Simi longs for Rudd to dismiss their offer of help, and to send them off to their rooms, but he doesn’t. Instead he thanks them, and warns them that they might be on their own. “Reckon most of the staff will have gone to get news, or help their own families. Hope they get through,” he shouts.

Simi feels Marybelle’s elbow in her ribs. “Come on Simi, let’s go. You’re okay to help aren’t you?”

“Well … I’m … oh, sure,” she says, as Marybelle steers her towards the kitchen. “Aren’t you tired?”

Marybelle laughs, but does not stop. And she does not stop until breakfast is done. Neither does Simi. Katania is also in the kitchen. Supervising.

Trust her. Just as well I haven’t got the energy to resist. I’ll do the bacon, and that’s me. She can check the gas. Count the slices. Get them delivered. All that’s hers.

So that’s how it goes until at last, clogged with exhaustion, Simi leaves the kitchen, her kaftan dragging through the wet as she crosses the verandah. She feels terrible. Her head aches. Her hand aches. Her feet ache. Her friend is still in the kitchen. She barely notices that the clouds are lifting, and the sun peering through occasionally at the tired bodies fretting over the damage. At the bottom of the stairs she steps around the upturned table jammed against the wall, and limps on towards her door, the wind slapping into her as she fumbles for the key in her kaftan pocket. She opens the door and steps inside, instantly kicking off her shoes. It’s as she closes the door that she catches sight of herself in the mirror.

Oh my God. Look at my eyes. Like mine shafts, all collapsed. And my hair wrap. I look drunk. Whole thing’s slipped. Like a chef’s hat.

One-handed, she unwinds the fabric, and releases her hair.  As it bounces free she notices that one of her earrings is missing, snagged, she thinks, on the blanket. She unclips its surviving partner, and in the mirror sees the bed waiting, sheets folded neat as an envelope, with the mosquito net curled above them.

Oh bless that bed. I am coming. Just got to deal with this hand first.

She lifts her kaftan over her head, steps over it and tiptoes barefoot across the cold stone floor of the bathroom to the basin, where she unwraps the bandage, peeling back its layers, until she reaches the raw edges of the gash. Trying not to look too closely at the wound, she bundles the bandage down between the taps, and turns on the cold water. The sting of it is instant as it streams over her hand. Wincing she holds it there for a few painful seconds, then gently pats it dry.

Will get more antisceptic later. I just have to sleep.

Back in the bedroom she releases the mosquito net and eases between the cool, clean of the sheets. They feel safe against her skin, and the pillow deep. Outside, voices call to one another, and there are the splashing footsteps of someone running, but Simi barely hears, and does not care.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Simi looks around the little group. She sees Marybelle undaunted, standing beside Fred who is pale and creased, next to the blanketed Bernard. On the other side of Bernard is Tim, his glasses spattered.

What keeps these people going? Place is ruined. We’re in the middle of nowhere. No blue lights in sight. I feel like I’m about to fall over. About as much use as a bread stick stuffed in water. Why are they still standing? And anyway who’s going to pay for all this?

She doesn’t mean to ask the question, but she does, and too abruptly. Marybelle, turns and stares at her, then echoes the question, as if she can’t understand it. “Who’ll pay?”

Come on … surely. Surely somebody’s thinking like me.

“There must be insurance?” Simi tries to make the question a little clearer, to unhook herself from Marybelle’s question mark eyes.

“What? Insurance? Doubt these guys had any.”

 “Maybe they do,” says Tim, with a shrug. “Maybe. Anyway, the big thing is everyone’s okay … at least I hope there was nobody in that squash court.”

“Oh no! I hope not …” A flash of horror crosses Marybelle’s face then vanishes. “No. We would have heard by now. Thank you God,” she says closing her eyes.

“Not sure what God’s plan is,” says Fred, “but I think he’s going to need a hand here. We’ll have to make the plan. Help Rudd sort himself out.”

 “Hope it works,” Simi mumbles, trying to smile.

