Alexander Mccall Smith - Ladies' Detective Agency 05

THE FULL CUPBOARD OF LIFE

Alexander McCall Smith

Pantheon Books

New York

This book is for

Soula
Ross

and

Vicky
Taylor

CHAPTER ONE

A GREAT SADNESS AMONG THE CARS OF BOTSWANA

P
RECIOUS RAMOTSWE was sitting at her desk at the No. 1 Ladies’
Detective Agency in Gaborone. From where she sat she could gaze out of the
window, out beyond the acacia trees, over the grass and the scrub bush, to the
hills in their blue haze of heat. It was such a noble country, and so wide,
stretching for mile upon mile to brown horizons at the very edge of Africa. It
was late summer, and there had been good rains that year. This was important,
as good rains meant productive fields, and productive fields meant large,
ripened pumpkins of the sort that traditionally built ladies like Mma Ramotswe
so enjoyed eating. The yellow flesh of a pumpkin or a squash, boiled and then
softened with a lump of butter (if one’s budget stretched to that), was
one of God’s greatest gifts to Botswana. And it tasted so good, too, with
a slice of fine Botswana beef, dripping in gravy.

Oh yes, God had
given a great deal to Botswana, as she had been told all those years ago at
Sunday school in Mochudi. “Write a list of Botswana’s heavenly
blessings,” the teacher had said. And the young Mma Ramotswe, chewing on
the end of her indelible pencil, and feeling the sun bearing down on the tin
roof of the Sunday school, heat so insistent that the tin creaked in protest
against its restraining bolts, had written:
(
1
) the land;
(
2
) the people who live on the land; (
3
)
the animals, and specially the fat cattle.
She had stopped at that, but,
after a pause, had added:
(
4
) the railway line from
Lobatse to Francistown.
This list, once submitted for approval, had come
back with a large blue tick after each item, and the comment written in:
Well done, Precious! You are a sensible girl. You have correctly shown why
Botswana is a fortunate country
.

And this was quite true. Mma
Ramotswe was indeed a sensible person and Botswana was a fortunate country.
When Botswana had become independent all those years ago, on that
heart-stilling night when the fireworks failed to be lit on time, and when the
dusty wind had seemed to augur only ill, there had been so little. There were
only three secondary schools for the whole country, a few clinics, and a measly
eight miles of tarred road. That was all. But was it? Surely there was a great
deal more than that. There was a country so large that the land seemed to have
no limits; there was a sky so wide and so free that the spirit could rise and
soar and not feel in the least constrained; and there were the people, the
quiet, patient people, who had survived in this land, and who loved it. Their
tenacity was rewarded, because underneath the land there were the diamonds, and
the cattle prospered, and brick by brick the people built a country of which
anybody could be proud. That was what Botswana had, and that is why it was a
fortunate country.

Mma Ramotswe had founded the No. 1 Ladies’
Detective Agency by selling the cattle left her by her father, Obed Ramotswe, a
good man whom everybody respected. And for this reason she made sure that his
picture was on the office wall, alongside, but slightly lower than, the picture
of the late President of Botswana, Sir Seretse Khama, paramount chief of the
Bangwato, founding president of Botswana, and gentleman. The last of these
attributes was perhaps the most important in Mma Ramotswe’s eyes. A man
could be a hereditary ruler, or an elected president, but not be a gentleman,
and that would show in his every deed. But if you had a leader who was a
gentleman, with all that this meant, then you were lucky indeed. And Botswana
had been very lucky in that respect, because all three of her presidents had
been good men, gentlemen, who were modest in their bearing, as a gentleman
should be. One day, perhaps, a woman might become president, and Mma Ramotswe
thought that this would be even better, provided, of course, that the lady in
question had the right qualities of modesty and caution. Not all ladies had
those qualities, Mma Ramotswe reflected; some of them being quite conspicuously
lacking in that respect.

Take that woman who was always on the
radio—a political woman who was always telling people what to do. She had
an irritating voice, like that of a jackal, and a habit of flirting with men in
a shameless way, provided that the men in question could do something to
advance her career. If they could not, then they were ignored. Mma Ramotswe had
seen this happening; she had seen her ignoring the Bishop at a public function,
in order to talk to an important government minister who might put in a good
word for her in the right place. It had been transparent. Bishop Theophilus had
opened his mouth to say something about the rain and she had said, “Yes,
Bishop, yes. Rain is very important.” But even as she spoke, she was
looking in the direction of the minister, and smiling at him. After a few
minutes, she had slipped away, leaving the Bishop behind, and sidled up to the
minister to whisper something to him. Mma Ramotswe, who had watched the whole
thing, was in no doubt about what that something had been, for she knew women
of this sort and there were many of them. So they would have to be careful
before choosing a woman as president. It would have to be the right sort of
woman; a woman who knew what hard work was and what it was like to bear half
the world upon your shoulders.

