The Miracle at Speedy Motors

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “It is getting louder,” said Puso. “Soon people will be shouting out, ‘Come in!’ as you drive past.”

  She had laughed the comment off, but it had worried her. If even Puso was beginning to notice that something was wrong with the tiny white van, then matters were indeed becoming serious. Sooner or later she would have to speak to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni about it, but she could not think about that now, particularly since a development of an altogether more interesting stripe had occurred: there was something very different about Mma Makutsi.

  It took Mma Ramotswe a moment or two to realise what had happened. As she entered the office, Mma Makutsi looked up from her desk and smiled at her, exchanging the normal, polite greeting. Mma Ramotswe returned the greeting and put the bag she was carrying down on her own desk. Then she stopped. It was Mma Makutsi, was it not? One takes so much for granted, in familiar surroundings at least, that one might quite easily enter a room and not take in the fact that an entirely unexpected person was there. Mma Makutsi’s chair was occupied, but could it be somebody other than Mma Makutsi in it, some Mma Makutsi–looking person, but not the real Mma Makutsi; some relative or friend, perhaps, of the same general conformation?

  She turned round slowly. “Mma Makutsi?”

  Again Mma Makutsi smiled broadly. “Yes, Mma Ramotswe? How was Mma Potokwane yesterday? Still very bossy?”

  It was well known that Mma Potokwane and Mma Makutsi, although civil enough to one another, did not see eye to eye on everything. In fact, they saw eye to eye on nothing. But now was not the time to go into that particular issue; now was the time to work out what it was that was so different about Mma Makutsi.

  “Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Ramotswe. “New glasses!”

  Mma Makutsi reached up self-consciously and took off her glasses, examined them, polished them quickly on a small piece of cloth which she had taken out of a drawer, and then donned them again. “Yes,” she said.

  Mma Ramotswe was initially at a loss for words, her emotions mixed. Her assistant had several defining characteristics. One was the fact that she had achieved that ninety-seven per cent mark in the final examinations of the Botswana Secretarial College—an unequalled achievement in the annals of the college. Another was the fact that she came from Bobonong, which was in the middle of nowhere from the perspective of those who lived in Gaborone, if not of those who lived in Bobonong. And a further characteristic was that she wore extremely large, round glasses. All of these characteristics were quintessentially Mma Makutsi, to the extent that Mma Ramotswe felt that if the police were ever to need to issue a wanted description of Mma Makutsi—for some unimaginable secretarial offence—they would say, “Wanted: woman from Bobonong, average height, ninety-seven per cent, large round glasses.” That would say everything and surely lead to her rapid detention. But now, without her round glasses, Mma Makutsi could walk with impunity through any police roadblock.

  The new glasses were small. As Mma Ramotswe peered across the room at them she saw that whereas the previous glasses had reflected the surrounding light, this pair seemed to absorb it. And the frames were as different as could be imagined. The old frames had been made of a mock-tortoiseshell, predominantly brown; these were light blue, not far from the colour of one panel of Botswana’s national flag, the blue which appeared on government buildings, at the gates of schools, or on the walls of more patriotically minded citizens.

  “They are blue, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe, struggling to find something to say. “Botswana blue.”

  “That is why I like them,” said Mma Makutsi. “Or one of the reasons. The other reason is that they are very fashionable.”

  Mma Ramotswe was quick to agree. She was uncertain what the current mode in glasses might be, but given that the requirements of fashion seemed to dictate that everything should become smaller, then these glasses were definitely following the trend. But the old glasses had character; they made Mma Makutsi what she was.

  “I liked your old glasses, of course, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “They served you very well, I thought.”

  Mma Makutsi gave a nonchalant wave of her hand. “You have to move on, Mma. That is well known.”

  Mma Ramotswe found herself agreeing. “Of course,” she replied. “People are always moving on. You can’t stand still.” It was true, she supposed: people did move on and often used that expression to justify all sorts of questionable conduct. Husbands, in particular, had a tendency to move on when they reached a certain age and felt their youth slipping away from them. They moved on from their wives. And disloyal employees moved on too, to better-paid jobs, even when they had been trained at the expense of their existing employer. There was, indeed, a lot of moving on.

