“You okay Rudd?” Marybelle shouts.

“Fine. And you two?”

“Oh, we’re great.” Marybelle’s voice lifts on the wind.

“Appreciate the singing. Helped with the wait for the tea. That water took forever to boil.”

Rudd leans forward on the bench, enjoying the occasional feathers of warmth that drift down from the fire. He looks around the room. There are deep shadows in some corners, with others held bright by torches. Jacobus’ torch is balanced on the billiard table, its beam angled towards the bench where Tim is persuading Fred and Bernard to take sip after sip of hot, sugared tea. Just beyond them, caught in the edge of the light, is Jambee, hands warming around a mug.

Over his other shoulder Rudd sees Jacobus, his body a dark square by the door. Rudd can’t see his face, but he can imagine it, and the big hands that helped to shift the old cast iron stove out from its corner, to act as door jam. Remembering the weight of the wet metal he folds his arms, and pushes his palms deep into his armpits, trying to smother the lingering pain. As he does so Tim’s torch does a quick circle of the room, checking faces. It finds the priest smoothing down his hair, beside Jambee.

Eish. So lucky to spot the priest. What did he say? Searching round by the bar? If he hadn’t come round that corner.

Then Tonderai emerges from the shadows to throw more wood on the fire. Rudd watches the sputter of sparks, and the way the smoke lingers now the door is closed. It hangs suspended, light as tissue, until fingers of wind squeeze in through the whistling cracks, and chase it out.

“Hey Tonderai. Any news on your family?” Jacobus shouts.

“I have none, but I am worried.”

“Where are they?” Jacobus asks, his voice loud in a sudden lull of wind.

“Chimanimani.”

“By the Nyahonde?” asks Bernard.

“Yes.”

 “Oh dear,” says Marybelle.

“What’s the Nyahonde?” Simi asks.

“A river,” Rudd answers.

“Are your family on high ground?” Jacobus asks.

“No. We’re in the valley. We have a new house, a brick house … but not strong like this. Plus, they are cutting the trees on the hills above us.”

 “Are your family there now?” asks Marybelle.

“No. My wife Miriam, wife number two, she took my girls – Precious, 12 years, and Kudzai, five years – to stay with her mother in Mutare. My first wife, Beatrice, she has passed.”

Rudd smiles at the memory of Beatrice – large, kind. His nanny before they left.

“Are there still people in your village?” Jacobus asks.

“My sister is there. Her husband would not leave. She is wife number three. Four children. I am very worried for her.”

“Oh Tonderai, I hope they are okay,” says Marybelle, her voice stricken.

Tonderai looks at her. “Yes. They do not know cyclones. But the chief is worried.” Tonderai pulls his shoulders back, firelight slipping over the contours in his face. “But what can I do? I must work. They need my salary. Stopping is for rich people.”

Rudd looks down at the wet glisten on the floor, his palms burning.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

“Great work guys. Any chance we can close that door?” Tim shouts into the wind.

“I’ll try,” Jambee replies. He has almost reached it when his father staggers in, a pile of blankets hugged to his chest, his torch shining out beneath them.

“Jacobus brilliant. Thanks. Bernard first please,” says Tim, going with Jacobus to Bernard’s end of the bench.

Simi watches the blanket delivery. Jacobus’ face is shining with wet, and the back of his shirt is soaked. Tim looks calm and in control.

“How’s Fred?” Jacobus asks, as the doctor wraps a blanket around Bernard’s legs.

“Alive …” comes the reply from a shaky voice.

“Fred! That’s what I like to hear,” Jacobus booms, grinning. “Ladies, have you got blankets? Marybelle … okay?”

Jacobus’ torch picks out Marybelle. Simi is shocked to see that her face, so bright when she sang, is drawn tight by cold.

“Come. You need a blanket. You must take this last one.”

“Oh …”

“Jacobus is right,” Tim urges.

“Okay, but only if Simi shares. Come Simi!”

“Come on Simi,” Jacobus calls, holding the blanket out wide. It flaps in the wind, so thick and heavy that even from a distance Simi can feel its shield. She stands up and goes across to Marybelle, squashing in beside her bony damp while Jacobus lifts the blanket behind their backs, binding them together on the bench.

“Jacobus, how did you find us?” Marybelle asks.

“Jambee told me. Saw him getting the wood. And we need to get some more,” says Jacobus going to the fire and warming his hands over it for a few seconds. Then he straightens, and heads for the door. “Come guys. More wood.”

“And … tea … sugar please. And we need to get that door closed when you come back,” Tim shouts as Jacobus leads Tonderai, Jambee, and Rudd back into the dark.

Simi feels Marybelle’s elbow nudge into her.

“You okay Simi?”

“Yes.”

“Cosy hey?”

Simi smiles. She slips one hand out of the blanket and checks her headscarf. It is damp but still there.

“You still look immaculate,” says Marybelle. “I feel a complete mess. And I know I look it, so need to say anything.”

Simi looks down at the which-way head of hair, straggling beside her shoulder. “Well, you’re not quite as awesome as when this party started.”

“As if,” says Marybelle, smiling.

Simi begins to relax. As the drum sparks, a waft of smoke drifts her mind back to sitting around Ade’s firepit in London. Her memories circle lazily, lifted high on the smoke. Not a big garden. Nothing fancy. But his. And theirs to share on special occasions. Birthdays. So special until the neighbour complained. Some environmental do-gooder. No fires now. Not for Ade anyway. She remembers the faces around the fire. And the garden. The space of it compared to their flat.

“What you thinking, Simi?”

“Oh nothing. Just remembering.”

“Good memories?” Marybelle asks.

“Yes,” Simi smiles. “Thinking about a fire and friends.”

“A fire? Like this?”

“Sort of …”

Marybelle stares into the flames for a little, and then turns back to Simi.

“I love your singing Simi. Can you sing us something else?”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023