The Saturday Big Tent Wedding Party Part 1

The Sat.u.r.day big tent wedding party.

by Alexander McCall Smith.

CHAPTER ONE.

THE MEMORY OF LOST THINGS.

MMA RAMOTSWE had by no means forgotten her late white van. It was true that she did not brood upon it, as some people dwell on things of the past, but it still came to mind from time to time, often at unexpected moments. Memories of that which we have lost are curious things-weeks, months, even years may pa.s.s without any recollection of them and then, quite suddenly, something will remind us of a lost friend, or of a favourite possession that has been mislaid or destroyed, and then we will think: had by no means forgotten her late white van. It was true that she did not brood upon it, as some people dwell on things of the past, but it still came to mind from time to time, often at unexpected moments. Memories of that which we have lost are curious things-weeks, months, even years may pa.s.s without any recollection of them and then, quite suddenly, something will remind us of a lost friend, or of a favourite possession that has been mislaid or destroyed, and then we will think: Yes, that is what I had and I have no longer Yes, that is what I had and I have no longer.

Her van had been her companion and friend for many years. Can a vehicle-a collection of mechanical bits and pieces, nuts and bolts and parts the names of which one has not the faintest idea of-can such a thing be a friend? Of course it can: physical objects can have personalities, at least in the eyes of their owners. To others, it may only be a van, but to the owner it may be the friend that has started loyally each morning-except sometimes; that has sat patiently during long hours of waiting outside the houses of suspected adulterers; that has carried one home in the late afternoon, tired after a day's work at the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency. And just like a person, a car or a van may have likes and dislikes. A good tar road is balm to man and machine and may produce a humming sound of satisfaction in both car and driver; an unpaved road, concealing behind each bend a deep pothole or tiny mountain range of corrugations, may provoke rattles and groans of protest from even the most tolerant of vehicles. For this reason, the owners of cars may be forgiven for thinking that under the metal there lurks something not all that different from a human soul.

Mma Ramotswe's van had served her well, and she loved it. Its life, though, had been a hard one. Not only had it been obliged to cope with dust, which, as anybody who lives in a dry country will know, can choke a vehicle to death, but its long-suffering suspension had been required to deal with persistent overloading, at least on the driver's side. That, of course, was the side on which Mma Ramotswe sat, and she was, by her own admission and description, a traditionally built person. Such a person can wear down even the toughest suspension, and this is exactly what happened in the case of the tiny white van, which permanently listed to starboard as a result.

Mma Ramotswe's husband, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, that excellent man, proprietor of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors and widely regarded as the best mechanic in all Botswana, had done his best to address the problem, but had tired of having to change the van's shock absorbers from side to side so as to equalise the strain. Yet it went further than that. The engine itself had started to make a sinister sound, which grew in volume until eventually the big-end failed.

"I am just a mechanic, Mma Ramotswe," he had said to his wife. "A mechanic is a man who fixes cars and other vehicles. That is what a mechanic does."

Mma Ramotswe had listened politely, but her heart within her was a stone of fear. She knew that the fate of her van was at stake, and she would prefer not to know that. "I think I understand what a mechanic does, Rra," she said. "And you are a very good mechanic, quite capable of fixing a-"

She did not finish. The normally mild Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had raised a finger. "A mechanic, Mma," he p.r.o.nounced, "is different from a miracle-worker. A miracle-worker is a person who...works miracles. A mechanic cannot do that. And so when the time comes for a vehicle to die-and they are mortal, Mma, I can a.s.sure you-then he cannot wave a wand and make the car new again." He paused, looking at her with the air of a doctor imparting bad news. "And so..."

He had done his best for her, of course, and bought her a spanking new van, blue this time, with an array of b.u.t.tons on the dashboard that she had not yet dared investigate, and with an engine so quiet and un.o.btrusive that it was sometimes possible to believe that it was not switched on at all and that it was gravity alone, or some other mysterious force, that was propelling the van down the road. She tried to appear grateful, but it was hard. It was true that the point of a vehicle was to get you from one place to another without incident, but that, she thought, was not the only consideration. If efficiency were the only value in this life, then we would be content to eat bland but nutritious food every day-and the same food at that. That would keep us alive, but it would make for very dull mealtimes. And the same was true of transport: there was all the world of difference between travelling along a highway in an air-conditioned bus, behind tinted gla.s.s, and making the same journey by a side-road, on a cart pulled by a team of mules, with the morning air fresh against your face and the branches of the acacia trees brus.h.i.+ng past so close that you could reach out to touch the delicate green leaves. There was all that difference.

