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

gate with my van. I shall pay for it to be fixed.”
    Miss Rose turned to face her. “No, Mma, it cannot be your fault. These electric gates are dangerous. They are always opening and closing according to some strange programme of their own.” She paused. “And anyway, if it is anybody’s fault, it is mine. I am the one who operated the switch for the gate to open when I saw your van coming. I must have pushed it the wrong way when you were halfway through.”
    Mma Ramotswe held up her hands. “I’m sure it was not you …”
    â€œNo, it probably was,” said Mma Makutsi.
    Mma Ramotswe gasped. “No, Mma, we must not blame Miss Rose.”
    â€œBut she said it was her fault,” said Mma Makutsi.
    â€œYes, I did,” said Miss Rose, throwing Mma Makutsi a sideways glance. “But let’s not waste our time talking about milk that has already been spilt.”
    â€œNor crying over it,” said Mma Makutsi. “You cry over spilt milk, I think.”
    â€œI know that, Mma,” muttered Miss Rose. “It is a figure of speech, I believe. I know about those things.”
    As they were led down a corridor into a large living room at the side of the house, Mma Ramotswe whispered to Mma Makutsi, “Please try to be tactful, Mma. Have a little tact.”
    She could feel Mma Makutsi bristling. “It was her fault that the gate closed as we were going through, Mma Ramotswe. You heard her. She said it, not me.”
    â€œI know, I know. But the point is, Mma, that she is the
client.
Remember what Clovis Andersen said about the client. You never argue with the client.”
    They had reached the end of the corridor and perforce the end, too, of their whispered conversation. The room into which they now went was large and formal, decorated in a somewhat heavy style witha great deal of gilt, fringes, and tassels. On the wall there were pictures of idealised landscapes and buildings: Himalayas, Rajasthan, the Taj Mahal by moonlight.
    â€œThis is very beautiful,” said Mma Ramotswe.
    â€œYes,” said Miss Rose. “It is very fine.” She had become businesslike. “If you ladies sit down, I’ll fetch her.”
    â€œBefore you do,” said Mma Ramotswe, “can you tell me what you call this lady? You said that she could not remember her name.”
    Miss Rose smiled. “We call her Mrs. Just Mrs. That is the best thing. That is what she’ll expect you to call her.”
    Mma Makutsi opened her mouth to say something, but was silenced by a look from Mma Ramotswe. When Miss Rose left the room, though, she leaned across to Mma Ramotswe and said in a loud whisper, “But you cannot call somebody Mrs.! Mrs. is not quite the same as Mma, is it? Mrs. needs to be Mrs. Something, not just Mrs.… Mrs. Air!”
    â€œHush,” said Mma Ramotswe. She wanted to tell Mma Makutsi that this was a delicate enquiry—Mrs., after all, had no memory and was presumably in a distressed state—and their questioning would have to be very careful. She searched her own memory for any relevant passage from Clovis Andersen that she could quote to Mma Makutsi, but could think only of the advice he gave not to bully people when questioning them.
The person to whom you are talking will always be readier to help if you are polite and friendly
, he wrote.
Never shine a light in somebody’s face. No third degree.
He was right, of course, but she decided that now was not the time to discuss techniques with Mma Makutsi, and anyway, there were footsteps in the corridor outside.
    â€œThis is Mrs.,” announced Miss Rose.
    Mma Ramotswe rose to her feet and shook hands with the woman who had accompanied Miss Rose into the room. She saw a well-dressed Indian woman of about forty, perhaps slightly less, with what Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni would have described as a “pleasingface.” A pleasing face was not necessarily beautiful in the