Mma Ramotswe had presented him with the opportunity to withdraw from the parachute jump. She had done it so graciously, and so cleverly, that he had been saved all embarrassment. Throughout that day he had been plagued by anxiety as he reflected on the position in which Mma Potokwane had placed him. He was not a cowardly man, but he had felt nothing but fear, sheer naked fear, when he thought about the parachute jump. Eventually, by mid-afternoon, he had reached the conclusion that this was going to be the way in which he would die, and he had spent almost an hour thinking about the terms of a will which he would draw up the following day. Mma Ramotswe would get the garage, naturally, and she could run it with Mma Makutsi, who could become Manager again. His house would be sold-it would get a very good price-and the money could then be distributed amongst his cousins, who were not well-off and who would be able to use it to buy cattle. Mma Ramotswe should keep some of it, perhaps as much as half, as this would help to keep the children, who were his responsibility after all. And then there was his truck, which could go to the orphan farm, where a good use would be found for it.