The tiny white van had gone to a sc.r.a.p dealer, and that, she thought, was the end. But then she encountered a woman who told her that a nephew of hers had acquired the van, and towed it up to his place near the Tuli Block. He loved tinkering, she said, and he might be able to do something with the parts that he could strip from the body of the van. That was all Mma Ramotswe heard, and nothing more. It was a better fate, perhaps, than that of total destruction in the jaws of some metal-crus.h.i.+ng predator, but still she hoped that the young man who had bought the van for sc.r.a.p might exercise his mechanical skills and restore it. And that possibility she kept in her mind, tucked away among the other sc.r.a.ps of hope of the sort that we go through life with, not thinking about them very much but unwilling to let them fade away altogether.

Now, on this crisp Botswana day, at the tail end of a winter that, for all its cold mornings, was still drenched in clear and constant sun, Mma Ramotswe was reminded of her former van by something she saw on the road. She was driving past the Ministry of Water Affairs, her mind on a case that she had been working on for some time and was no nearer resolution than when she had started. She wondered whether she should not begin afresh, abandoning all the information she had obtained, and speaking to everybody again from scratch; possibly, she thought, it might be easier if...And then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw what seemed to be her tiny white van. It was not just that she saw a white van-they were common enough in a country where the most popular colour for a vehicle was white-it was the fact that the white vehicle she saw had the air air of her van, a characteristic gait, so to speak, a way of moving. of her van, a characteristic gait, so to speak, a way of moving.

Her first instinct was to stop, and this she did, pulling in to the side of the road, her wheels throwing up a cloud of dust and causing the vehicle behind her to swerve angrily. She waved an apology-that was not the sort of driving she condoned in others-before twisting round in her seat to look at the turning down which she had glimpsed the van making its way. She saw nothing, so she decided to reverse a few yards to get a better view. But no, the side-road was empty.

She frowned. Had she imagined it? She had read somewhere that those who mourn will sometimes see those they mourn-or will think they see them. But she was not really mourning her van, even if she regretted its pa.s.sing; she was not the sort of woman who would allow something like that to get in the way of living. She shook her head, as if to clear it, and then, on impulse, made a sweeping U-turn, heading off on to the side-road down which she had seen the white van disappear.

A woman was sitting on a stone on the edge of the road, a small bundle of possessions on the ground beside her. Mma Ramotswe slowed down, and the woman looked at her enquiringly.

"I'm sorry, Mma," said Mma Ramotswe through her open window. "I haven't stopped to give you a ride to wherever it is you want to go."

"Ah," said the woman. "I hoped you had, Mma, but I don't mind. My son promised to come and collect me, and he will get round to it eventually."

"Sometimes men forget these things," said Mma Ramotswe. "They tell us that they are too busy to do the things we want them to do, but they have plenty of time for their own concerns."

The woman laughed. "Oh, that is right, my sister! I can hear them saying that in those voices that men have!"

Mma Ramotswe joined in the laughter. Then she asked, "Did a white van come down this way, Mma? Not a big one-a small one, same size as this one I'm in but much older-and white."

The woman frowned. "When, Mma? I have only been sitting here for half an hour."

"Oh, not that long ago," said Mma Ramotswe. "About two or three minutes ago. Maybe four."

The woman shook her head. "No, Mma. n.o.body has been down here for at least ten minutes, maybe more. And there have been no white vans-I would have seen one if there had been. I have been watching, you see."

"Are you sure, Mma?"

The woman nodded vigorously. "I am very sure, Mma. I see everything. I was in the police, you see. For three years, a long time ago, I was one of those police ladies. Then I fell off a truck and they said that I could not walk well enough to stay in. They are very foolish sometimes, and that is why the criminals sit there in those bars and tell one another stories of what the police have not done. They laugh at them and drink their beer. That is what is happening today, and G.o.d will certainly punish the politicians one day for letting this happen."

Mma Ramotswe smiled. "You are right, Mma. Those criminals need to be taught a lesson. But to go back to the van, are you absolutely sure, Mma?"

"I am one hundred per cent sure," said the woman. "If you made me stand up in the High Court in Lobatse and asked me whether I had seen a van, I would say certainly not and that is the truth."

Mma Ramotswe thanked her. "I hope that your son comes soon, Mma," she said.

"He will. When he has finished dancing with ladies or whatever he is doing, he will come."

