Of Tiny White Vans and Time Machines
Title: Of Tiny White Vans and Time Machines
Rating: G
Disclaimer: The No 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency is the wonderful creation of Alexander McCall Smith. The Doctor Who franchise is lovingly created by the BBC. This is all a bit of fun and no profit is made by me or anyone else.
Summary: Once a month the Doctor visits a small garage in Gaborone, Botswana where the best mechanic in Botswana (and in the Doctor’s eyes, the whole universe) helps keep the TARDIS going that little bit longer. No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency and Doctor Who crossover, but you don’t need to have really read the books as it’s explained.
Spoilers: Set before Teatime for the Traditionally Built in the books and aside from being a Ten story, it can be slotted in anywhere in the Tenth Doctor’s reign. You can even decide which companion he’s with if you like.
Author’s Notes: It’s a bizarre idea, yes? A crossover between the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency and Doctor Who. It can’t be done, it shouldn’t be done...well, I don’t know about shouldn’t, but I’ve proved it can be done. The idea popped into my head and no matter how much I said ‘don’t be stupid’ it would go away. In the end I’m really happy with it. Considering it's been written while suffering exhaustion, I'm doing well!
And anyway, I have a gut feeling that the Doctor would love Botswana.
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The little white van was troubling Mr. J L B Matekoni, proprietor of Speedy Motors, expert mechanic, and more recently the husband of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective. The van was old, rusting in places, made strange noises, and seemed to burn up spare parts quicker than any other car in Botswana. However despite these qualities it was a hard working van, loyal and trustworthy, and in many ways a prouder vehicle than any young snazzy Mercedes Benz could ever be. It was also the much loved vehicle of Mma Ramotswe - Mr J L B Matekoni’s wife. She had had it many years and it was as important to her as any person was - perhaps beside himself and her fine father Obed Ramotswe. To tell her that it’s time was up, that it was simply too old, was impossible.
It was seven o’ clock now and there were only two people left in Speedy Motors, and the adjoining No 1. Ladies’ Detective Agency. Mma Ramotswe had been driven home by Charlie, the elder apprentice, the younger apprentice - Fanwell - had hopped onto the bus home the second five o’ clock appeared, and Mr. Polopetsi, after carefully finishing up his work had cycled home at half past. Now only Mma Makutsi was left typing away in the office and he was left trying to nurse the van into health.
Of course, even with the van to be worked on, Mr. J L B Matekoni would normally have gone home with his wife at five o’ clock. But tonight was the first Wednesday of the month and he had another reason for staying late; his strange visitor.
The thought of this visitor, along with worries about the van and Mma Makutsi’s unusually late night, distracted him so much that he stopped work on the little van and decided to make himself a cup of tea. He was a firm believer that distraction led to mistakes with vehicles, something he tried and failed to teach the apprentices.
He walked into the office and switched the kettle on. The typing stopped and there was an expectant pause.
“Would you like a cup Mma?” he asked.
“Yes please,” she replied crisply. The typing restarted but slightly slower this time.
Mma Makutsi was a fierce woman at times. She was the most distinguished graduate of the Botswana Secretarial College, receiving 97% in her final exams. She had started life with practically nothing and through working for the agency, running her own typing school for men, and her recent engagement to Mr. Radiphuti had finally reached a comfortable point in life. She was, though, not a woman to be trifled with, and though he was almost ten years older than her he was as nervous of her temper as the two young apprentices were.
“You are here late tonight Rra. Mma Ramotswe went home two hours ago,” she said politely. “Charlie drove her home,” her lips pursed in a way that suggested that she was as disapproving of Charlie’s driving as she was of everything else about him.
“I always work late on the first Wednesday of the month,” he said. The kettle clicked off and he poured them both tea. “Mma Ramotswe knows this.”
“Eh Rra, she said,” replied Mma Makutsi, ‘eh’ being the traditional way of saying ‘yes’.
“And you Mma, you are here late also,” he said.
He turned and placed her cup and saucer on the desk next to her and stood awkwardly in front of the desk, sipping his own tea. Would she get the hint to leave? He could not have her here when the visitor arrived.
“Eh Rra, Mr. Radiphuti is visiting a cousin tonight and so I took this chance to finish some outstanding paperwork. You do not achieve high results without extra effort.”
Mr. J L B Matekoni fully agreed with this. If there was a motto for the Speedy Motors Garage (and perhaps the No 1. Ladies’ Detective Agency also) he felt that this would be it. For a moment he imagined suggesting this. Perhaps Mma Makutsi could print it up on headed paper, or announce it when answering the phone.
