Free The Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon by Alexander McCall Smith Page A

unusual, Mma Ramotswe had noted, in the weeks before the onset of the rains. It was always hot then, and it seemed as if people felt too lethargic to be aware of their problems, or, if they were aware, to be bothered to do anything about them. Once the rains came, it would be different. That was a time when life seemed to start all over again, and this meant that people who had something to worry about – some matter of doubt or uncertainty that required the services of Mma Ramotswe – would think about doing something about their problem. And she, of course, was just the person for that. As the motto of the agency proclaimed:
Satisfaction Guaranteed.
    She wrote out a note to leave on the door, in case a client should turn up.
Closed
, she wrote,
but open again tomorrow morning as normal. Please return with your problem then.
Having dashed off the note, she looked at it more closely. She was not sure whether it was enough to say that a business was closed. Somebody who had made a special trip to consult her might be forgiven for being annoyed at not receiving an explanation; might conclude, perhaps, that this was a business that could close for no reason at all – on a whim. There were businesses like that, she knew; their owners thought nothing of bringing down the shutters because they fancied an afternoon of shopping, or because they felt a little bit tired and wanted to go home to rest, or simply because they were fed up with working. So she felt that she should give some explanation, and perhaps also change the word
problem
to
matter.
She had found that people rather liked their problems being described as
matters
, a term that, she had observed, was much used by lawyers. It was more tactful, she thought.
    She reached for a fresh piece of paper and wrote, in large, easy-to-read letters:
We are closed today on account of the joyful arrival of the first-born son of Mma Makutsi (Associate Detective). We shall re-open for business matters tomorrow morning, same as usual. Signed, Precious Ramotswe, Owner, No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency.
    It was a good sign, one that would reassure even the most troubled of clients – and all the clients of detective agencies
were
troubled, no matter how much they might try to conceal it. If anybody could help them to become less troubled, then undoubtedly it was the signatory of that sign.
     
    She parked her van near the coffee shop at the edge of Riverwalk and made her way past the cluster of traders’ stalls. These stalls were a fruitful source of presents, but not, she decided, ones for a new baby. There were leather belts, and jewellery, and animals made out of polished soapstone, but her real destination was a shop near the large supermarket. This was Mother and Baby, a small shop sandwiched between a men’s clothing store – Kalahari Fashions – and an electronics store – Loud Sounds
.
She had noticed the store before, having been attracted by the colourful displays mounted in its window, but had never gone inside. It belonged, she had heard, to a woman whose husband was the proprietor of an unsuccessful – but determined – football team unkindly referred to by nearly everybody as the Gaborone All-time Losers. Mma Ramotswe had met this man on one or two occasions as he brought his car to Mr J. L. B. Matekoni for servicing. For the proprietor of a lost cause, he always seemed very cheerful, and she had heard that his wife had a similar approach to life.
    She did not look in the window but went straight inside, where one or two other customers were examining a selection of lace bonnets of the sort that people liked to put on babies’ heads. Some of these were attractive enough, in Mma Ramotswe’s view, but others were unduly fussy and only succeeded in making the baby look absurd.
    The woman who owned the shop was busy with the bonnets, but smiled in Mma Ramotswe’s direction and gave her a look that seemed to say,
These people are being very slow to make up their minds,