about.”
Mma Ramotswe’s expression told Charlie that she did not want him to engage with Mma Makutsi. He closed his eyes briefly, as if struggling with something. “Go on, Mma. Tell me more.”
She reached for the envelope into which she had slipped Susan’s photograph. “There is this,” she said, laying it on the desk between them. “This is the photo of Mma Susan as a small girl. This lady is her nursemaid.”
Charlie leaned over to examine the picture. “Then we can find her,” he said quickly. “We will show people this photo and say: ‘Who is this lady?’ ”
He sat back, looking at Mma Ramotswe with the satisfaction of one who has made a brilliant suggestion. From behind him, though, came Mma Makutsi’s voice.
“Done. Already done.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. “Mma Makutsi arranged an interview with her friend at the
Botswana Daily News.
”
“And it will be in today’s edition,” said Mma Makutsi. “Phuti is going to buy a copy a bit later and drop it round.”
Charlie looked crestfallen. Mma Ramotswe gave him a glance that conveyed a complicated message, the gist of which was that for all sorts of reasons he should congratulate Mma Makutsi on her fast footwork. Charlie, for all his young man’s impetuosity, was good at interpreting looks, and he complied.
“That is very good, Mma Makutsi,” he said. “That will bring very good results—I’m sure of it.”
Mma Makutsi basked in the compliment. “Thank you, Charlie. I hope so.” She paused, before adding, “And I am sure that you’ll be able to find that house. You’re good at those things, I think.”
There, thought Mma Ramotswe. There. A kind word, a word of encouragement or admiration, could shift the heaviest, most recalcitrant baggage.
“That photograph,” she continued, “shows a bit of the house, as you’ll see. There is its verandah, with its fly gauze, you see, and there are the drainpipes round the side leading to a water tank.”
Charlie looked at the photo again. “That is one of those BHC houses,” he said.
“It was built in the late nineteen-sixties or the early nineteen-seventies, then,” said Mma Ramotswe. The Botswana Housing Commission had done much of the building of Gaborone after independence in 1966, using designs that were common in early post-colonial Africa. These houses were for the new class of senior civil servants, local or expatriate, who guided the new state through its early years. They were also for the engineers and doctors, and others who brought their skills to the task of making a country out of a large slice of land that had, for the most part, lain relatively untouched.
“So it would have been over near the old Mall,” said Charlie. “Or the Village.”
The Village was the area that lay just across the Tlokweng Road from the agency’s office. Mma Ramotswe drove through it every day on her way to Zebra Drive and if the house were there, then she would expect to find it quickly. The problem, though, was that many of those earlier houses had been knocked down to make way for newer buildings—for blocks of flats in some cases, or for more prosperous homes. A number of the BHC houses remained, though, and with luck this would be one of them.
“If it’s further in,” said Charlie, “then there’s less chance of it still being there. Those new parts of the hospital have taken up lots of land and those new flats too, the ones on Nyerere Drive, must have been built over places like that.”
“That’s right.”
He looked puzzled. “Doesn’t she remember roughly where it was? She would have known where the airstrip was in those days. She would have seen the planes. Was it near there?”
“She thinks it was not far from the university,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But she can’t be sure which side of the university. She says that when she drove round the other day everything seemed to have shifted.”
“There are many new roads,” said Charlie. “New roads can make a
Mma Ramotswe’s expression told Charlie that she did not want him to engage with Mma Makutsi. He closed his eyes briefly, as if struggling with something. “Go on, Mma. Tell me more.”
She reached for the envelope into which she had slipped Susan’s photograph. “There is this,” she said, laying it on the desk between them. “This is the photo of Mma Susan as a small girl. This lady is her nursemaid.”
Charlie leaned over to examine the picture. “Then we can find her,” he said quickly. “We will show people this photo and say: ‘Who is this lady?’ ”
He sat back, looking at Mma Ramotswe with the satisfaction of one who has made a brilliant suggestion. From behind him, though, came Mma Makutsi’s voice.
“Done. Already done.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. “Mma Makutsi arranged an interview with her friend at the
Botswana Daily News.
”
“And it will be in today’s edition,” said Mma Makutsi. “Phuti is going to buy a copy a bit later and drop it round.”
Charlie looked crestfallen. Mma Ramotswe gave him a glance that conveyed a complicated message, the gist of which was that for all sorts of reasons he should congratulate Mma Makutsi on her fast footwork. Charlie, for all his young man’s impetuosity, was good at interpreting looks, and he complied.
“That is very good, Mma Makutsi,” he said. “That will bring very good results—I’m sure of it.”
Mma Makutsi basked in the compliment. “Thank you, Charlie. I hope so.” She paused, before adding, “And I am sure that you’ll be able to find that house. You’re good at those things, I think.”
There, thought Mma Ramotswe. There. A kind word, a word of encouragement or admiration, could shift the heaviest, most recalcitrant baggage.
“That photograph,” she continued, “shows a bit of the house, as you’ll see. There is its verandah, with its fly gauze, you see, and there are the drainpipes round the side leading to a water tank.”
Charlie looked at the photo again. “That is one of those BHC houses,” he said.
“It was built in the late nineteen-sixties or the early nineteen-seventies, then,” said Mma Ramotswe. The Botswana Housing Commission had done much of the building of Gaborone after independence in 1966, using designs that were common in early post-colonial Africa. These houses were for the new class of senior civil servants, local or expatriate, who guided the new state through its early years. They were also for the engineers and doctors, and others who brought their skills to the task of making a country out of a large slice of land that had, for the most part, lain relatively untouched.
“So it would have been over near the old Mall,” said Charlie. “Or the Village.”
The Village was the area that lay just across the Tlokweng Road from the agency’s office. Mma Ramotswe drove through it every day on her way to Zebra Drive and if the house were there, then she would expect to find it quickly. The problem, though, was that many of those earlier houses had been knocked down to make way for newer buildings—for blocks of flats in some cases, or for more prosperous homes. A number of the BHC houses remained, though, and with luck this would be one of them.
“If it’s further in,” said Charlie, “then there’s less chance of it still being there. Those new parts of the hospital have taken up lots of land and those new flats too, the ones on Nyerere Drive, must have been built over places like that.”
“That’s right.”
He looked puzzled. “Doesn’t she remember roughly where it was? She would have known where the airstrip was in those days. She would have seen the planes. Was it near there?”
“She thinks it was not far from the university,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But she can’t be sure which side of the university. She says that when she drove round the other day everything seemed to have shifted.”
“There are many new roads,” said Charlie. “New roads can make a
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