  And although she had glibly remarked that you could not stand still, was this actually true, or was it a hollow axiom, as false and misleading as any other trite saying? Why should one not stand still, if the position in which one found oneself standing was a satisfactory and comfortable one? She felt no need, no need at all, to move on from being Mma Ramotswe, of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, wife of that great mechanic, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. And Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni himself had never moved on from anything, as far as she could ascertain, and would have been horrified were it to be suggested that he might do so. She imagined saying to him over the breakfast table, “We must move on, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. We really must.” He would look at his watch and say, “Yes, my goodness, Mma Ramotswe, look at the time. I must get to the garage.”

  And here was Mma Makutsi moving on from her old glasses and wearing this rather disconcertingly small, if highly fashionable, pair of blue ones. It was a very disorientating start to the day. She would get used to her assistant’s new appearance, but for the time being she would ask Mma Makutsi to put on the kettle and make the first morning cup of tea. Or the second, if one counted the cup of bush tea that Mma Ramotswe always enjoyed when she rose and walked around her garden while the sun floated gently above the horizon with its smiling; its benediction.

  Mma Makutsi got up from her desk to put on the kettle. Mma Ramotswe saw—could not help spotting—that when Mma Makutsi spooned the tea into the teapot she missed, or partly missed, and some of the tea fell onto the floor. The ants would remove that; a tiny tea party for them, down in their miniature world. But Mma Ramotswe noticed it, and became thoughtful.

  THERE WERE A FEW SIGNS later on, but nothing that Mma Ramotswe could put her finger on. At mid-morning tea time, she watched closely, but Mma Makutsi delivered the tea with no difficulty and their attention, anyway, was focused on dealing with comments on the new glasses. Mr. Polopetsi, of course, was polite, merely muttering, “New spectacles, Mma,” but Charlie, hooting with laughter, said, “Such small glasses, Mma! Does that make us all look very small? Are you sure you can see me, Mma? Look, here I am—over here. That tiny thing is me! And Mr. Polopetsi, here, must be invisible—he’s very small. Can you see him at all, Mma?”

  Mma Ramotswe tended to ignore this sort of thing, and Mma Makutsi tried to do the same, but failed. She flashed an angry glance at Charlie and turned her back on him. Then a suitable retort occurred to her and she turned round to deliver it, but found herself face-to-face with Mr. Polopetsi, who now became almost effusive in his remarks. “Those are very nice glasses, Mma,” he said. “Extremely pretty, in fact. There was a very small girl at the shops the other day wearing glasses just like those.”

  Mma Makutsi acknowledged the compliment with a nod of her head, although she was not sure whether she should be pleased or annoyed with the last part of what Mr. Polopetsi said. The rest of the tea break passed in a somewhat strained manner and Mma Ramotswe felt relieved when it was over and they could all get back to work. She had a few letters to dictate—and was Mma Makutsi hunched over her notebook more markedly than usual? She could not tell.

  Then, half an hour or so later, Charlie came into the office. “Letter for you, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. “Somebody has just left it.”

  People left notes for Mm
a Ramotswe, and she thought little of it. But when she took the envelope in her hands and began to slit open the flap, she felt a flush of foreboding. The letter was from that person; she could tell.

  She read it carefully, aware of the fact that Mma Makutsi was watching her. So, fat woman, you think you know everything! You and that assistant of yours, with her stupid glasses—you know nothing about what you don’t know!

  Mma Makutsi was about to say something, but Mma Ramotswe anticipated her. “Yes,” she said. “It is another one.” And she thought: Which stupid glasses? The original stupid glasses, or the new stupid glasses?

  Mma Makutsi came over to take the letter. She peered at it, the paper close to her nose. The glasses don’t work! Mma Ramotswe said to herself. But any satisfaction she might have experienced on having her earlier suspicions confirmed was eclipsed by the gravity of the moment.

