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bathroom (no bath but a rusty metal tub). The wallpaper is a collage of pictures from a magazine called
Scope
. And there’s an old photo of two kids on the wall above a rotting mattress. One dark-looking girl and a whitish-looking boy.
    Mr du Plooy and Grummer are still at it when I get back. They finally agree to disagree until Round Two. In the meantime Grummer says she’ll chat to the neighbours about putting a pipe for the
leiwater
through their garden.
    I watch Mr du Plooy off the property. He’s built like a tank and before he leaves he makes a turn into one of the shacks. He nearly takes his head off at the doorway. Ha-ha.
    He emerges a bit later with a piece of paper in his hand. Shoot me dead for being a liar, but I swear it’s the photo of the two kids. He takes a last look around the garden, checking out all the guava trees and then roars off in his four by four.
    Over supper I raise my action plan for tomorrow. I do it carefully, ’cos I don’t want to alert Grummer to the strategy.
    â€œI feel the need …” (yes, I say that) “I feel the need to pray, Grummer.”
    Grummer says she also feels the need to pray. She needs the Lord’s help in dealing with Mr du Plooy. “I’ve never met a person so … so … otherwise,” Grummer says. “I’m not used to dealing with difficult men. Your grandfather always used to know exactly how to deal with these sorts of people. He could always shout the loudest.”
    I add another quality to The Target snapshot: Bully.
    Before Grummer suggests we hold hands and do the prayer thing, I suggest church. The Anglican Church has a nine o’clock service tomorrow morning and we can go together. Grummer looks pleased. “Your mother never wanted to go to church with her father and me. We will have a lovely time,” she says.
    Yes, we will, I agree. Project: Pulling for Grummer is entering a critical phase. Get ready to meet The Target.
    ETA: Sunday 7:00 a.m. GMT.

Part Two
Chapter 8
    IT’S 5:35 A.M. GMT. I put on my church clothes: pants (black), T-shirt (black) and boots (black). I discipline my hair severely with hairbands (black), put on my shades (black) and brush my teeth (twice). I’m now ready to meet my new grandpa.
    I cast a critical eye over Grummer. She’s gone for a navy-blue jacket and skirt with a red scarf around the neck. She looks like an air hostess. I tell her she looks very nice. She looks at my Sunday best, sighs and says nothing.
    We walk to St Paul’s Anglican Church together. Everybody’s out walking. Old ladies walking their old men. Young men walking their old dogs. I keep a sharp eye out for thin old men with red eyes walking their cats. My luck’s out.
    We get there way too early, like half an hour. Grummer says she likes to prepare herself before a service. We take seats in the third row and Grummer kneels and prays. I play a few hands of poker on my cellphone and get my best score ever.
    I look around and do a quick assessment of potential targets. Seven kids sit in the front row. I figure they’re related ’cos the three girls wear dresses made from the same material. The oldest kid is about nine. I guess their parents are at home having a Sunday morning zizz. Let’s face it, day care isn’t cheap.
    There are only two other customers present in the church. They sit very close to each other and giggle and hold hands. They’re probably doing their attendance quota before they’re allowed to get married.
    I keep the faith; there’s always the minister.
    He comes up a little short of the key characteristics. He’s like one metre forty, about eighty-five years old, with a set of clicking teeth, a hairy, grey top lip, a grey Alice band to keep a mop of grey hair our of his eyes and a grey dress. He’s a she and her name is Pastor Hettie Druiwe.
    We’re ten minutes into the show when I figure it’s time we cut our