The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (13) by Alexander McCall Smith Page A

this town who are making those high-class houses with concrete blocks and then just puttinglots of fancy plaster on the outside and making people think there are solid things inside. That’s what they are doing, those people, but we are not. We are still making good houses out of good building materials.” He paused. “So you see this brochure, Rra? You see these bricks? They are top-quality bricks. I would recommend one outer layer and one inner layer, with good metal ties in between. Then we will put ventilation grilles to allow the house to breathe. That will keep you cool in the hot months. That is very important.”
    Phuti studied the picture of the brick. It seemed like an ordinary brick to him, but it had several lines of explanation printed below, setting out its superior properties. He handed the brochure back to the builder. “That is very good,” he said. “I think that we should have those bricks, Rra.”
    Mr. Putumelo took off his glasses and deftly folded in the arms. “Done,” he said. “I will order everything we need and then we can start …” He looked at an annotated calendar on the wall. “We can start in four days. Maybe three.” Then he added: “Payment for work done will be due every ten days, for work done during those ten days, until completion of the contract. Agreed? Good.”
    Phuti had not been prepared for this: beginning a house was a major step, he thought, and it seemed now to be happening so quickly.
    “There are some details that my wife has raised with me,” he said. “I think that perhaps we might …”
    Mr. Putumelo fixed him with an intense stare. “Your wife? She knows about houses?”
    For a few moments, Phuti was at a loss. “She thinks that …”
    Mr. Putumelo frowned. “Building a house is a very complicated matter, Rra. There are not many women in the building trade.”
    “But women know about houses, Rra,” Phuti protested. “They are the ones who look after them.”
    Mr. Putumelo burst out laughing. “That is not the point, Rra.Women are very good at cleaning houses, but that does not mean that they know how to make them.” He reached for a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the corner of his mouth; a curious, rather fussy gesture. “But I must not stop you from telling me what your wife thinks, Rra. I am sure it is very interesting.” The last remark was heavy with sarcasm.
    Phuti told the builder of Grace’s requirements. Mr. Putumelo reached for a pen and made a few notes; he looked sceptical as he wrote, as an unhelpful bank manager might look as he entertained a risky client’s request for a loan. “I have written that down,” he said, once Phuti had finished. “We shall see what can be done.” He examined his own note. “There are some requests here that are not very practical, of course. And this business of two cookers: Where does that nonsense come from? Has your wife seen some picture in a magazine? Two cookers! Have we each got two mouths, Rra, so that we need to have two dinners at the same time?”
    Phuti winced. It had been his suggestion, even if Grace had readily agreed to it, and he should have the courage to say as much to Mr. Putumelo. He should say: “No, that was not my wife’s idea, Rra—it was mine, and I am the client. If I want two cookers, then I can have them. You are only the builder and I am paying you to do what
I
want. Understand?” That is what he should have said, he knew; but he did not say it. Instead, he said, “Two cookers are not an important element of the design, Rra. One will do quite well.”
    Mr. Putumelo appeared to take no notice of the concession. “And as for this business about floor tiles,” the builder said. “All floor tiles are of much the same composition. I shall choose the right ones, and do not need to be reminded of what is necessary.”
    Again, Phuti did not protest. Mr. Putumelo knew what he was talking about—the horn-rimmed spectacles spoke to that, as did the pile