Alexander Mccall Smith - Ladies' Detective Agency 05 by The Full Cupboard of Life Page A

they never would. Mma Makutsi knew this, of course, and she had once
rather mischievously called out Charlie’s name when he was underneath a
car. “Charlie,” she had cried, and there had followed a dull thump
as the unfortunate young man had sat up and hit his head on the sump of the
car. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had not really approved of this little joke, but he had
found it difficult not to smile when he caught her eye. “I was just
checking up that you were all right,” shouted Mma Makutsi. “Be
careful of your head down there. That brain needs to be looked after, you
know.”
    Mr J.L.B. Matekoni wriggled his way out from under the car
and stood up, dusting his trousers as he did so. As he had thought, it was the
butcher himself, a corpulent man with a thick neck, like the neck of a bull. It
was obvious to anyone, from the very first glance, that this was a wealthy man,
even if they did not know about the butchery and the plastering business, nor
indeed about this wonderful car with its silver badge.
    “I was
looking at your car, Rra,” he said. “I was underneath
it.”
    “So I see,” said the butcher. “I saw your
legs sticking out. When I saw that, I knew that there was somebody under my
car.”
    Mr J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. “You must be wondering
what I was doing, Rra.”
    The butcher nodded. “You are right.
That is what I was wondering.”
    “You see, I am a
mechanic,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I have always thought very
highly of this car. It is a very good car.”
    The butcher seemed to
relax. “Oh, I see, Rra. You are one who understands old cars like this. I
am happy for you to go back under and look.”
    Mr J.L.B. Matekoni
acknowledged the generosity of the offer. He would go back under the car, but
it would be more than out of mere curiosity. If he went back, it would be on a
mission of repair. He would have to tell the butcher of what he had seen.
    “There is oil, Rra,” he began. “Your car is leaking
oil.”
    The butcher lifted up a hand in a gesture of tiredness.
There was always oil. It was a risk with old cars. Oil; the smell of burning
rubber; mysterious rattles: old cars were like the bush at night—there
were always strange sounds and smells. He kept taking the car back to the
garage and getting them to fix this problem and that problem, and yet these
problems always recurred. And now here was another mechanic—one he did
not even know—who was talking about oil leaks.
    “I have had
trouble with oil,” he said. “There are always oil leaks and I
always have to put more oil in the front. Every time I make the journey up from
Lobatse, I have to put in more oil.”
    Mr J.L.B. Matekoni grimaced.
“That is bad, Rra. But you should not have to do it. If the person who
serviced this car made sure that the rubber seal on the rod that holds the oil
cylinder was in its proper place, then this sort of thing would not
happen.” He paused. “I could fix this for you. I could do it in ten
minutes.”
    The butcher looked at him. “I cannot bring the
car in to your garage now,” he said. “I have to talk to my brother
about our sister’s boy. He is a difficult boy, that one, and we have to
work something out. And anyway, I cannot be paying all sorts of mechanics to
look at this car. I have already paid a lot of money to the garage.”
    Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked down at his shoes. “I would not have
charged you, Rra. That is not why I offered.”
    For a few moments
there was silence. The butcher looked at Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and knew,
immediately, what sort of man he was dealing with. And he knew, too, that his
assumption that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni would want payment was a gross misreading of
the situation; for there were people in Botswana who still believed in the old
Botswana ways and who were prepared to do things for others just to help them
and not in prospect of some reward. This man, whom he had found lying
underneath his car, was such a man. And yet he had paid such a great deal