The House of Unexpected Sisters

by Alexander McCall Smith

  She had a final question for Sister Banjule. “What’s she like?” she asked. “Not as a nurse, but as a person: What’s she like?”

  Sister Banjule hesitated before replying. “As I told you, Mma, I don’t know her all that well. It’s hard to judge people if you don’t know them well.”

  Mma Ramotswe picked up the note of reservation. “You’re not sure about her, Mma?”

  “I didn’t say that. I said that I don’t know her all that well…” She faltered. “She’s different, Mma. She’s not the same as everybody else.”

  Mma Ramotswe stared at her. “How is she different, Mma?”

  Sister Banjule seemed embarrassed. “I don’t really know, Mma. I just don’t know.”

  Mma Ramotswe did not press her. She suspected, though, that Sister Banjule did know, and just didn’t care to reveal what she thought. She would not make it more embarrassing for her; she would not try to elicit information—if it was even that—from her; she would be satisfied with an address in Lobatse—that was all she needed at this stage.

  “I would like to meet this lady,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You said you could get me her address.”

  But now something seemed to come over Sister Banjule. She shifted her weight on her feet, awkwardly, as if she had thought of something. She did not reply immediately.

  Mma Ramotswe pressed her. “I would be grateful if you could, Mma. I can assure you I only want to meet her. There is nothing else.”

  Sister Banjule shook her head. “I don’t know, Mma. Yes, I said I could get her address, but if you don’t mind…” She now looked quite uncomfortable. “You see, these days people are so fussy about what you say. You tell somebody something and the next moment you have the Nursing Council shaking their fingers at you and saying, ‘You have no right to say this thing, or that thing…’ It is very difficult even to breathe these days—you have to do it in the right way or somebody will come and complain about you.”

  The absurdity broke the tension. “Don’t worry, Mma. I don’t want to embarrass you. I’ll go down to Lobatse…”

  Sister Banjule looked relieved. “I can tell you one thing, Mma. There’s a man at the hospital gate down there who knows everybody. He operates the barrier that lets cars in and out. He is one of those men who cannot stop talking—all the time, talk, talk, talk.” She paused to imitate with her hand an overactive jaw. “Men say that some women talk too much, but they haven’t met this man. He makes up for all the silent men in Botswana.” Again she paused, this time to give an impression of a strong, silent look. “We know those men, don’t we, Mma? Those men who think they can melt your heart just by looking at you like this.”

  Mma Ramotswe laughed. “Yes, all women know those men. The men think that women will think, Here is a man who is thinking deep, strong thoughts, but in fact, Mma, those men are not really thinking about anything at all.”

  Sister Banjule agreed. “I like men to say something from time to time,” she said. “But not all the time like this man down in Lobatse. Anyway, Mma, if you speak to him, he will tell you where this Mingie Ramotswe lives; if she has a car, what make it is; where she goes to church; whether she has children, and so on. Everything, Mma.”

  “He sounds like a gossip,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  “That is an unkind word,” Sister Banjule said, “but sometimes unkind words are the only ones we can use. Yes, he’s a gossip, Mma—one of the biggest gossips in Botswana. Champion Gossip. No. 1 Gossip, like your No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency—the best in Botswana.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS FILING?

  CHARLIE DROVE Mma Makutsi and Mr. Polopetsi to The Office Place. Mma Makutsi knew how to drive, and had taken over a car that had previously belonged to Phuti’s Double Comfort Furniture Store, but she preferred to be driven. As for Mr. Polopetsi, he was in possession of a driving licence, but usually left any driving to his wife, who was the more decisive member of the partnership and, unlike her husband, would not wait timidly and for far longer than necessary at any intersection until all possible traffic had passed by.

  Four-way stops, where drivers took it in turn to proceed, were a special challenge for Mr. Polopetsi. By and large the system worked, with every driver taking it in turns to go through the intersection, depending on who arrived first at the stop sign. But when Mr. Polopetsi drew up, he would then, out of overabundant caution, yield to everybody—even those who arrived after him—thus causing uncertainty and confusion for all the other drivers. Having seen this once or twice, Mma Makutsi had decided that she would no longer drive with Mr. Polopetsi.

