The Bare Necessities (Non-Profane Edition)
Page 1
The Bare Necessities (Non-Profane Edition)
Title Page
Preface
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Epilogue
Copyright © 2013 John David Harding
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Written in the United Kingdom for National Novel Writing Month 2012 and published in January 2013.
Preface
Hello there!
This is a special edition of my book. After releasing the original, it was suggested to me that there was too much explicit profanity within the novel, and this upset them. This is therefore an edition that contains almost no swear words as almost all references of “f**k”, “s**t”, “c**k”, “p**s” and c**t” have been removed.
In November 2012 I wrote this book for National Novel Writing Month – the challenge to write a novel inside thirty days. It took me only two weeks to write, but over a month to edit and over the holiday season, I sent it to my group of alpha readers.
From their responses, I made further alterations to be able to present the book here today. I thank those people who gave up hours of their time – David, Turbo, Gary, my wife and everyone who wrote to me from the British Naturism forum. This book would not be as good, if it wasn't for their hard work and efforts.
This is my first fiction book under my real name, and I would love to receive feedback – good and bad. My website is listed at the bottom of the page and I will respond to messages I receive through it.
I am an occasionally active member of the Macclesfield Writers' Group so if anyone is in the Macclesfield area wants to try their hand at creative writing, then we meet at the library on Thursday afternoons; it's a diverse mix of characters and all are welcome.
Hope you enjoy the story.
Kind regards,
John
My website: http://jdhardingbooks.wordpress.com/
Macclesfield Writing Group: http://maccwriters.wordpress.com/
Chapter I
“Oh for Christ's sake,” the red-haired eighteen year-old cried. “Just hold it still.”
“My sarong fell off,” an annoyed voice yelled from underneath a green piece of canvas. A crop of red hair, attached to another teenager, emerged from underneath the circular tent, and the young lady frantically retied the red fabric around her naked body. “Stop gettin' at me Paige,” she moaned.
The 5ft 7in Paige ran her hands through her hair, pushing it behind her ears. “Half an hour, we've been trying to put this tent up,” she snapped at her little sister. “You're in the tent, does it matter if you're naked? Honestly, Hazel, just …”
The younger girl grunted and scowled. “You know I hate it here. You know I hate people seeing me … like this.”
“Then don't bloody come to a naturist camp site then,” the eighteen year old spat.
“I didn't want to come, you know that. Mum and Dad made me.”
Paige closed her eyes and counted to three. “Can we please just get this tent up?” The naked girl sighed and watched as her sixteen year-old sister tried to put the sarong around her bosom, but it came loose as she bent down and she dropped the pole for the second time in as many minutes. “Hazel,” Paige yelled at her. “Mum and Dad'll be back soon. They've only gone to the Supermarket. Useless little …”
“Go and do one,” Hazel snapped aggressively, gesturing rudely towards her elder sibling and kicked the pole with a clatter as she walked away from the crumpled canvas.
“Yeah, go on. Go! I'll get Jeremy to help me.” Paige bellowed at the retreating figure of her younger sister, who took her silky sarong and held it around her body, before grabbing her book from the grass and walking purposely towards the little club house.
Paige swore at the departing girl; she had managed to put up the little two-person tent she shared with Hazel on her own, but the family tent was too big for her to assemble without assistance and she just needed her little sister to help hold the single pole as the guy ropes were fastened.
Paige tried to balance the pole herself, before running to tie the ropes, but had to catch the seven foot wooden strut before it hit the ground when it started to topple, and got a smack on the chin for her trouble. The frustrated teenager cried in pain and flailed her arms in a frantic, circular motion; her body was stuck in the canvas sheet and she had to back out from under the collapsed tent. She wiped her chin, and took a swig of the bottle of water and pondered her options.
The stubborn girl was not prepared to find her sister and ask for help, and had no intention of waiting for her parents to arrive back at the naturist camp site with her younger brother, Jeremy. They had expressly asked her to put up the tents while they went shopping; how hard can a ex-scouting tent be to put up?
Paige looked at the canvas sheet from the 25 year-old tent and carefully put the strut on the ground, lining the small spike at the end of the wooden pole with the eyelet in the tent, but the pole would not balance as she let go and she slipped as the weight came crashing down on her.
“Do you want any help?” Paige turned to find the source of the female voice and her eyes rested on a naked, black-haired teenager – a couple of inches taller than herself – standing next to the collapsed tent with a towel in her hand. “You look like you need it?”
“Sure,” Paige muttered. “Thanks. I haven't seen you here before.”
