Free Blue Shoes and Happiness by Alexander McCall Smith Page B

Mma Makutsi. “Surely men don’t expect us to lie? And anyway, Phuti is a kind man. He is not one of those men who are hostile to feminists because they are insecure underneath.”
    She’s right about that, thought Mma Ramotswe. Men who put women down usually did so because they were afraid of women and wanted to build themselves up. But one had to be circumspect about these things. The term
feminist
could upset men needlessly because some feminists were so unpleasant to men. Neither she nor Mma Makutsi was that sort of person. They liked men, even if they knew that there were some types of men who bullied women. They would never stand for that, of course, but at the same time they would not wish to be seen as hostile to men like Mr J.L.B. Matekoni or Phuti Radiphuti—or Mr Polopetsi, for that matter; Mr Polopetsi, who was so mild and considerate and badly done by.
    â€œI’m not saying that you should lie,” said Mma Ramotswe quietly. “All I’m saying is that it’s unwise to talk to men about feminism. It makes them run away. I have seen it many times before.” She hoped that the engagement would not be threatened by this. Mma Makutsi deserved to find a good husband, especially as she had not had much luck before. Although Mma Makutsi never talked about it, Mma Ramotswe knew that there had been somebody else in Mma Makutsi’s life—for a very brief time—and that she had actually married him. But he had died, very suddenly, and she had been left alone again.
    Mma Makutsi swallowed hard. Phuti Radiphuti had seemed unnaturally quiet that evening after their conversation. If what Mma Ramotswe said was right, then her ill-considered remarks might prompt him to run away from her, to end their engagement. The thought brought a cold hand to her chest. She would never get another man; she would never find another fiancé like Phuti Radiphuti. She would be destined to spend the rest of her days as an assistant detective, scraping a living while other women found comfortably-off husbands to marry. She had been given a golden chance and she had squandered it through her own stupidity and thoughtlessness.
    She looked down at her shoes—her green shoes with the sky-blue linings. And the shoes looked back up at her.
You’ve done it, Boss
, said the shoes.
Don’t expect us to carry you all around town looking for another man. You had one and now you don’t. Bad luck, Boss. Bad luck.
    Mma Makutsi stared at the shoes. It was typical of shoes to be so uncaring. They never made any constructive suggestions. They just censured you, crowed at you, rubbed it in; revenge, perhaps, for all the indignities to which they themselves were subjected. Dust. Neglect. Cracking leather. Oblivion.
    Â 
    THEY WERE SILENT as they left Gaborone, with the brooding shape of Kgale Hill to their right, and the road stretching out, undulating, to their front. Mma Ramotswe was silent because she was looking at the shape of the hills and remembering how, all those years ago, she had travelled this road on the way to stay with her cousin, who had been so good to her. And there had been unhappy journeys too, or journeys that had been happy and had become unhappy later on their being remembered. Those were the trips she had made, down this very road, with her former husband, Note Mokoti. Note used to play his trumpet in hotels down in Lobatse, and Mma Ramotswe had accompanied him on these engagements, her heart bursting with pride that she was the wife of this popular and talented man. She had accompanied him until she had realised that he did not want her to come with him. And the reason for that was that he had wanted to pick up women after the concerts, and he could not do that with his young wife there. She remembered this, and thought about it, and tried to put it from her mind; but the unhappy past has a way of asserting itself and sometimes it is best just to let such thoughts run their