In the Company of Cheerful Ladies

by Alexander McCall Smith

  She turned away with a heavy heart and began to trudge up the track. She was closer to the main road than she had thought and in less than fifteen minutes she was at the junction. The road to Lobatse was relatively busy, and it was not long before a set of headlights swung into view over the brow of the hill. She watched as a truck sped by, the wind from its passing brushing against her face. That had been going in the wrong direction, down towards Lobatse, but there would be vehicles going the other way. She began to walk.

  It was easy walking along the road, along the well-used tar. This was a properly maintained road, with a smooth surface, and walking along it one might make good progress. But it still felt strange to her to be so utterly isolated in the night, with darkness stretching out on either side of the road. How far away, she wondered, was the nearest creature that might wish to eat her? There were no lions this close to Gaborone, but if one went forty miles to the east, then that might be different. And what would happen if a lion decided to wander? Forty miles for a lion was nothing, and after having covered forty miles a lion might be hungry and in just the right mood to find a traditionally built meal …

  It did not help to think about lions, and so Mma Ramotswe moved on to something different. She began to think, for some reason, of Mr Polopetsi, and of how well he had fitted into his new job at the garage. She had not discussed the situation with Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, but she was going to propose to him that their new employee be taken on permanently and be trained for the job. There was simply too much work to be handled at the garage, and she was beginning to get concerned over how much Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had to do. The apprentices had always been a worry for him, and when they finished their apprenticeship—if they ever did—then he should encourage them to go elsewhere. That would leave him without an assistant, unless Mr Polopetsi stayed. And there was another reason why he was so suitable. Mma Makutsi had already used him for some secretarial work and had spoken highly of his abilities. He could be attached to the detective agency in some vague, unspecified capacity. Yes, he was certainly the best choice, and it had been a happy accident when she had made him fall off his bicycle. Life was full of these happy accidents, if one came to think of it. Had she not taken her tiny white van to Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors—and she could quite easily have gone to another garage—then she would not have met Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and she would never then have found herself marrying him. And had Mma Makutsi not been looking for a job just at the time that she was setting up the No.1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, then she would never have got to know her and Mma Makutsi would never have become an assistant private detective. That was a fortunate coincidence, and for a few minutes she thought of what might have happened had she employed one of those useless secretaries about whom Mma Makutsi had told her, one of those girls who got barely fifty per cent in the final examinations of the Botswana Secretarial College. That hardly bore thinking about.

  This train of thought, speculative though it was, might have sustained her for a good part of her walk, but it was interrupted by the sound of a vehicle approaching from behind her and by the sudden appearance of lights. Mma Ramotswe stopped where she was and stood in such a position that the driver of the vehicle would see her face-on.

  The car came up quickly, and Mma Ramotswe took a step backwards as the lights came towards her. But she still waved her arm up and down, in the recognised way of one pleading for a lift. The car shot past, which was just what she had feared it would do. But then, once it had gone past her, and she had turned round in disappointment, its rear lights glowed red and it drew to a halt. Mma Ramotswe, hardly believing her good fortune, ran up to the side of the vehicle.

  A man looked out at her from the driver’s window, a face in the darkness that she could not see.

  “Where are you going, Mma?”

  “I am going into town, Rra,” she said. “My van has broken down back there.”

  “You can get in the back. We are going that way.”

  She opened the door gratefully and slipped into the back seat. She saw now that there was another person in the car, a woman, who turned to her and greeted her. Mma Ramotswe could just make out the face, which seemed vaguely familiar even if she could not say who it was.

  “It is very bad when your car breaks down,” said the woman. “That would have been a long walk back into town.”

  “It would,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I used to be able to walk for long distances, years ago, before I had a van. But now …”

  “It is easy to forget how to walk,” the woman agreed. “Children used to walk ten miles to school. Remember that?”

  “Some children still do,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  They continued the conversation for a while, agreeing with one another on a variety of subjects. Now the lights of Gaborone were visible in the distance, a glow that lit up the sky, even at that late hour. Soon they would be home.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  MMA RAMOTSWE, MR J.L.B. MATEKONI, AND MR POLOPETSI GET AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE

  M R J.L.B. MATEKONI was sound asleep by the time that Mma Ramotswe arrived home from her visit to the Mokoti house. When he awoke the next morning, Mma Ramotswe was already out of bed and walking in the garden, nursing a cup of bush tea in her hands. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni got up, washed and dressed, and went out to find her standing sunk in thought in front of the mopipi tree.

  “It is a fine morning again,” he said, as he walked up to her.

  She turned to him and smiled. “I am always happiest in the early morning,” she said. “Standing here in the garden watching the plants wake up. It is very good.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni agreed. He found it difficult to get out of bed quite as early as she did, but he knew that the first few hours of light was the best part of the day, a time of freshness and optimism. He particularly liked it when he was in at the garage early enough to feel the first rays of the sun on the back of his neck as he worked on an engine. That was perfection itself—a state of bliss for a mechanic—to be warm (but not too warm) and comfortable while he worked on a challenging engine. Of course it depended to a great extent on the engine. There were some engines that made one despair—engines with inaccessible corners and parts that were difficult to reorder—but an engine that was co-operative was a delight to work on.

