The Handsome Man's Deluxe Cafe by Alexander McCall Smith Page A

and put a reassuring hand on her arm. “The important thing, Mma, is that we are all right.”
    â€œBut the gate is not,” said Mma Ramotswe miserably. “And my van will have a big dent, Mma. I can hardly bear to look.”
    â€œI will look, then,” said Mma Makutsi, opening her door.
    She stepped outside and made her way round to the front of the van. Mma Ramotswe watched as Mma Makutsi stooped to inspect the damage. She saw her shake her head and then look up with a grave expression. The large glasses had slipped down her nose as she bent down; she pushed them back into position.
    â€œThere is a big dent, Mma,” she said. “But there is no damage to the lights. They will fix this very easily.”
    Mma Ramotswe sighed. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was understanding, but she knew his views on her van, which he thought should have been retired a long time ago. He would assess the damage and then suggest that rather than fix it he should get her a new van. They had been through that before—on more than one occasion—and she had always resisted the suggestion. Eventually he had taken matters into his own hands and bought her a replacement van, but she had never taken to it and eventually she had got her old van back. She did not want to go through all that again.
    â€œAnd the gate, Mma?” she asked through the window.
    The gate had recoiled a few inches after the impact and seemed now to be hanging slightly askew. Mma Makutsi gave it a tentative push, and from somewhere in the vicinity there came the strained, whirring sound of an electric motor engaging. Then it stopped.
    â€œThere is still room for us to go through,” Mma Ramotswe called out through the window. “Get back in and we can park the van. We’ll tell them about their gate.”
    â€œWould you like me to speak to them?” asked Mma Makutsi as she got back into the cab.
    â€œNo, I can tell them.”
    â€œI meant: Would you like me to say that I did it?”
    Mma Ramotswe frowned. “But I did it, Mma. I was the one who was driving.”
    â€œYes, but it might reflect better on the agency if I said I did. Then they won’t think that the person in charge is a lady who goes about hitting gates.”
    â€œBut I do,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I hit a gate up at Mochudi once. And Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni hit our own gate back at Zebra Drive. We have a bad record when it comes to gates, Mma.”
    They both laughed, but Mma Ramotswe had been given something to think about. If proof were needed of the loyalty of Mma Makutsi, and of her concern for the reputation of the business, then it had just been provided and convincingly so. It was loyalty—pure and simple loyalty—and that was something which she could never have learned at the Botswana Secretarial College, but which had to come from somewhere deep down inside.
    Having parked the van at the top of the drive, they got out and made their way onto a large shady verandah that ran the length of the front of the house. An elegant cluster of chairs occupied one end of this verandah, and behind them there was a long bar for the serving of food and drinks. The chairs were covered with what looked like zebra skin and there was a distinct air of opulence about the place. Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi exchanged glances.
    A door opened and Miss Rose appeared.
    â€œMma Ramotswe!” she exclaimed. “And Mma Maputi.”
    â€œMakutsi.” The correction was made in a tone of slight disapproval.
    â€œOf course—I’m sorry, Mma. I should know how annoying it is when people get your name wrong. If you’re called Chattopadhyay, you know all about that.”
    They were still standing on the verandah. As Miss Rose turned to lead them into the house, she stopped and stared down the drive. “The gate—” she began.
    Mma Ramotswe stopped her. “It is my fault, Mma, I am verysorry indeed. I seem to have hit the