Alexander Mccall Smith - Ladies' Detective Agency 05

by The Full Cupboard of Life

  “But he would never be able to hear them,” said Mma Makutsi. “They were wasting their breath.”

  “Yes,” said the apprentice. “It is possible that he had fallen asleep.”

  Mma Makutsi sighed. “You would not fall asleep while you were jumping from an aeroplane. That doesn’t happen.”

  “Oh yes?” challenged the apprentice. “And what about falling asleep at the wheel—while you’re driving? I saw a car go off the Francistown Road once, just because of that. The driver had gone to sleep and the next thing he knew he had hit a tree and the car rolled over. You can go to sleep anywhere.”

  “Driving is different,” said Mma Makutsi. “You do that for a long time. You become hot and drowsy. But when you jump out of an aeroplane, you are not likely to feel hot and drowsy. You will not go to sleep.”

  “How do you know?” said the apprentice. “Have you jumped out of an aeroplane, Mma? Hah! You would have to watch your skirt! All the boys would be standing down below and whistling because your skirt would be over your head. Hah!”

  Mma Makutsi shook her head. “It is no good talking to somebody like you,” she said. “And anyway, here’s Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s truck. We can ask him about this parachute business. We can find out if what the paper says is true.”

  MR J.L.B. Matekoni parked his truck in the shade under the acacia tree beside the garage, making sure to leave enough room for Mma Ramotswe to park her tiny white van when she arrived. She would not arrive until nine o’clock, she had told him, because she was taking Motholeli to the doctor. Dr Moffat had telephoned to say that a specialist was visiting the hospital and that he had agreed to see Motholeli. “I do not think that he will be able to say much more than we have said,” Dr Moffat had warned. “But there’s no harm in his seeing her.” And Dr Moffat had been right; nothing new could be said.

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was pleased that he was getting to know the children better. He had always been slightly puzzled by children, and felt that he did not really understand them. There were children all round Botswana, of course, and nobody could be unaware of them, but he had been surprised at how these orphans thought about things. The boy, Puso, was a case in point. He was behaving very much better than he had in the past—and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was thankful for that—but he was still inclined to be on the moody side. Sometimes, when he was driving with Mr J.L.B. Matekoni in his truck, he would sit there, staring out of the window, and saying nothing at all.

  “What are you thinking of?” Mr J.L.B. Matekoni would ask, and Puso would shake his head and reply, “Nothing.”

  That could not be true. Nobody thought of nothing, but it was difficult to imagine what thoughts a boy of that age would have. What did boys do? Mr J.L.B. Matekoni tried to remember what he had done as a boy, but there was a curious gap, as if he had done nothing at all. This was strange, he thought. Mma Ramotswe remembered everything about her childhood and was always describing the details of events which had happened all those years ago. But when he tried to do that, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni could not even remember the names of the other boys in his class, apart from one or two very close friends with whom he had kept in touch. And it was the same with the initiation school, when all the boys were sent off to be inducted into the traditions of men. That was a great moment in your life, and you were meant to remember it, but he had only the vaguest memories.

  Engines were different, of course. Although his memory for people’s names and for people themselves was not terribly good, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni remembered virtually every engine that he had ever handled, from the large and loyal diesels which he had learned to deal with during his apprenticeship to the clinically efficient, and characterless, motors of modern cars. And not only did he remember the distinguished engines—such as that which powered the British High Commissioner’s car—but he also remembered their more modest brothers, such as that which drove the only NSU Prinz which he had ever seen on the roads of Botswana; a humble car, indeed, which looked the same from the front or the back and which had an engine very like the motor on Mma Ramotswe’s sewing machine. All of these engines were like old friends to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni—old friends with all the individual quirks which old friends inevitably had, but which were so comfortable and reassuring.

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni got out of his truck and stretched his limbs. He had a busy day ahead of him, with four cars booked in for a routine service, and another which would require the replacement of the servo system on its brakes. This was a tricky procedure, because it was difficult to get at in the first place, and then, when one got there, it was very easy to replace incorrectly. The problem, as Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had explained to the apprentices on numerous occasions, was that the ends of the brake pipes were flared and one had to put a small nut into these flared ends. This nut allowed you to connect the servo mechanism to the pipes, but, and this was the real danger, if you cross-threaded the nuts you would get a leak. And if you avoided this danger, but if you were too rough, then you could twist a brake pipe. That was a terrible thing to do, as it meant that you had to replace the entire brake pipe, and these pipes, as everybody knew, ran through the body of the car like arteries. The apprentices had caused both of these disasters in the past, and he had been obliged to spend almost a whole day sorting things out. Now he no longer trusted them to do it. They could watch if they wished, but they would not be allowed to touch. This was the main problem with the apprentices; they had the necessary theoretical knowledge, or some of it, but so often they were slipshod in the way they finished a job—as if they had become bored with it—and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni knew that you could never be slipshod when it came to brake pipes.

  He went into the garage and, hearing voices from the detective agency, he knocked on the door and looked in to see Mma Makutsi handing Charlie a folded-up newspaper. They turned and stared at him.

