The Perils of Skinny-Dipping Read online

  The Perils of Skinny-dipping

  J. A. Sandilands

  © UK Copyright 2010 by Julie Sandilands

  All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of Julie Sandilands.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First published in 2010 by Julie Sandilands

  Published in 2011 by Purple Flame Books www.purpleflamebooks.blogspot.com

  Cover design by Tim Ryan ©

  Graphic design by Sylvia Breslin ©

  www.sylvanphotographics.co.uk

  To purchase a paper copy of this book please visit:

  www.juliesandilands.com

  email:[email protected]

  About the Author

  Julie Sandilands is originally from Cheshire where she lived until 1997. After completing her B.Ed. (Hons) in Business and Information Technology, she spent three years in Botswana teaching in a large government secondary school in the capital, Gaborone. She moved to Scotland in 2000 and now lives in rural Fife, Scotland with her son, Duncan.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks as always to Duncan for his patience and interest in all of my endeavours.

  To Gillian, whose constant encouragement and relentless ideas helped to take this story to places it might not otherwise have gone.

  To Tim Ryan, who kindly agreed to create the image for the book cover. Tim worked as an art teacher at Lotsane Secondary School, Palapye, Botswana, between August 1997 and December 2000. The imagery in southern Africa had a profound effect on the illustrator. This is reflected in the cover showing a baobab tree, the African night sky, and the type face on the ‘do it yourself’ road signs publicising lodges and hotels, common on any road trip in Africa.

  Prologue

  The man walked up the steps and into the bright lights of the hotel foyer. The receptionist smiled at him as he handed over his passport.

  ‘Dumela Rra, I hope you’ve had a good trip.’ She gave him the swipe card for his room and shouted for the night porter.

  ‘It’s OK, I can manage,’ he said, as he swung his bag over his shoulder and disappeared through the swing doors.

  His room was on the second floor and looked out across the pool bar. After a cool shower, he poured himself a drink out of the mini bar and lay down on the bed. The air conditioning unit rattled away, blowing cool air across his skin. He closed his eyes, tired from the long drive.

  When he awoke it was still dark. He shivered, stood up and turned off the air conditioning. The digital clock beside the bed read 1.45 am. He picked up the unfinished whiskey and pulled open the sliding doors that led onto the balcony. The night was warm and the sky clear. He stood and looked out across the hotel grounds. A familiar sound caught his attention. He leaned on the balcony, focusing his eyes in the direction of the noise. After a few moments, he could see someone swimming up and down in the pool. He stared as the body glided through the water.

  After completing several more laps, the person climbed out of the pool. At first he could only make out the outline. As his vision sharpened, his eyes followed the smooth contour of her body, unspoilt by any garments. He watched as she picked up her towel, wrapping it around herself, before disappearing from view into the darkness of the hotel gardens.

  Chapter One

  The morning sun was rising in the eastern sky, slowly covering the earth with a rusty glow. The air had a stillness about it as if in anticipation of the unfolding of a new day. It was already twenty-two degrees and not yet six o’clock. Abbey had never been a morning person and getting out of bed had always proved to be a chore, regardless of the time of year. That, however, had been twelve thousand kilometres away in Manchester, England. That was where Abbey had been born, schooled and spent the first thirty-two years of her life. Here in Kasane, Botswana, the dawning of a new day heralded the start of another adventure just waiting to be experienced.

  She rose with ease and dressed into cargo pants and a long-sleeved shirt. The heat and mosquitoes were difficult adversaries and Abbey knew better than to try and ward them off by state of mind only, as malaria was a very real threat in this part of the country. She pulled on her walking boots, after having held them upside down and banging them together to dislodge any insects that might have crept in during the night. Substantial boots were also a necessity if scorpion bites were to be avoided whilst walking through the bush.

  She left the small bungalow and made her way down to the bottom of the hill towards the village to buy fresh milk and bread. There were no pavements anywhere in Kasane and, apart from the main road in and out of the town, which was tarmac, the remaining roads were simply well-used dust tracks.

  Goats, dogs, donkeys and chickens roamed freely around the town. The goats wore collars with bells that jingled constantly, and being woken up at five in the morning, when their day began, had taken some getting used to. The rickety, corrugated iron shops were already open, selling anything from electrical items to vegetables.

  The smell of barbequed corn wafted through the air. Music thumped out of a cassette player and many of the locals were also up and about on bicycles, or on foot, making their way to work. Children, immaculately dressed in their blue and white uniforms, made their way to the local community junior school, waving and shouting to people in cars and trucks as they drove past.

  Kasane lies adjacent to the Chobe/Zambezi River and is the most northerly town in Botswana. The charity, African Volunteers Project (AVP), had been active here for many decades. Abbey had joined the forestry unit, helping to plant new saplings and educate the locals on how to look after the newly-planted trees.

