Editor’s note: Ted Bun brings his familiar blend of humor and misadventure to this lighthearted tale of sun and circumstance. His latest book, The Girl on a Baker’s Bike, came out on Dec 1st, and can be found here: https://mybook.to/goabb.
How could I have been so foolish? Really, really foolish. Stupid, in fact. Although stupid is an understatement, my Aunt Helen doesn’t like me using ‘language’.
It seemed such a great idea. An hour on the beach on the way home from work, on such a nice, warm, sunny day like today, why not? I mean, I’d be a fool not to grab a chance to catch some rays this early in the summer. So, I went for it. I shut down my computer, shuffled the sensitive papers into the drawer and locked it, and picked up a folder of documents I needed to read.
“Hi, Boss,” I had knocked on the ‘my door is always open’ sign and walked straight in. “I’m going to take these papers home so I can read them properly. You know, without somebody or other demanding my attention.” Yes, that was what I had just done to him; it might make him more empathetic or simply want me out of his face so that he could get on with whatever he was doing.
I have no idea if it was empathy or irritation, but his response of “whatever” hinted at the latter. Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, or any other orifice, I was out the door, arms full of papers.
One of those high-tech things I had come to love about my new car was the remote keyless unlocking. No more juggling with things while you try to get the keys out of the wrong pocket of your jacket, when your hands are full of shopping and it is hosing down rain out.
Okay, so I was going to use another word there, but my mother may show this story to my Aunt Helen. My rich, childless, maiden Aunt Helen, who, as I explained earlier, doesn’t approve of “language,” even if I am her favourite nephew.
I managed to wriggle a finger free and get it to touch the tailgate catch sensor. The hatch slowly opened and I dropped the pile of documents on the floor of the luggage compartment. Well, almost. The picnic blanket I planned to use at the beach was trapped underneath the papers. I needed to sort that out, otherwise, it would cause me to lose precious time in the sun.
I can only think that was when it happened.
Boot tidied, with the blanket now stashed on the passenger seat, I pressed the start button and shot off out of the office car park. It was just gone four, and I had escaped the office an hour early. I’d be at the car park above my favourite beach by a quarter to five. If I hurried, I’d get maybe an hour and a half, possibly two hours in the sun before the shadows of the cliffs reached the last sunny corner of the sand.
The heavier traffic at ‘home time’ meant that on a normal day, at this time of year, I would arrive too late to sit in the sun. However, with weather like today’s being rare in late May, even after allowing for the effects of climate change, I had to grab my chance with both hands.
The drive through town and to the coast was pretty uneventful, except for the obligatory school-run mother. You know the one, the laws don’t apply to her and her precious cargo. Right in front of me she double-parked outside a house and escorted two young children to the door, then waited with them until the door was open, then stood there chatting with the other kids’ parent for five minutes. All the while, a continual stream of traffic passed in the opposite direction. Eventually, she returned to the car, giving me the evil eye. She drove off, still fiddling with her seatbelt while juggling her mobile phone with, what I hoped was but knew wasn’t, a third hand.
In the car park, as is custom and practice with beach regulars, I undressed and put my clothes on the back seat, grabbed the blanket and a bottle of water, then with a flick of my bum; shut the car door.
I headed for the path down to the beach. I had just spread out the blanket, moved that ever-present stone that was digging into me and settled comfortably. Time to post the obligatory envy-generating picture to Twitter, “Hey suckers! Look at me on the sunny beach.” OK, I’d modify the words when I actually posted, even if that was what I had really meant.
Phone? Where was my phone? I normally keep it in my man-bag.
Man-bag? Where is my man-bag? I must have left it in the car.
My keys? They would be in my bag too, in the car. If the keys are in the car, the doors won’t be locked. Beyond my wallet and the USB with my music on it, there is nothing to steal, but that won’t stop them from searching for something, anything of value.
I snatched up the blanket and scurried up the steps from the beach far faster than usual. What a relief, my car was still there. The doors and windows were all closed. The hatchback wasn’t gaping wide. There weren’t any papers blowing in the wind. Great! I could get my bag, lock the car and get that beach picture to make my followers green with envy.
Except the darn door wouldn’t dang open. It was locked, as was the tailgate. How could that be, the keys were must be ‘present’, in my bag, inside the … I peered through all the windows. Not a sign of my bag. No evidence of it being there, not the strap poking out from under the seat. No buckle catching the sun from underneath the dash.
“SHI…” Sorry, Auntie. “Bother!” Where could it be? That bag contained all my keys, not just the car. I couldn’t get into my flat, nor the office, nor even my Mum’s house. Assuming, that is, I could get to any of them.
“Hell!” I can’t even phone a friend for a lift; my phone is in my bag. I can’t even hail a taxi, my money is in my wallet, in my bag. Even if I got a taxi, I am not travelling a hundred miles in a taxi to ask my mum to pay the fare and lend me money to get in another taxi to go searching all over town for my never to be sufficiently cursed leather satchel…
My bag. It all hinges on finding my man-bag. Where was the last place I remembered having it?
I had picked it up and hung it on my shoulder before gathering all those important papers. It had been on my shoulder, hanging awkwardly, when I spoke to the boss. It had slipped further as I dumped the papers into the car. Then…
Sorry, Aunt Helen, I have just said several rather naughty words.
I had surely put it down near the back wheel while I sorted out the jumble of documents and the blanket in the boot of my car. When I got in and started the engine, the key would have been close enough. I’d driven all the way to the beach, sat there behind the school-run mum, got out of the car and shut the doors and— because the key was no longer present—they had locked.
How do I get out of this mess? Answers on a postcard, please. I have no access to phone, text or email messages, my phone is… well you know that already.
Oh, one other complication. I’m naked, well you normally are on a nudist beach, and my clothes are locked in the car. 🪐
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The people who design cars ought to test them properly before releasing them onto an unsuspecting public. I'm always suspicious of doors that lock themselves automatically. I heard of children getting locked in the back of cars with the key inside. There are many stories about people who have been trapped naked in hotel corridors having mistaken the main door for the bathroom. I suppose the character in your story could have borrowed a phone from someone but can anyone remember phone numbers any more?
Arrived from the UK at Cyprus Cove and couldn't find my passport. The check-in folks allowed me to go to the room, once I had spread the contents of my back back all over the floor - I found it. A naked walk back to reception and I was all set ;o)