On that day, sitting at her desk, Mma
Ramotswe allowed her thoughts to wander. There was nothing in particular to do.
There were no outstanding matters to investigate, as she had just completed a
major enquiry on behalf of a large store that suspected, but could not prove,
that one of its senior staff was embezzling money. Its accountants had looked
at the books and had found discrepancies, but had been unable to find how and
where the money had disappeared. In his frustration at the continuing losses,
the managing director had called in Mma Ramotswe, who had compiled a list of
all the senior staff and had decided to look into their circumstances. If money
was disappearing, then there was every likelihood that somebody at the other
end would be spending it. And this elementary conclusion—so obvious
really—had led her straight to the culprit. It was not that he had
advertised his ill-gotten wealth; Mma Ramotswe had been obliged to elicit this
information by placing temptation before each suspect. At length, one had
succumbed to the prospect of an expensive bargain and had been able to offer
payment in cash—a sum beyond the means of a person in such a position. It
was not the sort of investigation which she enjoyed, because it involved
recrimination and shame, and Mma Ramotswe preferred to forgive, if at all
possible. “I am a forgiving lady,” she said, which was true. She
did forgive, even to the extent of bearing no grudge against Note Mokoti, her
cruel former husband, who had caused her such suffering during their brief,
ill-starred marriage. She had forgiven Note, even though she did not see him
any more, and she would tell him that he was forgiven if he came to her now.
Why, she asked herself, why keep a wound open when forgiveness can close
it?

Her unhappiness with Note had convinced her that she would never
marry again. But then, on that extraordinary evening some time ago, when Mr
J.L.B. Matekoni had proposed to her after he had spent all afternoon fixing the
dispirited engine of her tiny white van, she had accepted him. And that was the
right decision, for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was not only the best mechanic in
Botswana, but he was one of the kindest and most gracious of men. Mr J.L.B.
Matekoni would do anything for one who needed help, and, in a world of
increasing dishonesty, he still practised the old Botswana morality. He was a
good man, which, when all is said and done, is the finest thing that you can
say about any man. He was a good man.

It was strange at first to be an
engaged lady; a status somewhere between spinsterhood and marriage; committed
to another, but not yet another’s spouse. Mma Ramotswe had imagined that
they would marry within six months of the engagement, but that time had passed,
and more, and still Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had said nothing about a wedding.
Certainly he had bought her a ring and had spoken freely, and proudly, of her
as his fiancée, but nothing had been said about the date of the wedding.
She still kept her house in Zebra Drive, and he lived in his house in the
Village, near the old Botswana Defence Force Club and the clinic, and not far
from the old graveyard. Some people, of course, did not like to live too close
to a graveyard, but modern people, like Mma Ramotswe, said that this was
nonsense. Indeed, there were many differences of opinion here. The people who
lived around Tlokweng, the Batlokwa, had a custom of burying their ancestors in
a small, mud-walled round house, a rondavel, in the yard. This meant that those
members of the family who died were always there with you, which was a good
practice, thought Mma Ramotswe. If a mother died, then she might be buried
under the hut of the children, so that her spirit could watch over them. That
must have been comforting for children, thought Mma Ramotswe, to have the
mother under the stamped cattle-dung floor.

There were many good things
about the old ways, and it made Mma Ramotswe sad to think that some of these
ways were dying out. Botswana had been a special country, and still was, but it
had been more special in the days when everybody—or almost
everybody—observed the old Botswana ways. The modern world was selfish,
and full of cold and rude people. Botswana had never been like that, and Mma
Ramotswe was determined that her small corner of Botswana, which was the house
on Zebra Drive, and the office that the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency
and Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors shared, would always remain part of the old
Botswana, where people greeted one another politely and listened to what others
had to say, and did not shout or think just of themselves. That would never
happen in that little part of Botswana, ever.

That morning, sitting at
her desk, a steaming mug of bush tea before her, Mma Ramotswe was alone with
her thoughts. It was nine o’clock, which was well into the working
morning (which started at seven-thirty), but Mma Makutsi, her assistant, had
been instructed to go to the post office on her way to work and would not
arrive for a little while yet. Mma Makutsi had been hired as a secretary, but
had quickly proved her value and had been promoted to assistant detective. In
addition to this, she was Assistant Manager of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, a
role which she had taken on with conspicuous success when Mr J.L.B. Matekoni
had been ill. Mma Ramotswe was lucky to have such an assistant; there were many
lazy secretaries in Gaborone, who sat in the security of their jobs tapping at
a keyboard from time to time or occasionally picking up the telephone. Most of
these lazy secretaries answered the telephone in the same tone of voice, as if
the cares of being a secretary were overwhelming and there was nothing that
they could possibly do for the caller. Mma Makutsi was quite unlike these;
indeed she answered the telephone rather too enthusiastically, and had
sometimes scared callers away altogether. But this was a minor fault in one who
brought with her the distinction of being the most accomplished graduate of her
year from the Botswana Secretarial College, where she had scored ninety-seven
per cent in the final examinations.

As Mma Ramotswe sat at her desk,
she heard sounds of activity from the garage on the other side of the building.
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was at work with his two apprentices, young men who seemed
entirely obsessed with girls and who were always leaving grease marks about the
building. Around each light switch, in spite of many exhortations and warnings,
there was an area of black discolouration, where the apprentices had placed
their dirty fingers. And Mma Ramotswe had even found greasy fingerprints on her
telephone receiver and, more irritatingly still, on the door of the stationery
cupboard.

“Mr J.L.B. Matekoni provides towels and all that lint
for wiping off grease,” she had said to the older apprentice. “They
are always there in the washroom. When you have finished working on a car, wash
your hands before you touch other things. What is so hard about
that?”

“I always do that,” said the apprentice.
“It is not fair to talk to me like that, Mma. I am a very clean
mechanic.”

“Then is it you?” asked Mma Ramotswe,
turning to the younger apprentice.

“I am very clean too,
Mma,” he said. “I am always washing my hands. Always.
Always.”

“Then it must be me,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“I must be the one with greasy hands. It must be me or Mma Makutsi. Maybe
we get greasy from opening letters.”

The older apprentice
appeared to think about this for a moment. “Maybe,” he said.