  The land had been protected as a non-hunting area for some decades and eventually declared as a national park. As a result, the ever-growing elephant population had reached immense proportions as herds had flocked from the surrounding countries of Namibia and Angola for the safe haven of the Chobe Park and the thousands of acres of bush land, south of the river, down to the Okavango swamps. The daily damage to the bush land was now threatening other species of wildlife. Trees could not be planted fast enough, and keeping them safe from being trampled or eaten by these enormous, ravenous mammals was proving to be a far greater task than ever expected.

  Abbey entered the local Spar shop, her t-shirt already sticking to her from the heat. She bought what she needed, practising her limited Setswana to the delight of Beauty who worked in the shop. Abbey had been impressed by the welcome she had received from the local people and their attitude towards foreign, white people coming to live and work in their country. She suddenly understood what it meant to be in the minority, and wondered if the ethnic minorities back home felt as comfortable as she did as she wandered freely around, familiarising herself with the town and its inhabitants. She was also impressed with the standard of English spoken by the majority of people, who would never miss an opportunity to stop her on the street and try out their language skills.

  There were many stalls of various shapes and sizes selling the most obscure and random items, yet this was the only shop made from bricks and mortar with an electric till which offered a good selection of groceries and household goods.

  The temperature was rising fast as Abbey stood outside the shop. She smiled and breathed in the clean, dry air, surveying her new world with ever-increasing wonder.

  Chapter Two

  Four months previously on a late August, Sunday afternoon, Abbey had been sitting in front of her computer, staring vacantl
y at the screen. She was working on her personal development plan as her annual appraisal was scheduled for the coming week. Abbey worked for a printing firm in the heart of Manchester, working her way up from office junior to the marketing director. She had dedicated her life to her career and was a valued and respected member of the firm. It had, however, been a difficult week for Abbey, involving a dispute over whose job it was to look after a couple of international clients. It had always been her responsibility and she had been shocked to hear that the Costello account was being given to one of her less experienced colleagues. Abbey had questioned the decision with Colin Trump, the Managing Director, and demanded a meeting in his office.

  ‘Abbey, we think that the Costello account would be better off with Nigel at the moment.’

  ‘But Mr Trump, I’ve looked after that account for the past five years,’ Abbey had protested.

  ‘Exactly dear,’ smiled Mr Trump, ‘and we think it’s time for a new approach, which we believe will benefit us all.’

  Abbey knew exactly what he meant. A change of approach would ensure the clients wouldn’t be lost. Was she losing her touch, or her mind?

  ‘Abbey,’ continued Mr Trump, ‘you’re scheduled for an appraisal next week. It might be an idea to start working on your personal development plan in preparation for that review.’

  Targets and objectives for the future seemed to evade her and she decided that a strong cup of coffee might help. She leaned on the kitchen worktop, gazing out into the garden. It was approaching the end of the summer and the flowers and bushes were in full bloom. She was in no doubt that ‘Nigel’ wasn’t suffering from the same mental block and was probably planning his takeover strategy for her job!

  Frustrated, she started to look through The Independent newspaper she had bought earlier that day. She skipped the first few pages before scanning the TV and entertainment guide. She continued to flick over the pages until she reached the employment section. Abbey often did this on a Sunday to see if any of her company’s competitors were advertising similar positions to the one she held. She decided there was nothing of interest and was about to fold away the paper, when she spotted an advert. It was the opening line, in big, bold letters, which caught her attention.

  OUR OBJECTIVES ARE CLEAR – ARE YOURS?

  Abbey read the advert. The charity, AVP, was looking for volunteers to work on an environmental rejuvenation project in the north of Botswana. Intrigued at what this might entail, she looked up the charity’s website and read about the programmes currently in progress. The organisation welcomed applications from people from all walks of life, who were willing to offer their time and skills in parts of the world that still relied on the support of international agencies. AVP’s main objective was to provide training and education to the native people to maintain their own environment in the long term, and for future generations.

  After reading the advert in the newspaper, she had thought about what skills she could offer, and was confident that the sheer determination she possessed in all aspects of her life was a good enough start for any volunteer. She was intelligent, quick to learn and had good people skills. She opened the newspaper and read the advert again. She pictured the forthcoming appraisal in her head.

  ‘What objectives have you for the coming year, Abbey?’ Mr Trump would ask, peering across the desk at her. ‘And how do they fit in with the Company Plan?’

  What would she reply? Ah yes. ‘Well sir, I’d like to develop my...’

  What would she like to develop? What sort of challenge would she like to see land on her desk? She mulled it over, her thoughts jumping from one dimension to another. It was true that Abbey had complained at her last appraisal that she felt she was not being developed, and her job no longer provided any real challenges for her. Maybe, she thought, this idea to try something different was an inner yearning to break free from the monotonous routine she had inadvertently created for herself. Whatever it was, it resulted in a major life-changing decision for six weeks later in the middle of October, she had boarded a British Airways flight at Heathrow heading for Gaborone Airport.

