Amelia Higginbottom in the Country

Amelia Higginbottom strode along the green hill track over the moors that led to the tarn. She was glad to be away for her annual holiday in the Yorkshire Dales, to be away from the Brian Clough Memorial Library with its stuffy books, dusty shelves and dim lighting.

It had been a nightmare year. She had kept up the pretence of Naturist Day in the library until the photographs had been taken and then she had capitulated and admitted everything. The dreadful so-called 'Lady' Esmeralda Peasebottom had laughed. She had actually laughed. Dreadful woman. Married for all of two months to Sir Ebenezer Peasebottom Bt., the tripe millionaire, she now had the temerity to style herself Lady Esmeralda. Didn't she know that was the correct mode of address for the second daughter of an earl not the ex-wife of a baronet? The woman was totally ignorant.

But the thought of her exposure, of the photographs, of her erotic posing, made her feel strangely excited. Wouldn't it be lovely to divest herself of her garments, out here on the moor, to feel the cool breeze on her skin, the soft turf under her bare feet, the warm early morning sun caress her naked bosoms. She tried to put the thought out of her head. She couldn't do it. She couldn't possibly!

She looked around. The lone and level moor stretched far away. It was deserted. She glanced at her watch. She was an early riser and it was only half past six and quite light on this early summer's morning. There'd be nobody out walking at this time, surely.

Almost unconsciously she found herself unfastening the buttons on her blouse, slipping it off, loosening the waistband of her skirt (for Amelia abhorred the modern fashion of ladies wearing breeches for walking) and letting it fall to the ground. She tugged off her boots and stood in her functional Marks and Spencer nether garments looking round. The area was deserted. Putting her hands behind her back she unhooked her brassiere and bending forwards allowed it to fall off her bosoms. Amelia was not well endowed, but her small bosoms were nonetheless charming. She tucked her clothes into her small knapsack and with one final glance hooked her thumbs into her knickers and pulled them down, past her thighs, over her knees and down to her ankles. With a whoop of joy she kicked them off and pushed them into her rucksack.

She left her things by a stone in the heather and retaining naught but her horn rimmed spectacles (without which she could see little further than six inches in front of her nose) she set off down the green track. She would go a hundred yards, she had decided before returning to regain her things. More than that would be folly...

***

Septimus Ramsbottom, professor of Ancient Norse at the University of North Yorkshire, had only three pleasures in life outside of his work, all of them solitary. The other two were bird watching and photography. It was the former that occupied him that morning. He was in quest of the Red Faced Wheatear, a bird of rare appearance in those parts and only to be found on an early summer morn such as this.

As he sat beside the small beck that flowed at the bottom of Moorside Ghyll he mused upon the Norse origin of so many words, like Ghyll, in those parts. His own name for example had its origin not in the rear anatomy of a male sheep but in the expression 'Ramson Bot Ham' or low lying village where grows the wild garlic. And the subject of his undying quest was not so named for having ears in the form of those of wheat, but in the description 'Hwitarse' meaning 'White Rear' on account of the flash of white in its tail. The thought gave him great amusement.

He was indeed in need of amusement for his course was sorely short of students. His evening class indeed had only two members, old Mr Goatsbottom and that librarian, the rather plain one, what was her name again? Amelia somebody or other? He couldn't quite remember.

Meanwhile the naked Amelia had become more bold. She had walked the hundred yards. It was invigorating, the moor appeared empty and there seemed no reason not to go on. She could rest by the beck in Moorside Ghyll and dangle her naked feet in its ice cold horseback brown waters.

Septimus stood up and continued on his quest. Amelia had not noticed the ghyll was so close and stood in petrified horror as the figure suddenly appeared as if from nowhere.

She was stark naked and over a mile from her clothes. There was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.

And the figure looked horrifyingly familiar.

"Hwaet ho!"

Septimus had recognised the librarian and had been astonished to see that she was in, what Nanny had always called, her birthday suit. He had been at a total loss what to say until the idea of using the Old Norse greeting that they employed in class had come to him.

