Mma Makutsi looked down at her shoes. Give it a try, Boss! She thought for a moment. “Maybe, Mma,” she said. She sounded tentative at first, but then continued with growing conviction, “Yes. I’ll suggest that he’s put in charge of supplies. Then one of two things will happen: he’ll stop thieving because he’s trusted, or…or he’ll take everything. One of those things will happen.”
That was not the spirit of Mma Potokwane’s story, thought Mma Ramotswe, but one had to acknowledge Mma Makutsi’s realism. “Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It will decide matters one way or the other.”
He’ll steal the lot, Boss, whispered Mma Makutsi’s shoes.
CHARLIE REAPPEARED that afternoon. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was involved with a gearbox and the younger apprentice was engaged in a routine draining of oil. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who saw him first, stood up and wiped his hands on a paper towel. Charlie, standing at the entrance to the garage workshop, made a halfhearted gesture of greeting with his right hand.
“It’s me, Boss. It’s me.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni chuckled. “I’ve not forgotten who you are, Rra! You have come back to see us.” He looked behind Charlie, out onto the open ground in front of the garage. “Where’s the Mercedes-B…?” His voice died off at the end of the question. There was no Benz, no car.
Charlie’s demeanour gave everything away—in the way his eyes dropped, in the misery of his expression, in his utterly defeated posture. The younger apprentice, who had come over to stand next to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, looked nervously at his employer. “Charlie’s back,” he said, and tried to smile. “You see, Rra. He’s come back now. You must give him his job back, Rra. You must. Please.” He tugged at Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s sleeve, leaving a smudge of grease on the cloth.
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni glanced at the grease marks. It was maddening. He had told these boys time and time again not to touch him with their greasy fingers, and they always did it, always, tapping him on the shoulder, grabbing his arm to show him something, ruining his overalls, which he always tried to keep as clean as possible. And now this foolish young man had left his fingerprints on him again, and this other, even more foolish young man had probably succeeded in destroying an old but perfectly serviceable Mercedes-Benz. What could one do? Where could one start?
He addressed Charlie, his voice low. “What happened? Just tell me what happened. No this, no that. No, It wasn’t my fault, Rra. Just what happened.”
Charlie shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. “There was an accident. Two days ago.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni took a deep breath. “And?”
Charlie shrugged. “I could not even get it brought here,” he said. “The police mechanic looked at it. He said…” He moved his hand in a gesture of helplessness.
“A write-off?” asked the younger apprentice.
Charlie moved a hand up to cover his mouth. From behind his fingers, his voice was muffled. “Yes. He said that it would cost far more than it was worth to try to fix it. Yes, it’s a write-off.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked up at the sky. He had brought these boys here, he had done his best, and everything they did, everything, went wrong. He asked himself if he had been like this as a young man, as prone to disaster, as incapable of getting anything right. He had made mistakes, of course; there had been several false starts, but nothing ever approaching the level of incompetence that these young men so effortlessly achieved.
He felt a sudden urge to shout at Charlie, to seize him by the lapels of his jacket and shake him; to shake him until some sense came into that head of his, full, as it was, with thoughts of girls and flashy clothes and the like. It was tempting, almost overpoweringly so, but he did not. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had never laid an angry hand on another and would not start now. The dangerous moment passed.
“I was wondering, Boss,” Charlie began. “I was wondering if I could come back here.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni bit his lip. This was undoubtedly his chance to get rid of Charlie, if he wished to do so, but he realised, just as the possibility entered his head, that he was, in fact, relieved to have him back, even in these difficult circumstances. The car was still covered by his own insurance, but with the deductible element he would still be left out of pocket on its loss—almost to the tune of five thousand pula, he imagined. That was five thousand pula which Charlie’s accident would cost him, and the young man would never have any means of paying that back. But these boys were part of the life of the garage. They were like demanding relatives, like drought, like bad debts—things that were always there, and to which one became accustomed.
He sighed. “Very well. You may start again tomorrow.”
The younger apprentice, overjoyed, seized Mr J.L.B. Matekoni by the arm and squeezed hard. “Oh, Boss, you are such a kind man. You are so kind to Charlie.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni said nothing. He carefully extricated himself from the young man’s grip and walked back into the workshop. There were more grease stains where the younger apprentice had held him. He could have fumed about those, but did not. What was the point? he thought. Some things just are.
He went into the office, where he found Mma Ramotswe dictating a letter to Mma Makutsi, who was writing it down in shorthand. He stood in the doorway for a moment, until Mma Ramotswe signalled that he should come in.
“It’s nothing private,” she said. “Just a letter to somebody who has not paid his bills.”
“Oh?” he said. “And what do you say?”
“If you do not pay the outstanding bill by the end of next month, we shall be obliged…” She paused. “That is as far as we got.”
“We shall be obliged to…,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“Take action,” offered Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.
“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is what we shall do.” She laughed. “Not that we ever take action. But there we are. As long as people think that you’re going to do something, that’s enough.”
“Bad debts are a very big problem,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. He was about to add “just like bad apprentices,” but he did not. Instead, with the air of one conveying very mundane news, he said, “Charlie’s back. Car crashed. Written off. He’s coming back.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was watching Mma Makutsi as he gave this news, and when he looked over in the direction of Mma Ramotswe, he saw that she too was looking at her assistant. He knew of Mma Makutsi’s difficulties with the apprentices, and particularly with Charlie, and he imagined the impending return would not be well received. But Mma Makutsi, aware of their scrutiny, did not react sharply. There was a moment, perhaps, when the lenses of her large round glasses seemed to flash, but this was only because a movement of her head caused them to catch the light; not a sign. And when she did speak, it was quietly.
“That is a great pity for him,” she said. Then she added, “So that is the end of the No. 1 Ladies’ Taxi Service.” It was a simple epitaph, pronounced without any sense of triumph, without any suggestion of I told you so. As Mr J.L.B. Matekoni remarked to Mma Ramotswe over dinner that night, it was a kind thing for Mma Makutsi to have said, worthy, he suggested, of top marks.
“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Ninety-seven per cent. At least.”
They were seated alone at the table, Motholeli and Puso having eaten earlier and gone to their rooms to complete their homework.
“Poor boy,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He was so looking forward to it all. But I’m afraid that I always thought it would end this way. Charlie is Charlie. He is the way he is, like the rest of us.”
Yes, thought Mr J.L.B. Matekoni; like the rest of us. I am a mechanic; that is what I am; I am not something else. I suppose I have my ways which annoy other people—my keeping those engine parts in the spare room, for instance—that annoys Mma Ramotswe. And I do not always wash out the bath after I have used it; I try to remember, but sometimes I forget, or I am in a hurry. Things like that. But we all have some things we are ashamed of.