Simi follows Marybelle into the dark, and tries to ignore the throb in her hand. She keeps her eyes fixed on the torch beam ahead, willing it to swing back and find her. Occasionally it does.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” she shouts, the lie bigger than the word. She feels wilted by storm, strangers, dark and the hurt in her palm.

They are halfway across the verandah when the wind smashes back. It comes up sharp and sudden, sending the torches on the terrace below bobbing for cover.

“…. the games room … there …” Marybelle shouts, turning back, and pointing her torch off to the right. Simi follows the beam and sees that it has found a door she has never seen before.

They hurry towards it, and pull it wide enough to step through, blocking its slam. In the middle of the room is a billiard table. Their beam of light runs over its solid green, and then around the walls, each lined with raised, padded benches.

“Wow!” says Simi. “Did you know this was here?”

But Marybelle does not answer. Her torch is frozen on a spot on the far side of the room, and her hand is reaching back to find Simi.

“There’s someone here.”

“Where?” Simi sees a bundled shape across the room.

“Fred?” Marybelle calls.

“Marybelle?”

“Jambee?”

“Can you put the torch down?”

“Sorry,” says Marybelle lowering the light to the floor.

“Come. I’ve just arrived. Fred and Bernard are here.”

“Hello,” a deep voice calls out to them. “Fred’s okay but he needs his muti and blankets. Can you stay with him while we go to the room?”

 “Of course,” says Marybelle, hurrying over with Simi close behind. “Hello Fred.”

As Jambee and Bernard head off, Fred begins to cough. His struggle for breath alarms Simi. The last time she’d heard such a cough, she’d had to call for help. The ambulance crew had arrived quickly, and that old man had been taken to hospital. Hypothermia they’d said. Too long in the cold on the park bench. She places her good hand on Fred’s shoulder, and feels the damp in his jacket.

“He’s wet. Can we get him out of the wind?”

Even as she asks, Simi knows it is hopeless. The floor is covered in water, and the wind is everywhere. The only dry is the green of the billiard table, and there is no way she and Marybelle can lift Fred on to that.

“Perhaps we should just sit either side of him. Block some of the wind,” Marybelle suggests. 

“That could work.” Simi sits down on the bench, angling her body to absorb as much of the gale as she can. As she lifts the soggy hem of her kaftan off her feet, Fred raises his right hand shakily towards her. She takes it, smiling at him, alarmed by the pale, puffiness of his face.

 “We’ll get you warm,” she says. “They’ll be back …”

Before Simi can finish the door flings open, and someone else thuds into the room.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Questions jumble around the room. Simi tries to connect names to the voices, and faces to the names. Ruan is easy. She can’t forget his voice, the one that said she must be somebody’s maid.

“Aneke went to the squash court to fetch her jacket.”

“Did she go by herself?”

“Ja.”

“Hey, you’re her husband. Why didn’t you go with her?”

 “No ways man. Not out in this.”

 “You’re such a wimp man.”

 “No – she’s mad.”

“Say that again. Hasn’t changed one bit.”

A voice, more English than the others, cuts in and Simi guesses that it must be Tim’s, for it does not have the older authority of Father Norman’s.

“Why the squash court? Haven’t you two got your own room?”

“Ja, but Aneke gets hot hey. We were by the pool chatting, and someone said she could leave her jacket on their bed in there until she needed it. ”

“Rudd, did you check the squash courts?”

“No. We just did the rooms. There’s a tree down. She’d have to go round the far side of the pool,” Rudd shouts from the back.

“Maybe she’ll find Fred.”

“Ja,” says Ruan. “Maybe.”

Now other voices join in, some urging the need to search, and others to stay safe. Then a shout from Rudd cuts them off. He’s still on the chair, and Simi can just make out his face, its shadows half-lit behind his torch beam.

“Listen. It’s chaos out there. We’ve just got to wait for it to calm down a little or we’re going to lose someone else …”

She cannot catch his last few words before they are squashed beneath a dump of rain. Around her the torches switch back to the windows to resume their watch. She does the same, hoping for a sighting. At first she sees nothing, but gradually her eyes refocus. She can see shapes and the blustering white of the cloths, and gradually even as far as the pool’s wet terrace.

