Read Online Tea Time for the Traditionally Built by Alexander McCall Smith - Free Book Online Page B

be a short walk, she thought, as she still had her blister, even though it had stopped throbbing.
    Fanwell glanced over to Charlie, who nodded to him. Mma Ramotswe occasionally asked the apprentices to run errands for her, and he imagined that this was what she wanted of him.
    They walked away from the garage towards the piece of scrubland that lay immediately behind the building. This was the edge of the town, half bush, half suburb, where cattle sometimes wandered, bringing with them their sounds of the true countryside, the sound of cattle bells. Here hornbills might perch on branches and contemplate the bustle of the Tlokweng Road before flying away again, in long swooping curves that led from tree to tree. Here small gusts of wind, the sort of wind that came from nowhere in particular, might briefly blow scraps of paper or the occasional plastic bag, lifting these bits of detritus half-heartedly before dropping them again and moving on. Here paths would begin and lead off into the deeper bush before disappearing altogether at the foot of the hills to the south of the town.
    “I wanted to talk to you, Fanwell,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I wanted to ask you a favour.”
    The young man looked at her nervously and then glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the garage. He was not as confident as the older apprentice, and he usually relied on Charlie to answer for both of them.
    “Don't worry,” soothed Mma Ramotswe. “It's not a big favour. Or, maybe it is a bit big. Not too big, but a bit big.”
    “I will always help you, Mma,” said Fanwell uncertainly. “You can ask me. I will do my best.”
    Mma Ramotswe touched him gently on the forearm. “Thank you, Fanwell. It is my van. I need you to look at my van.”
    They stopped walking. The apprentice looked at her in puzzlement. “Your van?”
    “My van is very ill,” said Mma Ramotswe. “There is something very badly wrong with it.”
    Fanwell thought for a moment. “Have you spoken to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni about it? He is the man, Mma. There is nothing that he cannot fix.”
    Mma Ramotswe sighed. He was right to say that there was nothing that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni could not fix, but that was not the same thing as saying that there was nothing that he
would
not fix. There comes a time in the life of machinery, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was fond of saying, when it is right to say goodbye. That had happened eventually with the water pump at the orphan farm; he had insisted that he could no longer fix the ancient machine, dating back to the days of the Bechuanaland Protectorate. Mma Ramotswe was in no doubt that this is what he thought of the tiny white van. In his view, its time had clearly come.
    She explained the difficulty to Fanwell. “So,” she said, “if I am to keep my van, then I must have it fixed by somebody else. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni would just get rid of it.”
    “But he would see me,” the apprentice protested. “If I took your van into the garage, he would see it and know what I was doing.”
    “Of course he would,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That's why I would like you to take a look at it at home. At your place.”
    Fanwell frowned. “But I haven't got the tools I need there. I haven't got an inspection pit. There is nothing.”
    “Just look at it,” pleaded Mma Ramotswe. “Could you not just look at it? You wouldn't need many tools for that. A few spanners maybe. Nothing more.”
    Fanwell scratched his head. “I don't know, Mma. I don't know …”
    “I could drive you home,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Then you could look at it and let me know what you think. Maybe it is just a small thing, which you could fix very easily. I will pay you, of course.”
    Fanwell hesitated. He was notoriously impecunious and the prospect of a bit of pin money was very attractive. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe I could look. I can't guarantee anything, though, Mma.”
    “None of us can guarantee anything, Fanwell,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Not even that the sun will