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

but I shall be with you before long
. It was quite a lengthy message for a single look to convey, but it did so clearly enough.
    You could not buy a boy baby a bonnet like that, thought Mma Ramotswe. A cap, perhaps – one of those woollen caps that could be pulled down over the baby’s ears in cold weather. That would be a good present, though inappropriate in this heat. So one might get the baby one of the stuffed toys that were arranged along a section of shelving towards the back of the store. There was every imaginable creature: lions, chickens, even a stuffed anteater. She moved towards the shelf and reached for a lion. It was rather large for a stuffed toy – almost the size of a real lion cub – and it occurred to Mma Ramotswe that a baby might get something of a fright if given such an object.
    She replaced the lion and picked up in its stead a long green crocodile, complete with teeth represented by short tabs of white felt. What would a baby make of a crocodile? And was it a good idea to give a baby such a creature to love when real crocodiles were so completely unlovable? Should you not tell very small children to keep well away from crocodiles, rather than give them the message that crocodiles were suitable companions in the nursery?
    She looked at the crocodile. As it stared back at her with its carefully stitched brown eyes, she remembered that a long time ago, at the very beginning of her career as a private detective, she had been obliged to deal with a crocodile that had eaten somebody during a baptism ceremony in a river. It had been such an ill-advised thing to do – to immerse the new believers in a river known for its crocodiles. What did people expect? That the crocodiles would stay away out of respect? She shook her head. People forgot about obvious dangers and then were reminded sharply that Africa could be a dangerous place, for all the sunlight and the music. Yet everywhere was dangerous. The Tlokweng Road was dangerous if you tried to cross it in the face of a careering minibus or a truck. All roads were like that, wherever you went in the world, and if there were crocodiles in rivers in Botswana, then there were sharks in the sea off Durban, and Australia had even more poisonous snakes than Africa. She had read, too, that there were pirates in the Indian Ocean, and so it went on. You had to be aware of all the dangers, but you should not worry about them too much or you would end up sitting in your room afraid to go outside in case something bad happened.
    ‘Mma Ramotswe?’
    It was the owner of the store, who had now finished with her other customers.
    Mma Ramotswe struggled to remember the name of the woman.
    ‘Mma…’ she began.
    ‘I am Mmakosi. Your husband looks after my husband’s car, I think. He has seen you there, going into your office next to the garage.’
    Mma Ramotswe put down the stuffed crocodile and returned the owner’s greeting. She noticed that she used the naming practice that a woman might use in Botswana: Mmakosi, meaning that she was the mother of Kosi, who would be her first-born.
    ‘I have come about a present,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘It is a present for a new baby.’
    Mmakosi nodded and smiled. ‘It’s Mma Makutsi?’
    Mma Ramotswe was taken aback. Gaborone was a large town, but there were many occasions on which it behaved like a village – and a small village too. This was an example of exactly that: not only did Mmakosi know who she was, but she was also aware of the birth of the young Radiphuti.
    Mmakosi noticed her customer’s surprise. ‘Do not be too astonished, Mma. We hear these things. It is useful information for a shop like this.’
    Mma Ramotswe recovered her composure. ‘I should take lessons from you, Mma. I am a detective but so, it seems, are you.’
    ‘Informants, Mma – that’s the secret. Make sure that you have informants in the right places.’
    ‘Such as maternity wards?’
    Mmakosi’s eyes sparkled. ‘But you must always