“There!” The shout almost jumps Simi out of her skin. “She’s there!”

“Where?”

The cries and questions come from further down the line. Simi strains to see what has been seen, but she cannot.

“There.”

“She’s here.”

“Aneke.”

At last Simi sees her right by the doors. She steps back as they wrench open and Aneke staggers in, hair shocked, jacket in one hand. Loud from the moment she arrives.

“Jeese man. Ruan … where were you?”

“Agh, I knew you’d be fine …”

 “Only just, hey.” Her laugh is bitter, like a tin can full of nails, bursting against a wall. “The squash court is completely flooded. Someone must have left the door open. And the walls are bending hey.”

“Aneke, why …”

“Freaked me out.”

“You’re lucky …”

“Any sign of Fred?”

“No. Didn’t see anyone,” says Aneke, colour blind in the dark as she pushes past Simi. “But I reckon the wind’s dropping, hey.”

Simi listens. The high whine has gone, so has the slap of its pushing and shoving and breaking.

“Hey … she’s right,” Ruan shouts.

“Good news.”

“She’s scared it off.”

“Maybe the storm’s ending.”

“Aneke, towels are here.”

That voice. I know that voice. Father Norman.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

“Just have to hope it’ll get better, not worse, hey. Oh great. There’s Tim. Excuse us ladies, I need to catch him.” Hansie, plate of food in one hand, makes his way back through the tables towards the dining room, where Tim is herding the last walkers in to collect their breakfast.

Simi, pleased with her choice of pancakes and bacon, sits down. As she does so she hears a voice calling across the grass behind her, a voice she recognises as Katania’s.

“Oh there you are. At last. Such a stressful morning.”

“Oh. Hi,” says Jen, watching her mother warily. “Why so stressful?”

As Katania pulls out the chair at the head of the table, Simi looks at the pair of them, one soft as a pillow, the other, tall and thin as a knife.

“Good morning. No breakfast?” Simi asks.

“No. I never have breakfast.” Katania’s eyes dismiss Simi and focus on her daughter. “Your uncle can’t come. Some storm or something. Got half a message first thing. Can’t tell you how furious I am. Mick knows this is your big day …”

“But why?” Jen’s eyes are wide green with worry. “Why can’t he come? Is Uncle Mick okay?”

Katania waves one hand dismissively. “Oh, he’s fine. He’s not ill or anything. Just doesn’t want to get stuck here. Says he needs to be with his colleagues in Beira because of the storm. It’s so annoying.”

Storm, Simi wonders. She feels uneasy, unsure whether to leave the table, or stay trapped in the family drama.

“Just as long as he’s okay,” Jen says softly.

“Oh he’s fine. Anyway, it looked like it was all going to be a disaster, but then I had a brainwave. Thought there must be a local priest, and turns out there is. I’ve met him. He’s perfect. Problem solved.” Katania leans back, shaking her hair down the back of the chair.

“What?” asks Jen. “Who? We don’t even need a priest. Are you really sure Uncle Mick can’t come?”

“I am,” says Katania, straightening up again.

“Can’t a friend do it?”

“Who Jen? Do be sensible. I’ve been through everyone here. There’s no-one. Trust me. This priest will be perfect. Such presence.”

“What’s his name?”

“Father Norman.”

Jen pushes her bowl of fruit away and gets to her feet.

“I’m going to find Hansie.”

“Okay,” says Katania, waving a bangled wrist towards her daughter, “I’ll wait for you here.”

Jen makes her way back through the breakfast tables, while Simi, reluctant to abandon her pancakes, scans the tables hoping she might be able to attract a stray birdwatcher looking for a perch. But she has no luck, for the last of them flutters past, excitedly seeking out friends. Simi sighs and picks up her knife and fork.

Better just eat quickly.

“So tricky,” Katania says, taking off her dark glasses and puting them down on the table. She leans back, eyes closed, tipping her chin as high as it will go. Then she runs her fingers through her hair, sunshine flicking off it, as she traces her scalp down to the base of her neck.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023