To the Land of Long Lost Friends: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (20) by Alexander McCall Smith Page A
Authors: Alexander McCall Smith
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the thirsty plants in their growing troughs, allocated cup by cup to ferns, to seedlings, to vegetables—to everything that people would want to buy for their garden plots. That nurturing of plants, that desire to cultivate, to sow and reap, lay at the heart of the culture, along with the deep-seated desire to tend cattle. This was what marked people out as being from this culture, from this place.
Ask anybody what their idea of heaven is, and the answer will reveal that person’s soul. Mma Ramotswe had always thought that, and if that question were to be put to her, she knew exactly how she would respond. Heaven, to her, was not unlike this place, this peaceful garden. There would be trees very much like these ones and there would be shade, not just when the sun was at a particular point in the sky, but all day. On the other side of the shade there would be warmth, and light, and the colours of the sun, and there would be land where cattle would graze, great herds of them, sleek and contented, beyond the reach of those trials that mar the life of cattle on earth, and try them so sorely: persistent flies, brittle, sparse grazing, depleted water troughs that sent cattle away unwatered and ready to die. There would be none of that in heaven—just greenery and concord between those who walked amidst the greenery, all acrimoniousness forgotten, all human arguments put away, seen for the pettiness that they were; all wrongs forgiven. She wanted it to be like that; she so wanted that, and part of her believed that it would be—the larger part, as it happened, while the smaller part told her that such things could not be and that people would always need them, if only to make up for the emptiness they would otherwise feel. She did not agree with that view, of course, because she could not see where it led you. To unhappiness, she suspected; to a feeling of horror at the grubbiness of it all; to a paralysis of will and intent that she had occasionally seen in others and that she would never want for herself. There were flowers, she said to herself; there were flowers that covered the land in the spring, tiny flowers that you might not notice unless you got down on your hands and knees and looked for them; and these flowers were in themselves a sign of the goodness that was still in the world, and in people’s hearts, no matter what was happening on the outside.
She stepped out of the van and made her way towards the cluster of buildings in the centre of the large gardens. One of these was the kitchen; it was surrounded by an awning of shade netting, its mesh calculated to provide protection from the sun while allowing some light to penetrate. Calviniah was at one of these tables, and waved to Mma Ramotswe when she saw her. A waitress with whom she had been in conversation stood behind her and drew up a chair for Mma Ramotswe as she approached.
“Here, Mma,” said the waitress. “This one is a strong chair.”
Mma Ramotswe thanked her, but gave her a sideways look at the same time. It was not polite, she thought, for a waitress to suggest to a customer that she might need a chair that was stronger than normal, just because she was traditionally built. That was rude, she began to say to herself, but then stopped. Was it really rude, or was it no more than caution? It was the duty, surely, of a waitress to warn of the weakness of the furniture and fittings when a generously sized person was about to put them under an excessive load. A failure to warn, in such cases, might even be culpable, particularly these days, when it seemed that we were all responsible for the safety of those around us. It was better to warn than to remain silent, although there were discreet and not-so-discreet ways of issuing a warning.
There had been several occasions when Mma Ramotswe’s traditional build had led to difficulty. Perhaps the most embarrassing of these had occurred when she had been visiting Mma Potokwane at the Orphan Farm and had
Ask anybody what their idea of heaven is, and the answer will reveal that person’s soul. Mma Ramotswe had always thought that, and if that question were to be put to her, she knew exactly how she would respond. Heaven, to her, was not unlike this place, this peaceful garden. There would be trees very much like these ones and there would be shade, not just when the sun was at a particular point in the sky, but all day. On the other side of the shade there would be warmth, and light, and the colours of the sun, and there would be land where cattle would graze, great herds of them, sleek and contented, beyond the reach of those trials that mar the life of cattle on earth, and try them so sorely: persistent flies, brittle, sparse grazing, depleted water troughs that sent cattle away unwatered and ready to die. There would be none of that in heaven—just greenery and concord between those who walked amidst the greenery, all acrimoniousness forgotten, all human arguments put away, seen for the pettiness that they were; all wrongs forgiven. She wanted it to be like that; she so wanted that, and part of her believed that it would be—the larger part, as it happened, while the smaller part told her that such things could not be and that people would always need them, if only to make up for the emptiness they would otherwise feel. She did not agree with that view, of course, because she could not see where it led you. To unhappiness, she suspected; to a feeling of horror at the grubbiness of it all; to a paralysis of will and intent that she had occasionally seen in others and that she would never want for herself. There were flowers, she said to herself; there were flowers that covered the land in the spring, tiny flowers that you might not notice unless you got down on your hands and knees and looked for them; and these flowers were in themselves a sign of the goodness that was still in the world, and in people’s hearts, no matter what was happening on the outside.
She stepped out of the van and made her way towards the cluster of buildings in the centre of the large gardens. One of these was the kitchen; it was surrounded by an awning of shade netting, its mesh calculated to provide protection from the sun while allowing some light to penetrate. Calviniah was at one of these tables, and waved to Mma Ramotswe when she saw her. A waitress with whom she had been in conversation stood behind her and drew up a chair for Mma Ramotswe as she approached.
“Here, Mma,” said the waitress. “This one is a strong chair.”
Mma Ramotswe thanked her, but gave her a sideways look at the same time. It was not polite, she thought, for a waitress to suggest to a customer that she might need a chair that was stronger than normal, just because she was traditionally built. That was rude, she began to say to herself, but then stopped. Was it really rude, or was it no more than caution? It was the duty, surely, of a waitress to warn of the weakness of the furniture and fittings when a generously sized person was about to put them under an excessive load. A failure to warn, in such cases, might even be culpable, particularly these days, when it seemed that we were all responsible for the safety of those around us. It was better to warn than to remain silent, although there were discreet and not-so-discreet ways of issuing a warning.
There had been several occasions when Mma Ramotswe’s traditional build had led to difficulty. Perhaps the most embarrassing of these had occurred when she had been visiting Mma Potokwane at the Orphan Farm and had
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