She lowered herself into the driver's seat. It felt so different from the seat of the old van, which was much smaller and less padded. Over the years, though, the tiny white van's seat had moulded to her particular shape, with the result that it was like a supporting hand beneath her. This seat was an alien shape; it might give in the right places in the future, but for now, comfortable though it was, it felt unfamiliar and rather disconcerting. Driving along in such a seat would be a bit like driving an armchair, Mma Ramotswe thought, but did not say. What she said to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was, “It is the last word in comfort, Rra. It is very, very comfortable. Surely this seat comes from the Double Comfort Furniture Shop!”

He appreciated the joke. “Maybe, Mma Ramotswe. Maybe. We shall have to ask Phuti Radiphuti about it.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni walked round the front of the van and got into the passenger seat. “We can go for a drive now,” he said. “That is the ignition there. See? See how easily the engine starts. And listen—listen to how quiet it is.”

Mma Ramotswe had to admit that the engine was indeed quiet. But then, “Where are the gears, Rra?”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni laughed. “Gears are largely a thing of the past, Mma Ramotswe. Or at least changing them is a thing of the past. This is an automatic van.”

Mma Ramotswe had been in an automatic vehicle before but had not paid much attention to what was going on. She remembered thinking that some people might find it useful not to have to change gear all the time, but she was not sure whether she was one of those drivers. In fact, she felt that she probably was not, as she found that leaving one hand on the gear lever and steering with the other was a comfortable driving position. She suspected, too, that Mma Potokwane would agree with her; the matron of the orphan farm, Mma Ramotswe had observed, changed gear in the same way as she stirred the mixture for one of her famous fruit cakes: with vigour and a strong circular movement.

Over the next fifteen minutes, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni instructed Mma Ramotswe in the ways of automatic gearboxes and helped her through the initial steps of starting and stopping such a vehicle. Then they left for a brief drive down the Tlokweng Road before doubling back and returning to the garage.

“It runs very sweetly,” said Mma Ramotswe as she finally drew to a halt beside the garage. “And the ride is so smooth.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni beamed with pleasure. “It will be a great change after your late van,” he said. She nodded her agreement. Yes, it would be a great change. Her late van, with all its quirks and noises, its unpredictability at times, its modesty and discomfort, was a world away from the insulated, air-conditioned cocoon that was the driving cab of this new van. And although reliable transport was always a reassurance, and this new van was clearly reliable, the tiny white van was somehow more human, more like us, more natural than this gleaming construction of blue-painted metal.