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The
Full Cupboard of Life by Alexander McCall Smith Rating: ••• (Recommended) |
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Teatime My
first foray into Alexander McCall Smith’s No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency
series comes with the fifth installment, The Full
Cupboard of Life. I became entranced by Precious Ramotswe,
an African Miss Marple, who is hired to uncover and
untangle the messes of relationships, and for whom the answer to all problems
starts with a cup of tea. Here’s an excerpt about the absence of tea from the
beginning of Chapter 14, “Inside the House of Hope,” during which Mma Ramotswe is sleuthing to
uncover the intentions of one of the suitors of her client, the owner of a
chain of hair salons, pp. 142-147: Mma Ramotswe surveyed the House of Hope. It was a
rather grand name for a modest bungalow which had been built in the early seventies,
at a time when There
was a large garden, though, and this had been well-tended. In addition to a
stand of healthy-looking paw-paw trees at the back, there were several
clusters of bougainvillea and a mopipi tree. A
vegetable garden, rather like the vegetable garden which Mr
J.L.B. Matekoni had established in Mma Ramotswe’s own yard,
appeared to be growing beans and carrots with some success, although Mma Ramotswe reflected that in
the case of carrots one could never really tell until one pulled them out of
the ground. There were all sorts of insects which competed with us for
carrots, and often what appeared from above to be a healthy plant would reveal itself as riddled with holes once pulled out of the soil. There was a verandah to the side of the
house, and somebody had thoughtfully placeed shade
netting over the side of this. That would be a good place to sit, thought Mma Ramotswe, and one might
even drink tea there, on a hot afternoon, and feel the sun on ones face, hut
filtered by the shade netting. And then the thought occurred to her that all
of Gaborone, the whole town, might be covered with
shade netting held aloft on great poles, and that this would keep the town
cool and hold in the water which people put on their plants. It would be comfortable under this shade netting
in summer, and then when winter came, and the air was cooler, they could roll
hack the shade netting to let in the winter sun, which would warm them, like
the smile of an old friend, It was such a good idea, and it would surely not
be too expensive for a country that had all those diamonds, but she knew that
nobody would ever take it seriously. So they would continue to complain about
the hot weather when it was hot and about the cold weather when it was cold. The front
door of the House of Hope opened immediately into the living room. This was a
large room for that style of house, but the immediate and overwhelming
impression it gave Mma Ramotswe
was one of clutter. There were three or four chairs in the centre of the
room—tightly arranged in a circle—and around them there were tables, storage
boxes, and, here and there, a suitcase. On the wall, fixed with drawing
pins, were pictures ripped from magazines; pictures of families and of mothers
and children; of Mother Teresa with her characteristic headscarf; of Nelson
Mandela waving to a crowd; and of a line of African nuns, all clad in white, walking down a path
through thick undergrowth, their hands joined in prayer. Mma
Ramotswe’s eye dwelt on the picture of the nuns. Where
was the photograph taken, and where were these
ladies going? They looked so peaceful, she thought, that perhaps it did not
matter whether they were going anywhere, or nowhere in particular. People
sometimes walked simply because walking was an enjoyable thing to do, and
better than standing still, perhaps, if that was all you otherwise had to do.
Sometimes she herself walked around her garden for no reason, and found it
very relaxing, as perhaps it was for those nuns. “You are interested in the pictures,
said Mr Bobologo, behind
her. “We think that it is important that these bar girls should be reminded
of a better life. They can sit here and look at the pictures.” Mma Ramotswe
nodded. She was not convinced that it would be much fun for a bar girl, or
for anybody else for that matter, to he sitting on one of those chairs in
that crowded room, looking at these pictures from the magazines. But then it
would he better than listening to Mr Bobologo, she thought. Mr Bohologo now
came to Mma Ramotswe’s
side and pointed in the direction of the corridor that led off the living
room. “I will be happy to show you the
dormitories,” he said. “We may find some of the bad girls in their rooms. Mma Ramotswe
raised an eyebrow. It was not very tactful of him to call them had girls,
even if they were. People rose to the descriptions of themselves, and it
might have been better, she thought, to call them young ladies, in the hope
that they might behave as young ladies behaved. But then, to he realistic, they probably would not behave that way, as
it took a great deal to change somebody’s ways. The corridor was tidy enough, with only
a small bookcase along one wall and the floor well-polished with that
fresh-smelling polish that Mma Ramotswe’s
maid, Rose, so liked to use. They stopped outside a half-open bedroom door
and Mr Bobologo knocked
upon this before he pushed it open. Mma Ramotswe
looked inside. There were two bunk-beds in the room, both of them
triple-checkers. The top bed was just below the ceiling, barely allowing
enough space for anybody to fit in. Mma Ramotswe reflected that she herself would never fit in
that space, hut then these girls were younger, and some of them might be
quite small. There were three girls in the room, two
lying fully clothed on the lower hunks and one wearing a dressing gown, and
sitting on a middle hunk, her legs hanging down over the edge. As Mr Bohologo and Mma Ramotswe entered the room,
they stared at them, not with any great interest, but with a rather vacant
look. “This lady is a visitor,” Mr Bobologo announced, somewhat
obviously, thought Mma Ramotswe. One of the girls muttered something,
which may have been a greeting but which was difficult to make out. The other
one on the lower hunk nodded her beach, while the girl sitting on the middle
hunk managed a weak smile. “You have a nice house here,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Are you happy?” The girls exchanged glances. “Yes,” said Mr
Bohologo. “They are very happy.” Mma Rarnotswe
watched the girls, who did not appear inclined to contradict Mr Bobologo. “And do you get good food here,
ladies?” she asked. “Very good
food,” said Mr Bobologo.
