I Heart Beat (6 page)

IT'S TOMORROW AND I want to fire Toffie already. I've been waiting by the den since 7:00 a.m. GMT. It's now 7:34 a.m. GMT, and for anyone who knows time zones and can do basic maths, that's more than half an hour after nine o'clock. I hate tardy staff.

Toffie arrives on his bike at 7:45 a.m. GMT with something rolled under his arm. It's a map of the village with every house marked off in a square. He took it off his aunty who works for the estate agency. I decide to give Toffie a second chance.

Toffie sticks the map on the wall. “Okay, look here, Boss, there are …” I do a quick scan. I tell him I see 827 homes in the dorp.

“Nope. There are 812 homes and fifteen businesses,” Toffie says. I want to fire him even more.

I like to work methodically. We start at the first row of houses and he tells me exactly who's living there. When we hit a potential target, he makes a big cross over the square with a red pen; with a blue pen, we cross off all of the squares inhabited by single women or married couples.

After two rows of houses, Toffie says he needs to check something out. So we get on the bikes and go to a row of houses and he makes sure that the occupants are who he thinks they are.

Toffie has a routine. He knocks on the door and asks the person something dumb like “Is your husband in?” And if the answer is no, he asks, “When will he be coming home?” And if a man answers the door he asks the same question about the wife.

If people ask the reason for his stupid questions he gives the same answer: “The pubbingrill's having a skop on Saturday night and my ma wants to know if you want to buy tickets.”

And he sells a ticket for the pubbingrill party every time. And then he gets me to do it too. His mom is giving him two rand for every ticket he sells. He gives me one of those rands for every ticket I sell. Over the next four days we do a lot of this checking by going door to door, and we sell a lot of tickets. I'm not sure who's employing who any more.

Toffie takes his rights as a worker seriously. He says that he needs to be properly equipped. So I tell him I'll get some more red and blue pens. He shakes his head and says the internal communication system of the company is vrot. I tell him nonsense, it's his work ethic that's rotten. Then he goes swimming for the rest of the afternoon until I give him my spare cellphone. I draw the line when he asks me to pay for his airtime.

On the fifth day Toffie goes on strike. He says it's too hot to work and, anyway, it's the Day of Reconciliation. He won't work on a public holiday. I say I won't sell any more tickets. He says he'll work after he's had a swim. I tell him Rooi Duiwel's waiting. He says he wants to swim with me. I tell him I don't have a costume. He fetches his sister's old one. I tell him I'd rather eat raw buffalo intestines than swim in that costume. He says he's resigning and he's taking his tools with him. He fetches the map from the den and starts walking away with The Targets.
My
targets.

I get changed into Adore Appel's costume. I look adorable (not). I keep myself covered with a towel until I reach the jetty and then I jump in. I swim. And then I swim some more. And then I tell Toffie to fetch my sunscreen (factor 50
⁺
) from the den and when he's gone I jump out of the water and wrap myself in the towel.

I sit on the bank of the river and I feel tiny ants biting my skin. But when I take off my towel I don't see ants.

Toffie comes back with my factor 50
⁺
and stares at my legs.

“Jis, Boss,” he says, “look at your legs.”

I look at them and I see these white things covered in hair. And I hate Toffie for looking. And I hate Mom for never getting it together to take me for a wax.

Toffie reaches over and flicks white crystals away with his fingers. I hate Toffie more for touching my legs.

“The river's all choked up. In a couple of days they'll break through the sand bank by the lagoon and then the salt will get washed away to the sea,” he says, licking his finger.

I scratch the salt crystals off my legs and cover them in cream. I tell Toffie it's time to work. He lays the map on the ground. There are thirty-two red crosses on the map. We go through each one and in the first round we cross off fifteen. All fifteen are single men under the age of fifty. Too young.

During the second round we knock off six more names. These are all single men over the age of seventy. Too old. Toffie says there are eleven names left. I say, yeah, like duh!

We disqualify another three names on the basis of their professional status. One drives a soft-serve combi. Toffie says the ice-cream van is a clever front — he's actually a perlemoen smuggler. Very professional. I say I don't think smuggling abalone is so professional.

The others are a painter (walls not art) and a plumber (Mr Dreyer). Toffie says there's nothing wrong with plumbers. I say I'm very fond of plumbers personally, but the client wants a professional man. Toffie says I don't know what my Grummer really wants. I say I want to move on to the eight finalists.