MMA RAMOTSWE continued with her journey, completing the tasks she had been on her way to perform. She thought no more of the sighting of the van until she returned to the office a couple of hours later and mentioned the matter to Mma Makutsi. continued with her journey, completing the tasks she had been on her way to perform. She thought no more of the sighting of the van until she returned to the office a couple of hours later and mentioned the matter to Mma Makutsi.

"I saw something very strange today, Mma," she began as she settled herself at her desk.

"That is no surprise," said Mma Makutsi from the other side of the room. "There are some very strange things happening in Gaborone these days."

Mma Ramotswe would normally have agreed with this-there were very odd things happening-but she did not want Mma Makutsi to get launched on the subject of politics or the behaviour of teenagers, or any of the other subjects on which she harboured strong and sometimes unconventional views. So she went on to describe the sighting of the van and the curiously unsettling conversation she had had with the woman by the side of the road. "She was very sure that there had been no van, Mma, and I believed her. And yet I am just as sure that I saw it. I was not dreaming."

Mma Makutsi listened attentively. "So," she said. "You saw it, but she did not. What does that mean, Mma?"

Mma Ramotswe considered this for a moment. There was something on the issue in Clovis Andersen's book, she seemed to remember; The Principles of Private Detection The Principles of Private Detection had a great deal to recommend it in all departments, but it was particularly strong on the subject of evidence and the recollection of what people see. had a great deal to recommend it in all departments, but it was particularly strong on the subject of evidence and the recollection of what people see. When two or more people see something, When two or more people see something, the great authority had written, the great authority had written, you would be astonished at how many different versions of events you will get! This is not because people are lying; it is more because we see things differently. One person sees one thing, and another sees something altogether different. Both believe that they are telling the truth. you would be astonished at how many different versions of events you will get! This is not because people are lying; it is more because we see things differently. One person sees one thing, and another sees something altogether different. Both believe that they are telling the truth.

Mma Makutsi did not wait for Mma Ramotswe to answer her question. "It means that one of you saw something that the other did not."

Mma Ramotswe pondered this answer. It did not advance the matter very much, she thought.

"So the fact that one of you saw nothing," Mma Makutsi continued, "does not mean that there was nothing. She saw nothing because she did not notice anything. You saw something that she did not notice because it was not there, because it was not there, or it was not there in the way that you thought it was there." or it was not there in the way that you thought it was there."

"I'm not sure I follow you, Mma Makutsi..."

Mma Makutsi drew herself up behind her desk. "That van, Mma Ramotswe, was a ghost van. It was the spirit of a late van. That's what you must have seen."

Mma Ramotswe was not certain whether her a.s.sistant was being serious. Mma Makutsi could make peculiar remarks, but she had never before said anything quite as ridiculous as this. That was what made her feel that perhaps she was joking and that the proper reaction for her was to laugh. But if she laughed and her a.s.sistant was in fact being serious, then offence would be taken and this could be followed by a period of huffiness. So she confined her reaction to an innocent question: "Do vans have ghosts, Mma? Do you think that likely?"

"I don't see why not," said Mma Makutsi. "If people have ghosts, then why shouldn't other things have them? What makes us so special that only we can have ghosts? What makes us think that, Mma?"

"Well, I'm not so sure that there are ghosts of people anyway," said Mma Ramotswe. "If we go to heaven when we die, then who are these ghosts that people talk about? No, it doesn't seem likely to me."

Mma Makutsi frowned. "Ah, but who says that everybody goes to heaven?" she asked. "There are people who will not get anywhere near heaven. I can think of many..."

Mma Ramotswe's curiosity was too much for her. "Such as, Mma?"

Mma Makutsi showed no hesitation in replying. "Violet Sephotho," she said quickly. "There will be no place for her in heaven-that is well known. So she will have to stay down here in Gaborone, walking around and not being seen by anybody because she will be a ghost." She paused, an expression of delight crossing her face. "And, Mma, she will be a ghost in high-heeled shoes! Can you imagine that, Mma? A ghost tottering around on those silly high heels that she wears. It is a very funny thought, Mma. Even those who saw such a ghost would not be frightened but would burst out laughing. Other ghosts would laugh, Mma-they would, although we wouldn't hear them, of course."

"Unless we were ghosts ourselves by that stage," interjected Mma Ramotswe. "Then we would hear them."

This warning made Mma Makutsi fall silent. It had been an appetising picture that she had been painting, and she slightly resented Mma Ramotswe's spoiling it like this. But her resentment did not persist, as it occurred to her that Mma Ramotswe, having possibly just seen a ghost herself-even if only a ghost van-might be in need of a restorative cup of red bush tea.