"Hwaet ho!" Replied Amelia, frozen in horror at the sight of her professor.

"My dear Miss Higginbottom," Septimus realised he was babbling, but the sight of Amelia's birthday suit was doing funny things to his physiology, "In no way did I comprehend that you were a berserker."

"A what?" Did the old fool think she'd gone mad?

"A berserker, from the Old Norse 'Berr Serk' or as we would say 'Bare Shift'. That is to say that that they undertook their warrior duties unclothed."

Amelia felt her face turn bright red at this mention of her total nudity.

"Yes," she stammered, "nude hiking is very er... Very healthy."

She noticed that the Professor was looking at her intently. Dressed as nature intended she did not look at all plain. A statuesque beauty of the type so frequently ravished by the old Norsemen.

"I can see that, Miss Higginbottom," he said, "you are a fine figure of a woman, Amelia. May I call you Amelia?"

Amelia Higginbottom blushed. It was not often that gentlemen remarked upon the comeliness of her naked form.

"Why, thank you, er... Septimus."

A wry smile crossed the face of the professor. He had come searching for a rare bird and had found one, but not the one he was looking for. He mused upon the etymological convergence. The Old Norse for a comely maiden 'burde' having become confused with the word for a species of flying animal 'brydde'.

"You are smiling, Professor?"

He was indeed. He had just had an idea.

"May we walk a little way together Miss er... Amelia?" He enquired.

"I think it is perhaps time for me to return and retrieve my accoutrements" Amelia was already concerned about the distance she had strayed from her clothes.

"But Miss Higginbottom, a true Berserker would surely eschew such niceties, and you are indeed a true adherent to the Berserker tradition are you not?"

This was perhaps slightly disingenuous of Professor Higginbottom, but he found it surprisingly pleasing to be in the company of a woman wearing nothing but her natural charms and a pair of horn rimmed spectacles.

Amelia was somewhat upon the horns, not so much perhaps of a dilemma as upon those found upon the helmet of a Viking warrior, for much as she feared the consequences of further exposure she felt a strange internal arousal at the thought of walking naked across the moor in the company of a gentleman.

Well, she thought, in for a penny, in for a pound, "Certainly Professor," she said, and set off with him across the moor.

******

Herbie Pickles liked to think he was a man of consequence in the area: national park warden, river bailiff, special constable, volunteer fireman - he did them all. Indeed if there was anything that could be volunteered for, having no other social life worth speaking of, you'd find Herbie doing the volunteering. The problem was that although he thought himself a man of consequence nobody else did. Herbie was acutely aware of this fact and it pained him greatly.

He thought hard about this state of affairs as the strangely accoutred pair approached him along the track. In dealing with the situation should he adopt the persona of national park warden, community first-aider or special constable. It seemed to him that encountering a naked lady had not been included in the training for any of these positions.

As the lady approached it seemed to him that the best approach was that of special constable.

Amelia saw the rather stout, plethoric gentleman at some distance blocking the path like Horatio on the bridge.

"Professor," she whispered, "perhaps it would be sensible to turn back."

"Nonsense my dear Miss Higginbottom, "the day is yet young."

So they had continued and Herbie had continued to stand astride the track. His eyes were fixed ineluctably on what was quite the rudest part of the anatomy of the nude young lady who was approaching, but try as he may he was quite unable to move his gaze. In all the forty-eight years of his existence it was a part of a lady's anatomy he had never seen before. He had somehow never imagined that it was quite so abundantly blessed with curls.

As Amelia approached he felt his face get redder and redder. At last she was within speaking distance.

"Excuse me ma'am," he stammered, his mouth strangely dry, "but I fear I must ask you to accompany me to the station."

Amelia was flustered. The appearance of the rotund Pickles, and particularly the fixation of his eyes on her naughtiest part had momentarily discombobulated her. She clamped one hand between her legs and put the other across her chest.