  “Here’s the Boss,” said the apprentice. “Here’s the brave man himself.”

  “The hero,” echoed Mma Makutsi, smiling.

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni frowned. “What is this?” he asked. “Why are you calling me a brave man?”

  “Not just us,” said the apprentice, handing him the newspaper. “The whole town will be calling you brave now.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni took the newspaper. It can only be one thing, he thought, and as his eye fell upon the article his fears were confirmed. He stood there, his hands shaking slightly as he held the offending newspaper, the dismay mounting within him. This was Mma Potokwane’s doing. Nobody else could have told the newspaper about the parachute jump, as he had spoken to nobody about it. She had no right to do this, he thought. She had no right at all.

  “Is it true?” asked Mma Makutsi. “Did you really say that you would jump out of an aeroplane?”

  “Of course he did,” exclaimed the apprentice. “The Boss is a brave man.”

  “Well,” began Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, “Mma Potokwane said to me that I should and then …”

  “Oh!” said Mma Makutsi, clapping her hands with delight. “So it is true then! This is very exciting. I will sponsor you, Rra. Yes, I will sponsor you up to thirty pula!”

  “Why do you say ‘up to’?” asked the apprentice.

  “Because that’s what these sponsorship forms normally say,” said Mma Makutsi. “You put down a maximum amount.”

  “But that’s only because when a person is doing something like a sponsored walk they may not reach the end,” said the apprentice. “In the case of a parachute jump, the person you have sponsored usually reaches the end—one way or the other.” He laughed at his observation, but Mr J.L.B. Matekoni merely stared at him.

  Mma Makutsi was annoyed with the apprentice. It was not right to make remarks like that in the presence of one who would be taking such a great personal risk for a good cause. “You must not talk like that,” she said severely. “This is not a joke for you to laugh at. This is a brave thing that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni is doing.”

  “Oh it’s brave all right,” said the apprentice. “It is s
urely a brave thing, Mma. Look what happened to that poor Botswana Defence Force man …”

  “What happened to him?” asked Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.

  Mma Makutsi glowered at the apprentice. “Oh that has nothing to do with you, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni,” she said quickly. “That is another thing. We do not need to talk about that thing.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked doubtful. “But he said that something happened to a Botswana Defence Force man. What is that thing?”

  “It is not an important thing,” said Mma Makutsi. “Sometimes the Botswana Defence Force makes silly mistakes. It is only human after all.”

  “How do you know it was the Defence Force’s mistake?” interjected the apprentice. “How do you know that it wasn’t that man’s fault?”

  “What man?” asked Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.

  “I do not know his name,” said Mma Makutsi. “And anyway, I am tired of talking about these things. I want to get some work done before Mma Ramotswe comes in. There is a letter here which we shall have to reply to. There is a lot to do.”

  The apprentice smiled. “All right,” he said. “I am also busy, Mma. You are not the only one.” He gave a small jump, which could have been the beginnings of one of his dances, but which also could have been just a small jump. Then he left the office.

  Mma Makutsi returned to her desk in a businesslike fashion. “I have drawn up the accounts for last month,” she said. “It was a much better month.”

  “Good,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “Now about this Defence Force man …”

  He did not finish, as Mma Makutsi interrupted him with a screech. “Oh,” she cried, “I have forgotten something. Oh, I am very stupid. Sorry, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, I have forgotten to enter those receipts over there. I am going to have to check everything.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni shrugged. There was something which she did not want him to be told, but he thought that he knew exactly what it was. It was about a parachute that had not opened.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  TEA IS ALWAYS THE SOLUTION

  MMA RAMOTSWE swept up to the premises of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, bringing her tiny white van to a halt under the acacia tree. She had been thinking as she drove in, not of work, but of the children, who were proving such surprising people to live with. Children were never simple—she knew that—but she had always assumed that brothers and sisters had at least something in common in their tastes and behaviour. Yet here were these two orphans, who were children of the same mother and same father (or so Mma Potokwane had told her) and yet who were so thoroughly different. Motholeli was interested in cars and trucks, and liked nothing better than to watch Mr J.L.B. Matekoni with his spanners and wrenches and all the other mysterious tools of his calling. She was adamant that she would be a mechanic, in spite of her wheelchair and in spite of the fact that her arms were not as strong as the arms of other girls of her age. The illness which had deprived her of the use of her legs had touched at other parts of her body too, weakening the muscles and sometimes constricting her chest and lungs. She never complained, of course, as it was not in her nature to do so, but Mma Ramotswe could tell when a momentary shadow of discomfort passed over her face, and her heart went out to the brave, uncomplaining girl whom Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, almost by accident, had brought into her life. Puso, the boy, whom Motholeli had rescued from burial with their mother, scraping the hot sand from his face and breathing air into his struggling lungs, shared none of his sister’s interest in machinery. He was indifferent to cars, except as a means of getting around, and he was happiest in his own company, playing in the patch of scrub bush behind Mma Ramotswe’s house in Zebra Drive, throwing stones at lizards or tricking those minute creatures known as ant lions into showing themselves. These insects, small as ticks but quicker and more energetic, created little conical wells in the sand, snares for any ants that might wander that way. Once on the edge of the trap, the ant would inevitably trigger a miniature landslide, tumbling down the sides of it. The ant lion, hidden under grains of sand at the bottom, would burrow out and seize its prey, dragging it back underground to provide a tasty meal. If you were a boy, and so minded, you could tickle the edge of the trap with a blade of grass and create a false alarm to bring the ant lion out of its lair. Then you could flip it out with a twig and witness its confusion. That was an entertaining pastime for a boy, and Puso liked to do this for hours on end.