I try to employ the next criterion on the lucky eight, and Toffie just gives up on me. “If you're looking for an old man who doesn't drink in this dorp, you're wasting your time, man, Beat. Everyone drinks here. There's nothing else to do.”

I say we'll be guided by bodily hair. So we go and sell more tickets. I scratch two from the list after they say they already bought tickets in the morning when they were at the pubbingrill having a couple of toots or seven. I don't care what Toffie says, I think drinking so early in the morning is taking “nothing else to do” a bit too seriously. Dr Peter Waterford is still partying in Jozi, but my remaining one is adequately haired and I snap his photo with my cellphone.

Toffie comes back with four photos he took using his cellphone. I put three of the candidates out of their misery on the basis of extreme ugliness. Toffie says I'm ugly about ugly people. I say I'm ugly about ugly old men.

We put the uglies in the slush pile and we look at the three remaining names: Mr David Davis-Davis (senior school religious studies teacher aka the educated God-squadder), Dr Simon Fridjohn (veterinarian aka the professional animal lover) and Dr Peter Waterford (doctor aka the professional professional).

All bases covered.

Gotcha!

I LOOK AT The Targets and I tell Toffie it's been swell, but all good things come to an end. If he could just turn in the cellphone and hand me the fifty-two rand he owes me for the tickets, I'll be on my way.

Toffie says that's just fine and what a pity me and Grummer don't have tickets for the pubbingrill skop.

I say that's cool bananas 'cos who needs a party when I've got the three names that'll take Grummer dancing down the aisle.

And Toffie says that's fine again and he gives me back my spare cellphone and says it's a crime that two of the old fossils on the list will be dancing with some other nice old ladies at the pubbingrill tomorrow night while me and Grummer sit like wet farts at home.

Because, get this, Beatrice Wellbeloved, he says, Mr David Davis-Davis and Dr Simon Fridjohn each bought a single ticket from him the day before yesterday.

Toffie's got me. And so I give him back the cellphone and buy two tickets at one rand discount each for the pubbingrill skop.

I leave Toffie cutting bits of dry skin off his cracked heels with his penknife and go home.

Grummer's having lunch on the veranda with Mr du Plooy. I sit down and join them.

“Beatrice has been very busy cycling and swimming with her new friend Christoffel,” Grummer says. “I've hardly seen her at all these past five days. Look how tanned and lovely she's looking.”

I rush inside and look at myself in the mirror. A quick scan tells me I've got eleven freckles on my nose and seven on my cheeks. I want to cut my head off.

I go back to the veranda just as Grummer's dishing up the food: boerewors and mashed potatoes. Grummer and Mr du Plooy are arguing about the vegetable garden.

“But, Mrs Wellbeloved, even the queen of England grows cabbages among her roses. They keep the aphids away,” says Mr du Plooy. I watch as he pours gravy all over his sausage and mash and mixes it up like a cement mixer. Sis!

“My husband's family came out of a world war where they grew vegetables just to survive. Derek (my late husband) always swore that he would never grow another vegetable,” Grummer argues, looking all pink-cheeked.

Mr du Plooy eats his mash with the side of his knife and cuts his boerewors with a fork and shovels it down.

He's starting on the garden tomorrow. But they still haven't settled on the questions of the quince and guava trees and the demolition of the “homes”.

After lunch, Pastor Hettie and Mr September are coming around to see the garden for the last time. Grummer says it was her idea. It'll help her decide what to do. I decide I've got plenty to do.

I get my laptop and open file Project: Pulling For Grummer. It hasn't been updated since the book club meet. I delete Alan Rodderick from The Target and put in the three new names. I imagine how Grummer takes to her three fiancés. I say the names out loud: Mrs Mavis Fridjohn. Yes! Mrs Mavis Waterford. Lovely! Mrs Mavis Davis-Davis. Nah! I sound like Mom after a bottle of vodka.

I call Toffie. He says he's at the video shop downloading
Shall We Dance?
for Adore and he'll call me back. I kick myself for giving him the URL of that Russian website.

When he finally calls, I ask him what's behind the David Davis-Davis thing. He tells me Mr Davis-Davis was originally plain Mr David Davis from the wrong side of the dorp. Then thirty years ago he met Ms Bridget Davis (no relation) from the right side of the village and they fell in love.