“These good-time bar girls do not eat properly. They just drink dangerous liquor.
When they are here they are given
good, “It is good to hear you telling me all
this,” Mma Ramotswe said,
pointedly addressing her remark to the girls. “That is all right,” said Mr Bohologo. “We are happy to
talk to visitors. He touched Mma Ramotswe’s elbow and pointed out into the corridor. “I
must show you the kitchen,” he said. “And we must allow these girls to get on
with their work. It was not very apparent to Mma Ramotswe what this work
was, and she had to suppress a smile as they walked back down the corridor
towards the kitchen. He really was a most irritating man, this Mr Bobologo, with his tendency
to speak for others and his one-track mind. Mma Holonga had struck Mma Rarnotswe as being a reasonable woman, and yet she was
seriously entertaining Mr Bohologo
as a suitor, which seemed very strange. Surely Mma Holonga, with her wealth and position, could find
somebody better than this curious teacher with his ponderous, didactic
style. They now stood at the door of the kitchen,
in which two young women, barefoot and wearing light pink housecoats, were
chopping vegetables on a large wooden chopping board. A pot of stew was
boiling 0fl the stove—boiling
too vigorously, thought Mma Ramotswe—and
a large cup of tea was cooling on the table. It would be good to he offered
tea, she thought longingly, and that very cup looked just right. “These girls are chopping vegetables,”
said Mr Bohologo
solemnly. “And there is stew for our meal tonight.” “So I see,” said Mma
Ramotswe. “And I see, too, that they have just made
tea.” “It is better for them to drink tea
than strong liquor,” intoned Mr Bobologo,
looking disapprovingly at one of the girls, who cast her eyes downwards, in
shame. “Those are my views too,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Tea refreshes. It clears the mind. Tea is good at any time of the day, but especially at mid-day, when it is so hot.” She paused, and then added, “As it is today.” “You are right, Mma,”
said Mr Bohologo. “I am a
great drinker of tea. I cannot understand why anybody would want to drink
anything else when there is tea to be had. I have never been able to
understand that.” Mma Ramotswe now
used an expression which is common in Setswana and
which indicates understanding, and firm endorsement of what another has said.
“Eec, Rra,” she said,
with great depth of feeling, drawing out the vowels. If anything could convey
to this man that she needed a cup of tea, this would. But it did not. “This habit of drinking coffee is a very bad thing,” went on Mr Bobologo. “Tea is better for the heart than coffee is. People who drink coffee strain their hearts. Tea has a calming effect on the heart. It makes the heart go more slowly Thump, thump. That is what the heart should sound like. I have always said that.” ‘Yes,” agreed Mma
Ramotswe, weakly. “That is very true.” “That is why I am in favour of tea,” pronounced Mr Bobologo with an air of finality, as might a speaker at a
kgotla meeting make his concluding statement. They stood there in silence. Mr Bobologo looked at the girls,
who were still chopping vegetables with an air of studied concentration. Mma Ramotswe looked at the cup
of tea. And the girls looked at the vegetables. Savor
the pages of The Full
Cupboard of Life with your own favorite tea or tisane. Beware: both may
become habit forming. Steve
Hopkins, May 25, 2004 |
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ã 2004 Hopkins and Company, LLC The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the June 2004
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/The
Full Cupboard of Life.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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