Fanwell turned to the teenage girl. “Take the aunty into the house and make her some tea,” he said. “The aunty likes tea.”

The girl nodded and gestured for Mma Ramotswe to follow her.

“My grandmother will be back soon,” said Fanwell. “She will also look after you, Mma. In the meantime, I'll start on your van.”

Mma Ramotswe followed the girl into the house and found herself in a small, square room. At the far end, behind a tattered blue curtain, a doorway led into the back room, the sleeping quarters, she imagined. The front room, dimly lit by daylight admitted through a single window, was cluttered with the family's possessions: a tin trunk from which the clasp had fallen away, a table of varnished yellow wood, straight-backed chairs, an open cupboard with tins of food and cooking implements stacked on the shelves. Against the wall opposite the window stood a small electric stove-two hot plates and a tiny, rickety oven. This was home to… Mma Ramotswe thought: five young people, if one included Fanwell, and one grandmother. And she saw that there were six white enamel plates stacked on one of the shelves; six single plates on which all the family's food was served.

The girl produced a simple kettle from somewhere. It was already filled with water and she placed it delicately on the stove.

“It will not be long, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled at her. The smaller children, the girl and the two boys, had sidled into the room and were standing near the window, watching her.

“Shall I sit down here?” asked Mma Ramotswe, indicating one of the chairs.

The girl nodded. “That is my grandmother's chair, Mma,” she said. “But she will not mind. She can sit on one of the others.”

Mma Ramotswe looked at the other children. It was difficult to tell with certainty, but two of them looked very alike; the others were different. Brothers and sisters by other mothers, she thought. Of course, that applied to all of us, did it not? We were all brothers and sisters by different mothers.

She turned to the teenage girl. “Do you go to school?”

The girl nodded. “I am in Form Two.” There was a gravity about the way she spoke, her answers being delivered with precision and only after what seemed like a pause for consideration.

“And what is your best subject?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “Let me guess? You are good at English. Am I right?”

The girl's eyes widened. “How could you tell, Mma? Yes, that is my best subject.”

Mma Ramotswe chuckled. “I am a detective, you see. I know how to find clues. And there are many clues in this place. I saw those two books on the shelf there. Those ones. An English dictionary and a book of stories. I thought: there is somebody in this house who is a keen reader. I could tell that. And those ones over there,” she nodded in the direction of the smaller children, “they are too small to be reading English dictionaries. And Fanwell… Well, he is a young man, and they do not read dictionaries either. So that meant Grandmother or you, and I decided that it must be you.”

The girl smiled. It was the first time that she had smiled, and Mma Ramotswe saw her face light up. “Fanwell told me that you are a detective, Mma,” the girl said. “He told me that you are a very clever lady.” She paused. “And he also said that he often helps you solve cases.”

Mma Ramotswe gave nothing away. “Of course he does,” she said. “Your brother is very useful.”

The kettle had now begun to boil, and the girl busied herself with the making of tea. The brew was thin and the milk powdered, but Mma Ramotswe was thirsty and it was welcome. As she began to sip the tea, the front door opened and the grandmother came in.

THEY SAT TOGETHER at the table, Fanwell's grandmother and Mma Ramotswe. The teenage girl who had made the tea and the younger children had been sent outside, while the grandmother and her visitor talked.

“I am from Thamaga,” said the old woman. “I was born there, the firstborn of my parents. Number one of seven. Three girls and four boys. There are three of us left, Mma, after all these years. Three.”

“You are still here,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is a good thing.”

The grandmother acknowledged the truth of what Mma Ramotswe said. “Yes, it is. But then when you are old like me, you think that the whole world is changing. There are new people everywhere. New buildings. And all this rush-everybody is in a hurry. And you sit there and think: Why is everybody in a hurry? That will not make the crops grow any quicker, will it? It will not.

“Thamaga is a good place, and I was very happy there. I went to school and I was good at the things that they taught us. I can write, Mma. I can read too. I am not an illiterate. I have a Bible in the bedroom that I know a lot of by heart. I have read it many times. I can say much of it without reading. ‘In the beginning…’”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “Yes, I have heard that.” And added, quickly, “Tell me what happened to you, Mma. Out in Thamaga. What happened?”

The old woman looked at her in surprise. Her eyes, Mma Ramotswe noticed, were unusually moist round the edges, as are the eyes of one who has looked too long into the smoke of a wood fire, smarting. “Nothing happened to me in Thamaga, Mma. Nothing.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “In all those years, Mma?”

The old woman's face creased with amusement. “I suppose that things happened. It's just that when you are living in a village, it seems at the time that there is nothing happening. You know how it is. There is the hot season. Then there are the rains. Then it gets cold. And then the hot weather starts again.

“And children are born,” she went on, “and they grow up and go away and more children are born. That is what happens in a place like Thamaga.”

Mma Ramotswe knew what she meant. It had been the same in Mochudi when she was a girl. Something had happened in her life because she had come to Gaborone and started the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency, but there were those who had stayed. Nothing much had happened in their lives, and yet were they unhappier for that? She did not think so.

“I was married when I was sixteen,” said the old woman. “I did not really want to get married because I would have liked to have been a nurse, or an assistant to a nurse. They took girls at the Scottish hospital in Molepolole, the Livingstone Hospital. You know the place, Mma?”

“I know it,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Dr. Merriweather's hospital. When he was there. He is late now, but people still love him. Late people are still loved, aren't they, Mma?”

“Yes, they are. You are right. And that is the place. I could have gone there and they would have trained me, but my senior uncle was against it. He said that if I became a nurse I would go and work in South Africa and never come back, and then who would look after him and the others? So they made me marry. I think that they were interested in the cattle they would get for me too. In the lobola.

“There was a young man who was the nephew of a friend of my senior uncle-my own father was late, you see. So they introduced us-they brought this young man to the house and they sat and watched as we talked. The young man was very shy and he could not talk about anything. He looked at me as if he was trying to say, Sorry, this is not my idea. When he looked at me in that way, I knew that I would be able to love him. I did not like men who never thought about how a woman was feeling. This one was thinking of me. So I said to my senior uncle that he had found a very good young man and that I would behave as a good wife should and he should not worry that they would ask for their cattle back. That is what my uncle was really worried about, Mma.

“We were married and then almost straightaway my husband went off and got a job in Gaborone as a government driver. They were looking for drivers then, as the Government had just found diamonds and they had money to spend on cars. They bought many cars with the diamond money and they needed men to drive them.