“Okay.” Lola shrugs, and bends down to pick up her fallen pencil. “Nothing on Instagram.”

“How’s the design going?” asks Simi, coming close enough to peer over Lola’s shoulder.

“Not bad,” says Lola, flipping the page over to one that is fresh and blank. “I’ll show you when I’ve done more.”

Simi sighs, and goes back to her desk, her head tumbling with thoughts about Marybelle and Fred, and seeing them both in London. She is excited, but afraid to be excited at the same time. She cannot believe that they will actually be in her city. The feeling is the same as when she thinks about her trip to Zimbabwe – she is buzzing that she went, but in London feels so far removed that at times, she doubts she ever did. Her hand is the only tangible proof, and now, the memory of the morning’s call which seems as fragile and disconnected as her own state of mind.

That trip. That cyclone. Made me rethink everything. Life. What is it? What matters? What doesn’t matter? Does this matter? This shop. Ten years of my life. All this fabric. All my clients.

She looks around the shop from kaftan to kaftan, corner to corner.

“You okay?” Lola asks. “You look a bit … a bit … somewhere else.”

“Just thinking. I thought I had all the answers. That the Kaftan Shop was important. But are we good for people? I mean, maybe we’ve been selling the wrong way round. You know all this ‘you must look beautiful. Buy this. Buy that.’”

“Isn’t that how shops work.”

“But, is it good for us? That place, Zimbabwe … nothing was perfect. Sometimes stuff wasn’t even there. I mean the basics – shops like we know them, roads like we know them. The lodge was great, but the in between stuff. But nobody complained. They just got on with it. They’re survivors. I went to bits. So that’s what I want to find – what I want to sell. How to live. How to stay really alive. I want to wrap whatever it is into each kaftan. That being alive. Being part of something.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I think I’m talking about what you’re talking about. Stories. I want every kaftan to have a story. Have a soul. Where it’s from. The cloth. The community. So the buyer loves it. Looks after it. Passes it on.”

“Okay … ,” says Lola.

“And people can bring us their cloth. Old fabric. New fabric. Tell us their stories. Then we make the kaftans. Make them beautiful. Make them alive.”

“Okaaay … ” says Lola, chewing the end of her pencil, as she considers her boss in the grip of this strange new excitement.

“This is going to be the Kaftan Community Shop. Your new kaftan, your design for those children, is going to be at our new opening. So are Marybelle and Fred.”

 “But you don’t even know when they’re coming …”

“They will …”

“And what are we going to do with all this fabric we’ve already got?”

“Find out where each roll came from.”

“Really?” Lola’s eyes pop with dread.

“I’ll do it,” says Simi. “You design. We’ll …” Simi feels her mobile buzz again.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

“Me?” exclaims Marybelle. “I’m not Fred’s daughter. The daughter’s in London. He knew she’d been born, but never saw her. Can you imagine? The baby’s granny wouldn’t let him, so Fred went and joined the Army. That was it. Lost touch. But Father Norman found her. The daughter. Not the mother. She’s died sadly.”

“Oh …”

“And the daughter’s rich Simi. She’s paying for our flights. I’m coming because Bernard doesn’t want to. And she doesn’t want to come to Zim. Weird. Says she’s too busy. And not ready.”

“What a story,” Simi says softly.

 “Simi? Are you there? Cooeee Simi – can you hear me? We want to see you. Simi? I’ve got to go.”

“Marybelle. I can hear you,” says Simi.

“Okay… we also promised Bernard we’d visit that memorial in England. The one for the Malayan campaign. Not sure where but …”

Simi, suddenly anxious that they might lose connection, interrupts. “Marybelle, how’s Tonderai?”

“Tonderai? He’s going to take over the lodge. The tea estate will help him. Simi I’ve got to go. Will tell you everything when I see you. Fred’s going to call. Byeee!”

Marybelle disconnects, leaving Simi adrift, memories spinning. She puts her mobile back into her pocket.

 “Who was that?” Lola asks without looking up from her sketching.

“Marybelle. A woman I met at the wedding.”

“A white woman?”

 “Yes. A slightly mad white woman.”

“How mad?” asks Lola, stretching out her back.

“Well …” Simi hesitates, wondering why she used the word. “Well not mad mad. Just always cheerful. Always chatting to God. You know … always happy. Loves everyone. Never complains.”

“Sounds brilliant,” says Lola, head on one side admiring her sketch.

