The Double Comfort Safari Club - By Alexander McCall Smith Page 0,25

works, done without complaint or thought of reward, but noted, she believed, by everybody. Perhaps she should start writing a list in a book: The Good Works of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni; it was not an entirely fanciful idea, as she could give it to the children later on, when they were older, and they could remember what a fine man their foster father was. She wished that she had such a memento of her own father, the late Obed Ramotswe—a scrapbook, perhaps, with photographs and observations by people who knew him. But there was nothing like that; just memories, of a man looking at her and smiling in the way he did; of a voice that was gravelly and well used, but which contained all that wisdom, all that experience, of people, of cattle, of a country that he had loved so dearly. All that. All that.

People were standing up and had begun to sing. She had been thinking, allowing her mind to wander, and had not noticed that the choir had started to come in. She stood up and watched them as they walked past: Mma Mopoti in good voice, as usual, the head chorister and pillar of the Mothers’ Union. Mma Ramotswe would have to phone her and reply to the invitation to address the Mothers’ Union meeting next month on “The Life of a Private Detective in Botswana.” The title had been suggested by Mma Mopoti, who was widely known for her ability to recite family genealogy, navigating the intricate byways of cousinage that linked just about everyone with everyone else. Mma Ramotswe would accept the invitation; she had to, as Mma Mopoti had pointed out to her that they were distant cousins “way, way back,” and one could not say no to a distant cousin, no matter how far back the link was.

The members of the choir took their seats and the service began. Mma Ramotswe made an effort to follow the proceedings, but there seemed to be so much to distract her, and she abandoned her attempt. This was evidently to be a morning for thinking; no harm in that, and she was not the only one, she suspected, looking about her. And Mma Mopoti herself, sitting there with the choir, had closed her eyes and seemed to be nodding off. She looked off to her right; there was that kind Indian family from Kerala, who had invited her to their daughter’s wedding, along with seven hundred other guests; they loved their weddings, those people—almost as much as the Batswana loved theirs.

Her gaze moved on, and she spotted Mma Mateleke and her husband sitting just a few rows away. She thought it was strange that she had not noticed them before, as she usually exchanged greetings with her friend when she came in. Mma Mateleke was looking down at her hands, rubbing at something—a patch of irritable skin, Mma Ramotswe thought. And of course she could work out where that came from: nurses and midwives had to put that strong antiseptic on their hands—it could hardly do their skin any good. She had met a nurse who had had to find another job for that reason—scrubbing up for the operating theatre had made her hands bleed. She had ended up working in a bank, and had done well, handling money, which did not hurt the skin, but was every bit as dangerous as anything else one might handle.

Mma Mateleke stopped rubbing at her hand and glanced at her husband. Mma Ramotswe watched. Rather to her surprise, she saw that it was not an affectionate look. So Mma Mateleke was cross with Herbert Mateleke—that was interesting. But why? Wives could be cross with their husbands for so many reasons, ranging from the big sins of husbands (drinking too much, becoming violent, looking at other women) to the small sins that men committed so casually (not helping in the house, leaving clothes on the floor, forgetting birthdays and anniversaries, talking about football all the time). Herbert Mateleke was a mild man, rather mousy in his manner; it was difficult to picture him committing any of the big sins. And yet, and yet … Mma Ramotswe had been in practice as a private detective long enough to know that it was often the mild and inoffensive men who behaved most outrageously. Herbert Mateleke might look mild, but he might be having an affair with some blowsy woman somewhere, somebody like Violet Sephotho. Now that was a thought: Herbert