I'm finding this Romeo and Juliet saga very interesting (not) and I tell Toffie to get to the point. The point is that Ms Bridget Davis's snobby father would only allow his daughter to marry the low-life Mr David Davis if he would take the bride's family name and preserve the honourable line. So he became Mr David Davis-Davis. The union ended (sans children) three years ago when Mrs Bridget Davis-Davis was hit by a tractor overtaking a truck on the way to Hermanus.

I tell Toffie it's one of the worst stories I've ever heard in my life and it's just too bad but Mr David Davis-Davis will have to join the uglies in the slush pile. We'll get back to him if the other two targets crash.

Toffie says whatever. He has to download
Sleepless in Seattle
for his ma and can't talk. I shut the laptop and check out the action outside.

Grummer, Pastor Aitch, Mr du Plooy and a very old man (outside the target market) who Pastor Aitch calls Oom are wandering around the guava trees. I don't think the old man is Pastor Aitch's uncle, but that's what she respectfully calls him.

“
Kyk, seun. Kyk hierso
,” the old man says, and he's pointing at the thickest trunk of a very old guava tree at the edge of the garden. Mr du Plooy looks and smiles. There are some words carved on the tree:
K and G Forever 1966
.

“
Ek onthou.
Of course I remember that day,” Mr du Plooy says and he puts his big (hairy) hand on the old man's shoulder. Mr du Plooy has a funny look on his face. But it looks like some of the things he's thinking aren't funny at all. And I don't feel like laughing either.

Mr du Plooy and Mr September go into one of the shacks and leave me and Grummer and Pastor Aitch to chatter outside.

Pastor Aitch is telling Grummer about this crèche she and the other ladies from Die Skema are trying to start for the Die Trein children, and Grummer sounds very interested. She says it sounds like a good cause. She would like to do her bit. And I don't say anything 'cos I'm so not interested. Not one little bit.

They finally come out of the shack and Mr September tells Grummer he found some things he wants to keep. Grummer sees that these things are some old photographs and she says of course.

I notice that there isn't the photo of two kids I saw before but I don't say anything, and Mr du Plooy doesn't say anything, and I think I know why: 'cos he nicked it when he was last here.

Mr du Plooy is looking very hot. His face is a big red tomato. Grummer offers to get him some cold water but he says, nonono, he'll be fine in a minute.

Pastor Aitch says she thinks we should pray about things and Mr du Plooy says he thinks he should leave and I say I think it's not a bad idea. We leave Grummer, Pastor Aitch and Mr September praying by the quince trees.

When Grummer comes inside she says we need to talk about tomorrow. And I say we definitely need to talk about tomorrow. Tomorrow is the night of the skop. Tomorrow is when she meets Dr Simon Fridjohn at the party. Let's talk, Grummer.

About tomorrow.

WHEN I GO to bed on Friday night I enter the “talk about tomorrow” discussion in my file of some of my grossest conversations ever. It goes like this:

Beatrice says: “Grummer, the pubbingrill's having a dance tomorrow night.”

Grummer replies: “Yes, Beatrice.” Awkward silence.

Beatrice says: “I want to go.” (And Beatrice thinks: I so do not want to go.)

Grummer asks: “Are you going to go on a date with Christoffel?”

Beatrice says: “It's a sort of date.” (And Beatrice thinks: I'm so definitely not going on a date with Christoffel, or Toffie or any of his relatives. But you've got a date, Grummer, with Dr Simon Fridjohn.)

Grummer says: “I'm not sure if you're old enough for this sort of thing.”

(Beatrice thinks: But you're old enough.) And Beatrice says: “But I badly want to go.”

Grummer says: “I can't let you go out alone at night. It's not the right thing.”

Beatrice says: “You're right, Grummer. I think you must come with me.”

And then Grummer decides and says she'll come — but just for a short time. But we have to go shopping and buy “something pretty” to wear. I think that's an excellent idea. Grummer could do with something a little more jazzy. Her wardrobe really is on the dull side of dowdy.

Then Grummer has her turn to “talk about tomorrow”. This also occupies a place of honour in my file of grossest conversations ever.

I don't say much. I just count the liver spots on Grummer's hands as she talks on and on.

Here is a paraphrase of it: Grummer has a terrible “burden”. It's all to do with that old man Mr September, who used to grow fruit and vegetables on this plot and then got chucked off the land in the olden days when apartheid was the big thing. Now tomorrow Grummer's going to ask (firmly ask) Mr du Plooy to rip up the last of his garden and she is feeling bad about it.