  Charlie, of course, was a different sort of driver altogether. He had to be reminded that nobody was in a hurry, that there were other drivers on the road, and that if he took any more corners at speed Mma Makutsi would report him to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.

  “It is better to be late than the late,” Mma Makutsi said to Charlie as they set off that morning. “Remember that, Charlie.”

  “That is very funny, Mma,” said Charlie, smiling. “The late rather than late. That is a very funny thing. You’re very clever, Mma.”

  “I didn’t say I made it up,” said Mma Makutsi. “But you just remember that. We’re in no hurry to get to this office furniture place; so no speeding, Charlie.”

  “Are you buying a new filing cabinet, Mma?” asked Charlie. “Is that why we’re going to this place?”

  “We are not,” said Mma Makutsi. “There is nothing wrong with the filing cabinets we have. They may be old, but they work very well.”

  Charlie grinned. “File, file, file,” he said. “Why are you always filing, Mma Makutsi?”

  “Because I believe in tidiness, Charlie,” Mma Makutsi answered. “Unlike some people.”

  Mr. Polopetsi had been silent until then. Now he said, “That is so, Charlie. Mma Makutsi is very good at office procedures. She has a reputation for that.”

  Mma Makutsi appreciated the compliment. “Thank you, Rra. Now we must set off.”

  “But why are we going?” asked Charlie. “If it’s nothing to do with filing cabinets, then why are we going to this office place, or whatever it calls itself?”

  Mr. Polopetsi took it upon himself to answer. “It’s an enquiry, Charlie—an active enquiry.”

  “About?”

  Although Mma Makutsi had harboured her misgivings about Charlie’s part-time employment in the agency, she recognised that she had some responsibility for training the young man, and so, as they set off, she laid out the bare facts of the case. Charlie listened intently as he drove. Then, when Mma Makutsi had finished, he laughed.

  “Simple,” he said. “This is a very simple case.”

  Mma Makutsi gave him a sideways look. “No case is simple, Charlie. That’s something you should learn. No case is simple—that’s right, isn’t it, Mr. Polopetsi?”

  From the back of the car, Mr. Polopetsi voiced his agreement. “Nothing is simple in this life, Charlie. If you think something’s simple, then you haven’t looked at it properly.”

  Charlie was not deterred. “This case is. Would you like me to tell you what’s going on here?”

  Mma Makutsi gave an irritated snort. “Your trouble is you didn’t listen. Mr. Polopetsi has just told you: nothing is simple. You think you know better than Mr. Polopetsi? He’s a chemistry teacher. You think you know better than him?”

  “I’m not saying that,” replied Charlie. “All I’m saying, Mma, is that this case is simple. The answer is sticking out five miles. Anybody can see it.”

  “Well, if you’re so smart,” said Mma Makutsi, “you tell us what’s really going on.”

  They speeded up to pass a slower car. Charlie waved to the other driver as they shot past.

  “You know that person, Charlie?” asked Mma Makutsi.

  “Know her, Mma? No, I don’t know her. But she’s a girl, you see, and I always wave to girls as I go past.”

  Mma Makutsi made a disapproving sound.

  “It’
s just a question of manners,” Charlie continued. “But you wanted me to give you the answer to this case of yours? Well, here’s what I think. If somebody has been fired for no reason at all, then one thing you can say for definite is: the boss didn’t do it because he didn’t like the person he fired. That’s definite.”

  Mma Makutsi looked scornful. “Oh yes? And how do you work that great theory out?”

  “Because if a boss doesn’t like somebody, he’ll make up a good reason to do what he really wants to do because he doesn’t like the person.”

  “But that’s exactly what we have here,” Mma Makutsi pointed out. “This lady was fired because she was said to have been rude to a customer.”

  “Hah!” exclaimed Charlie. “And is that meant to be a good reason? I said good reason, Mma. You don’t fire somebody just because they’ve been rude once. You make up something really bad—probably something dishonest—like stealing. That’s what you’d make up first. You’d put something in her locker and then announce that everything’s going to be searched. And what do you find? You find some company property in the person’s locker.”

