The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (13) Read Online Free PDF Page B

when the shoes had said to her:
Watch out, Boss, rough ground ahead
.
    She had felt none of the alarm that one might normally beexpected to feel on hearing voices: a worrying development for some. Rather, she had dismissed it as a mere figment of her imagination, similar to those snatches of melody that we sometimes hear—the memory of music; those half-formed sentences—the memory of conversation; in short, nothing to worry about. Our heads are full of such things, Mma Ramotswe had once pointed out to Mma Makutsi, and she had agreed. If, then, one heard one’s shoes talking, it was really coming from oneself, and was nothing more alarming than that.
    So she came to accept that the shoes would occasionally express an opinion. And she also accepted that this view might sometimes contradict what she was thinking, or even be slightly rude, or hectoring, perhaps. One cannot expect complete compliance from one’s shoes, or unqualified admiration—although that would certainly be nice. One must be prepared, she thought, for at least
some
criticism from one’s footwear, the occasional sharp comment, the odd note of jealousy sounded by working shoes of party shoes—that sort of thing.
    Now that she was married to Phuti Radiphuti there would be plenty of opportunities to purchase new shoes, but only in good time. Mma Makutsi was very aware that there were people watching her behaviour to see whether her newly acquired position would go to her head. She was determined to deny such people the chance to crow and to make remarks such as:
Give money to a person from Bobonong and that’s what you get—every time!
She would not have that; she would be discreet and would not surround herself with the trappings of prosperity.
    Except for a house … And that was the reason she would be late in to work that morning: she and Phuti Radiphuti were due to meet the man whom Phuti had selected to build the house that they were planning to live in and where, both he and Mma Makutsi fervently hoped, they would raise their children. For this task hehad chosen a man to whom he had recently sold two large sofas: Mr. Clarkson Putumelo, the holder of a diploma in building from the Botswana School of Construction and Allied Trades, and proprietor and managing director of the This Way Up Building Company. The sale of the sofas had been an easy and satisfying transaction. Phuti had come across Mr. Putumelo browsing through the soft-furnishings section of the store and had asked if he could help him. Mr. Putumelo had enquired about sofas and had been shown several. He had selected a very large one, in bright green leather, and had gone off to fetch his wife, a woman whose dimensions were almost as generous as those of the sofa. Mr. Putumelo had suggested that his wife try the sofa, which she did, expressing immediate satisfaction with its comfort in a voluble and high-pitched voice. But then, when she had attempted to get up, she had been so embraced by the padding that she had been unable to do so, and both Phuti and Mr. Putumelo had been obliged to pull hard at her outstretched arms to bring her back to her feet. Mr. Putumelo had not been in the slightest bit embarrassed, and had simply said, “This is always happening with this woman.” Phuti might have suggested a less commodious option—there were several sofas that had clearly been designed with this issue in mind—but this proved not to be necessary. Mr. Putumelo asked about a possible discount for two, was offered ten per cent off, and immediately committed himself. This painless transaction had put the idea into Phuti’s mind that this might be the man to undertake the building of his house. He had heard that building a house could be a traumatic and distressing task: if the builder you chose was as affable as Mr. Putumelo, then presumably that difficult process would be all the easier. He asked, and Mr. Putumelo readily agreed. “I am the man to build you a house,” he said with a