Tears Of The Giraffe by Alexander McCall Smith Read Free Book Online Page B

rims of the wheels. For a moment they stared at one another, and then she smiled and began to make her way over the last few yards of pathway.
    She greeted him politely, as a well-brought-up child would do.
    “I hope that you are well, Rra,” she said, offering her right hand while her left hand laid across the forearm in a gesture of respect.
    They shook hands.
    “I hope that my hands are not too oily,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I have been working on the pump.”
    The girl nodded. “I have brought you some water, Rra. Mma Potokwane said that you had come out here without anything to drink and you might be thirsty.”
    She reached into a bag that was slung under the seat of the chair and extracted a bottle.
    Mr J.L.B. Matekoni took the water gratefully. He had just begun to feel thirsty and was regretting his failure to bring water with him. He took a swig from the bottle, watching the girl as he drank. She was still very young—about eleven or twelve, he thought—and she had a pleasant, open face. Her hair had been braided, and there were beads worked into the knots. She wore a faded blue dress, almost bleached to white by repeated washings, and a pair of scruffy
tackies
on her feet.
    “Do you live here?” he asked. “On the farm?”
    She nodded. “I have been here nearly one year,” she answered. “I am here with my young brother. He is only five.”
    “Where did you come from?”
    She lowered her gaze. “We came from up near Francistown. My mother is late. She died three years ago, when I was nine. We lived with a woman, in her yard. Then she told us we had to go.”
    Mr J.L.B. Matekoni said nothing. Mma Potokwane had told him the stories of some of the orphans, and each time he found that it made his heart smart with pain. In traditional society there was no such thing as an unwanted child; everybody would be looked after by somebody. But things were changing, and now there were orphans. This was particularly so now that there was this disease which was stalking through Africa. There were many more children now without parents and the orphan farm might be the only place for some of them to go. Is this what had happened to this girl? And why was she in a wheelchair?
    He stopped his line of thought. There was no point in speculating about things which one could do little to help. There were more immediate questions to be answered, such as why was the wheelchair making such an odd noise.
    “Your chair is squeaking,” he said. “Does it always do that?”
    She shook her head. “It started a few weeks ago. I think there is something wrong with it.”
    Mr J.L.B. Matekoni went down on his haunches and examined the wheels. He had never fixed a wheelchair before, but it was obvious to him what the problem was. The bearings were dry and dusty—a little oil would work wonders there—and the brake was catching. That would explain the noise.
    “I shall lift you out,” he said. “You can sit under the tree while I fix this chair for you.”
    He lifted the girl and placed her gently on the ground. Then, turning the chair upside down, he freed the brake block and readjusted the lever which operated it. Oil was applied to the bearings and the wheels were spun experimentally. There was no obstruction, and no noise. He righted the chair and pushed it over to where the girl was sitting.
    “You have been very kind, Rra,” she said. “I must get back now, or the housemother will think I’m lost.”
    She made her way down the path, leaving Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to his work on the pump. He continued with the repair and after an hour it was ready. He was pleased when it started the first time and appeared to run reasonably sweetly. The repair, however, would not last for long, and he knew that he would have to return to dismantle it completely. And how would the vegetables get water then? This was the trouble with living in a dry country. Everything, whether it was human life, or pumpkins, was on such a tiny