I Heart Beat Read Free Page A

leave it unattended for nine months. Grummer says it: “How could Georgia do this to me? It’s so typical of your mother. Can she never do anything right?”
    Hold it right there, Grummer! That’s my mother you’re badmouthing. No one gets to trash Mom but me. It’s
my
perk. I’ll have to set her straight on this later.
    â€œI think we may need to telephone a plumber,” Grummer says.
    Yeah, like duh!

Chapter 4
    I STAND OUTSIDE on the grass and text “plumber” to Info Service. In a few minutes three names and numbers land in my inbox. The first is Appel, the second is Dreyer and the third is Pretorius. I like to do things methodically, so I call the first.
    A voice answers and shouts over the sound of loud music: “Just hold on. I’ve got to take this outside. I can’t hear a blerrie thing in here. Hey man, Pine, just keep an eye on my beer while I get this, hey.”
    And then I hear a male voice jeering: “So the wife’s finally got you. It’s home James for you.” And then there’s a lot of laughter.
    Grummer’s sweeping water out of the front door. It’s pouring out onto the veranda.
    I brief Mr Appel on the problem. “Jislaaik,” he exclaims in dismay. “That’s not good. All that water. And there’s a drought on and water restrictions. Your water bill’s going to be a killer.”
    I don’t care about a drought or water restrictions. I just want the water to stop pouring out of the geyser.
    Mr Appel says he’ll be here in two ticks. He’s in the pubbingrill on the main road.
    It’s two ticks and forty minutes later and Mr Appel arrives in a bakkie. The side of the vehicle says: An Appel a day keeps your plumbing OK. There’s someone with him. An alarm goes off in my head as a fat kid walks towards me. Loser Alert! He’s wearing khaki shorts, slip-slops and a T-shirt with a collar. I try to snap a photo of him with my cellphone, but he won’t keep still. Damn, my two and only friends back home will never believe me.
    â€œSorry hey, I had a couple more dops for the road,” Mr Appel says to Grummer. His breath smells to me like he’s had more than just a couple.
    â€œBut I’m here now, so let’s fix the problem,” he says.
    Grummer takes him through to the bathroom, and me and Loser get to spend some special time together. I don’t think it gets any sweeter than this: Loser’s name is Christoffel, but I must call him Toffie. Yip! Toffie Appel, get it?
    But it gets better. His uncle the plumber’s name is Art. He’s not joking — Art Appel. Am I the only one in the world who thinks calling someone Potato in Afrikaans is freaksville? And just when I thought I had died and gone to loser heaven, he hands me the olive in the cocktail: his dad, the guy who owns the pubbingrill in the main road, is Pine. I don’t think I need to spell it out. Are these people for real?
    There’s no time for any more relatives ’cos Mr Potato, the boozy plumber, is done. He’s managed to turn off the water for now and he’ll be back tomorrow to turn it back on and finish the job.
    I can’t wait. If he doesn’t bring his nephew and brother along with him, I’ll be a wreck; a family portrait for the loser gallery blog will mean a big score for me.
    I’m feeling hungry so I call Info for Mr Delivery to get some take-outs. Mr Who? They don’t have him registered in the area database. I’ve landed in the middle of the dark ages. Things can’t get worse. Then they do.
    Grummer’s getting some stuff out of a plastic packet. She calls it supper. “I thought we would be peckish when we arrived, so I brought along one or two things to tide us over until we can shop tomorrow,” she says, opening some Tupperware containers.
    I pick the raisins out of the rusks and take some pieces of cucumber from the salad. There’s