  Mma Ramotswe had imagined that he would play with other boys, but he seemed to be quite happy on his own. She had invited a friend to send her sons over, and these boys had arrived, but Puso had simply stared at them and said nothing.

  “You should talk to these boys,” Mma Ramotswe admonished him. “They are your guests, and you should talk to them.”

  He had mumbled something, and they had gone off into the garden together, but when she had looked out of the window a few minutes later, Mma Ramotswe had seen the two visiting boys entertaining themselves by climbing a tree while Puso busied himself with a nest of white ants which he had found underneath a mopipi tree.

  “Leave him to do what he wants to do,” Mr J.LB. Matekoni had advised her. “Remember where he comes from. Remember his people.”

  Mma Ramotswe knew exactly what he meant. These children, although not pure-bred Masarwa, had at least some of that blood in their veins. It was easy to forget that, because they did not look like bushmen, and yet here was the boy taking this strange, almost brooding interest in the bush and in creatures that most other people would not ever notice. That, she imagined, was because he had been given the eyes to see these things; as we are given the eyes of those who have gone before us, and can see the world in the way in which they saw it. In her case, she knew that she had her father’s eye for cattle, and could tell their quality in an instant, at first glance. That was something she just knew—she just knew it. Perhaps Mr J.L.B. Matekoni could do the same with cars; one glance, and he would know.

  She got out of the tiny white van and walked round the side of the building to the door that led directly into the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. She could tell that they were busy in the garage, and she did not want to disturb them. In an hour or so it would be time for tea-break, and she could chat to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni then. In the meantime there was a letter to sign—Mma Makutsi had started to type it yesterday—and there might be new mail to go through. And sooner or later she would have to begin the investigation of Mma Holonga’s list of suitors. She had no idea how she was going to tackle that, but Mma Makutsi might be able to come up with a suggestion. Mma Makutsi had a good mind—as her ninety-seven per cent at the Botswana Secretarial College had demonstrated to the world—but she was inclined to unrealistic schemes. Sometimes these worked, but on other occasions Mma Ramotswe had been obliged to pour cold water on over-ambitious ideas.

  She entered the office to find Mma Makutsi polishing her large spectacles, staring up at the ceiling as she did so. This was always a sign that she was thinking, and Mma Ramotswe wondered what she was thinking about. Perhaps the morning post, which Mma Makutsi now picked up from the post office on her way into work, had contained an interesting letter, possibly from a new client. Or perhaps it had brought one of those anonymous letters which people inexplicably sent them; letters of denunciation which the senders thought that they would be interested to receive, but which were no business of theirs. Such letters were usually mundane, revealing nothing but human pettiness and jealousy. But sometimes they contained a snippet of information which was genuinely interesting, or gave an insight into the strange corners of people’s lives. Mma Makutsi could be thinking about one of these, thought Mma Ramotswe, or she could just be staring at the ceiling because there was nothing else to do. Sometimes, when people stared, there was nothing else in their minds, and all they were doing was thinking of the ceiling, or of the trees, or of the sky, or of any of the things that it was so satisfying just to stare at.

  “You’re thinking of something, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Whenever I see you polishi
ng your glasses like that, I know that you are thinking of something.”

  Mma Makutsi looked round sharply, disturbed by the sudden sound of her employer’s voice. “You surprised me, Mma,” she said. “I was sitting here and I suddenly heard your voice. It made me jump.”

  Mma Ramotswe smiled. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni says that I creep up on him too. But I do not mean to do that.” She paused. “So what were you thinking about, Mma?”

  Mma Makutsi replaced her glasses and adjusted their position on the bridge of her nose. She had been thinking about Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and his parachute drop and about how Mma Ramotswe would react to the news, that is assuming that she had not heard it already.

  “Have you seen the paper today?” she asked.

  Mma Ramotswe shook her head as she walked over to her desk. “I have not seen it,” she said. “I have been busy taking the children here and there. I have had no time to sit down.” She threw Mma Makutsi a quizzical glance. “Is there something special in it?”

  So she does not know, thought Mma Makutsi. Well, she would have to tell her, and it would probably be a shock for her.

  “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni is going to jump,” she said. “It is in the paper this morning.”

  Mma Ramotswe stared at Mma Makutsi. What was she talking about? What was this nonsense about Mr J.L.B. Matekoni jumping?

  “Out of a plane,” went on Mma Makutsi quickly. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni is going to do a parachute jump.”

  Mma Ramotswe laughed. “What nonsense!” she said. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni would never do something like that. Who has put such nonsense in the newspapers?”