“Come on Tim,” one of the young crowd shouts. “Entertain us.”

“Cheer us up!”

“Jacobus you too. You’ve got to stand up there, and introduce him,” Marybelle urges, as she heads over to Jacobus, hands beckoning him insistently.

Simi watches Jacobus’ try to resist. She knows it is futile, for Marybelle is as tenacious as time. Their voices argue back and forth, and the rain raises its tempo.

 “No … no … Okay … from here, man.”

 “No Jacobus … this properly. Up … get.”

A slow clap begins on the far side of the room. Simi shrugs off her half of the blanket and tries to join in, but the pain in her hand makes her stop. She holds it up against her chest and watches the tussle of the speeches unfold. Tim points at the table with its piles of logs and steaming clothes, the shrug of his shoulders implying that there’s nowhere for him to stand. Instantly Tonderai leaps to his feet. He clears him a space, and then, mission accomplished, he invites Tim to the pedestal. As the doctor hesitates, the clapping becomes more insistent.

“Speeches! Speeches!”

The stomping chant mixes with the rain, with Tim’s voice loud over the top, urging Jacobus to join him. As the crowd waits, it changes its chorus to “Jacobus! Jacobus!”, closing off any hope of escape for either man. At last the doctor climbs on to the table, and holds out his hand to the embarrassed Jacobus, who crosses the room to join him. Tim hauls him up, and the pair stand together, one slender and the other like rock. Slowly the applause and laughter still. Tonderai sits down, and Marybelle slips into the vacant seat beside Fred.

“You okay, Fred? Bernard?” Tim asks.

Simi sees Fred raise one hand in response, while Bernard nods emphatically beside him.

“Right,” calls Marybelle. “Jacobus, I want to hear you now. Not the rain.” As if obeying her, the pounding on the roof eases.

Jacobus wags his finger down at her. “I’m only doing this for you, hey.”

Marybelle blows him a kiss, and Simi pulls the blanket close. She’s looking forward to the speeches, anything to distract herself from the thrashing of the storm. The wind has dropped back, but the sudden violence of the rain when it comes still shocks her, and she doesn’t even want to think about the possibility that it might go on and on for hours.

 Jacobus begins. “Ladies and gents, I haven’t got my notes with me, but may I introduce to you Dr Timothy Southwaite, the best man. Hansie’s mate since they were kids.”

The far bench claps, and Tim swings round to face it, his head almost touching the roof.

“Right,” he begins, “here goes. I’ll skip the toast to the bridesmaids, etc.” Below him, the hecklers start to jostle for drama.

“What?”

“Speak up.”

“You’ve gone all Pom now man … can’t understand you.”

“Okay …” Tim raises his voice. “Well, for those of you that don’t know, the first time I met Hansie was at my fifth birthday party. April – best month of the year.”

“Apart from this year …” Jambee calls.

More laughter. “You can say that again.”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Simi can’t decide whether it’s the beef or the tea that makes her feel stronger, but something does. She thinks it might be the biltong, slithers of it shaved into their hands by Jacobus.

“Our delicacy,” he says, as he comes around again. “Doubt we’d still be in Africa without this stuff.”

Simi accepts a little more, gratefully. She wouldn’t have tried it, if it hadn’t been for Marybelle.

“You’ll love it Simi!”

“Oh yeah? Dried cow?”

“Yes! It’s so good.”

She’d said no. Said it twice. Told Marybelle about her first experience, couple of years ago in London en route to a Mandela exhibition. She’d got chatting with a white woman in a kaftan heading in the same direction, and she’d offered her some, like a blessing, and in a spirit of togetherness, she’d accepted.

OMG – that was a mistake.

Simi almost gagged just telling Marybelle about it. That piece, strip of fat running through it, had sat in her mouth like a lump of chewed carpet until she’d been able to get away from the white woman, spit it into a tissue and hide it in her pocket.

“So?” Marybelle laughs. “This is not like that. Come on. You need to keep your strength up.”

She tried refusing some more, head shaking, hand hiding, but Marybelle kept tinkling away about Jacobus risking the storm to fetch it. So brave. So delicious. So rude to say no. So she gave in. She’d taken the slimmest slither, placed it on her tongue and chewed slowly, Marybelle’s eyes watching her like she was about to rise from the dead.