  Mma Makutsi walked over to the door that led into the garage. “Charlie,” she shouted. “Please come through here.”

  Charlie appeared at the door, an adjustable wrench in his hand. “I am very busy, Mma,” he said. “What is it?”

  “This letter, Charlie. You said that somebody left it. Who left it?”

  Mma Ramotswe frowned. She knew the answer to Mma Makutsi’s question; the letter would have been found on a surface somewhere in the garage, slipped there by Mr. Polopetsi, so that it might be thought that somebody had dropped in unobserved. As a detective, even if only an assistant detective, Mma Makutsi should have realised that one could not assume that the letter had come from outside.

  Charlie shrugged. “Some woman,” he said. “It was while we were dealing with that car under the tree—all of us. I came back to get something and I saw her coming out of the garage. I asked her what she wanted, but she just muttered something about making a mistake. Then she went off.”

  Mma Ramotswe sat quite still. It was a woman. It was not Mr. Polopetsi.

  “Are you sure that she left it?” she asked. “Are you sure it wasn’t there before?”

  Charlie seemed surprised that such interest was being taken in the details of what he thought was a very unimportant matter. What did it matter who left a letter? It would be perfectly obvious who had written it—letters bore signatures, after all. “Yes, I am sure, Mma. It was on the petrol drum. I had been sitting on top of that before I went outside. There was no letter there. Then there was. It was that lady.”

  “And you saw her face?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

  “Yes,” said Charlie. “She was a very pretty woman. Big bottom too.”

  “You think of nothing but bottoms,” snapped Mma Makutsi. “You are like a little boy.”

  “Oh yes,” said Charlie hotly. “So there are lots of bottoms about. So that’s my fault, is it?”

  “You must not fight about…about unimportant things,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is not right.” She made a placatory gesture to Charlie. “Now listen, Charlie, you didn’t recognise this lady, did you? Had you seen her before?”

  Charlie shook his head. “No. Never.” He cast an angry glance at Mma Makutsi. “Can I go now, Mma Ramotswe?”

  “Of course you can, Charlie,” said Mma Ramotswe, adding, “and thank you. Thank you for helping me to avoid making a big mistake.”

  After Charlie had left, Mma Makutsi returned to sit down at her desk. She looked at the letter once more, and then shifted her gaze over to Mma Ramotswe. “So, Mma Ramotswe,” she said. “It was not Mr. Polopetsi after all.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked down at her hands—the hands of one who was capable, she realised, of the most appalling mis-judgement. “I feel very bad, Mma,” she said. “I feel very bad to have thought those things about him. It was very unfair.”

  “Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “It was.”

  Mma Ramotswe continued with her contemplation of her hands. She had made a mistake, but it was one which anybody might make in the face of the evidence that had been before her. And Mma Makutsi was not one to lecture her about making mistakes. Had she forgotten that bed left out in the rain? What about the new, unsuitable glasses?

  She looked up. While she had been staring at her hands, Mma Makutsi, it seemed, had taken off her new glasses and slipped her old ones back on. Mma Ramotswe was momentarily taken aback by this, but recovered her composure. “Yes,” she said to Mma Makutsi. “We can all make mistakes, Mma. Even you.”

  Nothing more was said. Mma Ramotswe’s potentially disastrous mistake—fortunately not communicated to the entirely innocent Mr. Polopetsi, whose embarrassment at forgetting he had a letter for her in his pocket she had taken for guilt—was cancelled out by Mma Makutsi’s purchase of the unsuitable glasses. Both looked foolish. There need be no further mention of either matter, apart, perhaps, from one final question.

  “Were they expensive, Mma?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “Those glasses. Did they cost a lot?”

  Mma Makutsi pursed her lips. They must have been very expensive, thought Mma Ramotswe.

  Then Mma Makutsi said, “I don’t know, Mma.”

  So Phuti Radiphuti bought them for her, thought Mma Ramotswe. That will lead to difficulties, as he will surely expect her to wear them.

