The Double Comfort Safari Club - By Alexander McCall Smith Page 0,18

here until she told us. She said that …”

Mma Ramotswe gripped Mma Makutsi’s arm. “You are the fiancée, Mma! You are almost Mrs. Radiphuti! You are the one who should be at his bedside. He will want to see you, Mma, not his aunt.”

They walked towards the aunt, who turned as they approached and fixed them with a discouraging stare. Mma Ramotswe retained her grip on Mma Makutsi’s arm. “Never be put off by rudeness, Mma,” she whispered. “It is the rude person who is rude, not you.”

This advice, puzzling at first, encouraged Mma Makutsi. “You are right,” she whispered back. “I am not afraid of this woman. I am not afraid of a great big melon.” She looked furtively at Mma Ramotswe, momentarily embarrassed by the childish nature of the insult. It was the sort of thing that Charlie would say, and not a fitting remark for the fiancée of the owner—virtually—of the Double Comfort Furniture Shop and an assistant private detective. But Mma Ramotswe had not heard, or had chosen not to hear.

The aunt glared at them as they came up to her. “You should not be here, Grace Makutsi,” she said sharply, rising to her feet. “Did they not tell you that I would say when you could come? Did Gaethele not give you my message?”

She did not wait for an answer to her question, but continued, “And now you are bringing the whole world. This woman here, what business has she?” She gestured dismissively towards Mma Ramotswe. “Did anybody give you permission to bring her? This is not a cattle show, you know.”

The sheer rudeness of this welcome made Mma Makutsi start; Mma Ramotswe felt it in her arm, a shocked movement.

“Dumela, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe quickly, extending the traditional greeting. “I hope you have slept well.”

Even the aunt, in all her bristling hostility, could not overcome the ancient habit; she returned the greeting gruffly, but then immediately turned again to Mma Makutsi. “Well? Did Gaethele give you my message?”

Mma Ramotswe intercepted the question. “I think he did, Mma. But Mma Makutsi is the fiancée, you see, and I was the one who said to her that she should come to the hospital. I was the one.”

The aunt stood quite still, absorbing this provocative piece of information. Then, without looking at Mma Ramotswe, she said to Mma Makutsi, “Who is this large person, Mma?”

“I am Precious Ramotswe,” said Mma Ramotswe evenly. “Mma Makutsi works for me.”

Mma Makutsi would have preferred it if Mma Ramotswe had said “works with me,” but did not feel that this was the time for concern over status, important though such questions might be.

The aunt now looked at her adversary directly. Mma Makutsi was right, thought Mma Ramotswe; she does look like a melon. “So you are that woman,” said the aunt. “I have heard of you and your detective nonsense. I do not want to think about such business now. The important thing is this: my Phuti is having a big operation. He is in there now. Now, now, while we speak. And I do not want him to see people until he is strong enough. That is all, Mma.”

She stopped, and fixed Mma Ramotswe with the stare of one who has given a full and perfectly reasonable explanation.

“Have you spoken to the doctor?” asked Mma Ramotswe. She sounded neither angry nor offended; her tone was perfectly even.

“Yes, yes,” snapped the aunt. “I have spoken to them and signed a piece of paper. They told me all about the operation that they would have to do. It is very sad.”

Mma Makutsi caught her breath. “Why sad?”

“Any operation is sad,” said Mma Ramotswe hurriedly. “It is sad for the person having an operation. Sad for the system. That is well known.”

The aunt raised an eyebrow. There was something triumphant in her expression. “They gave me all the details,” she said. “The doctor was very kind. He was Ghanaian. They are always kind, those people from that place.”

Mma Ramotswe probed. “Maybe you could tell Mma Makutsi what he said. She is the fiancée, so she has the right to know.”

The aunt moved her head slightly, as if to ease the pressure on her narrow shoulders. “Fiancée? What is a fiancée, Mma? A fiancée is not a permanent person; an aunt, an uncle, they are permanent. Forever. You see?”

Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mma Makutsi. Her assistant was looking down at the ground, avoiding the aunt’s gaze.

“But she will be Mrs. Radiphuti,” said Mma Ramotswe