“Still, you do not want to stay too late Mma. It is not a good thing to be out too late,” he hinted.
Mma Makutsi agreed with this but made no suggestion of finishing her work and leaving.
“Rra - I need to speak with you about this paperwork,” she said suddenly. She expertly whisked some sheets out of her in-tray and thrust them at him. “What do you think of that Rra? It is a mistake is it not?”
Mr. J L B Matekoni was momentarily flustered. He was not afraid of paperwork like some mechanics were, but he needed time to take it in. He scanned it.
“It is an order form Mma,” he shrugged. “Nothing unusual about that.”
Mma Makutsi harrumphed in frustration and came around the desk to point out his error. “Yes Rra, it is an order form. But you see the problem? You have ordered all these parts and yet I can find no reference to the car they went into or the bill that was sent out to the client. It is as if we give the parts away free!”
Mr. J L B Matekoni felt his stomach knot. How could he explain that he DID give those parts away free? If he did that he would have to explain why...and if he could not explain (and he surely could not), then she might investigate further (being an assistant detective). Even worse she might tell Mma Ramotswe; who, being both a detective and his wife, would soon weasel it out of him.
“I-I will have to check Mma...” he said, feeling his throat go dry.
“Surely you remember Rra? These parts are unusual...you remember all the cars that come in,” said Mma Makutsi impatiently.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “I will check tomorrow.”
As he said this he backed away towards the garage where she could pester him no more and he stood for some moments in the fading light and felt quite useless. He was in no state to work on cars, and yet he could not go back into the office.
It was seven thirty five and his visitor arrived at eight o’ clock. How could he let them know not to come? He had no way of contacting him...
He wanted out into the cooling air and sat on the old stool that Mr Polopetsti liked to take his break on. As he sat he wondered how he might explain himself to Mma Makutsi.
“It’s just a mechanic thing,” said his imaginary self.
This was true, but far too vague. Mma Makutsi would definitely tell Mma Ramotswe and between them they would find out.
“Mma Makutsi” said his imaginary self, “once a month I do some voluntary work on a machine. The owner does not want to make himself known and so I stay late and make sure no one knows.”
That was also true - but while it sounded very nice in his head he knew Mma Makutsi would press him for further details and he would give in.
And then there was the truth...well if he told her that she would definitely tell Mma Ramotswe who would make him go to Doctor Moffat in fear his illness had come back. Perhaps she would wail and cry. He imagined a distraught Mma Ramotswe wailing ‘My husband has gone mad! Oh help me!’
That, he decided, was taking it too far. Mma Ramotswe, aside from being a detective, was a steady woman and not given to hysterics. Perhaps, he thought with some amusement, she would not be surprised. “Is that all Rra? That’s perfectly normal! I have had visits like that myself...”
Well, she had had visits from clients who wanted to remain unknown - that was true. But this was unusual by even those standards. She certainly would not have been visited by the man in question - in fact it was quite amusing to wonder what sort of things the man might need the No 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency for. “Mma Ramotswe...I need to find a missing alien that is lost in Gaborone...” he imagined the man saying.
For a moment he wondered whether there were detectives in space. And if so, were there lady ones? He amused himself for a while imagining an alien secretary with large glasses covering three eyes.
He snapped himself back to the here and now, scolding himself for allowing his mind to wonder. When he had first taken this task on - recognising it as a task no mechanic could ever turn down and also recognising the great honour in being asked to work on such a machine - he’d stopped himself from thinking about where the man came from. He didn’t think about where other clients came from, what their wives were like, or the places they went to, and this should be no different. All he should ever know about this man could be found by looking at the vehicle, just as with any other engine brought into Speedy Motors.
It was now ten minutes to eight o’ clock. If Mma Makutsi didn’t leave soon, they she would soon find out the cause of the paperwork problem for herself. He sat, his insides gnawing with worry.
“Rra?”
Mr J L B Matekoni jumped, and he turned to see the lady in question. She was wearing shorter heels than usual, and so he hadn’t heard the familiar click of her shoes on the concrete. She was wearing a brown jacket and her red leather bag was tucked under her arm.
“Yes Mma?” he said. “Are you leaving now?”
“Eh,” she nodded. “I have locked the office so all you need to do is lock the garage.”
He nodded. “Good. I shall do that.”
For a horrific moment he thought she might stay and make conversation - give him some instructions that, in her eyes, might make the Apprentices work harder. She often said things like that ‘You must be firm! Clip them about the ear!’ or ‘Tell them that if they sit outside talking about girls when they should be working, you will throw a bucket of water over them.’ Personally he felt that if these punishments were carried out, it would be much more likely she would do them. In fact, she probably only mentioned them in the hope of being allowed to carry them out herself.
