Madame by Tim Taylor

 

“Attention madame, attendez, attendez!”

 

Jocasta stopped walking and turned to see a man running after her, trying to attract her attention. He was fifty-ish, dressed in a cream polo shirt, blue jeans and a shabby brown jacket. Whoever said the French have a great sense of style had obviously never been to this dull little town. The man reached her, slightly out of breath. She hoped he didn’t want to sell her anything. 

 

“Excusez-moi, madame, mais vous avez laisse votre sac à main dans la voiture. Il faut etre prudente dans cette ville. Il y a des voleurs.”

 

“I’m sorry. Can you speak English?”

 

The man’s face puckered as if he were trying to find something in a very deep pocket. Then he composed himself before speaking.

 

“Madam. You leaved your sack in the automobile.”

 

‘Leaved’ – oh, that was so sweet, especially in that lovely sing-song accent. Jocasta didn’t have the faintest idea what he was talking about.

 

“My sack?” Did she look like Father Christmas?

 

His face contorted again. “Your sack to hand.”  Jocasta shook her head.

 

“Your lady sack.” It sounded more than slightly obscene. He was floundering, poor little man. She was going to have to rescue him. 

 

“It’s alright. I have a dictionary in my handb … oh!”

 

The man now looked unbearably smug. To think she had almost found him endearing.

 

“Voila! Vous n’avez pas votre sac a main. C’est dans la voiture.”

 

He wasn’t even trying to speak English now. Well, that’s the French for you, thought Jocasta. But where was her handbag? Had she left it in the hotel?

 

Fifty yards away there was a tinkle of glass and the sound of a car alarm. A hooded figure ran down the street carrying what looked awfully like Jocasta’s handbag. 

"dior-samurai-1947-handbag" by bbaunach is licensed under CC BY 2.0.