He could tell that Mma Potokwani was not prepared to entertain such defeatist talk.

“It may be old,” she said, “but it is still working, isn’t it? If I have to go out and buy a new pump, then that will take money which could be used for other things. The children need shoes. They need clothes. I have to pay the housemothers and the cooks and everybody. There is no money for new pumps.”

“I was just pointing out the truth about machines,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “I did not say I would not try to fix it.”

“Good,” said Mma Potokwani, bringing the pump discussion to a close. “We are all fond of that pump. We do not want it to go just yet. One day, maybe, but not yet.”

She turned to Mma Ramotswe. “While Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni is fixing the pump,” she said, “we shall go and have tea. Then, when he has finished, his tea will be ready. I also have a fruitcake, and there will be a very big piece set aside for him.”

THE PUMP house was at the other end of a wide field that bordered the row of cottages in which the orphans lived. There was a large vegetable patch at the side of this field, and then the field itself, which had been used for maize and which was still covered by the withered stalks of the last year’s crop. The borehole which the pump served was a good one, tapping into an underground stream which was fed, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni suspected, by waters that seeped down from the dam. He had always found it surprising that there should be so much underground water in a dry country; that underneath these great brown plains, which could get so parched in the dry season, there could still be deep lakes of sweet, fresh water. Of course you could not rely on there being water underground. When they had built the big stone house out at Mokolodi, they had found it very difficult to get any water at all. They had consulted the best water diviners there were, and these men had walked this way and that with their sticks in their hands, and nothing had happened; there had simply been no movement. For some reason, the underground water was not there. Eventually they had been obliged to use an old water tanker to bring water for the house.

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni walked across the field, the dust on his shoes, the dried mealie stalks cracking under his feet. The earth was generous, he thought: sand and soil could be persuaded, with a little water, to yield such life, and to make such good things for the table. Everything depended on that simple generosity: trees, cattle, pumpkin vines, people-everything. And this soil, the soil on which he walked, was special soil. It was Botswana. It was his soil. It had made the very bodies of his people; of his father, Mr. P.Z. Matekoni, and his grandfather, Mr. T. Matekoni, before him. All of them, down the generations, were linked by this bond with this particular part of Africa, which they loved, and cherished, and which gave them so much in return.

He looked up. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni always wore a hat when he was outside; a brown hat with no hatband, made of thin felt of some description, and very old, like the orphan-farm pump. He tilted his hat back slightly, so that he could see the sky more clearly. It was so empty, so dizzying in its height, so unconcerned by the man who was crossing a field beneath it, and thinking as he did so.

He walked on and reached the pump house. The pump, which was controlled by an automatic switch attached to the water storage tank, was in action as he reached it. It sounded as if it was working normally, and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni wondered whether Mma Potokwani had been imagining the problem. But even as he stood there, before the pump house door, thinking of the large slice of fruitcake to which he could now return, the pump issued the strange sound which Mma Potokwani had described. It did indeed sound like the trumpeting of an elephant, but to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s ears it meant something much more worrying: it was the pump’s death rattle.

He sighed and entered the pump house, taking care to look out for snakes, which liked to lie in such places. He reached out and flicked the manual override switch. The pump groaned and then stopped. Now there was silence, and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni put down his toolbox and extracted a spanner. He felt weary. Life was a battle against wear; the wear of machinery and the wear of the soul. Oil. Grease. Wear.

He laid down his spanner. No. He would not fix this pump anymore. Mma Potokwani was always telling him to do this and do that, and he had always done it. How many times had he fixed this pump? At least twenty times, probably more. And he had never charged a single thebe for his time, and of course he never would. But there came a time when one had to stand up to somebody like Mma Potokwani. She had been so kind to him when he was ill-although now he remembered so little of that strange time of confusion and sadness-and he would always be loyal to her. But he was the mechanic, not she. He was the one who knew when a pump had come to the end of its life and needed to be replaced. She knew nothing about pumps and cars, although sometimes she behaved as if she did. She would have to listen to him for a change. He would say: “Mma Potokwani, I have examined the pump, and it can no longer be fixed. It is broken beyond all repair. You must telephone one of your donors and tell them that a new pump is needed.”

He closed the door behind him, taking one last look at the pump. It was an old friend, in a way. No modern pump would look like that, with its wheel and its beautiful heavy casing; no modern pump would make a noise like the trumpeting of an elephant. This pump had come from far away and could be given back to the British now. Here is your pump, which you left in Africa. It is finished now.

“SUCH GOOD cake,” said Mma Ramotswe, accepting the second slice which Mma Potokwani had placed on her plate. “These days I find I do not have the time for baking. I should like to make cakes, but where is the time?”

“This cake,” said Mma Potokwani, licking crumbs off her fingers, “is made by one of the housemothers who is a very good cook, Mma Gotofede. Whenever I am expecting visitors, she makes a cake. And all the time she is looking after the children in her cottage. And you know how much work that entails.”

“They are good women, these housemothers,” said Mma Ramotswe, looking out of the window to where a couple of the women were enjoying a break from their labours, chatting on the verandah of one of the neat cottages in which groups of ten or twelve orphans lived.

Mma Potokwani followed her gaze. “That is Mma Gotofede over there,” she said. “The lady with the green apron. She is the one who is such a good cook.”

“I knew somebody of that name once,” said Mma Ramotswe. “They lived in Mochudi. They were a big family. Many children.”

“She is married to one of the sons of that family,” said Mma Potokwani. “He works for the Roads Department. He drives a steamroller. She told me that he ran over a dog with his steamroller last week, by mistake, of course. It was a very old dog, apparently, who did not hear the steamroller coming.”

“That is very sad,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But the late dog would not have suffered. At least there is that.”

Mma Potokwani thought for a moment. “I suppose not,” she said.

“This cake is delic ious,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Perhaps Mma Gotofede would teach me how to make it one day. Motholeli and Puso would like it.”

Mma Potokwani smiled at the mention of the children. “I hope that they are doing well,” she said. “It is very kind of you and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni to adopt them like that.”

Mma Ramotswe lifted her teacup and looked at Mma Potokwani over the rim. There had never been any mention of adoption before this; the agreement had been to foster them, had it not? Not that it made much difference, but you had to watch Mma Potokwani: she would do anything to benefit the orphans.