Tonight though, she smiled and said a polite goodnight leaving him to wait. He did not stand and go inside, there was no need. Instead he sat in the fading sun and inhaled the sweet scent of the evening. The city sounds were fading as people left for home, and he knew that by ten o’ clock the area would be as silent as any stretch of land out in the country.
At length he heard his friend (he could not bring himself to call the man a client, if anything he was THE client) arriving. Mr. J L B Matekoni moved into the garage again in time to see the proud machine solidify in front of him.
A Police Box, it said on the outside. But Mr. J L B Matekoni knew that it was anything but. The TARDIS his friend called it. Mr J L B Matekoni did not approve, generally, of men who called their cars ‘baby’ or ‘Suzie’, but TARDIS was the right name for this machine just as any car was defined by its maker.
The man in question popped his head out. “Ko ko!” he called - he seemed to particularly relish the call of arrival, liking the light sound of it. Unfortunately his pronunciation made it sound more like he was calling ‘Cocoa!’ but, on reflection Mr. J L B Matekoni didn’t think saying ‘Cocoa!’ was a particularly unpleasant way of arriving.
“Dumela Doctor,” he replied. “Did you sleep well?” he asked, this being a traditional polite beginning of a conversation.
The Doctor stepped out and returned the greeting. “Dumela Rra,” he said, attempting the traditional greeting - though his English accent made it sound at worst absurd and at best slightly french.
One of the things Mr. J L B Matekoni liked about the Doctor was his love of the Botswana words. Each time he heard a new one he would test it out in his mouth. For the same reason he always used Mr. J L B Matekoni’s full title apparently because he liked the sound of it as well.
“Any chance of a cuppa before we start?” asked the Doctor.
Mr. J L B Matekoni assured him there was and went to unlock the office to make it. The Doctor followed him and cheerfully sat on Mma Makutsi’s desk to wait. This Doctor had not met Mma Makutsi, that was certain, thought Mr. J L B Matekoni, or even he might have thought twice about sitting there. He hoped the man, who seemed curious about everything in life, would not start toying with Mma Makutsi’s typewriter. If anything was out of place tomorrow, Mma Makutsi would certainly blame him.
He poured out the Red Bush tea (not daring to touch Mma Makutsi’s precious India tea, even if the man would prefer it) and handed the cup and saucer over. He was relieved to see the typewriter remained untouched with the blank piece of paper still in it.
They were quiet for a moment as they drank. Mr. J L B Matekoni remembered the first few times the Doctor had come to him. He was always in a rush, and when he’d first made tea for the man he’d gulped it down in haste to start work on the TARDIS. But that was not how they did things in Botswana - they were a gentle country that took time over things and after a while the Doctor seemed to recognise that the slower approach would garner far more respect.
When the tea was drunk Mr. J L B Matekoni rinsed out the cups, put them away, and allowed the Doctor to lead him to the TARDIS. He handed the Doctor the parts he had ordered for him, and then picked up a small brown box filled with bits and pieces he had found that might be put to use in the machine - screws, an old buckle, a broken gear stick, batteries, and all sorts of odd items.
Before entering it he felt nervous, as he always did. It wasn’t the strange dimensions that worried him, but the feeling that he wasn’t in Botswana any longer. His mind told him that the TARDIS was sitting inside Speedy Motors, Gaborone, Botswana, but his heart told him that the inside of the TARDIS was as far away from Speedy Motors as it was possible to be. The Doctor had tried to explain that this was more or less the case, but that was one part of this miraculous machine that Mr. J L B Matekoni didn’t want to think about.
The parts were brought inside and the slow work on the machine began. It was easier than it had been the first time, but still difficult. Each part’s function needed to be explained on each little system he touched. Mr. J L B Matekoni was renowned to be the best mechanic in Botswana, but with a machine like this he was as innocent as a child.
It did not help, he felt, that when either of them spoke it had to be done in hushed tones. The Doctor had explained the first time that someone was asleep in the depths of the machine - clearly he was not alone. It made him wonder at a friendship where one person remained awake through the night while the other slept, and made him wonder whether the reason the Doctor never replied to how well he’d slept was because he never did.
About fifteen minutes in the Doctor yelped suddenly, “Don’t touch that! That defrosts the freezer!”
Mr J L B Matekoni’s hand paused over a lever that, as far as he knew, was part of the circuit that maintained oxygen. He sighed and tried to put his confusion into words. ‘Why isn’t it in the kitchen?’ would have been the right and logical thing to say, but instead he found himself voicing a thought that crept up on him whenever he thought of his strange times in the TARDIS.