“Suppose she is really. Stuck with me from the moment I stepped into that white party. I’ll always love her for that. And she probably saved my life.”

Lola turns around to face Simi. “She sounds amazing. So what did she want?”

“She’s coming over.”

“To here? To London?”

Simi nods.

“That’s brilliant. She can help with your plan. Will she come to the shop? When’s she coming?”

“She didn’t say. Said her friend would call. She’s travelling with him. An old man. An old soldier.”

“A white soldier?”

Simi nods again.

Lola stares, eyes worried. “What’s he like?’

“Seemed nice. He nearly died too. Got too wet and cold.”

“This is getting really weird. Your two friends – an almost mad white woman and a nearly dead old soldier – are coming here? They’re coming all this way just to see you?”

“No. Well …” Simi explains the story of the new found daughter.

“Whaaat?” Lola’s pencil drops to the floor. She ignores it, her eyes stalking Simi. “This is like a film. You know one of those stories … This is real? You’re not making it up?”

Simi laughs. “I am not making it up. The best part is the daughter is rich. She’s paying for their trip.”

Lola claps her hands together. “I love it! I’m going to message my friends …”

“Maybe not Lola. It’s very private. You know. Let’s just give them time. In case anything goes wrong. See how they are?”

“Really?” Lola rolls her eyes. “You know you could do so much with this story. Put it on Insta. Everyone would want to come to the shop … please?”

“No. Not this story.”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Simi calls after Lola. “You know Lola – I loved it. The experience of my life. You’ll want to go and see Africa one day. Trust me.” But Simi can tell Lola isn’t listening. She’s over in the far corner, leaning on the cutting table, sketching something on to a large piece of paper. Above her a lamp is switched on, its light picking out her braids.

Love her hair. If you’ve got a sister who can braid you are so in luck. Plus she’s got the time.

Simi stands up, and as she does so the mobile in her pocket buzzes.

“I’ll get it,” she calls out to nobody in particular. “Hello. Kaftan Shop.”

“Hello,” a cheerful voice bounces down the line. “Can I speak to … Simi? Is that you?”

“Marybelle? How did you get my number?

“From the doctors. Oh, it’s so lovely to hear you. I can’t talk long, I’m on Father Norman’s mobile. It’s just that I’m coming over to England for a visit. Isn’t that crazy?” Marybelle giggles.

“What? A visit? When?”

“Soon. Not sure exactly. Are you well Simi?”

“Yes. Yes I am. But …?”

Simi tries to gather her thoughts, as Marybelle charges on.

“Simi I’m coming all because of Father Norman and Lady Rodwell. Anyway, he got Fred and I …”

“Lady Rodwell?”

“Yes. Oh. Sorry. Maybe you weren’t there. Do you know the Lady Rodwell?” 

“No …”

“Oh. It’s a hospital in Bulawayo. Lots of babies got adopted from there. I was adopted from there.”

“You?”

“Yes. Well, Father Norman’s mother has just died, and she asked him to search for someone in the records there.”

The words tumble down the line.

“Oh …” says Simi, mind racing. “Marybelle, can you just slow down a little?”

“Oh sorry. Well, the person Father Norman was looking for …”

“Is? Is you Marybelle?”

 “No. No silly. Sadly the lady his mother wanted him to find has died. In one of those Viscount disasters I think. But the point is Father Norman also helped Fred and I look for people.”

“Fred? You’re related to Fred?”

“What?”

“You and Fred are family?”

“What? No Simi.” Marybelle’s laughter bubbles into Simi’s ear. “No Simi … I’ll start again.”

“Okay. Can you slow down a bit. I’m really confused.”

“Right.” Simi hears Marybelle take a deep breath. “Father Norman was looking for somebody his mother knew about, a cousin I think. He found the name, but the lady’s died. He then asked me if I would like to find out about my father and, I said ‘yes’. I never wanted to before, but I think the cyclone and the wedding made me think.”

“And?” asks Simi.

“Well, he helped me search. Turns out there’s no trace of my father, and I’m sad, but not too sad about that … can’t really imagine finding him now … but it was exciting to look … but … Simi … guess what?”

“What?”

“He found someone for Fred.”

“For Fred?”

“Yes. Fred also has a link to Lady Rodwell, but I didn’t know that, until Father Norman came. Then I found out.”

“And?”

“Fred has a daughter.”

“And it’s you?”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023