Rudd’s answer triggers a surge of movement. Cups are returned to the table, and hats and cameras checked. He notices a tall man, make his way against the flow towards him. He has a bird book in a clear plastic folder around his neck, and a large, khaki floppy hat on his head. He holds out his hand.

“Hi, I’m Steve. Jen’s uncle. Over from New Zealand. A Bulawayo boy, way back.”

“Hi. Good to meet you.”

“Just a quick question before we go. On the way up here I saw something about the weather in the local paper … Manica Post is it? About a cyclone? Just wondered if you’d heard anything?”

“Ja, I read that,” says Rudd, relieved he’d seen it. “Don’t think it’s much to worry about. That kind of thing never reaches us here for some reason. Anyway, looks great right now.”

“Ja, looks great, but I’ve met a few cyclones back home. Things can change fast, and that report …”

Rudd cuts in. “Ja. For sure. We’ll keep an eye on it, and let you know.”

“That’s good. As long as you’re aware. I can’t get much Wi-Fi around here, so I’m feeling a bit cut off.”

“Apologies for that. None of us can. Best place is from the guard post back up the hill.”

“Okay, that’s what someone else said, thanks. I’ll try to get up there when we get back. Let’s hope you’re right about this weather front.”

Steve raises a hand to the brim of his floppy hat, and strides off to join the others making their way down to the meeting point on the golf course.

Rudd watches them gather below, then, as they disappear into the trees, he sets off towards the office. He feels anxious now, his morning routine blown sideways by the cyclone. It crouches in his mind and on his pulse like a beating drum, quiet most of the time, then suddenly louder, threatening, and all he can do is wait to see whether or not it will pounce.

He is halfway back to his office when he meets Katania outside reception. Crisp in linen white, she blocks his route.

“Rudd, there you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere. That waiter said you might be out here.”

“Good morning Katania. What can I do for you?” Rudd says, regretting his decision not to shave.

 “My brother’s just texted. He can’t get here.”

 “Oh. I thought all the guests had arrived …”

“No! No!”

The stress in Katania’s voice alarms Rudd. His mind races, trying to put a name to the brother, but he can’t find one.

“Is he on the room list?”

“Of course he’s not,” she snaps. “He wasn’t going to use a room. He likes to camp. Don’t you see? This is such a mess. It’s a disaster.”

“Why?”

“Why? He’s taking the service. He’s the celebrant … or he’s supposed to be. Surely they told you?”

Suddenly Rudd remembers his conversation with the best man, Tim.

“Ahh. Yes. That’s who he is. Tim mentioned a Mick Lang. Coming up from Beira. He’s your brother?”

Katania nods.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Rudd rolls his sleeping bag out on to the narrow bed in the medical room. He looks around, grateful that the small space has a window at least.

He places his veldskoens under the stool, takes off his uniform, turns off the light, and lies down, his body half in and half out of the sleeping bag. The single, thin curtain over the window flares in the wind, and then sinks inwards again.

Rudd thinks back over the evening, the guests’ faces blurring through his mind, then pausing on Marybelle. And Simi. Not shy that lady. Seemed happy the pair of them, he thinks, and rolls on to his side.

The plastic-coated mattress, reminds him of his ‘bedwetter’ years, of soggy nights. He tries to shift the memory, but it clings, like wet sheets in the dark. The shouting outside his bedroom. The fright. The damp. His father’s anger in the morning. His mockery.

Rudd rolls on to his back and folds his hands behind his head. Shouldn’t have had that glass of wine.

He stares up at the ceiling. The window rattles in the breeze, jumping his thoughts from wind, to rain, to storm.

No man. We do not need that. That report had better be wrong.

He turns on to his other side. Behind his head the door bounces in its frame. He stretches his toes to the end of the sleeping-bag, and closes his eyes. The wind puffs in and out. He can hear noises, bush noises … a laugh …

*

It is Innocence who wakes him. Rudd hears him greeting the security guard. Hears the laughter, the big front door pulling wide, a cockerel crowing in the distance. He lies for a few minutes more in the early cool, relieved that the curtain is still. From the kitchen the clatter of trays gets louder.

That’ll be morning tea for the birdwalkers. He sighs. Better see them off.

He unzips his sleeping-bag, and fumbles for fresh clothes. He is unsettled by the change of room, and decides to shave later, once the walkers have gone.

By the time he gets outside, a few of them are making their way up towards the verandah. It’s easy to pick out the enthusiasts, with their binoculars searching the treetops for birds. He’s pleased for them. The early morning light is clear, and the birds are in full song.

He walks over to join those clumped around the serving table, already holding mugs of tea. On the edge of the group he sees Tim, rubbing his glasses clean on a corner of his shirt.

 “Morning, Tim. All well in the squash courts?”

“Morning, morning. Yup, far as I can tell, all well in the dormitory. That lot over there might know better. I’ll ask. Hello – squash court crew, did you have a comfortable night?”

“Ja.”

“Lekker.”

“Tim, how long until we head off?” a voice calls.

Rudd looks at his watch. “About ten minutes,” he answers.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023