Making Camp by Clare London (freda ebook reader TXT) 📕

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Saturday morning, I awoke to a trumpet call from Hades itself, or that’s how it sounded: a wailing scream, a shriek of hate and despair, ripping through the dawn.

Heart pounding with shock, I scrabbled out of my (borrowed) sleeping bag, cursing whoever had twisted the zip up between my arse cheeks while I slept. The traffic had been so bad the previous evening, we’d arrived really late at the campsite, and there’d been no time for anything except putting up the tents and crashing out. This morning, I barely remembered where I was, let alone why I wasn’t waking to decent rock music on my digital radio alarm. I blundered into the side of the (also borrowed) tent, breathing harshly, wondering if oxygen were available for those with an allergy to polyester. My elbow thumped the tent pole at the doorway and the whole structure shuddered around me.

When I lurched outside, the fresh air hit me like chemical warfare, my bare toes curling up with the shock of grass underneath them so early in the morning. There was a sudden flurry of black feathers as birds launched themselves from the nearby trees. I stared at the world through dilated pupils, panting, expecting to see the Four Horsemen charging in on some satanic version of a tractor.

Instead, only Max was there, crouched outside his own tent, his back to me. He was dressed in just his shorts and he looked completely at home, stirring away at something in a pan, its surface bubbling and the sharp tang of its sauce catching in the back of my throat. I peered over at the pan, suspiciously. Was he going to eat that? From what I could see, it looked like it’d been vomited up by the Beast of Exmoor.

As I groaned and grasped the tent pole for extra support, his head whipped around. “What is it?” He looked concerned. “The crows wake you up?”

I never got time to reply with something witty and face-saving because we were both distracted by a strange creaking sound. Max stood up, abruptly, still clutching the spoon, globules of sauce dripping from its end. His eyes widened. The only other warning I got was the flapping sound of a loosened flysheet, and then the heavy rustle of canvas crumpling down on itself.

I stood there, staring resolutely and helplessly forward, listening to the dull twang of the poles springing free behind me, bouncing against each other, scraping down the seams of the tent. Then the muffled clang of them hitting the ground.

I thought I’d knocked each peg securely into the field the night before, but…maybe I hadn’t.

There was a final thump and everything went quiet again. I didn’t dare turn around. I coughed from a light mist of grass seed in my throat. A stray acorn rolled past my foot. Max’s gaze shifted from over my shoulder and down to a point barely six inches from the ground.

“Shit,” he said, thoughtfully. “Looks like the guy-ropes weren’t tightened properly.”

“I know nothing about tents,” I said, defensively, but I knew the music had to be faced. Turning slowly, I surveyed the damage, my face hot with embarrassment. The whole structure was a tumbled mess on the ground, like someone had pulled the plug on it and let it fall where it liked. One of the metal posts had ripped a jagged hole through the fabric and was the only thing still propped upright, saluting the sky like a raised fist, claiming revenge against all camping virgins. To me, it was nothing more than a smashed jigsaw puzzle and I had no idea what piece went where.

Max started laughing. I sighed and turned back to face him, but now his gaze was fixed on my waist region.

“You buy those in town?” he asked, grinning. “You don’t get that sort of thing down here, you see.”

I didn’t dare look down at myself. I felt that sick lurch in the gut that you get when you know your life is about to end, and in great and glorious humiliation. My hand hovered protectively in front of my groin, but the damage was done. I was standing in the middle of a field in broad—if early—daylight, with the rude reminder I was dressed in nothing but the Pokemon boxers that Em had bought me last year.

“I couldn’t look more of an arse, could I?” I said, hoarsely. I knew what graffiti joy this would bring Em, if she ever heard about it. “Can I start the day again?”

Max shook his head, slowly. “Don’t see how. But who cares?” He was still smiling, and his eyes were brighter than before. Was that only because of the absence of carbon monoxide fumes down here? “Come and eat, we’ll sort your tent out later.” He reached out a hand and touched my bare shoulder, as if consoling me. “You can share mine tonight, no problem.”

“I can change—”

“You look pretty good to me,” he interrupted. His cheeks were flushed. I’d assumed that was from the cooking.

I sat beside him on the blanket and helped serve up the breakfast. No beast’s bile, but sausages and spicy beans, combined in a handy can, or so the label said. It smelled a hell of a sight better than it looked. Tasted good, too. After a while, it didn’t feel so bad, sitting around outside in my underwear. Max was dressed just as sparingly, and he looked great. His chest was tanned like his face and arms, and he was just muscular enough for my liking. We looked at each other, looking at each other: then we smiled at ourselves and relaxed.

The sun was still pale, and the air was crisp, but neither of us seemed to feel the cold. He kept serving me more food, his hand brushing against mine. The sliced bread tasted like fresh-baked, the coffee had a rich hit I never got in my daily, franchised cappuccino.