  Mma Makutsi realised that further explanation was necessary, and she now provided it. “I found them, you see,” she said, her voice quiet, almost ashamed. “I found them by the side of the road.”

  It took Mma Ramotswe a little time to speak. “You must—”

  “Yes, I know,” interjected Mma Makutsi. “I will hand them in. I was going to, I suppose. It’s just that—”

  “Good,” said Mma Ramotswe. “So that’s that.”

  But it was not. Now came the thing that Mma Makutsi had not intended to tell Mma Ramotswe, but now it just tumbled out. “I think I know who wears glasses like this,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Violet Sephotho!”

  Mma Ramotswe gasped. “Violet Sephotho! That horrid woman from the recruitment agency? The one who—”

  “Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “That man-eater from the dancing class. The one who was rude about Phuti. The one who—”

  “You have told me all about her,” said Mma Ramotswe. She hesitated. An idea was coming to her; just the germ of an idea. But she knew from experience that in these tiny, incipient ideas, these hunches, there often lay the answer to a major question.

  “When did you find them?” she asked.

  “A week ago,” said Mma Makutsi. “Last Monday. I wasn’t going to wear them, you see, and then…”

  Mma Ramotswe held up a hand. She was not interested now in Mma Makutsi’s struggles with her conscience. What she was interested in was finding out exactly where the glasses had been found. And the answer, when it came, confirmed what she had been thinking.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  HE LOVED HIS CATTLE. HE LOVED HIS COUNTRY

  TWO DAYS AFTER Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had left for Johannesburg with Motholeli, he telephoned Mma Ramotswe and told her at length about the trip and about their accommodation in a small hotel on the outskirts of the city. It was the second time that he had stayed in a hotel; for Motholeli it was the first. Both were excited.

  “There is a very big bath in the bathroom,” Motholeli told Mma Ramotswe. “And in the morning you can help yourself to as many eggs and as much bacon as you like. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni has been eating a lot.”

  “Not that much,” she heard her husband saying in the background.

  “And the doctors?” she asked.

  “They are very kind,” said Motholeli.

  Mma Ramotswe waited for something else to be said about the treatment, but neither Motholeli nor Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was forthcoming on the subject. “They are doing a lot of things,” he said. “I am not there, though, and so I cannot say what it is that they are doing.”

  There was time enough to ponder this, and she did; rather too much, perhaps, as she found that anxiety over what was happening began to gnaw away at her. Now she started to reproach herself for not being firmer, for failing to vet
o a trip which she saw as pointless and even counter-productive. Motholeli had handled her disability with remarkable maturity and dignity; was it right, Mma Ramotswe wondered, that she should be encouraged to think that something could be done when it so obviously could not? Of course it would have been difficult to oppose the whole thing, for Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni tended to hold on to an idea once he became attached to it. If she had refused to allow Motholeli to go to Johannesburg, then he could have ended up resenting her. So perhaps it was the right decision after all. On the other hand…

  She had not asked how the trip and the treatment were to be paid for, and she might never have found out had Mma Makutsi not taken it upon herself during Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s absence to open the mail addressed to Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors. This was hardly voluminous: a few envelopes containing cheques for work done, a letter or two from suppliers of parts, advertisements for batteries—and a letter from the bank.

  Mma Ramotswe could tell that there was something wrong when she saw her assistant frown. For a few moments she thought that perhaps the anonymous letter-writer had struck again, but then Mma Makutsi looked up and began to read. “This is from the bank, Mma,” she said. “This is what it says. ‘Dear Mr. Matekoni, Further to your application for an un-secured loan, we regret to inform you that we shall, after all, require security for the sum for which you have applied. Our legal department will be in touch about setting up a bond over your garage premises to the extent of the sum applied for. This can be arranged within ten days of our receiving your instruction…’” Mma Makutsi tailed off. “He’s going to mortgage the garage,” she said.

  Mma Ramotswe got up from her desk and walked across the room to retrieve the letter. She read it through again, silently, and then returned it to its envelope. “It’s for Motholeli’s treatment,” she said. “That can be the only reason why he has applied for a loan.”