Dunger Read Online Free PDF Page A

breaths. “Always happens.”
    I pick up the end of the pipe. The bottle looks like a big detergent container and it has holes punched in it. I suppose that’s for a filter. There’s brown sediment in the bottom of the plastic.
    Grandpa sits on the bank giving instructions while I take the bottle off the pipe and wash it. Then I have to pick up the pipe and whack it against the stones to dislodge any sediment that might have got through.
    â€œIf there’s a blockage, it’s up the top end,” he says.
    By now the sun is shining in bright patches through the bush and I’m starving. My arms are tired, scratched red with branches. I tie the bottle back on the hose end of the pipe, and Grandpa shows me where to scrape stones away so that the bottle is lying in a deep pool. He is very particular. I have to find larger stones to place on either side, then a big flat stone as a bridge to prevent the bottle from washing out.
    When I’ve finished, he puts his hand on my shoulder. I think he’s going to say something but he is just steadying himself in preparation for the climb back up the bank.
    It takes just as long to get down the hill. I’m sure half the day has gone but it’s only nine o’clock. Grandpa takes me to a tap on a post by the garage.
    â€œThis is the lowest outlet,” he says, turning it on.
    No water comes out. Not a drop! All that effort for nothing!
    â€œListen, boyo.”
    I hear a noise like a gurgling stomach.
    Grandpa grins. “We’re clearing the air lock. Wait!”
    More gurgling noise and then comes a spurt of brown water.
    Another spurt! Another! It gushes out of the pipe like a pulse, as though it is part of the hill’s great artery system, and then, finally, it steadies as a clear flow.
    Grandpa turns the tap off. “Anything happening to the tank?”
    I listen. There is a sound like water dropping into a bucket. “It’s filling!”
    â€œGood-oh,” says Grandpa. “I smell breakfast.”
    Grandma has been cooking pancakes in a frying pan on the outdoor fire. She has smothered them with sugar, butter and lemon juice, and there is a stack waiting for Grandpa and me, on the table.
    â€œWe’ve had ours. They’re delicious,” says Lissy. Then she sees my arms. “You’ve scratched yourself.”
    I shrug, my mouth full of food.
    â€œYou should have worn long sleeves,” she says.
    She sounds like Mother-of-the-hundred-eyes. “It’s nothing,” I tell her.
    The water is running into the tank and the pipes to the house are now alive with it. Lissy turns on the tap at the sink and after a few spouts of brown, she gets clean water. I want to tell her, “You can thank me for that, Sis. I’m a first-class plumber.”
    She comes to the end of the table and looks at one of the boxes of food. “Grandma? Hey, Grandma? This bag of flour hasn’t been opened.”
    Grandma is washing her spectacles under the tap and doesn’t hear her.
    â€œGrandma, what flour did you use?”
    Carefully, Grandma wipes her glasses on a tea towel. “You don’t waste good flour.”
    â€œDid you make pancakes with the flour out of the cupboard?” Melissa screams. “It had mouse poo in it!”
    Grandma puts her glasses back on. “I put it through the sifter,” she says.
    Melissa is hysterical, and I don’t blame her. Even Grandpa stops eating. He says, “That might have sifted out the hard stuff, but what about the pee?” He pushes his plate away. “Mice carry bubonic plague, I’ll have you know.”
    â€œYou’re wrong,” Grandma shouts. “Bubonic plague is rats!”
    I’ve had two pancakes and I feel sick. Very sick. Lissy is sitting on the couch, crying. “I want to go home!” she wails.
    I rummage in my suitcase and get out a handful of milkshake lollies.
    â€œWhat’s that?” Lissy