He came home late and he smelled of beer when he returned. It was a sour smell, like rancid milk, and she turned her head away as he pushed her down on the bed and pulled at her clothing.
“You have had a lot of beer. You have had a good evening.”
He looked at her, his eyes slightly out of focus.
“I can drink if I want to. You’re one of these women who stays at home and complains? Is that what you are?”
“I am not. I only meant to say that you had a good evening.”
But his indignation would not be assuaged, and he said: “You are making me punish you, woman. You are making me do this thing to you.”
She cried out, and tried to struggle, to push him away, but he was too strong for her.
“Don’t hurt the baby.”
“Baby! Why do you talk about this baby? It is not mine. I am not the father of any baby.”
MALE HANDS again, but this time in thin rubber gloves, which made the hands pale and unfinished, like a white man’s hands.
“Do you feel any pain here? No? And here?”
She shook her head.
“I think that the baby is all right. And up here, where these marks are. Is there pain just on the outside, or is it deeper in?”
“It is just the outside.”
“I see. I am going to have to put in stitches here. All the way across here, because the skin has parted so badly. I’ll spray something on to take the pain away but maybe it’s better for you not to watch me while I’m sewing! Some people say men can’t sew, but we doctors aren’t too bad at it!”
She closed her eyes and heard a hissing sound. There was cold spray against her skin and then a numbness as the doctor worked on the wound.
“This was your husband’s doing? Am I right?”
She opened her eyes. The doctor had finished the suture and had handed something to the nurse. He was looking at her now as he peeled off the gloves.
“How many times has this happened before? Is there anybody to look after you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“I suppose you’re going to go back to him?”
She opened her mouth to speak, but he interrupted her.
“Of course you are. It’s always the same. The woman goes back for more.”
He sighed. “I’ll probably see you again, you know. But I hope I don’t. Just be careful.”
SHE WENT back the next day, a scarf tied around her face to hide the bruises and the cuts. She ached in her arms and in her stomach, and the sutured wound stung sharply. They had given her pills at the hospital, and she had taken one just before she left on the bus. This seemed to help the pain, and she took another on the journey.
The door was open. She went in, her heart thumping within her chest, and saw what had happened. The room was empty, apart from the furniture. He had taken his tapes, and their new metal trunk, and the yellow curtains too. And in the bedroom, he had slashed the mattress with a knife, and there was kapok lying about, making it look like a shearing room.
She sat down on the bed and was still sitting there, staring at the floor, when the neighbour came in and said that she would get somebody to take her in a truck back to Mochudi, to Obed, to her father.
There she stayed, looking
after her father, for the next fourteen years. He died shortly after her
thirty-fourth birthday, and that was the point at which Precious Ramotswe, now
parentless, veteran of a nightmare marriage, and mother, for a brief and lovely
five days, became the first lady private detective in Botswana.
CHAPTER FIVE
WHAT
YOU NEED TO OPEN
A DETECTIVE AGENCY
MMA RAMOTSWE had thought that it would not be easy to open a detective agency. People always made the mistake of thinking that starting a business was simple and then found that there were all sorts of hidden problems and unforeseen demands. She had heard of people opening businesses that lasted four or five weeks before they ran out of money or stock, or both. It was always more difficult than you thought it would be.
She went to the lawyer at Pilane, who had arranged for her to get her father’s money. He had organised the sale of the cattle, and had got a good price for them.
“I have got a lot of money for you,” he said. “Your father’s herd had grown and grown.”
She took the cheque and the sheet of paper that he handed her. It was more than she had imagined possible. But there it was—all that money, made payable to Precious Ramotswe, on presentation to Barclays Bank of Botswana.
“You can buy a house with that,” said the lawyer. “And a business.”
“I am going to buy both of those.”
