The Double Comfort Safari Club - By Alexander McCall Smith Page 0,61

she said. “Then you can tell him.”

She was not sure, though. She had a bad feeling about that aunt of Phuti’s. That was the problem, she thought. You deal with one difficult person in this life—Violet Sephotho, for instance—and another one pops up.

But for a short while she could put such difficulties aside. Now she had the pleasant duty of going to tell Mr. Kereleng that he had his house back; it had never really been Violet’s anyway, thanks to the faulty deed, but now he could go and claim it back, and then sell it to raise the money for his laboratory. There were so many things in this world that did not turn out well; she was glad that here, at least, was one that had turned out very well indeed.

She went to his office. He was embarrassed at first, and explained to her in a lowered voice that they were not meant to receive personal callers at work. But when she told him what had happened, his demeanour changed. He let out a whoop of delight, and then began to cry. His colleagues watched in amazement, and then one came over to Mma Ramotswe and asked her if Mr. Kereleng had received bad news. “No,” she said. “It is very good news. Sometimes people cry if they are very happy, or very relieved.”

“That is very odd,” said the colleague.

“No, it is not,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We should all cry a bit more, Rra. We really should.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

INTO THE DELTA

THE DRIVE NORTH took longer than they had expected. In spite of their early start, the road was busy for the first part of the journey, with large stock carriers occupying both lanes and inconsiderately making it difficult to pass. In the days of the tiny white van that would have been neither here nor there—that van had been unable to pass anything much, although it usually managed to get past bicycles, and pedestrians, if conditions were right. The new blue van, of course, experienced no such difficulties, having reserves of power deep in its engine that Mma Ramotswe could release with a simple movement of her right foot. That ability, though, was such a novelty that she hardly dared use it. What would happen, she wondered, if she put her foot down hard to the floor and left it there? She had done that frequently enough in the old van, and there was rarely any reaction. It was as if that engine did not receive its instructions, or, if it did, it merely shrugged them off, as an aged beast of burden, a donkey or an ox, may ignore its owner’s exhortations, saying, effectively, I am just too old to be doing this any more. Leave me alone please.

Mma Makutsi proved to be a helpful companion and co-driver. She did not possess a driving licence—not yet—but she took the view that the obtaining of ninety-seven per cent in the final examinations of the Botswana Secretarial College, if not amounting to an actual driving qualification, entitled her to hold views and to advise. So she kept a lookout when Mma Ramotswe wanted to pass something. Now, Mma, right now. Just go a bit faster. There is nothing coming. Go now. She also navigated—which was not an exacting task given that the road to Francistown, which marked the end of the first leg of the journey, ran straight and true from Gaborone northwards and neither meandered nor diverted. “You go straight here, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “That sign over there says Francistown. That is the route to take.” Mma Ramotswe nodded. “Yes,” she said. “These are good signs, don’t you think, Mma? They make it quite clear which way you should go.”

Mma Makutsi, interpreting this as veiled criticism of her navigating, searched for an objection to this remark. “But what if there is a blind person?” she challenged. “What use would they be then?”

“But a blind person shouldn’t be driving,” said Mma Ramotswe. And added, as if the matter required further resolution, “That is well known, Mma.”

There could be no answer to that, and the subject of signs was pursued no further. There were other things to talk about, though, and as their conversation wandered this way and that the long miles clocked up. Towns passed, some well known—Mahalapye and Palapye—some small and unimportant to all except those who lived in them, for whom they were everything. Each had associations or memories for Mma Ramotswe, and, to a lesser extent,