  Mma Ramotswe’s tiny white van was a case in point. He had spent a great deal of time on that van and felt that he knew it quite well now. Its engine was not a difficult one to deal with, as all the essential parts could be got at without too much trouble, but it could not be kept going forever and he was not sure whether Mma Ramotswe understood that. He had the same problem with Mma Potokwane and the old minibus that she used to transport the orphans. It was a miracle that that vehicle was still going—or rather it was down to the constant nursing by Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. Sooner or later, though, one had to face reality with an old vehicle and accept that it had come to the end of its life. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni understood the attachment that people developed to a car or a truck, but sentiment had got to be kept in its place. If we are prepared to throw away old clothes, then why not throw away old vehicles once they had had their day? He had noted that Mma Ramotswe had been ready to throw out his clothes, and it was only after a spirited defence on his part that he had succeeded in keeping some of the jackets and trousers which had served him well and which—in his opinion at least—still had a great deal to offer. But his opposition had not prevented her from getting rid of several pairs of trousers (which still had a lot of wear in them and which had only one or two patches), a favourite pair of old brown veldschoens, and a jacket which he had bought at OK Bazaars over the border in Mafikeng with his first pay cheque as a qualified mechanic. He had wanted to ask her how she would feel if he had gone through her wardrobe and thrown out some of her dresses, but he had refrained from doing so. It was an entirely hypothetical question anyway; it would never have occurred to him to do such a thing. And he readily admitted that he knew nothing about women’s clothing, as most men
would have to admit; and yet women always claimed to know what clothes were right for a man. There was some injustice here, thought Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, although he was not quite sure how one might pursue the point.

  Standing beside Mma Ramotswe, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni took a lungful of the early morning air.

  “And how did it go?” he asked, as he breathed out. “Did you find him?”

  “He was not there,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I spoke to his mother and that was useful. I learned something important.”

  “And what was this important thing?” asked Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply again.

  Mma Ramotswe did not answer his question. She should not have said anything about it, she realised, even if she wanted to share the overwhelming sense of relief that the visit had brought her.

  “Well?” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, opening his eyes and looking around the yard. “The important thing. Why is it …” He stopped. Then, frowning, asked, “Where is the white van?”

  Mma Ramotswe sighed. “It broke down on the way back. It is sitting out over there.” She waved a hand in the general direction of the south, the direction of Lobatse, the Cape, and the oceans to the south of the Cape. “It is down there.”

  “Broke down?” asked Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sharply. “What happened?”

  Mma Ramotswe told him of how the engine had suddenly lost power and then stopped. She told him that there had been no warning, but that it had all happened rather quickly, just before she reached the main road. Then she mentioned the oil and her suspicions that it had something to do with the cracking of the sump on a rock.

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni grimaced. “You are probably right,” he said reproachfully. “Those rocks can do a lot of damage. You really shouldn’t take a small van like that on those roads. They’re not built for that sort of work.”

  Mma Ramotswe took the rebuke quietly. “And if the engine has seized? What then?”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni shook his head. “It is very bad news. You’ll need a new engine block. I don’t think it would be worth it.”

  “So I would need a new van?”

  “Yes, you would.”

  Mma Ramotswe thought for a moment. “I have had that van for a long time,” she said. “I am very fond of it. They do not make vans like that any more.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked at her and was suddenly filled with a great sense of pride. There were some women who would be only too eager to get hold of a new van or car and who would willingly scrap a faithful vehicle for the sake of something flashier and smarter. It made him feel proud to know that Mma Ramotswe was not like that. Such a woman would never want to trade in an old and useless husband for a newer, smarter man. That was very reassuring.

  “We’ll take a look at it,” he said. “You must never say that a van is finished until you’ve had a good look. We can go out in my truck and collect it. I’ll tow you back.”

  THERE WAS NOTHING very much happening at the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency that morning. Mma Makutsi was planning to go out, with a view to pursuing, without any real hope of success, the elusive Zambian financier, and with her correspondence up to date, there was little for Mma Ramotswe to do. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had a car to service, but it was an uncomplicated job and could safely be left to the remaining apprentice. As for Mr Polopetsi, he never liked to be idle, and would fill any spare minutes tidying the garage, sweeping the floor, or even polishing the cars of customers. On several occasions a client of the agency had come out of a meeting with Mma Ramotswe to discover that his car had been washed and waxed while he was consulting the agency. This was often very much appreciated, and was another point in favour of Mr Polopetsi.

  “Just imagine if everybody in Botswana was like that,” Mma Ramotswe had remarked to Mma Makutsi. “Imagine how successful this country would be. We would be so rich we wouldn’t know what to do.”

  “Can you ever be that rich?” asked Mma Makutsi. “Surely there is always something to spend your money on. More shoes, for example.”