  There was silence while this was digested. It was difficult to refute the logic of what Charlie had said, but Mma Makutsi would not admit that just yet.

  “So if he didn’t fire her because he disliked her,” she said, “then why? Do you have some big theory about that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

  The irony was lost on Charlie. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Mma? I like that. That’s kind.”

  “Well?”

  Charlie thought for a moment. “The real reason is very obvious, Mma. The boss fired this lady to give her job to somebody else.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “Yes. And why would he want to give her job to another lady? Because that other lady will be his girlfriend, Mma—that’s why.”

  From the back Mr. Polopetsi made a contribution. “That’s perfectly possible, I suppose.”

  Mma Makutsi, though, would not concede that easily. “How do you know that?”

  Charlie laughed. “Because that’s what I’d do if I were him. He’s a man—I’m a man. I know what a man would do.”

  Mma Makutsi looked out of the car window. Her lips were tight in disapproval. She turned back to face Charlie. “Not everybody’s like you, Charlie,” she said.

  “No, not everybody,” said Charlie brightly. “But most men are, aren’t they, Mr. Polopetsi?”

  Mr. Polopetsi said nothing. He was not like Charlie—he knew that—but part of him wished that he were perhaps just a little bit like Charlie. Women looked at Charlie—he had noticed that on so many occasions—and yet they had never looked at him, even when he was a young man; they had looked past him, or had glanced at him and then looked away again as if the first glance had been a mistake, which he thought it probably had been. Not that it mattered too much now: he had a kind wife who had a very good government job and he had a house with new furniture, purchased on his wife’s salary, and a car that went with his wife’s job. All of that was far more important than being noticed by women, and yet, and yet…

  They were nearing their destination. Outside The Office Place there was a large car park. “Go in there,” said Mma Makutsi curtly. “And I’m sorry, but you can’t come in, Charlie. This is a very delicate investigation. You must wait outside, please.”

  Charlie shrugged. “I’m only trying to be helpful, Mma Makutsi. But you know best, Mma—you know best.”

  —

  THE OFFICE PLACE occupied a large, square building of the sort constructed by builders whose aim is pure functionality. If there were windows, there was no evidence of them on the building’s façade. That was dominated by a large door surmounted by a sign that said WAY IN. Above that, in large red lettering, was another sign proclaiming that ALL YOUR OFFICE NEEDS could be met within.

  “This is a very ugly building,” sniffed Mma Makutsi as she and Mr. Polopetsi approached the front door. “The Double Comfort Furniture Store has flowers at the front. Phuti is very particular about that sort of thing. He says that the Garden of Eden had no concrete in it.”

  Mr. Polopetsi frowned. “There were no buildings in the Garden of Eden, Mma. There are no references to buildings of any sort.”

  Mma Makutsi adjusted her spectacles. “I know that, Mr. Polopetsi. That’s the point that Phuti was making.”

  They went in. Stretching out before them was a large sales floor on which office furniture—desks, tables, chairs—was displayed in bewildering profusion. Against the walls on every side were shelves carrying smaller items, including computers and screens, printers, and all the paraphernalia of the modern office. For all her scepticism, Mma Makutsi caught her breath in admiration, and then she saw the filing cabinet section, and she gasped.

  “Look,” she whispered to Mr. Polopetsi, lowering her voice as one might on entering a cathedral. “Look at those filing cabinets, Rra.”

  Mr. Polopetsi followed her gaze. He remarked that with filing cabinets like that, one would never want for space.

  “And ease of access,” said Mma Makutsi. “That is the trouble with older filing cabinets: you have to pull hard on the drawers. I’ve even worked with one that needed to be kicked to open.”