"I think it is time that I put the kettle on," she said. "All this talk of ghosts..."

Mma Ramotswe laughed. "There are no ghosts, Mma. No ghost people, no ghost vans. These things are just stories we make up to frighten ourselves."

Mma Makutsi, now standing beside the kettle, looked out of the window. Yes, she thought, one can say that sort of thing in broad daylight, under this wide and sunlit Botswana sky, but would one say the same thing with equal conviction at night, when one was out in the bush, perhaps, away from the streetlights of town, and surrounded by the sounds of the night-sounds that could not be easily explained away and could be anything, things known or unknown, things friendly or unfriendly, things that it was better not to think about? She shuddered. It was not a good idea to let one's mind dwell on these matters, and she was sure it was best to think about something quite different. And so she said to Mma Ramotswe, "Mma, I am worried about Charlie. I am very worried."

Mma Ramotswe looked up from her desk. "Charlie, Mma Makutsi? But we have always been worried about Charlie, right from the beginning." She smiled at her a.s.sistant. "I'm sure that even when he was a very small boy, this high, his mother was shaking her head and saying that she was worried about Charlie. And all those girls, I'm sure that they have been saying the same thing for years. It is what people say about him."

Mma Makutsi smiled too, but only weakly. "Yes, Mma," she said. "But this time it's different. I think now that we have to do something about him."

Mma Ramotswe sighed. Whatever it was, Mma Makutsi was probably right. But she was not sure that it was the responsibility of the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency to deal with Charlie's problems-whatever they were. Charlie was an apprentice of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, and it would have to be Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni who took action.

She looked across the room at her a.s.sistant, who was frowning with concentration as she poured the boiling water into the teapot. "Very well, Mma Makutsi," she said. "Tell me what the trouble is. What has our young friend been up to now?"

CHAPTER TWO.

THE CHARLIE PROBLEM.

THAT EVENING, Mma Ramotswe pondered what she had been told by Mma Makutsi. She thought about this while she prepared the evening meal, in an empty house, as Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had taken Puso and Motholeli to choir practice in the school hall. Both children had good voices, although Puso was plagued by embarra.s.sment when he sang, closing his eyes as a result. Mma Ramotswe pondered what she had been told by Mma Makutsi. She thought about this while she prepared the evening meal, in an empty house, as Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had taken Puso and Motholeli to choir practice in the school hall. Both children had good voices, although Puso was plagued by embarra.s.sment when he sang, closing his eyes as a result.

"Puso," the choirmaster scolded him, "we do not close our eyes when we sing. We keep them open so that people who are listening know that we are not asleep. If you close your eyes, then maybe next you will start to close your mouth, and that is not good for singing, is it?"

In spite of this public upbraiding, Puso continued to close his eyes. The choirmaster learned to ignore the matter, though: the boy had a naturally good ear for music, and that was something that was worth cultivating in spite of other failings.

Mma Ramotswe went over Mma Makutsi's revelations about Charlie and made sure that she knew how best to relate them to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. It was a matter for adults to discuss among themselves, not one for the ears of children, so when the three of them eventually returned she fed the children first; that way, she and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni would be able to talk freely.

"We shall have our dinner a bit later," she said to her husband. "If you are too hungry to wait, I can give you something. But it might be better not to eat until we can talk privately."

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni nodded, and sniffed at the cooking smells drifting out from the kitchen. "It smells very good, Mma Ramotswe," he said. "So I shall wait."

"I have made-" she began, but he silenced her with a finger to his lips.

"It will be a surprise." He paused, before whispering, "What do we have to talk about that cannot be spoken of in front of the children? Is it one of your cases?"

She shook her head. "No, it is one of your your cases, Rra." cases, Rra."

He was puzzled. "I have no cases," he said. "You are the detective; I am only-"

She leaned forward. "Charlie," she whispered. "He is your responsibility, is he not?"

He looked grave. Ever since he had taken on Charlie as his apprentice-and that had been an inordinately long time ago-he had worried about the young man. At first his anxiety had been kept in check by the knowledge that apprentices.h.i.+ps do not last forever, but then the realisation slowly dawned on him that some apprentices.h.i.+ps appeared to disprove that rule. Charlie and Fanwell, his fellow apprentice, should have finished their training years earlier. Fanwell, at least, was now only a month or two short of completion, having at last pa.s.sed the examinations of the Mechanical Apprentices.h.i.+p Board and needing only a final period of a.s.sessment-a formality-before being registered as a fully qualified mechanic. Charlie, however, had failed his examinations time after time, mainly because he never bothered to prepare himself.

