Rudd slips back to the office, as soon as lunch is cleared.

He sits down in front of the computer, and stares at his reflection in the screen. It is vague as a thumbprint, but still accusing. They both know his last chance to warn the guests is slipping away. He runs his fingers through his hair, first one way and then the other, while the machine dares him to turn it on.

Do I really want to know? And if it’s the worst? What then? Nothing man. This is Zim. Heads down. Carry on. Pretend it’s not happening.

He remembers his mother’s caution. Always telling him to put on a lifejacket. To watch out for crocodiles. His father taunting him to take the risk.

“You’re not going to learn from the edge boy. Don’t be a wimp.“

Rudd knew his mother would board the place up straight away … and then his father would come along, shout a lot, and rip it off.

“Caution? Put it in the bin where it belongs boy. You need to start living.”

Rudd can see them both. His mother blurred, her features vague. His father up close and definite. Eyes full of scorn. Mouth tipped down. Face fleshy and red. And his hands. So big. In his mind he hears them arguing. Shouting. Turning around. Looking for him. Their voices ricochet inside his head. He thumps his fist on the table, and the keyboard jumps.

Right. Decision time.

He reaches around the back of the computer to switch it on. There is a click, but nothing else. No rush of electricity. He tries again. Still nothing. He flicks the light switch on the wall, and the bulb above the desk comes on. He switches it off and tries the computer. Again the click, but there is no life. He looks beneath the table to check whether anything has been unplugged, but the socket is as it should be. He tries once more, but the screen stays dormant.

He pauses, wonders briefly, then relief soars through him, and he pushes his chair away from the table. He jumps to his feet and leaves the office, rattling the door closed behind him. He feels blessed by the Almighties, everywhere, personally rescued, and the threat of danger wiped.

In the distance he sees Father Norman and Katania, walking together towards the grass steps down to the golf course.

That’s a good sight. Perhaps that cyclone’s given way to Katania.

He rounds the corner of the verandah towards the bar, and there, suddenly, his joy falters, dragged back to earth by the flap of white tablecloths, and the breeze that gusts through. The wind licks his skin, then sinks away, unnoticed by the chat of the waiters as they hurry past to add finishing touches. The staff look confident and energised, and the mood sparks nervous hope back into Rudd.

A few paces on, the barmen arrange trays of glinting glasses. Rudd shouts a greeting as he passes, then stops on the edge of the drop down to the golf course, where dresses flutter together, blowing like petals towards the seating under the trees.

Later than I thought. Time to get changed.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Rudd imagines Hansie’s mum, up early, preparing the koeksisters, while everyone else was out on the walk. As he thinks of her, his mind flashes back to the last memory he has of his own mother.

He’d been in his bedroom. All he could hear was them arguing.

He shakes his head, and tries to focus on the koeksisters again, but his stomach is twisted tight with the tension that came each time he woke to the shouting. Mainly his father, but that night his mother too. Her voice fierce as he’d ever heard … and frightened. They’d been in the kitchen, just across from his bedroom. The place his father kept his drink. The beer. The bottles. The cracking thump, like the sound of crate being dropped. A scream. Then cursing. His father cursing. Light cutting across his room from the corridor outside. Then his father’s hulk passing the open door. Still cursing. Then the light goes, and he is lying in the dark, heart thumping, barely breathing. Waiting minutes, maybe hours, for his mother to come. Like she always did. But she never did. Waiting. Waiting. Then the sound of the television. James Bond. The song about diamonds. Forever.

He closes his eyes, and tries to block out the clanging kitchen noises, thickening the memory. But they surround him. A plate crashes to the floor, smashing into the voices of his parents. He braces his arms on the counter, chin on his chest, and breathes slowly, steadying himself. Then he stands straight, and turns just in time to see the kitchen door thud back on its hinges.

Samere, the head chef, bursts into the kitchen with a woman behind him. She is slight, and bouncing a baby on her back. By her skirt there is another child, who peers out shyly. Silence swivels briefly around them, then swells into greetings and laughter. Rudd walks over and adds his own to the pile. He is relieved to have Samere’s solid, cheerful presence back at the centre of the kitchen.

“Samere, please could we have lunch on the table as soon as possible,” Rudd says, as the talk settles. “The wedding service is at 3pm sharp.”

“Yes. Tonderai has told me this,” Samere replies, crossing over to the sink to wash his hands.

“Excellent. Thank you.”

Rudd leaves the kitchen, and outside in the sunshine, he runs his eyes around the edges of the lodge, drawing up a mental checklist.

Lock up the umbrellas. Find torches. Batteries. Candles. Matches. Check fuel. Maybe that generator will start this time.

Laughter swings up from the tennis court, and in the distance the clip of a well struck golf ball. Warm in the sun, and calm again, Rudd stretches his shoulders up and back, thankful his head has cleared.

Stress. Always when I’m stressed.

“Hey Rudd?” a voice calls, from the edge of the pool. “What time’s lunch? ”

 “Shouldn’t be long now. Half an hour max. Sooner I hope.”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Rudd stands in the shade of the trees by the lodge entrance. With him is James the gardener.

“Make sure everything is away. All the tools, buckets, pool equipment – anything that the wind might take. If this storm comes they say it will be very strong.”

“Yes. Tonderai told us this morning, early, early. My wife is here now. She is happy.”

“That’s great. I am so glad. Better to be …”

Rudd breaks off, as a low rumbling sound lifts out of the trees along the road down to the lodge. It grows louder and louder. Shading his eyes, he sees a dust cloud, and then suddenly, at its centre, the red mission truck bounces into view, its engine rasping through its lowest gears.

“Eish, but this driver is very careful,” says James, shaking his head, as the truck edges over the last of the culverts.

Rudd laughs. “I think it’s the new priest. First time down here. First time in Africa I think.”

The truck swings in through the gates, turns a slow circle in front of them, then stops precisely in one of the stone marked parking spaces. Rudd steps forward to meet the tall man, unwrapping himself from around the steering wheel.

“Not much of a road that,” the man says, emerging from the vehicle, and placing a Panama hat on his head. The two men shake hands.

“Apologies for the road. I’m Rudd, the manager here.”

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Father Norman. If I remember correctly we’ve bumped into each other a few times,” he says, dusting off his trousers.

“That’s right. And then again this morning.”

“Yes. Your visit was quite a surprise.”

“For me too,” says Rudd. “Anyway, I’m very pleased you’re here, and I know they’re waiting for you, so I’ll take you to freshen up quickly then we’ll go out to them.”

 “Excellent, thanks. This dust gets into everything.”

“And it’s no good trying to shake it out,” Rudd laughs.

As they crunch in over the gravel they pass James raking twigs off the grass by the entrance.

Father Norman calls out to him, with a tip of his hat. “Quite a wind last night.”

 “Good morning sir. Yes sir,” says James, the long easy strokes of his rake unbroken, as they walk past him into the lodge.

The wedding party is waiting by the bar. Katania, the first to catch sight of Father Norman, rises to her feet as he approaches. Rudd stands back and watches the introductions, then he leaves them to their planning and heads off to the kitchen to check on preparations. As he pushes open the doors the air swirls over him, rich with the aroma of the slow-cooked sauce, simmering in the two large saucepans on the stove. Beside the food hatch waiters, neat in their brown uniforms, pile plates and cutlery on to trays.

Rudd walks in further, to the cooler part of the kitchen. Here the large fridges stand like wide, steel pillars, with the metal gleam of a scrubbed counter top between them. Along its surface, in ordered trays, golden twists of koeksisters are laid out to cool.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023