"But I don't want to catch a train."

"I was not appertaining to the railway station ma'am but to the police station. I am..." And here he drew himself up to his full height of five foot four inches, "Special Constable Herbie Pickles."

"Where's your uniform then?"

"I don't have a uniform," Herbie looked sullen; the failure of the North Yorkshire constabulary to provide him with a uniform had long been a bone of contention.

"Well if you don't have a uniform you can just run away," Amelia was having no nonsense from jumped up little special constables.

"I am afraid ma'am you are committing an offence under the eighteen hundred and twenty-four Suppression of Vagrancy Act in appearing in a state of unseemly dress upon the Queen's Highway."

Special Constable Pickles was extremely proud of his knowledge of the 1824 Suppression of Vagrancy Act. Unfortunately as the village of Hogs Bottom public library boasted no other legal tome it constituted the full extent of his knowledge of the law.

"This isn't a highway, it's a public bridleway."

"That's a highway then."

"No it isn't."

"Yes it is."

"Isn't"

"Is."

"Isn't

"Is."

"Anyway there's a good reason why I'm dressed like this," poor Amelia was getting desperate. Stuck stark naked miles from her clothes. All she wanted to do was escape and run back to them.

"And what pray is that?"

"I've been sponsored for the public Nudathon!". It was the best Amelia could come up with on the spur of the moment.

Public Nudathon? Special Constable Herbie Pickles's face took on a puzzled expression. He was one of those people who could not bear to admit to any ignorance whatsoever. He had never heard of a public nudathon, but wild elephants would never made him admit that fact.

"Of course! The Nudathon! Why didn't you say so ma'am."

"It was on the television." Amelia was getting more desperate by the minute.

"Of course it was ma'am. It was Channel..." Herbie hesitated in the hope that Amelia would provide more information.

"Channel X. That's right. A hundred pounds to charity if you stay naked all day. You wouldn't the charity to lose all that money would you?" Amelia thought the idea of a charity would clinch it. Surely she'd get back to her clothes now!

"For charity you say," an idea had somehow found its way into Herbie's brain, an organ which was generally considered resistant to such things, but which had been strangely stimulated by the prospect of Amelia again revealing her girly bits, "in that case I think I know how we can increase your sponsorship."

"Yes," Amelia's voice sounded nervous, "the chances of getting back to her clothes seemed to be receding.

"Today is Hogsmastide. The day of the Well Dressing."

"Oh," Amelia could sense with an awful feeling of apprehension that she was unlikely to retrieve her clothes with any urgency, "is that the ceremony where all the villagers' parade to the ancient well and dress it with flowers and garlands?"

"Flowers and garlands? Whatever are you talking about. Hogsmastide celebrates the day of the first shearing of the hogs. It's the day when everyone dresses well to look their best. And if I may say so," and here Herbie allowed himself to indulge in one of those little compliments for which he was so justly totally unknown, "you are certainly looking your best at the moment!"

Amelia flinched at the mention of her naked state.

"Well, lovely to meet you, must get going," she turned with the intention of running back and retrieving her clothes.

"Indeed," went on Herbie, "I am sure that a public appearance by your good self," he liked expressions like 'good self', "this Hogsmastide will result in a massive increase in subscriptions to your er... Nudathon was it?"

Professor Higginbottom chose this moment to intervene.

"I didn't realise that you were taking part in a Nudathon my dear, what an excellent suggestion of the constable," he said.

Amelia gave him a sharp kick, but as her feet, like the rest of her, were completely bare, the professor didn't feel a thing. She was getting seriously worried. What had started out as a naughty nude dash had appeared to have transmogrified into a nude parade as the Queen of Hogsmastide.

"I think I'd best be getting back to my clothes," poor Amelia was getting redder by the minute. Time was getting on and she didn't want to be caught by any more hikers.

"But what about your nudathon," the professor looked puzzled, "surely you must welcome the opportunity for the townsfolk of Hogs Bottom to contribute to such an excellent cause. Come my dear, let us accompany the constable to the village."