  She had officially requested the time off at her appraisal, and Mr Trump and the HR Manager (after checking company policy several times), had reluctantly agreed her request for an unpaid career break for one year.

  The reaction from her colleagues had been mixed, ranging from her being totally mad, to pangs of jealously from people who either didn’t have the financial resources, or the courage, to step off their own treadmill and venture out into the unknown. Had Abbey given herself time to think her plan through, her rational thoughts might have saved her! However, she had not and, with a packed suitcase of fashionable clothes, shoes and makeup, all of which would become totally redundant in the months to come, she boarded the aircraft with a sense of trepidation and excitement.

  That is why Abbey Harris was buying breakfast supplies at six-thirty in the morning in the bustling, rural town of Kasane. By eight o’clock she had finished her breakfast and had arrived at the tiny AVP office in the west end of the town. Richard was already there sitting at his desk, feet up and sucking the end of his biro.

  ‘Morning,’ he said without looking up.

  Richard had been at Kasane for a full six months before Abbey had arrived, and used this opportunity to establish himself as the ‘team leader’, much to Abbey’s amusement. After their first week of working together, she had established that Richard was about as capable of making good quality decisions as the monkeys, who screeched their way through the day in the trees.

  ‘Morning Richard,’ she replied. ‘You’re bright and early this morning. Couldn’t sleep? Or is there something important I need to know about?’

  Richard looked up from his paper and studied Abbey before answering. He had always found over-confident women frustratingly annoying and Abbey was probably the worst he had ever met.

  ‘No, my dear,’ he said, knowing the sentiment would rasp on her nerves. ‘I just thought I’d get up to speed with all the paperwork before we head off this morning.’

  Abbey didn’t respond as she knew that, after an hour’s overtime the day before, there was no outstanding paperwork. There never was. She was far too efficient for that and Richard knew that too.

  Richard was in his late forties and an ex-school teacher from Cumbria. He had been the head of the technical department and reluctantly taken early retirement on health grounds. More likely pushed thought Abbey, as she looked at the day’s work schedule.

  ‘Oh, I see we’re due at the primary school this morning to talk to second years.’

  ‘Ah yes, I thought I’d do that given my previous experience with children, Abbey. I would like you to go and collect the new delivery of saplings from the Crossroads.’

  ‘I thought you said you were going to go this week?’ she queried.

  ‘Like I said, I think it best if I do the school visits. Don’t you?’

  Abbey smiled at Richard’s idea of himself as the patron saint of all children. The same children who called him bush names that were quite derogatory, but very funny. She thought it was his bushy beard and the occasional snorting sound he made when he laughed, that the children had picked up on.

  ‘Fine with me, I’ll take the bakkie.’ She picked up the keys to the Toyota pickup and left, more than happy to spend the morning on the open road.

  Abbey pulled over at the last small house going out of the town. She pushed the wrought iron gate, which whined as it swung open, walked up the path over-grown with weeds, and tried the front door. As expected, it opened with one push.

  ‘Phil,’ she shouted. ‘Phil, are you up yet?’

  The living room looked as though it had been the scene of a riot the night before. Dirty clothes, overflowing ashtrays and empty beer cans covered the floor. Phil was the third member of the AVP team and had arrived the same time as Abbey. He had become as much a friend to her as he was a colleague, and a close bond had quickly developed between them.r />
  He appeared at his bedroom door, wearing nothing but his boxers. His tousled, mousy-coloured hair fell over his face partially covering his eyes. His chin was dark with stubble, as it usually was, and he looked as if he hadn’t shaved for at least two or three days.

  ‘Morning sleepy head,’ said Abbey, looking at his tall, slim frame.

  ‘What time is it? You’re a bit early, aren’t you?’

  ‘Is that your way of saying thanks for coming to pick you up? Not to mention covering for you with Tricky Dickey!’ she replied, clearing a pathway across the floor with her foot.

  ‘What? Did he ask where I was?’

  ‘No, but I suppose I didn’t give him the chance. I left the office as soon as I had my orders. Anyway, where have you been exactly?’

  Phil groaned a reply and disappeared back into the bedroom.

  Ten minutes later they were on the road, Phil eating two fat cakes he bought from one of the makeshift stalls by the roadside. A fat cake, or ‘Magwinya’, was like a heavy doughnut and a staple part of the African diet. Phil stuffed both of them into his mouth at once. He smiled at Abbey, who shook her head at his lack of etiquette.

  ‘Great for hangovers, these things,’ he muffled, his mouth full.

  ‘You stink,’ she replied, screwing up her face and opening her window.

  ‘Thanks Abbey, I can always depend on you to say what’s on your mind.’

  Abbey smiled and continued to drive, avoiding the livestock that had wandered onto the road.