"You could pa.s.s very easily, you know," Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni told him after the last unsuccessful attempt. "All it needs is a bit of study. You are not a stupid young man-you have a brain in that head of yours, and yet you will not use it. You are like a farmer who has good rich soil and plants no melons in it. That is what you are like."

"Mmm," said Charlie, licking his lips. "I like melons, Boss!"

"There you are," said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, with exasperation in his voice. "You are talking about melons when you should be talking about engines. That is exactly what I mean."

"But you are the one who started talking about melons," said Charlie. "I did not start it, Boss!"

It was extraordinarily frustrating, but it seemed that there was little that could be done. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was not only the finest mechanic in Botswana, he was also the kindest. And it was for this reason that he could not bring himself to dismiss the young man and give his place to another who was more willing to learn. Charlie would have to content himself with being an unqualified mechanical a.s.sistant-a sort of perpetual apprentice.

There were other reasons to worry, of course. There was Charlie's preoccupation with girls, and his constant talking about them. This distracted Fanwell, who was an altogether more serious young man, and it was also potentially bad for the image of the garage. On more than one occasion, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had been embarra.s.sed in the presence of a client when the idle, girl-focused chatter of his apprentices had been quite audible. This had even happened once when a client who was a man of the cloth had been collecting his car and had heard Charlie talking about a girl. The two young men were under a truck and were probably unaware of the presence of the minister, but even so it had been a very awkward moment for their employer.

"Boy, oh boy," Charlie had said, "that one is very fast! She is fast all right!"

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had cleared his throat and done his best to spare the minister's blushes. "They are talking about a car," he explained hurriedly. "A very fast car. You know how young men are about speed."

He had raised his voice as he gave this explanation, in the hope that Charlie would realise they were not alone. But this had been to no avail.

"And she drinks too," Charlie continued. "I'm telling you, Fanwell, she likes her drink. Ow!"

"That is fuel consumption," said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni to the minister. "Some cars these days have a very thirsty engine. It's because modern engines are so powerful. Unlike your car here, Reverend." And with that, he had given the side of the minister's car a loud tap, again in the hope of sending a message to the young men.

It made Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni feel hot at the back of the neck just to think about that moment-the minister had not been fooled-and he did not like to remember it. So when Mma Ramotswe told him that they needed to talk about Charlie, he sighed with a dread that seemed quite to take away any pleasure brought by the antic.i.p.ation of dinner. A good meal is not nearly so attractive, he mused, if it is accompanied by thoughts of young men like Charlie.

SO, MMA RAMOTSWE," said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. "So you have made me a very good stew." He sniffed at the delicious steam rising up from his plate. "But you have also warned me that we have a Charlie problem. Tell me: Is it a big Charlie problem or a little one?" said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. "So you have made me a very good stew." He sniffed at the delicious steam rising up from his plate. "But you have also warned me that we have a Charlie problem. Tell me: Is it a big Charlie problem or a little one?"

Mma Ramotswe could not stop herself from smiling.

"Did I say something funny?" asked Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. "You did say that-"

"Oh yes, Rra. I did say that we have to talk about Charlie. And it is a serious matter. It's just that the answer to your question is that this problem is both big and little."

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni stared at her. Perhaps his wife had spent too long a time as a private detective and solver of mysteries; maybe too much time in that profession made one inherently enigmatic. He had seen that sort of thing before-cases where people had been so affected by their jobs as to change in their very nature. His cousin who had worked for the immigration authorities had become so suspicious that he began to suspect that just about everybody was in the country illegally. And then there was that butcher who had ended up not eating meat at all and would only eat potatoes and beans-that had been a very surprising development in a country as committed to cattle as was Botswana. Was something similar happening to Mma Ramotswe, he wondered?

"You'll have to explain, Mma Ramotswe," he said. "I am a simple mechanic; I am not a solver of puzzles and things like that."

Mma Ramotswe dipped her fork into her mashed pumpkin. "It is a big problem because it's serious," she said. "It is a small problem because it involves something small. A small person. In fact, it involves...a baby."

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni closed his eyes. It did not matter if Mma Ramotswe said nothing more. He understood.

He opened his eyes again. Mma Ramotswe was looking at him, and she was no longer smiling. "Yes," she said. "You know what I'm going to say, don't you, Rra?"

"Charlie has a baby."