Suddenly aware of his own empty plate, Rudd asks the priest if he has eaten.

“Yes. I sat down with the doctors earlier. Sounds like a tragedy out there.”

“I know. Brutal.”

“Wish there was something I could do, but without the mission truck …” Father Norman twists his hands palm upwards, then his fingers fall back to their tapping.

“No idea about your truck. I heard Jacobus’ was okay by some miracle.”

The priest shrugs, and pushes his chair back from the table, hands now still and folded in his lap. “Maybe tomorrow. Meanwhile, will try to make myself useful here. As Jacobus says, a truck is just a truck.”

“No.” Rudd shakes his head. “A truck is way more than that here. No transport and you can be in real trouble.” He slumps into a brooding quiet. On the wall beside him, the last of the rain-soaked sun catches on a painting of teapickers. Beneath it, the long serving table sags with dirty plates.

“You must be tired,” Father Norman says after a few seconds of silence.

“One way of putting it.” Rudd’s body begins to drift, every bolt loosened to its limits. His mind too is fraying, threads pulling free faster than he can catch them. He starts to speak without meaning to. “Wish I’d cancelled yesterday when I saw that report. All this damage … it’s like some kind of punishment. ”

“Punishment? Why? You couldn’t have done anything. If you’d tried to cancel, nobody would have listened. Not this lot. I know wedding crowds, and there was no stopping this one.”

“Maybe.” Darkness seeps between them. Then another thread pulls. “Storms are nightmares for me.”

“Nightmares? Why?”

“It’s Stephen,” he says, too weary to stop. He thumps his elbows on to the table, one either side of his plate. His head drops between his hands.

“Stephen?”

“Trying to get in.”

“Get in? Where?”

“I shut him out. Out of the dormitory at school.” The words collapse out of Rudd, broken as a dam. “There was a massive storm. He was terrified, and I just kept him out there on this balcony begging to get in. He was so terrified. Had a thing about thunder.” His voice drops to a whisper. “I wasn’t the only one, but I was the one who held the window closed. Me. And I was supposed to be his friend. But I just joined in. With everyone.” He looks up at the priest, and jeers the taunts, mouth smirking. “‘Keep the little wimp out there.’ ‘You want us to throw you outside too?’ That kind of stuff …” The words fade.

“How old were you?”

“First year. 12. Stephen and I were the ‘wimps’. Always bullied. Then I tried to dodge it. To join in. To be the bully. I was so pathertic.” The words stab, faster and faster. “I was the one holding the window closed. Me. And it was my friend out there. My only real friend. Stephen. And I did that to him.” Rudd slaps a hand across his heart. “To my friend. Now, he’s always there. In my head. Trying to get in.” He drills a finger into his temple. “Always in my head.”

 “What happened?” Father Norman asks quietly.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Rudd stabs his fork into the last of his chips. He sweeps it up through the tomato sauce on the edge of his plate, and back down towards a few grains of salt. His eyes are almost closed, his head pillowed on the palm of his hand. Sleepily, he repeats the motion, hypnotized by the slow, wiper-blade progress of the fork. Finally he brings the red-gold slice up to his mouth, chews it slowly, and then lets his fork rattle down on to the plate.

“Mind if I join you?”

He looks up and sees an older man in front of him – tall, tidy, looking clean in the shadows. Slowly, slowly his tired mind connects him back to the wedding, back to the service under the trees, planets ago. Surprised, he pulls himself upright and glances around the room. It’s empty. Even the doctors have gone.

“May I join you?” the priest asks again.

“Sure. Everything okay? My apologies for all this,” he mumbles, sweeping his hand vaguely around the room.

“Not your fault,” says the priest, sitting down. “Good meal by the way. Impressive producing it in these conditions, especially with no staff.”

“Thanks. Wasn’t just me.”

“Saw Simi and Marybelle in the kitchen earlier. Quite a partnership.”

“For sure,” says Rudd.

 “Marybelle? She must have Scottish in her, or something?”

Rudd shrugs. “Don’t know. Jacobus might.”

“Oh. You don’t know?”

“No, not really. Jacobus was talking to Tim about her. I think Jacobus was at school with her.”