Why? Now this is the killer: “Mr September lost his wife shortly after they were forced to move to Die Skema. But he came back one night after the funeral and sprinkled her ashes in the garden … among the quince trees,” Grummer says.

I keep awake by concentrating on making my feet go numb. Then my ankles and then my calves. I move suddenly and it gives me this crazy, tingling feeling.

“Yes, I was also terribly moved by Mr September's story. You see, Beatrice, I scattered your grandfather's ashes in our rose garden at home. And whenever I see those roses, I imagine that there is something of your grandfather in those wonderful blooms,” Grummer says. And she goes for one of those tissues she likes to hold captive in her bra strap.

Grummer's big dilemma is that she wanted to plant a garden that Grandpa would like — an English country garden full of hollyhocks and roses, elms and oaks — not rotten old fruit trees. Grummer asks me what I think.

I think it all sounds completely gross and boring. I also think Grummer must FOCUS! on her big date tomorrow. I say, “I think you must focus on what's really important. Like on real live people, not dead things.”

Grummer sighs and smiles and she thanks me for being so wise.

The next morning we leave Mr du Plooy starting on the garden and head off to the big city of Hermanus to get “something pretty” for Grummer to wear to the skop.

We go to Foschini clothing store and Grummer picks out a red dress from the rack. I tell her it's a bit small. I don't want to be totally rude, but I also think red's a bit loud for someone her age. I say the black one would be better. Grummer holds the red dress against me and says she thinks the size and colour are “just perfect”. I take the dress and put it back on the rack. I tell Grummer I'm already sorted.

“I don't think so, Beatrice,” Grummer says. “I can't have you going to your first dance dressed in trousers.” And she takes the red dress off the rack again.

“And while we are here. Let's get you a decent bathing costume. I don't know where you picked up that thing you've been swimming in,” Grummer says and she starts off in the direction of the costume rack.

I can be laid back. I know that there are times in one's life when one must just go with the flow. One must let things happen. One must take life as it comes. I know that this is definitely not one of those times.

I look at Grummer holding up a bikini and tell her I'll take the dress. I lure her past Aye Cee Kermans into Woolworths to pick out her outfit.

We make it back home just in time to meet Tom and Candy weaving up the driveway. They're on their way back from a lunch at the brewery and want Grummer to make up a fourth tonight in a game of Rummikub.

“Not that we do a lot of
playing.
It's talk
mostly
. But it's
always
good fun,” Candy says. She thinks it might be nice to have it at our house, for a
change
.

Grummer's says she's awfully sorry — not that I think she looks very sorry — but she's going to the dance at the pubbingrill.

Tom does his psycho laugh and Candy says, “Oh, you're
not
, Mavis. Not the
pubbingrill
. None of
our
sort goes
there
.”

And Tom jabs Candy in the ribs and says they go there sometimes when everywhere else is closed and they need one for the road. Which reminds him … and he and Candy hit the road.

I tell Grummer I need to wash my hair (review my research) and she asks me what time Toffie's coming. We can all go together in her car when he arrives. I tell Grummer I'm meeting Toffie at the pubbingrill and Grummer titch-tiches and says it's just not good enough; they never did things like that in her day.

So I get Toffie on his cellphone — correction: my cellphone — and I tell him he has to be my date for the skop; otherwise Grummer will be miffed. And her cross face is not going to get her skipping up the aisle.

Toffie doesn't play nice. He's still cheesed off at me for trying to confiscate his (my) cellphone and kick him off the project. “Nonono, Beat. No can do. You're the boss. It would be like … like too familiar. What would the rest of the staff think,” he says and then he wets himself laughing. I tell him he's fired and he must come at seven o'clock. Precisely 5:00 p.m. GMT.

Toffie's having too much fun to stop. “Jis, Beat, you're forward. Don't you know it's the boy who has to ask the girl on the date? You must like me a lot, hey? Come on, say it.”

I say nothing. Not even “it”.

I hear him sigh. He says if I can't give him romance, then he'll take my cash. He says he'll see me at a quarter past seven after I use Mom's credit card and buy him 200 rands' worth of airtime.

I know Dr Simon Fridjohn's going to be worth every last cent. I know it, 'cos I've done my research.