The Colors of All the Cattle (No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency #19)

by Alexander McCall Smith

Many men are proud of their wives in one way or another, although not all of them are as vocal in their pride as their wives might like them to be. This is a failing of men, and must be added to the list of men’s failings, although all of us have failings and weaknesses—men and women alike—and it is not always helpful to point them out.

She recognised that sometimes the best we could do was simply to muddle through, getting some things right but also getting many things wrong. She knew all that, and was never too quick to blame or offer reproach.

If you punish somebody harshly, she said, then you are simply inflicting more pain on the world. You are also punishing not only that person, but his family and the people who love him. You are punishing yourself, really, because we are all brothers and sisters in this world, whether we know it or not; we are all citizens of the same village.

“She is certainly smiling,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Although we need to be careful about smiles, Mma. There are some people who smile on the outside when they are not smiling on the inside.”

Mma Ramotswe was silent for a moment. This, she thought, was definitely one of those “filler articles.” But she was still intrigued by the question. Did her own life have a point and, if it did, what would that be?

Late people are still with us. And they were. They were with us in the things that they had said, which we remembered long after they had gone; they were with us in the love that they had shown us, and which we could still draw about us, like a comforting blanket on a cold night; and, if the late people had had children, they were with us in the look in the eye of those children, in the way they held their heads, in the way they laughed, or in the way they walked, or did any of the other things that were passed on, deep inside, within families.

Mma Makutsi sighed. Imagination was an odd thing. It made you see things that were not there and hear things that were not said. Although sometimes the things that were not there or the things that were not said were things to which you should pay close attention. Sometimes, she thought, but not always.

“Should we wait to have tea, then?” Mma Makutsi asked. Mma Ramotswe did not think that was a good idea. The body expected tea, she believed, and the rhythms of the body, its anticipations and requests, should not be ignored. “We can have another cup of tea when she arrives. That is the best thing to do.”

THE FOLLOWING DAY Mma Ramotswe made one of her lists. These were sometimes entitled Things to be done today; on other occasions they were headed Things to be done soon, and, rather more rarely, simply Things to be done. The descending order of urgency was matched by a descending rate of fulfilment. Things to be done tended to be merely aspirational—catalogues of things that would be done if conditions were right or if there was nothing else more pressing to be done. Things to be done today were, as Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni once wryly observed, those tasks that should have been done yesterday but which, not having been done, were now weighing heavily on Mma Ramotswe. “Perhaps you might have another list altogether, Mma,” he suggested. “This could be called Things I’ll never do. You would not feel uncomfortable reading that list, as you will have already admitted that these are things you do not want to do—and will not do.” Mma Ramotswe laughed. “It would include many wishes,” she said. “It would have all those things that it would have been nice to do.” Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni warmed to the theme. “And you could have yet another list,” he said. “Things that other people should do, but don’t seem to be doing.” Mma Ramotswe thought for a while. “That could be a very long list,” she said. “There are many people who do not do what they should be doing.” “They probably have no lists,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “If they did, then they might do some of the things they should be doing but a...

“Progress,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “You must tell them you believe in progress.” Mma Ramotswe considered this. She was not sure whether she agreed. Most people would not hesitate to say that they believed in progress, but was all progress necessarily a good thing? The people who wanted to build the Big Fun Hotel would undoubtedly claim that their plans were an example of progress in operation, but if that was so, then it was not the sort of progress that Mma Ramotswe would like to see. Progress was more and better schools, better clinics, less poverty in general; progress was not riding roughshod over people’s wishes, pursuing profit at all costs, building large and noisy hotels in places where people wanted there to be quiet—in places where there were important memories of late people and what they meant to us. That was definitely not progress. “Not all progress is good, Rra,” she said mildly. Mma Potokwane looked thoughtful. “There’s truth in that, Mma. Yes, there is truth in that.”

“And who will you vote for?” asked Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, smiling. Mma Ramotswe did not reply straightaway. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I don’t want to vote for Violet Sephotho, but isn’t it a bit boastful to vote for yourself? Are you allowed to do that?” “Of course you are,” said Charlie. “Mma, if you don’t vote for yourself, then who will vote for you? Nobody, Mma—nobody.”

She inclined her head in acknowledgement of the compliment—if that was what it was. Not very glamorous…well, she had never pretended to be anything other than what she was. Glamorous people were all very well, but when it came to cooking pumpkin, or repairing children’s clothing, or making stew for a hungry husband, or doing any of the other hundreds of things that women had to do every day, every day, then glamour did not get one very far.

She wanted to say that, but she found that she could not speak. He would understand, though, because they had spent many hours together before he became late, when they had said nothing to one another but had nonetheless said everything. Because it was possible, she knew, to say nothing and to say everything at the same time—if you were with somebody whom you understood and loved. It was not necessary to talk in such circumstances; there was no need.

It was not the life she had planned for herself, but neither was being a private detective. Life happens, she thought; whatever we do, life just happens.