The apprentices enjoyed being left by themselves. They assured Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni that they would not give any repair estimates, although it was agreed that they could get on with existing work. There was a troublesome mud-coloured French station wagon parked in front of the garage, and they would work on that, trying to fix two doors that would not shut properly and to deal with an overheating engine. They were familiar with the car, which they had tried to fix before on at least two occasions, and its problems were something of a personal challenge to them.

“That French car will keep you busy,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “But be careful with it. That car is a liar.”

“A liar, Rra?” asked the younger apprentice. “How can a car be a liar?”

“Its instruments do not tell the truth,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “You can adjust them, but they go back to their old ways. A car that does that is a liar. You can do very little about it.”

Left to themselves, the apprentices made a cup of tea and sat on their oil drums for half an hour. Charlie, the older apprentice, called out to any girls who were passing, shouting out invitations to come and see inside the garage.

“Lots going on in this garage,” he called out. “Come on. Come and take a look. There’s lots for a girl like you to do in here!”

The younger apprentice tried to look the other way as the girls went past, but usually failed, sneaking a glance, but not calling out. After they had finished their tea, they drove the mud-coloured French station wagon onto the new hydraulic ramp which Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had recently had installed. This was the first disobedience, the apple in Eden, as they had been given strict instructions that the only person to operate this was Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni himself. But now, faced with the chance to elevate the French car, they could not resist.

The ramp worked magnificently, lifting the car with consummate ease. But then it stopped, the extended central steel piston shining with oil, the car perched precariously above the mechanism. The older apprentice pushed the deflation switch, but nothing happened. He tried again and then turned the power on and off. Nothing happened.

“Broken,” said the younger apprentice. “Your fault.”

They sat down on their oil drums and stared miserably at the elevated car.

“What is Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni going to say?” said the younger apprentice.

“I’m going to say that we had nothing to do with it,” said the older apprentice. “I’m going to say it was an accident. We parked the car above the ramp and then it went off by itself. We didn’t touch it.”

The younger apprentice looked at him. “I cannot tell lies anymore,” he said. “Now that I am saved, I cannot lie.”

The older one met his stare. “Then you will get both of us into bad trouble. Really bad trouble.” He paused. “So I’m going to say that you did it. I’ll tell him that it was you.”

“You would not do that to me,” said the younger apprentice. “And anyway, I would tell him the truth. The boss can tell when somebody is lying. Mma Ramotswe can, too. You would never be able to fool her.” He paused. “But there is something we can do.”

“Oh yes,” said the older apprentice, mocking him. “Pray?”

“Yes,” the younger one said as he slid off the oil drum and went down on his knees. “Oh Lord,” he said. “Release this car,” adding, “please.”

There was silence. Outside, a large truck went past, grinding its gears. A cicada began to screech in the scrub bush at the back; a grey dove fluttered its wings briefly in the bough of the acacia tree beside the garage. And there was heat over the land.

Suddenly there was a hissing sound. They looked up, both surprised. The trapped air in the hydraulic system was clearing, allowing the column and its burden to descend gracefully towards the ground.

MMA SILVIA Potokwani was the matron of the orphan farm, which lay twenty minutes’ drive to the east of the town. She had worked there for fifteen years, as deputy matron and then as matron, and it was said that she remembered the name of every orphan who had passed through her hands. This was never put to the test, but if one of the staff ever asked her: “I was trying to remember the name of that boy who came from Maun, the one with the sticking-out ears who was such a quick runner, can you remind me, Mma?” she would reply, without hesitation, “Cedric Motoposipe. He had a brother who was no good at athletics but became a very good cook and is now working at the Sun Hotel as a chef. Good boys, both of them.” Or somebody might ask: “That girl who went to live in Lobatse when she left us and married a policeman, what was her name?” and Mma Potokwani would reply: “Memedi Gafetsili.”

Not only did Mma Potokwani remember the names of all the orphans, but she also knew anybody of any consequence in Botswana. Once she met anybody, she filed away their details in her mind and, in particular, she remembered in what way they might help the orphan farm; those who had money would be asked for donations; butchers would be asked for spare offcuts; bakers would be asked for surplus doughnuts and cakes. These requests were rarely refused; it would take a degree of courage that few possessed to turn Mma Potokwani down, and as a result the orphans very seldom wanted for anything.

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, who had known Mma Potokwani for over twenty years, was called out regularly to deal with any mechanical problems which arose. He kept alive the old van which they used to transport orphans-this involved much scouring of the country for spare parts, as the van was an old one-and he also attended to the borehole pump, which lost a certain amount of oil and tended to overheat. It would have been possible to recommend that their old machinery, including this pump, be scrapped, but he knew that Mma Potokwani would never accede to such a suggestion. She believed in getting as much use as possible from everything, and thought that as long as machinery, or anything else, could be cajoled into operation, it should be kept; to do otherwise, she thought, was wasteful. Indeed, the last time that Mma Ramotswe had drunk tea with her in the office at the orphan farm, she had noticed that her china cup had been repaired several times, once on the handle and twice elsewhere.

Now, parking Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s truck in a place under an old frangipani tree specially reserved for visitors, they saw Mma Potokwani waving to them out of her window. By the time they had alighted from the truck and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had taken out the tool kit that he would need to repair the pump, Mma Potokwani had emerged from the front door of the office and was advancing towards them.

She greeted them warmly. “My two very good friends,” she said, “both arriving at the same time! Mma Ramotswe and her fiancé, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni!”

“He is my driver now,” joked Mma Ramotswe. “I do not have to drive anymore.”

“And I do not have to cook anymore,” added Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.

“But you never did cook, Rra,” said Mma Potokwani. “What is this talk about cooking?”

“I sometimes cooked,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.

“When did you cook?” asked Mma Potokwani.

“Sometimes,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “But we must not stand around and talk about cooking. I must go and fix this pump of yours. What is it doing now?”

“It is making a very strange noise,” said Mma Potokwani. “It is unlike the other times when it has made a strange noise. This time it sounds like an elephant when it trumpets. That is the sort of noise it makes. Not all the time, but every now and then. It is also shaking like a dog. That is what it is doing.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni shook his head. “It is a very old pump,” he said. “Machinery doesn’t last forever, you know. It is just like us. It has to die sometime.”