Free Tea Time for the Traditionally Built by Alexander McCall Smith Page A

the builder's art but by gravity and hope. Fanwell's house stood at the intersection of two unpaved roads in the middle of Old Naledi, surrounded by a tiny yard at the back of which stood a lean-to privy and a couple of small thorn trees. The front door, which gave more or less directly onto the road, was painted bright blue, the national colour, a sign of pride. And although the yard was meagre and the surroundings bleak, the whole place had a tended air about it, the look of having been swept, dusted perhaps by some house-proud hand.
    They arrived at that time of the day when late afternoon imperceptibly becomes early evening, a time of lengthening shadows and softening light. There would still be a good hour before darkness descended, and Mma Ramotswe hoped that this would give the apprentice time enough to examine the van. She would sit under one of the trees, she thought, while he worked; there was a comfortable-looking stone there that was obviously used forjust such purposes. That would be where the owner of the house sat, she thought; well, she was Fanwell's guest and could sit there if invited.
    “So this is your place, Fanwell,” she said as she negotiated the van off the road and onto the small patch of yard.
    He turned and smiled at her proudly. “Yes, this is my place, Mma. Or rather it is my grandmother's place. I live here, you see. I live here with the others.”
    Mma Ramotswe nodded. It was not unusual for a grandmother to be the head of a household, especially now, with that illness that had stalked the land. But who, she wondered, were the others? They could be anybody: Fanwell's brothers and sisters, his cousins, even uncles and aunts. It did not really matter what the relationship was; a home was a home whoever lived in it, it was the same family no matter how attenuated the links of blood and lineage.
    She parked the van carefully beside a large tin tub turned upside down in the yard. That would be the family bath. As she switched off the engine and opened her door, the front door of the house opened and a child of about ten peered out. Fanwell gestured to the child, who stepped out shyly, followed by a smaller child, a boy and then another boy.
    Mma Ramotswe smiled at the girl. “How are you, little one?”
    The child lowered her eyes, as was respectful. “I am very well, Mma.”
    Mma Ramotswe reached out and took her hand. It felt strangely dry, as the hands of children sometimes can. “And these are your brothers?”
    The child nodded and then pointed to the smaller boy. “That one is my brother by another mother.”
    The door opened and another girl came out—this one rather older, thirteen, perhaps, or fourteen. Mma Ramotswe noticed theearly signs of womanhood and thought: if only she could be protected. But how could one do that in the absence of a mother and a father? She looked away. Somehow humanity got by; somehow children grew up in the most unpromising of surroundings, as in this cramped little house in this clutter of lanes and paths and tumbledown dwellings. And many of them, against all the odds, made something of their lives, studying by candlelight or by electric light dangerously stolen from the mains outside, poring over the books that could lead them out of this and into something better. Fanwell had done it: he must have had to battle to get the school certificate that meant that he could start a mechanics' apprenticeship. And if it had not been for Charlie, who had distracted him and led him astray, he would have completed the apprenticeship by now and would be earning enough, perhaps, to escape Old Naledi altogether.
    Fanwell turned to the teenage girl. “Take the aunty into the house and make her some tea,” he said. “The aunty likes tea.”
    The girl nodded and gestured for Mma Ramotswe to follow her.
    “My grandmother will be back soon,” said Fanwell. “She will also look after you, Mma. In the meantime, I'll start on your van.”
    Mma Ramotswe followed the girl