Tonderai does not respond immediately. Rudd waits as his assistant manager walks past him in silence, with a chair in each hand. He watches him stop to place the two precisely, one beside the other, into a half-filled row. Then he straightens up, and turns to face Rudd, his eyes sombre.

“It’s a problem. A big problem. Our chief was right. There is too much rain.” He pauses, his gaze sinking into the grass. “Our chief says this is a problem for God now, and that we must pray.”

Not sure what to say, and aware that Tonderai is watching him, Rudd begins to arrange his own pile of chairs. Once done, he walks slowly along the line, the fingers of one hand trailing lightly along their backs.

“Who knows if the storm will come,” Rudd says finally, with a shrug, and glancing quickly at the older man.

 “God knows,” Tonderai replies with quiet certainty.

Rudd gives a slight nod.

At least the man is calm. Course he is. Hopeless odds nothing new to him.

“What about your family, Tonderai?” he asks.

“Last evening I put them on the bus to go to stay with my wife’s brother in Mutare.”

“And Innocence?”

“His wife took the bus to Harare this morning. That is where her sister is. We took care of that. God may be too busy in Beira right now.” One corner of Tonderai’s mouth lifts, in a shadow of a smile.

Properly not taking chances. I suppose he’s right. Most of their houses won’t have a hope.

“And the others? What do they think?” Rudd calls after Tonderai as he heads off to get more chairs.

“They asked about Beira. When I saw those reports this morning I told them. I could not find you to talk about this first. I told them it is bad, and it is coming here. So chef Samere, and gardener James, they have gone home to bring their wives up here. The lodge is strong.” Tonderai stops, and waits for Rudd to reach him.

“How many will come?” Rudd asks.

“The chef has two children. They can stay in the kitchen with us. One is a baby, on his mother’s back, and the other is small too. James is newly married. No children yet.”

“What about everyone else? Their families?”

“Eish,” Tonderai shakes his head. “They will not come. They do not want to. They have nowhere to go. Some are too close to the river, but they do not know cyclones. They think their houses – new houses, brick houses – are strong. They do not know. They do not read what I read.”

Tonderai goes to pick up the last few chairs.

“And the others? All the casual staff?” Rudd asks, following him.

“Most of them, those workers, they come from Mutare. They are not worried.”

“Will we have enough help for the wedding?”

“For sure. Everyone. They will come by lunchtime. They need the money too much.”

“We need them, that’s for sure,” says Rudd.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

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