The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (13) by Alexander McCall Smith Page A
Authors: Alexander McCall Smith
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was now Mrs. Phuti Radiphuti, and it was about time that people started making tea for her.
Time for tea, Mma Ramotswe
.
Would you mind putting the kettle on?
It was a delicious, delicious thought, but not one to be expressed just yet.
THEY TALKED FOR almost an hour, well into the lunch break. Most of the talking was done by Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi, with Clovis Andersen making only the occasional intervention, nodding in agreement at some points, expressing surprise at others. From time to time Mma Makutsi picked up the copy of
The Principles of Private Detection
and read out a sentence to illustrate a point; Clovis Andersen, although he seemed flattered at these references to his work, was also reticent, making self-effacing gestures as if it embarrassed him to be considered an authority. Mma Ramotswe told him of the times they had relied on his advice and how his pithy comments had proved to be exactly the guidance needed, and Mma Makutsi added to this with examples of her own.
“You ladies are very kind,” Clovis Andersen muttered. “I had no idea that my rather ordinary thoughts on investigation should be taken so seriously. I never imagined …”
“We are not kind,” Mma Makutsi protested. “You are the kind one, Rra, to have given us all this … all this …”
“Inspiration,” prompted Mma Ramotswe.
“Exactly,” said Mma Makutsi.
Clovis Andersen looked down at the floor. He did not say anything. From the garage on the other side of the wall there drifted the sound of metal on metal; something being knocked into place, or loosened; the clanging of a spanner allowed to fall to the floor; the nagging whine of a reluctant starter motor.
“They are busy through there,” commented Mma Ramotswe.
Clovis Andersen said nothing.
Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mma Makutsi, and then back at Clovis Andersen. “Is there something wrong, Rra?”
He looked up. His hands were folded in his lap; large, chapped hands, the skin made angry and reddened by exposure to the sun. He moved his head almost imperceptibly. A nod.
CHAPTER FIVE
I AM YOUR FRIEND, AND I AM ASKING
T HAT EVENING , Fanwell left the garage at his usual time, which was five minutes past five. Work ended officially at five o’clock, and Fanwell, being conscientious, insisted on working until the very last moment; Charlie, by contrast, took the view that an eight-to-five day entitled him to leave the building at five o’clock exactly. This meant that work itself should stop a good fifteen minutes earlier, to give him time to put tools away, wash his hands, and spend a vital few moments in front of the mirror in the washroom. Charlie had installed that mirror himself, after the denial of his request that one be provided. “That is a washroom for the use of men,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “It is a place to wash your hands and attend to other necessary matters. It is not a grooming parlour or a beauty salon. Men do not need mirrors, Charlie.”
Charlie had shaken his head. “Oh, Boss, that is a very old-fashioned thing to say. I do not expect to hear that sort of thing in this modern Botswana.”
The effect of this remark was to cause entirely understandable irritation. “What is this nonsense?” asked Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, his voice rising slightly. He was the most temperate ofmen, but there were occasions when Charlie tested even him. “Men do not need mirrors. Most men know what they look like. I do not need to look into a piece of shiny glass and say, ‘Oh, look, there’s Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.’ What other use is there for a mirror?”
Charlie grinned. “These days there are new men, Boss. They are more like their sisters.” As he spoke, he watched Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, assessing his reaction. “Boys and girls, Rra—they are all the same today.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was unmoved. “If you think that, Charlie, you’re in for a big surprise.”
“Hah!” said Fanwell, who had been following this exchange with
Time for tea, Mma Ramotswe
.
Would you mind putting the kettle on?
It was a delicious, delicious thought, but not one to be expressed just yet.
THEY TALKED FOR almost an hour, well into the lunch break. Most of the talking was done by Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi, with Clovis Andersen making only the occasional intervention, nodding in agreement at some points, expressing surprise at others. From time to time Mma Makutsi picked up the copy of
The Principles of Private Detection
and read out a sentence to illustrate a point; Clovis Andersen, although he seemed flattered at these references to his work, was also reticent, making self-effacing gestures as if it embarrassed him to be considered an authority. Mma Ramotswe told him of the times they had relied on his advice and how his pithy comments had proved to be exactly the guidance needed, and Mma Makutsi added to this with examples of her own.
“You ladies are very kind,” Clovis Andersen muttered. “I had no idea that my rather ordinary thoughts on investigation should be taken so seriously. I never imagined …”
“We are not kind,” Mma Makutsi protested. “You are the kind one, Rra, to have given us all this … all this …”
“Inspiration,” prompted Mma Ramotswe.
“Exactly,” said Mma Makutsi.
Clovis Andersen looked down at the floor. He did not say anything. From the garage on the other side of the wall there drifted the sound of metal on metal; something being knocked into place, or loosened; the clanging of a spanner allowed to fall to the floor; the nagging whine of a reluctant starter motor.
“They are busy through there,” commented Mma Ramotswe.
Clovis Andersen said nothing.
Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mma Makutsi, and then back at Clovis Andersen. “Is there something wrong, Rra?”
He looked up. His hands were folded in his lap; large, chapped hands, the skin made angry and reddened by exposure to the sun. He moved his head almost imperceptibly. A nod.
CHAPTER FIVE
I AM YOUR FRIEND, AND I AM ASKING
T HAT EVENING , Fanwell left the garage at his usual time, which was five minutes past five. Work ended officially at five o’clock, and Fanwell, being conscientious, insisted on working until the very last moment; Charlie, by contrast, took the view that an eight-to-five day entitled him to leave the building at five o’clock exactly. This meant that work itself should stop a good fifteen minutes earlier, to give him time to put tools away, wash his hands, and spend a vital few moments in front of the mirror in the washroom. Charlie had installed that mirror himself, after the denial of his request that one be provided. “That is a washroom for the use of men,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “It is a place to wash your hands and attend to other necessary matters. It is not a grooming parlour or a beauty salon. Men do not need mirrors, Charlie.”
Charlie had shaken his head. “Oh, Boss, that is a very old-fashioned thing to say. I do not expect to hear that sort of thing in this modern Botswana.”
The effect of this remark was to cause entirely understandable irritation. “What is this nonsense?” asked Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, his voice rising slightly. He was the most temperate ofmen, but there were occasions when Charlie tested even him. “Men do not need mirrors. Most men know what they look like. I do not need to look into a piece of shiny glass and say, ‘Oh, look, there’s Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.’ What other use is there for a mirror?”
Charlie grinned. “These days there are new men, Boss. They are more like their sisters.” As he spoke, he watched Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, assessing his reaction. “Boys and girls, Rra—they are all the same today.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was unmoved. “If you think that, Charlie, you’re in for a big surprise.”
“Hah!” said Fanwell, who had been following this exchange with
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