“Not been before. Just a few days away from home,” the friendly girl replied. “Dad's got Easter off work, so he wanted us all to come. Claire, by the way.”
“Paige.” She gave a smile and gestured towards the other side of the tent. “Could you grab that pole? Once it is up I can peg out the sheet.”
Claire put her towel on the floor next to Paige's water bottle, walked around the large canvas sheet and grabbed hold of the base of the wooden strut raising her seven-foot timber to a vertical position and Paige waited for a few seconds, to ensure that the tent wasn’t about to collapse. “Are you OK in there?” Paige asked her newly-acquired friend, between the tent sheet.
“Yeah, fine.” There was silence for a few moments before Claire asked. “Do you come here regularly?”
“Three times a year or so,” Paige replied as she picked up the tent pegs and mallet, and began hammering in the first guy rope into the ground. “Not always with my family, I came this time last year with my ex. Only for Easter weekend though, but it was good to get away.”
Paige and Claire spoke through the canvas shelter as the guy ropes were tied, and then the flysheet was thrown over the top and fastened securely. Claire, who was staying in a static caravan, was keen to know how many teenagers came to visit and what the camp site was like, and Paige was only too happy to talk to her.
They unfurled the groundsheet into the ten
t, and Paige sat down taking a swig of water, and thanked her. “I'm going to the pool. Do you want to come?” Claire offered with a smile.
“Yeah,” Paige replied. “Yeah, I do! 'Cause I think I deserve it.”
* * * * *
“Nice try at the end,” the voice of the coach complimented him as Jack lifted a glass of beer to his lips. He was surrounded by his team mates, as well as the players of the side his team had just beaten, and he nodded in appreciation of the compliment.
“Yeah, bloody fast legs for a big guy!” Another voice added, and Jack smiled uncomfortably in receipt of the adulation and praise. “Not having a problem playing for the 'C' Team. It'll be the Stiffs next.”
Jack smiled and took a few sips from the glass of beer in his hand. His team mates knew each other far better than Jack did; he had only recently been promoted from the youth teams, but he tried to join in on the conversation.
In response, a couple of the players on the 'C' Team of the amateur rugby club were keen to get to know their new Inside Centre and Jack was happy to talk about his exclusive college where he was enrolled, as well as the family firm which his father was encouraging him to join.
The noise made by the two rugby teams rose as the amount of alcohol that was consumed increased, and a handful of drinking games saw Jack go from fairly tipsy to very drunk. He got up, swaying and groaning, as he stumbled to the toilets, feeling nauseous.
The drunken player slumped against the toilet wall and took a few deep breaths that caused him to dry-heave. His fair hair was ragged and his clothes dirty and stained. He could feel the room spinning and gripped the sink to stop himself from tumbling into the wall.
Jack rejoined the group and passed on any further beer. He was called a “lightweight” by his team mates but the eighteen year-old student knew that if he accepted any more alcohol he would be violently sick, and it would spoil his evening.
Jack was clearly drunk, but he wasn't totally inebriated, and had some awareness of his surroundings. His glass of water was laughed at, and he was teased, but Jack wasn't the only player who had swapped ale for something lighter and as the afternoon gave way into evening, he felt the effects of the alcohol lessen.
He watched as the young barmaid picked up the plethora of dirty glasses from the table and he grabbed a handful of them that were stacked. “I'll give ya a hand,” he offered and carried a dozen dirty pint glasses to the bar. She smiled and thanked him, and he leant across the bar. “I've seen you around, haven't I?”
The blonde girl gave a defensive laugh. “Err … I don't think so.”
Jack nodded and smiled at her. “Yeah, sure I have. You've been modelling haven't you?” He gave a coy smile as she sighed and he chortled. “Yes, that's it,” he exclaimed. “You were in Sexiest Women in Britain, right?”
“No,” she said firmly, closing the bar hatch with a bang and shaking her head as she looked at the floor. “Now, would you like another drink?”
Jack pulled his wallet out of his trouser pocket. “I'll have half a Guinness and whatever you're having.”
“I can't drink when I am working,” the slim barmaid told him and adjusted her clothes. “And I guessed you knew that.”
“Well I will just have to wait until you are not working,” he teased as she poured the black liquid into the half-pint glass. “Won't I?”
“I don't think my boyfriend would be very impressed, do you?”
Jack shrugged as he passed the banknote over to her and she slid him his change on the varnished bar with a smile. He took a few sips of the drink and ambled back to the posse of players but the gathering was starting to wind down. After finishing the drink, he said his goodbyes to the thinning group of rugby players, and walked out into the street with his rucksack on his back.