Rudd sits a little straighter, trying to drag his mind back from the cliff edge of sleep. Marybelle? She slips around his mind, like a bird trapped in a room. He can’t catch her.

“Oh,” says the priest. “I see. She seems a bit of an outsider, don’t you think?”

Marybelle? Why all these questions about Marybelle?

“I don’t know.” Rudd shrugs . He tries to end it there, but the priest’s eyes force him deeper. “May have grown up with Jacobus. Something like that. His mum took care of her because her mum died? The mum who adopted her. I think she was adopted. Best to ask Jacobus.”

“Wonder if she’s got any family …” the priest muses, the fingers of one hand tapping gently on the table, his signet ring a dull glow.

Rudd cricks his neck from side to side, eyes closed. When he opens them he sees that the priest is looking at him. He stops his stretching. “She works at a school. The same one she went to. I do know that. Seems mad to me.”

He is about to stand up, to end the conversation, when the kitchen door swings open. It thumps against the wall, and as though summoned by some mysterious force, Marybelle appears, with Simi behind her.

Rudd raises a hand in greeting, relieved at the interruption, but Marybelle does not stop. She hurries past, ushering her companion up towards the reception area. He calls out to her. “Everything okay, Marybelle?”

She stops, and turns towards him. “Oh, hi Rudd. Never saw you. Hello Father Norman. Just off to find the doctors. Can’t stop.” She gives them a little wave, and is gone before Rudd can reply, with Simi’s kaftan, flowing like a field of flowers behind her.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

“How much food have we got?” Katania asks.

“Plenty,” Rudd replies. “Should have enough to keep us going for another two or three days. Stocks are pretty good thanks to the wedding.”

“Where’s everyone going to kip?”

Simi turns around to see who’s asked the question. It’s Hansie, standing by the sinks in the furthest corner of the kitchen, hands covered in soap suds.

“In the dining-room, once we’ve all eaten and cleared everything away. I think we can find enough campbeds and mattresses for the squash court crew, and any campers who got drowned out. We’ll put the doctors on the sofas.”

 “Any news on the roads?” Hansie asks.

“Hope the doctors can tell us when they get in,” Rudd replies, his voice weary. “I don’t know much more. Listen, thanks again everyone. Oh … by the way, we’re working on the generators, but don’t hold your breath.”

“Okay. Thanks,” says Hansie, returning to the washing up as Rudd heads out through the swing doors.

Simi turns back to her task. On the counter beside her there is one more unopened pack of sausages. She looks at it, and at the gash splaying down towards the base of her thumb. The throb is more intense now, and she thinks the whole hand may be slightly swollen.

You know what? I can do this. Then I’ll bandage it. Should have asked Marybelle, except her head was full of doctors and helicopters. Plus I couldn’t even think straight.

Frowning, she manages somehow to release the sausages from their packet, and tips them into the pan. She adds oil and adjusts the flame, then stands in a headachey haze, flipping them occasionally until the last of them is done and added to the pile in the serving dish. It is when she tries to pick up the dish that a sudden jolt of pain makes her cry out.

“Simi!” In an instant Marybelle is beside her, wiping her hands on her apron. “What’s happened?”

“My hand,” says Simi, clutching it by the wrist.

“What? Oh no. I forgot all about it. Here, let me have a look. Actually, let’s go outside. The light’s better.”

Outside Marybelle takes Simi’s palm and examines its inflamed ridge. Then she reaches up and places a hand on Simi’s forehead.

“I like your hair wraps. You’re so clever with them. I love this yellow,” she says, arm stretched upwards to just below Simi’s hairline. She lowers her hand. “You know you’re a bit hot. I don’t think it’s normal. And I think your hand’s a bit swollen. You shouldn’t have done all that work.”

“Well, I felt okay when I started.”

Simi feels Marybelle’s worried gaze, roaming inside her, examining.

“You’re not looking that well. Too bad Tim’s gone with Jacobus, but I think I heard those helicopters coming in just now. Come. Come with me. I want them to have a look at you,” she says, reaching for Simi’s good hand, and leading her back through the kitchen, past the counters piled with dishes of chips and peas, and bread being cut into slices, and on towards the swing doors into the main body of the Lodge.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023