Read Online The Woman Who Walked in Sunshine by Alexander McCall Smith - Free Book Online

place. What new place are you talking about?”
    “It’s a school of something or other,” said Mma Gabane Gabane.
    “I’ve heard there’s going to be a school of fashion,” said Mma Potokwane’s friend. “That will be very popular, I think. Why study mathematics or engineering or whatever when you can go and study what people are wearing?”
    Mma Gabane Gabane found this amusing. “You could sit here in the President Hotel and write down notes on the clothes you see. That would be your homework.”
    “I think it would be more difficult than that,” said Mma Phumele. “Fashion is a very complicated subject. You have to know about design and materials and all that sort of thing.”
    Mma Gabane Gabane nodded. “This new college is nothing to do with fashion. It’s business, I think. Business or accountancy. They say that there will be many students coming to it.”
    —
    SHE DID NOT STAY LONG. Making an excuse that was at least partly true—“I have to go home now to make my husband’s lunch,” the
now
being the untrue part—she walked back down the outside staircase that led onto the square below. She had not enjoyed her time with these ladies, whose conversation had been limited to the scandals of the day. It was not edifying to dwell on the failings of others; they might be lightly touched upon but should not be recited with such delight as these ladies had shown. At the end of the debate on the woman from Francistown and her trysts in the stationery cupboard, Mma Ramotswe felt sorry for her rather than disapproving or censorious; we might all have our heads turned by a young man, we might all yield to the temptations that the stationery cupboard offered; none of us was
above
all that. If this was what the world of idle women had to offer, then Mma Ramotswe was glad that she was fully employed, even if on holiday.
    She walked round the side of the hotel to the place where she had left the van. It was still there, partly shaded by the tree under which she had parked it. That was good, as a vehicle left fully exposed to the sun in this hot weather would be a furnace inside once one opened the door. Sometimes it was impossible to get in until the interior had cooled down; sometimes it was necessary to spread a cloth or blanket over the seat or one might scald oneself on sitting down at the wheel. Sometimes the wheel itself was like a hoop of foundry-heated iron, far too hot for the human hand to touch.
    Standing beside the van, feeling for the key in her bag, her eye was drawn to the side of the driver’s door. It was unmistakable: a scratch, deep enough to be a gouge, had been made in the paintwork. On the ground below, a small line of white flecks marked where the fragments of paint had fallen.
    She caught her breath. Then, dropping her bag, she emitted an involuntary wail as she bent down to examine the damage. Then she saw the nail, the instrument with which this assault on her tiny white van had been perpetrated. This had been tossed casually aside, as the knife of a careless murderer might be left at the scene of the crime—a further insult to the feelings of those who came upon the victim.
    “My van,” she muttered. “My van.”
    She stood up and looked around her. There was no doubt about the identity of the culprit; the boy had warned her of this, and now he had done exactly what he had threatened to do. The car park was largely deserted, although there was a man approaching from the square. He was heading towards a large Mercedes-Benz at the other end of the car park, and it occurred to Mma Ramotswe that the boy might be watching, hoping to collect his tip for looking after that car. She took a step away from the van to take advantage of the cover provided by the tree. She was not fully concealed—she was appreciably wider in girth than the tree—but she was certainly less obvious.
    The man approached his car, and as he did so the lights flashed in obedience to his remote unlocking fob. And