The Saturday Big Tent Wedding Party by Alexander McCall Smith Page B
Authors: Alexander McCall Smith
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whispered.
Patricia lowered her voice. “They will suit you, Mma. You are a very beautiful lady and you deserve these shoes.”
Mma Makutsi looked away. She did not think that she was beautiful. She would like to be beautiful—when she was a young girl she had wished for beauty with all her heart, but had become reconciled to the fact that beauty was a gift conferred in the crucible of one’s mother’s womb and was not on offer at any later stage. But to hear Patricia say it made her wonder, for a moment or two at least, whether it was indeed true; whether beauty had somehow crept up and settled upon her, as age, or the signs of worry, might do.
Patricia consulted a screen to see if the shoe was in stock in the right size. It was, and she retreated into the back of the shop to retrieve the box. Returning a few minutes later, she took the shoes out with a flourish and indicated to Mma Makutsi that she should sit down to try them on.
The ankle straps were fastened with a small silver buckle, which Patricia did up with the facility of one with long experience in such things. “There!” she said, stepping back to survey the effect. “Now stand up, Mma, and see how the shoes feel. They mustn’t pinch anywhere, or you will limp down that aisle, and that would never do.” For a moment a picture flashed into her mind of Mma Makutsi, her large glasses flashing in the light from the church windows, limping down the aisle with Phuti, still feeling the effects of his injury.
Mma Makutsi stood up. The shoes had reasonably high heels, but they were not meant to be walking boots, after all, and she wasaccustomed to heels even higher than these. Not, of course, that she wore heels as high as those favoured by Violet Sephotho, who could be toppled, she always felt, brought down with just one judiciously timed push. Violet Sephotho! She did not want to think about that woman at a time like this, but the thought of her as a member of parliament made the back of her neck feel warm with resentment. Members of parliament could become government ministers, and that would be even worse: Violet Sephotho, Minister for Cosmetics and Husband-stealing, perhaps.
“Well, Mma? How do they feel?”
She told Patricia that the shoes were comfortable enough and that she would take them. If they could be put aside, then Phuti Radiphuti would call in later to pay for them, as he had promised.
Patricia looked over her shoulder. She was the assistant manager, not the manager, nor the owner, and her discretion was limited. But everybody knew who Phuti Radiphuti was, and was well aware that he owned the Double Comfort Furniture Store. If credit could not be provided to the fiancée of such a man, then it could be provided to nobody. “I know I’m not meant to do this,” she said, “but I think it will be perfectly in order for you to take these shoes now, Mma. Phuti can come in tomorrow, or even the day after that. We trust you.”
Mma Makutsi was on the point of saying that it did not matter to her if the shoes remained in the store, but then it occurred to her that it would be useful to break them in before wearing them in earnest. There was walking to be done at a wedding, and standing too, as you talked to relative after relative, friend after friend.
“Thank you, Mma,” she said. “I think I’ll wear them in.”
Patricia looked surprised. “Are you sure, Mma? There is some rough ground round here, even in the parking lot. I’ve seen people break heels out there. Snap. No heel any more.”
Mma Makutsi thanked her for the warning. “I shall be very careful,” she said. “I shall watch where I’m putting my feet.”
Patricia took Mma Makutsi’s old shoes and wrapped them respectfully in tissue paper before putting them in a box. Mma Makutsi watched her friend at work; it was a vocation, this, almost akin to being called to higher secretarial office, or being, as she herself was, an associate detective. Patricia clearly treated
Patricia lowered her voice. “They will suit you, Mma. You are a very beautiful lady and you deserve these shoes.”
Mma Makutsi looked away. She did not think that she was beautiful. She would like to be beautiful—when she was a young girl she had wished for beauty with all her heart, but had become reconciled to the fact that beauty was a gift conferred in the crucible of one’s mother’s womb and was not on offer at any later stage. But to hear Patricia say it made her wonder, for a moment or two at least, whether it was indeed true; whether beauty had somehow crept up and settled upon her, as age, or the signs of worry, might do.
Patricia consulted a screen to see if the shoe was in stock in the right size. It was, and she retreated into the back of the shop to retrieve the box. Returning a few minutes later, she took the shoes out with a flourish and indicated to Mma Makutsi that she should sit down to try them on.
The ankle straps were fastened with a small silver buckle, which Patricia did up with the facility of one with long experience in such things. “There!” she said, stepping back to survey the effect. “Now stand up, Mma, and see how the shoes feel. They mustn’t pinch anywhere, or you will limp down that aisle, and that would never do.” For a moment a picture flashed into her mind of Mma Makutsi, her large glasses flashing in the light from the church windows, limping down the aisle with Phuti, still feeling the effects of his injury.
Mma Makutsi stood up. The shoes had reasonably high heels, but they were not meant to be walking boots, after all, and she wasaccustomed to heels even higher than these. Not, of course, that she wore heels as high as those favoured by Violet Sephotho, who could be toppled, she always felt, brought down with just one judiciously timed push. Violet Sephotho! She did not want to think about that woman at a time like this, but the thought of her as a member of parliament made the back of her neck feel warm with resentment. Members of parliament could become government ministers, and that would be even worse: Violet Sephotho, Minister for Cosmetics and Husband-stealing, perhaps.
“Well, Mma? How do they feel?”
She told Patricia that the shoes were comfortable enough and that she would take them. If they could be put aside, then Phuti Radiphuti would call in later to pay for them, as he had promised.
Patricia looked over her shoulder. She was the assistant manager, not the manager, nor the owner, and her discretion was limited. But everybody knew who Phuti Radiphuti was, and was well aware that he owned the Double Comfort Furniture Store. If credit could not be provided to the fiancée of such a man, then it could be provided to nobody. “I know I’m not meant to do this,” she said, “but I think it will be perfectly in order for you to take these shoes now, Mma. Phuti can come in tomorrow, or even the day after that. We trust you.”
Mma Makutsi was on the point of saying that it did not matter to her if the shoes remained in the store, but then it occurred to her that it would be useful to break them in before wearing them in earnest. There was walking to be done at a wedding, and standing too, as you talked to relative after relative, friend after friend.
“Thank you, Mma,” she said. “I think I’ll wear them in.”
Patricia looked surprised. “Are you sure, Mma? There is some rough ground round here, even in the parking lot. I’ve seen people break heels out there. Snap. No heel any more.”
Mma Makutsi thanked her for the warning. “I shall be very careful,” she said. “I shall watch where I’m putting my feet.”
Patricia took Mma Makutsi’s old shoes and wrapped them respectfully in tissue paper before putting them in a box. Mma Makutsi watched her friend at work; it was a vocation, this, almost akin to being called to higher secretarial office, or being, as she herself was, an associate detective. Patricia clearly treated
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