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

of brochures and the certificate on the wall informing the public at large that Mr. Clarkson Putumelo was a member in goodstanding of the Botswana Federation of Master Builders. One could not argue with that, and if such a person said that one only needed one cooker, and that any floor tile he chose would most certainly not be too slippery, then such assurances should be accepted. Phuti realised that Mr. Putumelo was not perhaps the most charming of men, but did one necessarily want a charming builder? What one needed of a builder was an understanding of technical matters—it was clear that Mr. Putumelo had that. One expected, too, a sense of organisation and logistical skill—and it was equally clear from his orderly yard that Mr. Putumelo was endowed with these qualities. If he was also arrogant and dismissive of women, then these failings were to be regretted, but did not necessarily affect his ability as a builder. Or so Phuti told himself as he left the premises of the This Way Up Building Company, although he somehow felt guilty about this concession. It was as if he had failed in some way to stand up for his wife, as if he had been cowardly.
Perhaps I am a coward, perhaps that is what I am
. The bitter thought brought back something that had not troubled him for many months—his stammer.
C … c … c … coward
, he muttered in unhappy self-reproach.
F … f … frightened of a b … b … builder. You should be a … a … ashamed of yourself, Ph … ph … ph … uti R … r … r … r … adiphuti
.

CHAPTER EIGHT
     

MMA RAMOTSWE DRIVES CLOVIS ANDERSEN TO MOCHUDI, AND THINKS
     
    M R. CLOVIS ANDERSEN , author of
The Principles of Private Detection
, the great work of detection theory that had guided the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency since that momentous day on which it had opened its doors—the book now so familiar to Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi that they could quote whole paragraphs without reference to the text itself—that same Clovis Andersen, who had so unexpectedly and impossibly stepped through the front door of the agency, was now due to meet Mma Ramotswe on the verandah of the President Hotel. It was mid-morning on the day following their first encounter, and Mma Ramotswe had arranged the meeting there because she was due to go out to Mochudi that morning and she wanted to show him the village where she was born and where she went to school. It would also be an opportunity for her to talk to the great detective without Mma Makutsi interrupting every second minute. It was clear to Mma Ramotswe that her assistant was star-struck, as she had gone on for some time about Clovis Andersen after he had left the office, her eyes flashing with excitement behind those large round glasses of hers. No, Mma Makutsi should not beallowed to monopolise Clovis Andersen just yet; she would have her fair share of the distinguished visitor’s time, but it would be important not to create the impression at this early stage that
everybody
in Botswana wore large round glasses, made rather firm pronouncements on a wide range of subjects, and reminded others of the marks they had achieved in their final examinations in whatever it was they had studied. But even as she thought this, even as she heard Mma Makutsi’s voice say
ninety-seven per cent
, she stopped herself. That was unkind, and she should not think it; that ninety-seven per cent was important to Mma Makutsi because she had started off with so little and had worked so hard to escape from a life of poverty and drudgery. She had worked hard to make something of her life when there were so many who simply sat about and took what life offered them. No, she would make sure that Mma Makutsi had ample time to spend in the company of Clovis Andersen, but not just yet …
    The verandah of the President Hotel is not a place in which a great deal happens. This is not in any way to disparage it: it is important that there should be places