Rudd’s ten-minute online search leaves him feeling sick. The reports show Beira drowning. He’s never seen anything like it. Now it is every map that shows the storm whirling inland from the Mozambique coast towards the border with Zimbabwe, and then on up into the Eastern Highlands.

Up to here. Right here. Rudd chews the edge of his thumb, heart accelerating. He checks the timings. This evening. It will hit this evening. He runs his hands through his hair. Don’t even think about it. Keep going. Just keep going.

He switches off the computer, pushes back the chair, and sits, hands gripped to the edge of table, fingers drumming.

Some of these guys will have seen this. Tonderai for sure. Who else? No comms up here. But no WiFi needed. This kind of news travels like smoke. Can’t stop it. So when they find out, will they care? These guys? Not a chance. Stop anything? Because of forecasts? Because of the weather? No way. Do they know how bad it is? That Steve guy will. Somehow. No wonder his brother’s not going to make it here.

Rudd stands up abruptly, and kicks the chair back in towards the desk.

These guys are gonna want to keep things going. So let’s do it. Make a plan when it comes. I’m not stopping this.

He pulls open the door and steps outside. He is almost convinced, but not quite. The news from Beira is still shaking in his head.

Those flooded villages. Whole families clinging to trees. Buildings flattened. Rooves ripped. Water stretching in every direction.

He steps out into the daylight and the door shuts with a thud behind him. Solid. Rudd notes its strength, and pockets the knowledge that the old core of the lodge should stand if the cyclone hits. He is not so sure about the new additions – the covered walkway, the roof over the dance floor. Vulnerable he thinks. Feeble.

Too bad. Just got to make a plan … if we need a plan. Just got to keep going. Better catch Tonderai. I think he said he’d be doing the seating.

Rudd steps from the verandah on to the grass. The day feels warm to him, slow and sulky. With a hand raised to shield the sun from his eyes, he scans the golf course below and sees Tonderai, arms full of chairs, under the palm trees on the edge of the green.

 “Hi, how’s it going?” Rudd calls, as he walks down the steps to joins him.

Tonderai turns around. “Okay. We have enough chairs. Do you think this Father Norman will do the service?”

“I think so. He’d said he’d come over to find out more.”

 “That’s good,” says Tonderai.

Rudd goes to the high stacks of seats to pick up a pile of his own. “How many of these in each row?”

“Ten, with a break in the middle for the aisle,” says Tonderai.

Rudd sets their white plastic down in a fresh arc, and then goes back to collect more. “The weather reports don’t look so good,” he says casually to Tonderai as he passes.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Rudd is relieved to find the shower room is empty. He strips off, turns the tap to cold, then steps on to the wet tiles to let the water drench over him. The shock washes the stress of the morning out of his mind, and pins him back to life, each cold thread drawing him to the surface. He dries, wraps the towel around his waist, and moves to the wide basin and mirror.

Did good work when they refurbed this room. Worth the money for that shower. Like these taps.

He reaches for his razor and begins to shave with swift, precise strokes. Job done, he pats his face dry with the hand towel, and then, with it lowered to just beneath his chin, he leans forward over the basin edge, tipping his head to one side to catch the light. His eyes stare back at him. He looks away. They know. He knows they know the storm is coming. They saw the thickness of the morning light. They felt the stillness, and that nothing was quite right. Even the razor knew. Each time it sliced up through the foam, or rinsed and tapped, it too repeated that the storm would come.

He takes a step back, and buries his face in the towel, desperate for his brain to take over, to calm his imagination. Slowly it begins to persuade him, telling him that any threat mentioned only suggests that what is coming will be worse than normal. He holds the thought, and then makes it bigger.

It’s just a forecast, a prediction. Since when has any storm ever caused serious damage up here? By the lodge?

Since never, his brain says, as he rubs the towel up and across his hair. Never. Just repeating the word brings him hope. Hope that his eyes are wrong. Hope that his gut is wrong. Hope that the reports are wrong. Hope that Tonderai and the chief, are wrong. Hope that all the fear will turn out to be nothing but fret. Slowly he convinces himself, and, persuaded at last he steps back to the basin, and glares at his eyes.

We can’t close the lodge over some forecast. Since when has any manager of this lodge ever done that? It’d be mad. The lodge would suffer. No tips for the staff. No party for Hansie. No way. I’m not saying anything. Just got to keep going. If the storm wants to come, let it come.

He rubs his hair once more with the towel, then throws it into the wicker basket beneath the basin. It lands with a damp thud, and he turns his attention to his hair, arranging it with his fingers until satisfied that it is in some kind of order. Then he reaches for a fresh uniform.

Dressed and clean, confidence high, Rudd opens the door. The smell of breakfast cooking sizzles from the kitchen. Encouraged, he drops his belongings into the medical room and is en route to the office when he meets Tonderai. They discuss the latest regarding the search for a new celebrant, before each hurrying on. Neither mentions the weather.

Above them the sky looks down, its grey-blue opaque as a baby’s muslin.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Rudd sees the mission truck down below, and slaps the steering wheel with relief.

“Yesss. I think he’s there.”

“The priest?”

“Well that’s the truck he was in last time I saw him.”

The vehicle is parked against the edge of the tea factory. It is one of the few inside the security fence. Rudd points out the flash of its red roof to Katania as they lurch down the bumpy track to the estate offices. She adjusts her sunglasses.

“I hope you’re right and that he’s actually here. And that he’s presentable.”

“And free,” Rudd mutters, as he stops beside the entrance barrier.

The guard greets them with a broad smile and confirms that the priest is on the premises. “Perhaps he meets the workers … perhaps the manager.”

Rudd parks, and decides they should try the office first. He leads the way under the huge corrugated iron roof, and on down past the shaking dust and noise of the conveyor belts, to the corridor of offices that run along the far end. The first door they come to has a small sign saying ‘Manager’. Rudd knocks, while Katania pats the dust off her trousers. 

“Come in,” a voice shouts.

Rudd pushes the door wide, and Katania steps past him into the room. He follows, and as soon as he enters he feels confident that he is close to finding a solution to her problem. There, already on his feet, is the tall, composed man Rudd recognises as Father Norman. Beyond him, and still behind his desk, the manager is not so quick to stand. By the time he is on his feet, and sending a questioning look at Rudd, the priest is already shaking Katania’s hand, his smile polite beneath brown, swept back hair.

Rudd crosses the room to speak to the manager. He knows him well, for he usually leads the tea tours offered to lodge guests. They exchange greetings, and Rudd explains the interruption, then turns back to Katania, but sees in an instant that no help is required, for Katania and the priest appear to be close to an agreement. Within minutes it is arranged that Father Norman will come up to the lodge as soon as his business in the factory is finished.

And that is it. With little more than a brief nod to the manager, Katania exists the office and Rudd, irritated, hurries after her.

“Good. That’s done,” is her only comment as they bounce back up the hill, past the village, and then down again to the lodge.

Rudd drops Katania by the front door, and then decides on an impulse to park the truck in the garage. Just in case, he thinks, without wanting to think any more about why.

Back in the medical room he shuts the door with relief, and leans against it. He wants to start the day again, to bring a sense of order back to his plans, and to forget Katania’s arrogance. Agitated, he rolls up his sleeping-bag, and collects his shaving kit.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023