Jack stumbled as he left the pub and hit the fresh air, and wiped his eyes. In front of him, waiting at the bus stop opposite were two people he never wanted to see again. The girl waved at him, but Jack feigned deafness and blindness to walk away from that street; just what was his ex-girlfriend and ex-best friend doing outside the amateur rugby club?
* * * * *
“The rumours are rubbish.”
The tracksuit-clad skinhead grunted from the other side of the desk. “Yeah … and they said Villa 'ad scouts, like. Watching me at the Torquay game. I scored, and I thought it was one of my better goals.”
Andre Wilson sighed and rubbed his eyes, straightening his suit and wiping his brow. He was exasperated. “Sorry, but it's not true. Ummm … they might not be spending any money, but they aren't looking in the Conference for players.”
Baz grunted. “Scored two goals as well,” he muttered, barely moving his lips and gestured wildly at his agent's representative. “Ain't worth scorin' if Villa weren't watching. Why they not interested in me?”
Andre sighed and puffed. “I'm not sure you'd fit into their system,” Andre stoically replied, but Baz was insistent.
“Yeah, I'm good anywhere. Last week, gaffer told me to play right wing, and I'm like, 'I dain't like it,' but, ya know, I do it, 'cause it's a game.”
“Would that be the game you got sent off in?”
“Yeah,” Baz admitted. “But that weren't till the eighteenth minute, like, ya know. I nearly scored 'fore that.” Baz took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it in the small meeting room. “Don't mind d'ya?”
“No,” Andre replied tersely. “Look Baz, if you want to move, then we could see if there's any takers in the Summer, but it's tough market out there. Clubs aren't carrying as many pro's on their books and we'll see. Maybe a League Two club might want to take a nibble.”
“Nah,” Baz cried. “Want Premiership.”
Andre sniffed. “That's … that's … well that’s probably not going to happen.”
“Why? That Jonesy kid at the club's got a move out to QPR.”
“Yes, but he's sixteen and … well … he's made an impression. And he's fit. You smoke twenty a day, drink like a fish, you're 31, and you've got as many red and yellow cards this season as you've got goals.” Baz snorted and gestured wildly.
“Ya sayin' I'm no good?” He shouted. “I got Young Player of the Season Award,” he yelled.
“Yeah, in 2001,” Andre muttered under his breath and coughed. “No, Baz, it's not that. It's just the reality of things.”
“I think this agency dain't want me,” he shouted. “Where's Greg?”
The door opened, and Andre looked around to see the face of his Uncle standing the doorway. “I'm here,” he said loudly and rubbed his face. “Sorry Baz, been at the bank. Is there a problem?”
“Yeah. I wanna a move to a big club, and your bloody monkey says I can't.”
“He wants to move to Villa,” Andre added. “And …”
Greg raised his hand to stop his nephew from talking and sat down at the table, listening to the wishful footballer. The experienced agent smiled and promised that he would do all he could to secure his dream move for him once the transfer window reopened. “You just keep banging those goals in,” Greg told him as he shook the footballer’s hand. “I’m sure we can get a top club to take a look at you if you’re on fire. There's only a few games left 'til the end of the season; try and get a hatful of goals.”
“Yeah, and I want Premiership,” Baz demanded. “I want a crack at the big time, with big money.”
Greg’s smile was unmoved. “Score those goals and I’ll see what I can do.” He nodded and waited until Baz was out of the door before turning to face his employee, sitting behind his own little desk. “What you tell him that for?” Greg barked.
“He wants to play in the Champions League, I mean, come on Uncle.”
Greg snorted. “All footballers want to play Champions League or the Premiership. No footballer wants to be stuck at this level. I know he’s got no chance, but we just humour them,” the agent replied. “He'll be lucky to get Accrington-bloody-Stanley, but tell him what he wants and leave the cold, hard truth for the negotiatio
ns in the Summer.”
“Why do you keep him? He can't contribute more than twenty quid a week.”
“Thirty-five,” came the response. “But that's not the point. It's good to have a few footballing stars on the books.”
“Stars!” Andre cried in disbelief. “We got two League Two players and a handful of Conference.” His uncle shrugged. “And that guy who was in yesterday.”
“Terry Kaer, big rocker in his time.”
“I looked him up and he reached number ten in the singles chart in 1972. And that's it. I bought an album of his last week just to see what his music was like, and it's awful. And he's not even that popular as I tried to download it off the Pirate Bay and no-one admitted to having it.”
His uncle snorted. “Yeah, well, I've represented him since 1971. That's a long time.”