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

into the house and found herself in a small, square room. At the far end, behind a tattered blue curtain, a doorway led into the back room, the sleeping quarters, she imagined. The front room, dimly lit by daylight admitted through a single window, was cluttered with the family's possessions: a tin trunk from which the clasp had fallen away, a table of varnished yellow wood, straight-backed chairs, an open cupboard with tins of food and cooking implements stacked on the shelves. Against the wall opposite the window stood a small electric stove—two hot plates and a tiny, rickety oven. This was home to … Mma Ramotswe thought: five young people, if one includedFanwell, and one grandmother. And she saw that there were six white enamel plates stacked on one of the shelves; six single plates on which all the family's food was served.
    The girl produced a simple kettle from somewhere. It was already filled with water and she placed it delicately on the stove.
    “It will not be long, Mma.”
    Mma Ramotswe smiled at her. The smaller children, the girl and the two boys, had sidled into the room and were standing near the window, watching her.
    “Shall I sit down here?” asked Mma Ramotswe, indicating one of the chairs.
    The girl nodded. “That is my grandmother's chair, Mma,” she said. “But she will not mind. She can sit on one of the others.”
    Mma Ramotswe looked at the other children. It was difficult to tell with certainty, but two of them looked very alike; the others were different. Brothers and sisters by other mothers, she thought. Of course, that applied to all of us, did it not? We were all brothers and sisters by different mothers.
    She turned to the teenage girl. “Do you go to school?”
    The girl nodded. “I am in Form Two.” There was a gravity about the way she spoke, her answers being delivered with precision and only after what seemed like a pause for consideration.
    “And what is your best subject?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “Let me guess? You are good at English. Am I right?”
    The girl's eyes widened. “How could you tell, Mma? Yes, that is my best subject.”
    Mma Ramotswe chuckled. “I am a detective, you see. I know how to find clues. And there are many clues in this place. I saw those two books on the shelf there. Those ones. An English dictionary and a book of stories. I thought: there is somebody in this house who is a keen reader. I could tell that. And those ones over there,” she nodded in the direction of the smaller children, “theyare too small to be reading English dictionaries. And Fanwell … Well, he is a young man, and they do not read dictionaries either. So that meant Grandmother or you, and I decided that it must be you.”
    The girl smiled. It was the first time that she had smiled, and Mma Ramotswe saw her face light up. “Fanwell told me that you are a detective, Mma,” the girl said. “He told me that you are a very clever lady.” She paused. “And he also said that he often helps you solve cases.”
    Mma Ramotswe gave nothing away. “Of course he does,” she said. “Your brother is very useful.”
    The kettle had now begun to boil, and the girl busied herself with the making of tea. The brew was thin and the milk powdered, but Mma Ramotswe was thirsty and it was welcome. As she began to sip the tea, the front door opened and the grandmother came in.
    THEY SAT TOGETHER at the table, Fanwell's grandmother and Mma Ramotswe. The teenage girl who had made the tea and the younger children had been sent outside, while the grandmother and her visitor talked.
    “I am from Thamaga,” said the old woman. “I was born there, the firstborn of my parents. Number one of seven. Three girls and four boys. There are three of us left, Mma, after all these years. Three.”
    “You are still here,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is a good thing.”
    The grandmother acknowledged the truth of what Mma Ramotswe said. “Yes, it is. But then when you are old like me, you think that the