“Why do you come here Doctor? Why do you ask me to work on this machine? I am just a mechanic - a good one perhaps but...” he trailed off and waved a hand to indicate the sheer impossibility of the situation.
The Doctor looked up from under the grill he was working on. “I wouldn’t trust anyone else near it Mr. J L B Matekoni. In a whole universe you are the closest I’ve ever found to an outsider who could really understand this machine. People say you’re the best mechanic in Botswana - believe me they underestimate you. And besides,” he said, brightening suddenly, “this old girl’s rather attached to you.” He patted the console and offered Mr. J L B Matekoni a winning smile.
Mr. J L B Matekoni swallowed, he was not a man who enjoyed praise, but he recognised the endorsement and went back to what he was doing - giving the lever a wide berth.
An hour later, after fiddling with an apparently vital system that seemed to be held together with duct tape, an alarm clock, and a tangle of ancient wires Mr. J L B Matekoni sighed. “Do you know what this machine reminds me of Rra?” he asked.
The Doctor didn’t even look up from the new part he was inspecting. “Hmm? What?”
“Mma Ramotwe’s white van.”
The strange statement caught the Doctor’s attention. “What?”
“Mma Ramotswe - my wife,” Mr. J L B Matekoni smiled fondly. “She runs the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency next to the garage.”
“The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency,” the Doctor rolled the words around in his mouth as thought testing them out. “Love it! If I was a female...and lived in Botswana...and had some sort of problem I wouldn’t go anywhere else.”
“No Rra,” Mr. J L B Matekoni, quick to point out the common misconception. “They will help men too. They are called the Ladies’ Detective Agency because they are ladies. Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi. And sometimes Mr. Polopetsi.” He caught the Doctor’s baffled look. “He is not a lady.”
Recognising that the conversation had shifted of track, Mr. J L B Matekoni returned to the point. “Mma Ramotswe has a fine white van which she has had for many years- unfortunately each time I work on it I think ‘I cannot fix it this time - it is too old’, and yet she loves it too much to ever change it. I think it sometimes works simply because she could not manage without it. That that is how you feel; no matter how impossible this machine becomes to fix, you will find a way somehow because you must.”
This time the Doctor swallowed. “Mr. J L B Matekoni,” he said slowly. “Your wife sounds like a good woman.”
Mr. J L B Matekoni smiled. “The finest woman in Botswana.”
Eventually all that could be done was done and Mr. J L B Matekoni picked up his things to leave, offering a hushed goodbye to the Doctor and his regards to the sleeping person on board. It was normal that he would leave and the Doctor would remain inside. As soon as Mr. J L B Matekoni was standing in the Speedy Motor’s forecourt, Gaborone, Botswana, the strange and wonderful machine would disappear for another month.
Tonight, though, the Doctor followed him and stood waiting as Mr. J L B Matekoni turned on the light in the now dark forecourt. “Was there something else Rra?” he asked.
The Doctor smiled, “I was thinking about a way to pay you back,” he said.
Mr. J L B Matekoni held up a hand. “I do not accept payment from you,” he said firmly. “I have explained before that this is a mechanic thing. No mechanic in the world would accept payment for such a chance. If anything, I should pay you.”
“An honest mechanic,” the Doctor smiled, “sometimes the world is a lovely place. Anyway, I believe you have a much loved white van needing some help?”
Mr. J L B Matekoni turned to his wife’s troubled van. “Eh Rra...although this time I think even I cannot fix it.”
The Doctor rubbed his hands together. “I always did like a challenge. If we can patch up an ailing time machine together, I think one white van can be nursed into health for a little longer.”
The End.
Author’s Notes:
Thought I’d give a rough guide to the Botswana words used and pronunciation. Anyone who has read the books is probably familiar with them, but for those that aren’t:
Mma/Rra - Madam/Sir (said ‘Mar’ and ‘Rar’)
Dumela - Hello (Doo-mail-a)
Ko ko! - probably the closest description is ‘yoo hoo!’ (said, as the Doctor says, ‘cocoa’ but the accent makes it sound less like a beverage)
Eh - Yes (From what I can tell its like ‘Ayer’ a sort of back of the throat sound)
Gaborone - city in Botswana (said Ha-ba-rone-ee from what I can gather)
I’m sure you didn’t need it, but there you go!
Thank you for reading - I would love your opinions on how well I’ve tackled the characterisation and Alexander McCall Smith’s unusual style - and most importantly whether you think it worked!
I actually would quite like to expand this fic into a proper doctor adventure featuring the whole Detective gang as well and showing the doctor’s first visit to Mr. J L B Matekoni...any opinions on that?
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