  Mma Ramotswe had laughed. “You can only wear one pair of shoes at a time,” she said. “Rich people are like the rest of us—two feet, ten toes. We are all the same that way.”

  Mma Makutsi was not sure about this. One might not be able to wear more than one pair of shoes at a time, but that did not mean that one could not wear a different pair each day, or even one pair in the morning and another in the afternoon. Did rich people do that sort of thing, she wondered. She only had two pairs of shoes at the moment, although she was planning to acquire another pair before too long. She had her ordinary working shoes, which were brown and had been resoled and repaired rather more times than she would care to remember; and then there was her special pair of shoes, green on the outside and with sky-blue linings—the pair of shoes which she had bought with the first profits of the Kalahari Typing School for Men and of which she was so inordinately proud. She wore these shoes to work from time to time, but it seemed a pity to waste them on such mundane use and so she usually reserved them now for occasions such as the dancing class. What she needed now was to buy a smarter pair of shoes for use in the office, and she had in fact identified just such a pair in one of the stores. The shoes were red, and although they had no special coloured lining, they had two large gold ornamental buckles which gave them an air of authority which her other shoes did not have. These were bold shoes, and she would wear them when confronting difficult men, as she occasionally had to do. Men would be mesmerised by the buckles, and this would give her just the advantage that one needed when dealing with men like that.

  Although she was reluctant to raise the issue, Mma Makutsi had long been wanting to say something to Mma Ramotswe about the sort of shoes which the older woman wore. Mma Ramotswe was not a flashy dresser, preferring good, reliable skirts and loose blouses, but she nonetheless had a good eye for colour and always looked smart. But when it came to shoes, then it seemed that her dress sense let her down, as she was usually to be seen in a pair of rather shapeless brown shoes with bulges on both sides reflecting the shape of her toes. These shoes were in no sense elegant, and it seemed to Mma Makutsi that they should be replaced by something rather more in keeping with Mma Ramotswe’s position as Botswana’s senior lady private detective.

  Mma Ramotswe’s shoes had been touched upon in conversation once before, and the outcome had not been satisfactory. Mma Makutsi had mentioned that there was a shoe sale at one of the shops at the Game Centre, and that in her view there were bargains to be had.

  “Perhaps people who have been wearing the same shoes for a long time would be able to find something suitable there,” she remarked casually.

  Mma Ramotswe had looked at her. “You mean somebody like me?” she said.

  Mma Makutsi had laughed to cover her embarrassment. “No, I was not just thinking of you. But maybe you would like to get yourself some new shoes. You can afford them.”

  “But what’s wrong with the shoes I have?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “I have very wide feet. These are very wide shoes and they suit my feet. What would my feet say if I bought a thin pair of fashionable shoes? Surely they would think that something was wrong.”

  Mma Makutsi decided to stand her ground. “But you can get wide shoes which look very good,” she said. “They have something for everybody.”

  “I am very happy in these shoes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “They never give me any trouble.”

  “You might buy some for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, then,” suggested Mma Makutsi.

  “And what is wrong with Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s shoes?”

  Mma Makutsi was beginning to regret raising the subject. There was a great deal wrong with Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s shoes in her opinion. To begin with, they were covered in oil stains and she had seen the beginnings of a hole in the toe cap of one of them. Like Mma Ramotswe, he had a position in society as the proprietor of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, and shoes in good order were expected of such a person.

  When Mma Makutsi did not
provide an answer to her question, Mma Ramotswe went on to explain that new shoes would be wasted on Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “There is no point in buying men new shoes,” she said. “They are wasted on them. Men are not interested in shoes. That is very well known. If a man is always thinking about shoes, then there is something wrong with that man.”

  “And what do men think about?” asked Mma Makutsi. “If they cannot think about shoes, what can they think about?”

  Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow. “Men think about ladies a great deal of the time,” she said. “They think about ladies in a disrespectful way. That is because men are made that way, and there is nothing that can be done to change them. Then if they are not thinking about ladies, they are thinking about cattle and cars. And some men think a lot about football too. These are all things that men like to think about.”

  On that morning, though, the main topic of conversation was not shoes, nor the foibles of men, but the drama of the tiny white van. Mr Polopetsi had been dismayed to hear about the break-down of the van, to which he felt he owed a debt of gratitude as it was the van that had brought him into contact with Mma Ramotswe and given him his new job. When Mma Ramotswe said that she and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni would shortly be going to retrieve the van and tow it back into Gaborone, he asked whether he could accompany them. Mma Ramotswe agreed, and once Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had explained to the apprentice what needed to be done to the car which had been brought in for servicing, the three of them set off in the truck, leaving Mma Makutsi alone in the office.

  The morning had remained fine, and as they drove down past Kgale Hill the sun seemed to paint with gold the trees and rocks on the hillside. Above them the sky was quite empty, apart from a few soaring birds of prey, circling high in the currents of rising warm air; ahead of them the road was clear and straight, a ribbon of black making its way through the grey-green acacia scrub. It was a morning which made one happy to be alive, and to be in that place.