Jeremy Boyce lives in the south of France, working in a variety of fields including French – English translation/re-writing, authoring three instruction books about Kitesurfing and Power Kiting, in addition to many years of experience writing copy for press promo, marketing and sales in the music, leisure sports and tourism industries. More recently he’s ventured into creative work, some flash fiction singles and series, short stories, concrete poetry… Don’t try following him on social media, he’s not there ! Just read his stuff where you find it, starting right here, right now.  

Erehwon tales : Police

He’d been working outside under hot sky, in the dust and debris of his activity.  The sun was summertime high in the clear blue yonder, burning down on the sweaty shirt stuck to his bent back, even hotter on his head and the crinkled-wrinkled nape of neck, unprotected by cloth or other, as he cut, slashed and otherwise shredded every standing thing in his path.

The baked earth beneath the elderly work shoes and feet blew clouds of dust, finding their way through the close weave of socks and up inside the heavy work trousers, under toenails and sticking to legs. Blocking the spaces between his nose hairs, pricking his eyes behind the protective glasses, clogging in sticky black lines in the creased sweat of his articulations and concentrated brow. Prickly fragments of dead vegetation stuck on everywhere, inside and out. He hosed down the worst of the dust and dirt, changed shirt, and headed home, thinking to call in on the way, he wasn’t far.

The doors, shutters and double-glazed windows were all wide open when he arrived, letting the cool out and the heat in. “So the little cat can get in and out” she said. He said nothing, that hadn’t already been said a thousand times. “She’ll come back when she wants.” Leave it at that.

“Cup of tea ?” he asked

“Ooh, yes please”.

She’d taught him tea making. Freshly drawn water. Heat the pot. Let the water go off the boil. Mashing and cosy. Milk ? In first or last ? These days she’d no more idea how to boil the kettle than explain Quantum physics, or find Atlantis.

“How was your day then ?”  It was always his turn to start.

“Oh, you know…” He knew.

“There was that big woman here this morning, fussing. She was here and then she went away again without saying anything.” The home help. One of the few still permitted entry into the sanctum.

“She left some food she called lunch but it wasn’t up to much”. Nothing was ever right.

The kettle had clicked and the tea mashed, he poured hers, milk in last, as he’d learned, as a child, so as not to scald it.

“I can’t find my handbag.”

“You’ll have hidden it somewhere, don’t worry, it’ll turn up.” She was forever hiding her handbag “in case anyone comes in”. No one ever came in apart from the home help and the nurses. For her leg. And her eyes. And her blood pressure. They weren’t in the business of nicking her handbag. She’d hidden it and forgotten where. She kept changing the hiding place and then she couldn’t remember.

Tea and biscuits. Find something for her to watch, tennis ? She always loved the tennis.

“Have you seen the little cat ? I still can’t find my handbag.”

“The cat’s outside in the garden, your handbag will turn up. Here, Roger Federer’s playing, you like him.”

“Roger who ?”

He’d found the plate of uneaten food, shoved on a shelf in the laundry room. He was wondering about re-heating it for her dinner. She wouldn’t know the difference.

“I think that big woman went off with my handbag. She didn’t say she was going. Then she was gone.”

“You must have hidden it in a different place this time. You shouldn’t hide it anyway, there’s no need. But don’t keep changing hiding places. No wonder you can’t find it. It’ll turn up.”

Time was ticking, he wanted to get home, shower, eat, listen to the radio, fall asleep on the settee. Ready to start it all again tomorrow.

“I think that big woman took it.”

“Will you be quiet about your bloody handbag. You’ve hidden it somewhere and you can’t remember.” He cursed himself for cursing. “It’ll turn up, calm down and watch the tennis, eat your dinner, sit down and rest your leg, stop looking for the little cat, she’ll be back anytime. I’m off, I’ll be back tomorrow, after work.”

He left her sitting at the dinner table, television swung and angled for optimum tennis viewing.

“I’m worried about my handbag, that big woman took it and left without saying.”

“Mireille has not stolen your handbag” he snapped, “She’s salt of the earth. Eat your dinner, I’ll be back in the morning, your handbag will turn up.”

                                                                            ***

He’d rushed the shower to be sure of the omelette not overcooking, the dust and other detritus washed spirally down the shower plug hole as the eggs slowly congealed around the spring onions and peeled potatoes.

His phone rang, it was her number.

“Hello. What is it now?”, putting the lid on the omelette pan.

“Hello. This is the police. Your mother called us about her stolen handbag, we’re at her house and she said we should call you.”

Holy shit. Was she really that far gone ?

“I’m sorry officer, thanks for your call, but I’m afraid she’s wasted all our time there, especially yours. She’s not well, not all there, you understand ? She gets a thing in her head and she won’t let go. It’s a disease, or an unease, or both. She hides her handbag so no one can steal it and then she forgets where she’s hidden it. Especially as she keeps changing hiding places. I’ve told her, always hide it in the same place, then we’ll know. Probably the best thing now is to tell her you’ll call back tomorrow if she still hasn’t found it.”

                                                                              ***

The eggs were hard and cool. His phone rang. It was her number. Ranting and shouting.

“What did you say to them ? That I’m just a bit too mad ? Why did they go away ? Where’s my handbag ?” Slam, bang, hangup.

                                                                               ***

His phone rang. It was her number.

“I thought I should tell you, I have found my handbag, no thanks to anyone else. It was in the pan cupboard. That big woman must have hidden it there. Goodnight.”

Lost

Neither of them had been before. Neither the place, or the situation, so they’d done all the things they’d thought they should. Ancient monuments, palaces, castles. Museums, galleries, and a special treat at the big theatre, seeing the big names live, mingling with the glittering literati and interval-drinks well to do. They’d been dazzled and deafened by the bright lights and 24/7 never stop lifestyle and loved every minute. They’d got lost a few times, as you do in a strange place, despite the best efforts of Google Maps, but always found their way.

This time they were completely lost when they walked round a corner and there it was. Brightly lit, advertising its wares with a mouth-watering window display, “Eat as much as you like buffet” signage, and the powerful scents of spicy delights wafting from the entrance. People were hurrying in, no one was leaving. It was true, they’d spent more than they’d expected so far, they were lost and hungry, why not ?

Hans had eaten at least three meals, and Greta like she was pregnant with triplets. They’d paid on entry so all that remained was to raise themselves from the cheap vinyl bench seating, check Google Maps and find their way back to the AirBnb. They’d been tempted and they’d enjoyed the experience, no question.

Hans leaned back, belched loudly, excused himself, and thought about visiting the toilets before leaving. He leaned forwards over his “eat as much as you like” belly and tried to lift himself upright, pressing down hard on his feet, using every ounce of thigh muscle. Unable to lift himself, a wave of confused panic washed over his face. Greta forced her hands into the vinyl bench seat pushing back and downwards, but it was no use, she couldn’t stand either.