  As she spoke, she reflected on how far the secretarial profession had come since that luminous day when she had first enrolled in the Botswana Secretarial College and seen her first filing cabinet. Such was human progress; and to think that they were even talking now about filing papers in something called the Cloud. She was not sure how good an idea that would be in a country like Botswana, where the skies were always clear and empty, but that did not seem to be too much of an issue. She did not think, though, that there would ever be any substitute for a proper filing cabinet with its hanging drawers and its clear alphabetical layout. That was what she had learned on, and that was where she felt most comfortable.

  Mma Makutsi looked about her. There was an office at the far end of the sales floor, and she could see through a glass partition that there was somebody in it, sitting at a desk and talking on the telephone. Now, a woman appeared from this office, and then another emerged from a door to its side.

  “You go over there,” Mma Makutsi said to Mr. Polopetsi. “Go over to the desk section. I’ll go and look at chairs.”

  They went their separate ways, and each made an elaborate show of inspecting a desk and a chair. One assistant approached Mma Makutsi and another Mr. Polopetsi. The woman who went to Mma Makutsi greeted her politely and enquired whether there was anything in particular she was looking for.

  “I’m interested in chairs,” said Mma Makutsi. “My desk is a bit high, you see, and the chair I have is too low.”

  The assistant, a neat-looking woman in her late forties, nodded. Mma Makutsi noticed her dress, which was made of a cloth popular with women in Botswana—a cotton print in brown and ochre. There was a reassuring air of respectability about this woman: she could easily have been a Sunday-school teacher or a senior social worker. Mma Makutsi liked her immediately, and decided to introduce herself.

  “I’m Grace Makutsi,” she said. “I’m a director of a…firm.” She almost revealed her association with the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, but decided not to, remembering Clovis Andersen’s advice: Say who you are, but not exactly who you are.

  “My name is Flora Mbeli,” said the woman. “Please call me Flora, Mma.”

  “And you must call me Grace,” Mma Makutsi responded.

  Flora smiled. Her manner was friendly, but not unctuous. “May I ask where you work, Mma?”

  Mma Makutsi waved a hand vaguely in an easterly direction. It was an expansive gesture that could have included Johannesburg, Maputo, and even Hong Kong, but was limited by her adding, “Over on the Tlokweng Road.”

  Flora did not enquire further. “There is nothing worse than a chair that’s too low, Mma. You see, your arms have to reach up and that strains the muscles down your side. It also means your neck is at the wrong angle, and th
at can be very uncomfortable.”

  Mma Makutsi said that it was important to be comfortable at work. “Good working conditions are vital, Mma,” she said. She looked at Flora before continuing, “If staff are happy, then the business is happy. That is a very important rule in any business.”

  Flora nodded. “That’s very true, Mma—very true.” There was a certain wistfulness in her voice that was exactly what Mma Makutsi wanted to hear.

  “You sound a bit sad, Mma,” she said.

  “No, I’m not sad, Mma. I was just thinking about how true your comment was.”

  Mma Makutsi waited, but it was clear that if the conversation were to progress along these lines, she would have to guide it where she wanted it to go. Looking about her, she said, as casually as she could, “I should imagine this is a good place to work, Mma. It looks…” She searched for the right word. “It looks like a contented company.”

  Flora did not respond.

  “It looks as if people are happy working here,” Mma Makutsi persisted, trying to make her comment sound casual and inconsequential.

  This time Flora rose to the bait. “They used to be,” she said. “I’m not so sure about now.”

  Mma Makutsi waited a moment before she said anything. Clovis Andersen had taught her this. Don’t ask one question after another—bang, bang, bang. People don’t like to be subjected to a barrage of questions. There would be no barrage now, just a general remark and then a gentle probing—so gentle, she hoped, that Flora would not suspect an ulterior motive.

  “A happy workplace is really important,” said Mma Makutsi. And then, on the tailcoat of this observation, “So what changed things, Mma?”

  Flora hesitated. Glancing over her shoulder, she dropped her voice. “When I first came here, Mma, about eleven years ago, it was just after they had opened this place. I was the only person doing sales then, so it was just Mr. Gopolang…”

  “He’s the owner?”

  “Yes—or, rather, he owns it jointly with his brother. But the brother is…what do you call such a person…”