Blue Shoes and Happiness by Alexander McCall Smith Page A

don’t want to,” he said. “I just thought that I would tell you—that’s all.”
    â€œI believe you, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe soothingly. “I’m sure that you’re right.” She glanced at Mma Makutsi. There was definitely something worrying her assistant; it was unlike her to snap at Mr Polopetsi, whom she liked. She had decided that it was something to do with that conversation which she had had with Phuti Radiphuti—the conversation in which she had confessed to feminism. Had he taken that to heart? She very much hoped he had not; Mma Ramotswe was appalled at the thought of something going wrong with Mma Makutsi’s engagement. After all those years of waiting and hoping, Mma Makutsi had eventually found a man, only to ruin everything by frightening him off. Oh, careless, careless Mma Makutsi! thought Mma Ramotswe. And foolish, foolish man to take a casual remark so seriously!
    Mma Ramotswe smiled at Mr Polopetsi. “I know Dr Moffat’s wife,” she said. “I can go and ask her myself. She can speak to the doctor. We can settle this matter quite easily.”
    â€œIt is already settled,” said Mr Polopetsi. “There is no doubt in my mind, at least.”
    â€œWell, then,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You need not worry about it any more.”
    â€œI wasn’t worried,” said Mr Polopetsi, as he sat down in the client’s chair. “I have bigger things to worry about. Unlike some people.” The last few words were said softly, but Mma Ramotswe heard them. Mma Makutsi, for whom they were half-intended, did not. She was standing by the kettle, waiting for it to boil, looking up at the tiny white gecko suspended by its minute suction pads on the ceiling.
    Mma Ramotswe saw this as an opportunity to change the subject. When Mma Makutsi was in that sort of mood, then she had found that the best tactic was to steer away from controversy. “Oh?” she said. “Bigger worries? What are they, Rra?”
    Mr Polopetsi glanced over his shoulder at Mma Makutsi. Mma Ramotswe noticed this, and made a discreet signal with her hand. It was a “don’t you worry about her” signal, and he understood immediately.
    â€œI am very tired, Mma,” he said. “That is my problem. It is all this bicycle-riding in this heat. It is not easy.”
    Mma Ramotswe looked out of the window. The sun that day was relentless; you felt it on the top of your head, pressing down. Even in the early mornings, shortly after breakfast, a time when one might choose to walk about the yard and inspect the trees—even then, it was hot and uncomfortable. And it would stay like this, she knew—or get even worse until the rains came, cooling and refreshing, like a cup of tea for the land itself, she found herself thinking.
    She looked back at Mr Polopetsi. Yes, he looked exhausted, poor man, sitting there in the client’s chair, crumpled, hot.
    â€œCouldn’t you come in by minibus?” she said. “Most other people do.”
    Mr Polopetsi seemed to crumple even more. “You have been to my house, Mma Ramotswe. You know where it is. It is no good for minibuses. There is a long walk to the nearest place that a minibus stops. Then they are often late.”
    Mma Ramotswe nodded sympathetically. It was not easy for people who lived out of town. The cost of housing in Gaborone itself was going up and up, and for most people a house in town would be an impossible dream. That left places like Tlokweng, or even further afield, and a long journey into work. It was all right, she supposed, if one were young and robust, but Mr Polopetsi, although he was only somewhere in his forties, did not look strong: he was a slight man, and with that crumpled look of his … If a powerful gust of wind should come sweeping in from the Kalahari, he could easily be lifted up and blown away. In her mind’s eye, she saw Mr Polopetsi in his