The Perils of Skinny-Dipping (2 page)

‘
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.

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.

Phil had settled into African life very easily, spending most of his spare time in the local bars or shebeens in the town. Alcoholism was rife in small, rural, African communities, where people had too much time on their hands, sitting in the shade out of the heat in the middle of day and drinking cold beers. Unfortunately, this usually carried on until the early hours of the morning and Phil had often arrived late to the office, smelling like a brewery.

He was fifteen years younger than Richard, who had decided to promote himself as a fatherly role model. He had taken Phil to one side and given him a talking to about the perils of drinking and local women. Much amused, Phil had nodded his head vigorously and thanked Richard for his advice. Abbey had tried to slide under the desk to hide her laughter. Richard, however, had just smiled at Phil, patted him on the back and called him ‘son’. That had done it, and she couldn’t contain herself any longer. She had left the office, shouting her excuses and walked home.

‘
Where are we going then, hun?’ asked Phil, winding down his window to let in the warm breeze as they left the town and headed south.

‘
Still alive then are we?’ muttered Abbey sarcastically.

‘
Oh Abbey, don’t be like that. You know you’re turning into an old spinster more and more each day.’

Ouch, that hurt. Yes, she was single now, but Abbey had been married before, to her teenage sweetheart from school. They had married at eighteen and divorced exactly one year later, when it suddenly dawned on both of them that they actually had very little in common. She had managed a few relationships since, but none of them had lasted more than about three months, as the limited conversation and predictable sex they offered failed to satisfy her on both levels. Here she was, at thirty-two, chastising a guy the same age as her for being reckless.

‘
I’m sorry,’ she said quietly, taking a deep sigh. ‘I guess I’ve forgotten how to party.’

‘
That, my dear, is easily remedied,’ laughed Phil, swigging back a can of coke.

‘
Anyway,’ continued Abbey, ‘we’ve been instructed to pick up the new saplings whilst teacher Richard does the chat with the primary school kids.’

‘
Fine,’ Phil nodded. ‘I thought he wanted to do it this week?’

‘
That’s what I said too, but hey I’m not going to argue.’

Abbey smiled to herself. Being out in the bush with Phil, stinking or not, was much better than a morning listening to the same rehearsed speech she had heard more times than she cared to remember.

The Crossroads was exactly fifty kilometres south of Kasane on the main Francistown road. It consisted of a café and a car park. It was a popular meeting place and the transfer of goods tended to take place there. There was really only one main road in Botswana, which went from Gaborone, the capital, up the east side of the country right into the heart of the Chobe National Park. It was straight, long and notorious for accidents as people either fell asleep at the wheel, or crashed trying to avoid wildlife, which would appear on the road without any warning. There were very few stopping places from Francistown to Chobe, and the Crossroads Café provided a welcome stop for travellers in need of a coffee and a break from the road.

Abbey looked at her watch. It was still only ten o’clock in the morning and the delivery of saplings usually arrived between eleven and twelve. This would give them time for a coffee and a chat with Isaac, who ran the café bar.

Isaac greeted them both and welcomed them as long lost friends, even though it had only been a week since they were last there. Isaac was one of the tallest men Abbey had ever met. His hair had turned pure white and he always wore a friendly smile, revealing an immaculate set of teeth. He had crossed the border with Botswana from Bulawayo in Zimbabwe about twenty years ago and, despite not having an Omang identity card, he had always managed to escape arrest from living and working as an illegal immigrant.

‘
Two coffees please, Isaac,’ called Abbey as she made her way over to a table by the window.

‘
Yes Mma.’

Abbey handed over a twenty-pula note, which was enough to cover the coffee and a tip. Isaac spoke perfect English and sat and chattered with them both whilst the café was quiet. He was genuinely interested in their work and what they were doing and Abbey thought he would make an excellent addition to the team. Had he been in Botswana legally, she would have certainly approached Richard with the idea.