Free To the Land of Long Lost Friends: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (20) by Alexander McCall Smith

just air. How could we tell what we had to do, because we were very small, really, and our feet were stuck on the ground, and we could not see very far? And then the answer came. It had been there all along, of course, and she had always known it: we knew what we had to do because there were all those people, our ancestors, who had faced exactly the same problems as confronted us, and who had worked out what was the right thing to do. We only had to listen. We only had to close our eyes and wait for their voices to come to us on the wind, perhaps, or in the stillness of the night. That was all we had to do.
    “Oh,” Calviniah said suddenly. “There’s somebody else I’ve remembered.”
    Mma Ramotswe waited.
    “Poppy,” she said. “Remember her? She was in our class too. The one who went off to Francistown and became rich because she had that big store? Remember her?”
    Mma Ramotswe did. She had forgotten about Poppy, but now she came back to her. They had all liked Poppy, and when they heard of her good fortune, people had been pleased rather than envious.
    “Well,” said Calviniah. “She has no money any more. Gone.”
    “Oh?” said Mma Ramotswe. “Where?”
    “Who knows?” replied Calviniah. “I don’t, I’m afraid.” She shook her head sorrowfully. “Well, I have my suspicions. I don’t think she will be very happy.”
    Mma Ramotswe lowered her eyes. She hated hearing about the unhappiness of others. There was so little time in life, so little, and yet there were so many who were obliged to spend those precious few years we had on this earth in unhappiness.
    “Not that she has to be unhappy,” Calviniah continued. “You can lose all your money and still be happy.”
    “And you might not have any in the first place,” observed Mma Ramotswe. “There are many people who do not have any money at all, Mma, and yet are happy with the world.”
    Calviniah agreed. “That’s true enough, Mma Ramotswe.”
    Mma Ramotswe looked up. “You have your suspicions? You said you have your suspicions? Tell me about them, Mma.”

CHAPTER FIVE

AT THE HAPPY CHICKEN CAF
    T HAT EVENING, Charlie met Queenie-Queenie at the Happy Chicken Caf. This was a small restaurant in a cluster of shops not far from the old Standard Bank; its sign had suffered the loss of a final e, and the accidentally shortened name had stuck. It had been a favourite haunt of Charlie’s for some months, although its prices were, he thought, a bit on the steep side. In fact, Charlie was rarely in a position to buy a piece of chicken, restricting himself to the occasional free meal, given to him by Pearly, the restaurant’s owner, a woman who was vaguely related to his mother. Pearly had a soft spot for Charlie, and recognised that according to the rules of the old Botswana morality, as an older relative she had at least some responsibility for him. That was how it was: nobody was left alone, unrelated, and uncared for—somewhere, in the vast tangle of human relationships, everybody could say to at least someone: I am one of your people.
    Of course, the operation of this system of solidarity was not always simple. While there might be one person who recognised your claim, there might equally be another—sometimes in a position of authority—for whom the claim meant little or nothing. In this case, the doubter was Mr. Potso, the chef who fried the chicken, a thick-set man with only one eye, who was Pearly’s lover, and who resented Charlie’s claims on her.
    “This boy,” Mr. Potso complained to Pearly. “This boy who hangs about sometimes: Who exactly is he?”
    “He’s my cousin’s son. Not my close cousin, you know, but one of my mother’s people from way back. I forget exactly where and when, but way, way back.”
    Mr. Potso was not impressed with the credentials of this kinship. “There are many people,” he said. “There are so many people who were related a long time ago. We all go back to Adam, remember. We are all his