“Well, nothing much we can do about any of it right now.” Tim, voice energetic, turns to his charges. “Priority is to get you two gentlemen to a place to rest. That’s my plan. Let’s go. Hope to catch you ladies later.”

Together Simi and Marybelle watch the trio squelch slowly across the verandah, towards the stairs down to the bedrooms.

“Shall we go and check on our rooms?” Marybelle asks.

Simi nods. She is glad to feel the small arm loop again through hers, glad to be able to think of a bed at last.

At the top of the stairs, they pause to look out over what was once the swimming pool terrace, with the angled height of the squash court along its far end. Now there is just a small lake, with a pile of bricks in the distance, and a group picking its way over them. Simi recognises Rudd out in front. They hear him call out to the others. “Hey guys, doesn’t look like there’s anything here. Think you’d be better off searching in the other area. Be careful though. More may collapse.”

The five or so move off, weary as flags at half-mast. Rudd does not follow. Instead he begins to head up towards the Lodge. Then he turns and calls back to them. “I’m going to see if I can get breakfast together. Give me an hour and I should have something ready for you.”

A few replies bounce back as he continues on towards the kitchen. Marybelle shouts across to him. “Rudd, can we give you a hand with breakfast?” Rudd stops and waves. Even from a distance Simi can see the strain on his face.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

The sound shocks Simi to her feet, her body responding before her mind can catch up. Stunned, she tries to hold her bearings as bodies rush past her towards the door. Marybelle is beside her, and behind her she can hear Tim urging Fred and Bernard to their feet. She turns around and sees them coming towards her, blankets draped awkwardly, a trailing edge dragging in the wet.

 “I think we should go,” Tim calls to her. “Check what’s happening out there, and I need to get these two properly dry.”

Marybelle nods, and hooks her arm through Simi’s. “Let’s go,” she urges, turning her towards the door. “I don’t know what that noise was, but I want to find out.”

Simi lets herself be led towards the rectangle of grey sky, her good hand lifting her kaftan as far out of the damp as she can. They step through into the dawn, and are utterly unprepared for what they see. Around the swimming pool, trees are snapped and broken. On the verandah, smashed tables mix with sodden tablecloths and the glint of broken glass. Above them, cracked gutters spill and drip, tangled in broken fairy lights. Windows are smashed, and the walkway roof gapes in toothless squares.

Simi, hearing voices in the distance, turns towards the swimming pool. Beyond its flooded terrace she sees Rudd picking his way over tree limbs towards a pile of red brick rubble. She stares in disbelief, her brain resisting the knowledge that what she is looking at was once a squash court. She turns to Marybelle. “What a nightmare,” she whispers. Marybelle, looking in the same direction, says nothing, her expression so sad that instinctively Simi puts an arm around her shoulders. “Shouldn’t be long before the emergency services get here,” she says.

Marybelle shakes her head. “You kidding? Not here. Poor Rudd.”

There is a shuffle of feet and blankets behind them and Tim emerges from the billiard room with an exhausted Fred and Bernard. At the sight of them Marybelle unhooks her arm from Simi’s, and steps towards them, hands out in front of her in a wide greeting, all signs of her shock vanished.

“What a mess!” Tim says, gesturing towards the crumpled remains of the squash court.

“Terrible,” says Fred, as Bernard shakes his head slowly, tongue clicking against his teeth.

“Don’t know how they’re going to sort this,” saysTim.

“They will,” says Fred. “We’ll help.”

 “You’re right,” says Marybelle, giving the old man a hug. “We’ll all help. It’s the only way.” They stand together and survey the wreckage for a while longer

 “You okay, Simi?” Tim asks quietly. “What’s happened to your hand?”

“My hand?”

“Yes. The bandage there?”

“Oh, that …” says Simi. “Just a splinter, but Marybelle’s taken it out.”

“Do you want me to have a look?”

“No. All fine. Forgotten about it until you asked. Anyway, it’s nothing compared to all this,” she says, her good hand gesturing towards the former squash court, her kaftan abandoned to the wet.

“Not good,” says Fred, “but it will fix.”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023