And in a way she had. The flavours of pepper and coriander pleased her, and the meat was cut so fine it was easy to swallow. She’d been embarrassingly keen for her second handful.

“Good, isn’t it? I love biltong. Haven’t had any for ages,” Marybelle grins, eyes shining.

Simi nods, finishes off her last few pieces, and calls out her thanks to Jacobus as he heads back to his seat by the door. As he disappears into the shadows, she turns to look at the youngsters on the far side of the room, partly to avoid any more of Marybelle’s shining enthusiasm, and partly to see how the priest is doing. Whether he tried any biltong. But she can’t find him in the dark beyond the fire. And then Jambee’s announcement distracts her.

“We never got the speeches.”

“You’re right!” voices shout, including Marybelle’s, chiming with delight, beside her.

“We could have them now.”

“The best man’s here. And Jacobus could do the introductions.”

“No way. Not now. I’m on duty,” Tim objects. “I’m looking after Fred.”

 “No need for that,” says Fred, his voice weak but clear. “You go boy!”

“Brilliant,” says Marybelle, jumping up and shedding the blanket. Simi pulls it tight, smiling at the sight of her, like a ragged fairy, petite and disheveled, both hands outstretched in front of Tim. In seconds she’s pulled the protesting doctor to his feet, and positioned him by the fire. “I’ll look after Fred,” she insists, bending to kiss the old man on his cheek.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

“It’s not good man. Droughts, fires, floods … getting worse.”

“Maybe we … nick what’s underground … ship it out …”

“Ha ha … run for it …”

“That’s the fat cats … “

The door begins to slam, its thrashing getting faster, bashing the chat away.

Jacobus stands up, voice loud. “Hey guys I know. I’m going to set up a church and become a prophet.” Laughter ricochets around the room.

“Hey, where you going to get the shiny suit?” Hansie yells back, his torch spotlighting his father.

“Agh …” Jacobus turns, waving a hand dismissively over one shoulder. “Can you get yourself over here … help … with …”

Rudd joins the rush, his hands adding to those shoving the stove hard against the door, while Jacobus pushes it from above, both palms flat against the dark wood. At last the pounding stops, leaving only a tight whistle. Everyone goes back to their seats, and Tonderai throws another log on to the fire. Outside rain taps on the windows, dotting across the roof.

“Anyone know any songs?” Marybelle asks brightly.

Laughter stutters awkwardly. Rudd sees heads shaking. Not many choristers in this lot he thinks, but even as he does, someone begins to sing. He knows immediately that it is Bernard, trying again with the song Rudd hoped wouldn’t come back. The words reach him in surges, like an old radio with poor reception, carried now by two voices, the other frail and familiar. Fred.

“Sweet banana … A … B … C … D…”

Rudd’s body stiffens as the song grows. It nails him back to his childhood.

 “A … B … C… D…”

He sees his father, in his chair in front of the TV. Starts with the news. Beers on the table next to him. Rudd watching through the gap in the door as he sits and drinks. Drinks and sings. It’s this song. Some old Army song from somewhere. This one, always this one, and the drinking would be worse. Cowboys on the screen. Loved his cowboys. Mother in her chair. Rudd off to his bed. Then comes the shouting. The crashing. Some nights he couldn’t even listen.

Now he can’t block the song. Can’t turn it off. It swirls around him, smelling of beer. His heart pumps.

“Sweet banana …”

He forces his eyes up off the floor. Forces himself to look at Fred, at his hand with its half-eaten biscuit beating time. Forces himself to look at Bernard, proud of his song. Neither man his father. He looks away, breath stabbing in his chest, short and sharp. He battles to calm it, to bring himself back from the violence. He breathes deeply, slowly, and raises his eyes again.

“A … B … C… D…”

He looks around the room. His eyes rest on Simi, and then Marybelle.

Marybelle knows this song, but all she wants is to be happy. Singing anything works for her.

He looks back at Jacobus, but cannot see his expression in the dark. Nor can he hear him singing. He knows Tonderai is silent too.

“A … B … C… D…”

Slowly, as the rain sweeps back, the song sinks away into the night, the old voices weary. Gradually Rudd steadies.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023