Amelia was trapped in web of her own making. She couldn't admit to making it all up about the nudathon without being marched through the village in the nude as some sort of miscreant under the 1824 Suppression of Vagrancy Act, and probably locked in the stocks for the day. Amelia had some vague recollection that the village green still boasted an ancient set of stocks. On the other hand it looked like she was going to be marched through the village in the nude anyway.

With a sigh of resignation and her hand still clamped in a strategic position she set off down the bridleway into the village. Better get it over with then.

It must be said that naked maidens, especially comely wenches such as Amelia Higginbottom, were not a common sight in Hogs Bottom. Old Man Dogsbottom claimed to recall such an event in the year of the great plague, but he was not to be relied upon in such matters. It must be said that the concept of a nudathon was equally unknown there. Due to a strange configuration of the surrounding hills it was not possible for them to get pictures on their wireless sets. They had heard of such things in the big towns, places of vice and debauchery such as Todmorden, Hebden Bridge or Harrogate, but many refused to believe it.

Sam Wotherspoon, unofficial spokesman for the village and chairman for life of the parochial church council, stared in disbelief at the strange procession that walked along the main street of the village. If he was not much mistaken, and Sam prided himself on never being much mistaken, the woman wasn't wearing any clothes.

"Ey oop," he said to nobody in particular, "we'll have none o' them fancy 'Arrogate ways here," and he stepped out into the road and held up his hand as if to say 'Thus far and no further'.

Amelia watched his eyes as they scanned every inch of her naked body. The villagers were already gathering round and she was horribly aware that she was completely nude with no hope of regaining her clothes.

Sam Wotherspoon took charge.

He opened his mouth and his words shook Amelia to the core, "Ist tha from..." he hesitated barely able to pronounce the words, "'Ebden Bridge, lass?"

Stammering, and blushing bright pink, Amelia replied, "No, I'm from Leeds."

Sam Wotherspoon stepped back and crossed himself. Sodom, Gomorrah, Hebden Bridge and Leeds, the four pits of iniquity on earth!

He was a tall thin man with a grey beard and a piercing eye; he held out a long gnarled finger.

"Get thee hence!" He proclaimed.

"I fear sir," interposed the Professor, "that you labour under an unfortunate misapprehension. This young lady participates in the great national nudathon!"

"The what?"

"Nudathon. She has to remain in a state of nature the whole day."

Sam Wotherspoon turned his glittering eye upon the plethoric visage of Constable Pickles.

"Surely there is a law forbidding such iniquity!" He pronounced.

Constable Pickles quivered, for some reason he always quivered when confronted by Sam Wotherspoon.

"There's the eighteen hundred and twenty-four Suppression of Vagrancy Act," he stuttered, "it expressly states that persons loitering upon the Queen's Highway in unseemly attire are to be placed in the stocks for the amusement of the public for one day."

"Is this not t' Queen's Highway?"

"Well yes."

"And dost tha call that attire seemly?"

"Well no."

"Well what's tha waitin' for then?"

Constable Pickles pulled himself up to his rather insubstantial full height. He had never actually had to make an arrest before.

"I arrest you in the name of the law," he said, and turning to Mr Wotherspoon, "Could you be so good as to fetch the key to the stocks?"

***

The stocks were not comfortable, principally because an integral part of their usage involved sitting on a cold stone slab. This, decided Amelia, was not to be advised with a bare bottom. It was excessively cold and rather prickly. Unfortunately the professor seemed to be excessively keen with the eggs he had purchased from Sam Wotherspoon, the latter having promised sixpence to the charity for every egg that landed on Amelia's head he had decided to enter into the spirit of the occasion.

Amelia winced as another egg caught her smack in the face, and cursed the fact that sitting with her legs in the stocks meant that they were held embarrassingly wide apart. A pose that meant that she had to keep both hands clamped between her legs. It was going to be a long day and the Professor's aim was disappointingly accurate.