To the Land of Long Lost Friends: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (20) by Alexander McCall Smith Page B
Authors: Alexander McCall Smith
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unusually quiet ones in the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency.
“Something will turn up,” said Mma Makutsi, as she stared idly out of the office window. “It always does, I find.”
Seated at her desk, Mma Ramotswe looked at the empty pages of her diary. Monday, nothing; Tuesday, nothing; and so on, stretching out to an indeterminate future. “People often say that business is either famine or feast,” she said. “And I think that’s right, Mma Makutsi.”
“It definitely is,” said Mma Makutsi. “Phuti says that it’s the same in the furniture business. One moment everybody is desperate to buy beds and sofas and so forth. Then, the next day, nothing. No sales. It’s as if everybody who could possibly want a bed or a sofa has got one. And you think, Is this the end of the business?”
Mma Ramotswe did not like to say that this was exactly the question that had occurred to her. The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency did not make a great deal of money. Indeed, at the end of most months, when the books were examined and outgoings subtracted from sums received, the resulting profit, if any, was minuscule. That did not matter too much, of course, as long as salaries were covered; they had no rent to pay, the office being attached to the premises of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, which was owned by Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. If one had to have a landlord, then there was a very good case for having one’s husband as one’s landlord.
“Somebody will knock on the door,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Somebody will come in and say that her husband is spending too much time in the office with his secretary, or the petty cash is disappearing in a mysterious way, or their daughter is seeing a suspicious boyfriend who won’t give anybody his real name and insists on simply being called Joe.”
Mma Makutsi laughed at that, remembering a case where that was exactly what had happened, and she and Mr. Polopetsi had discovered that Joe, as he called himself, was wanted by the police on several charges of handling stolen property. “I think you are right, Mma,” she said. “Any moment now a new client will turn up.”
But no new client arrived, and when they closed the office at five that evening, there had not been so much as a telephone enquiry. The only call, in fact, had been a wrong number. Mma Makutsi had answered that, and when it became apparent that the call was really intended for the office of a local refrigeration company, she had nonetheless tried to interest the caller in the agency’s services. After all, one never knew what might be going on in the private life of an unexpected and misdialling stranger.
“You’ve come through to the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency,” she announced. “I know that this is not the number you wanted, but since you’re on the line, are you sure that you do not have a problem that we can help you with?”
This had not been well received by the woman at the other end, who took umbrage at the suggestion that she might be in need of a private detective. “I am not that sort of person,” she said, slamming down the receiver in a way that suggested to Mma Makutsi that she was precisely the sort of person who might need the agency’s help.
“People can be very rude,” said Mma Makutsi. “If you dial the wrong number, the least you should do is listen politely to the person who answers.”
That was a Tuesday, and the Wednesday seemed to be heading in much the same direction. By the time mid-morning tea was served, Mma Ramotswe had decided that if nothing came up within the next half an hour she would yield to the promptings of her conscience to do something for Calviniah. She would find Nametso and have a word with her about her mother’s feelings. It was possible that she would get nowhere, but there was no harm in trying. It was possible that Nametso might simply not realise the hurt she was causing her mother and respond accordingly; alternatively, she might resent and rebuff
“Something will turn up,” said Mma Makutsi, as she stared idly out of the office window. “It always does, I find.”
Seated at her desk, Mma Ramotswe looked at the empty pages of her diary. Monday, nothing; Tuesday, nothing; and so on, stretching out to an indeterminate future. “People often say that business is either famine or feast,” she said. “And I think that’s right, Mma Makutsi.”
“It definitely is,” said Mma Makutsi. “Phuti says that it’s the same in the furniture business. One moment everybody is desperate to buy beds and sofas and so forth. Then, the next day, nothing. No sales. It’s as if everybody who could possibly want a bed or a sofa has got one. And you think, Is this the end of the business?”
Mma Ramotswe did not like to say that this was exactly the question that had occurred to her. The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency did not make a great deal of money. Indeed, at the end of most months, when the books were examined and outgoings subtracted from sums received, the resulting profit, if any, was minuscule. That did not matter too much, of course, as long as salaries were covered; they had no rent to pay, the office being attached to the premises of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, which was owned by Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. If one had to have a landlord, then there was a very good case for having one’s husband as one’s landlord.
“Somebody will knock on the door,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Somebody will come in and say that her husband is spending too much time in the office with his secretary, or the petty cash is disappearing in a mysterious way, or their daughter is seeing a suspicious boyfriend who won’t give anybody his real name and insists on simply being called Joe.”
Mma Makutsi laughed at that, remembering a case where that was exactly what had happened, and she and Mr. Polopetsi had discovered that Joe, as he called himself, was wanted by the police on several charges of handling stolen property. “I think you are right, Mma,” she said. “Any moment now a new client will turn up.”
But no new client arrived, and when they closed the office at five that evening, there had not been so much as a telephone enquiry. The only call, in fact, had been a wrong number. Mma Makutsi had answered that, and when it became apparent that the call was really intended for the office of a local refrigeration company, she had nonetheless tried to interest the caller in the agency’s services. After all, one never knew what might be going on in the private life of an unexpected and misdialling stranger.
“You’ve come through to the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency,” she announced. “I know that this is not the number you wanted, but since you’re on the line, are you sure that you do not have a problem that we can help you with?”
This had not been well received by the woman at the other end, who took umbrage at the suggestion that she might be in need of a private detective. “I am not that sort of person,” she said, slamming down the receiver in a way that suggested to Mma Makutsi that she was precisely the sort of person who might need the agency’s help.
“People can be very rude,” said Mma Makutsi. “If you dial the wrong number, the least you should do is listen politely to the person who answers.”
That was a Tuesday, and the Wednesday seemed to be heading in much the same direction. By the time mid-morning tea was served, Mma Ramotswe had decided that if nothing came up within the next half an hour she would yield to the promptings of her conscience to do something for Calviniah. She would find Nametso and have a word with her about her mother’s feelings. It was possible that she would get nowhere, but there was no harm in trying. It was possible that Nametso might simply not realise the hurt she was causing her mother and respond accordingly; alternatively, she might resent and rebuff
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