As Mma Makutsi spoke, Mma Ramotswe imagined how the museum might have a section devoted to ordinary people themselves, perhaps keeping a few ordinary people on display, sitting in chairs or reading newspapers, cooking possibly, washing their clothes, and so on. Mma Makutsi herself could be an exhibit, or at least her glasses could be on show in a special case, together with her ninety-seven-per-cent certificate from the Botswana Secretarial College. Some people might be interested in that— Mma Makutsi, for one.

“Good,” said Mma Makutsi. “I see you are smiling. You'll feel better soon, Mma. It's not the end of the world, you know.”

BUT IT WAS—or so it increasingly seemed to Mma Ramotswe as the day wore on. She ate her lunch alone at her desk—Mma Makutsi had shopping to do—and when Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni popped his head round the door to say that he was going off on some errand, she barely heard him, hardly acknowledged him. She was not to know that his errand was to a colleague in the motor trade, whom he had telephoned that morning to arrange for the purchase of a van, a small blue one, that had done a relatively low mileage and that was described, in the language of the trade, as “very clean.”

This van he brought back to Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors less than an hour later. He parked it outside the entrance to the garage and went inside to fetch Mma Ramotswe.

“You just come outside and see something,” he said, taking her hand.

For a moment she thought that he might be leading her to see her triumphantly restored van; but then she thought, no, that cannot be—he has bought a new one. He seemed pleased and excited, and she made an effort to smile. He may not understand how I feel about my old van, she thought, but he is trying to do his best for me and I must make him think I am pleased.

The two apprentices, who were standing conspiratorially at the entrance to the garage, watched as Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni led her round the side of the building. Charlie made a thumbs-up sign, a sign of encouragement. Fanwell did nothing; he caught Mma Ramotswe's eye and then looked away.

“There,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “There it is!”

The blue van was parked under the acacia tree, in the precise spot that the old van used to occupy. It was slightly bigger than the tiny white van—a medium-sized blue van, one might say—and it had been lovingly washed and polished, its chrome fittings glinting even in the shade of the tree.

Mma Ramotswe stopped in her tracks. “It is a very beautiful van,” she said. She made a supreme effort to sound enthusiastic, but it was hard. She swallowed. “Very beautiful.” She turned to face her husband. “And you have bought it for me?”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni inclined his head graciously. “I have bought it for you, Mma Ramotswe. It is yours. Your new van.”