Christopher Lee - For The Love Of Sara

“It’s not here,” she said alarmed.

“Grant, it’s not here,” she said now panicking.

“It must be in there, we haven’t gone anywhere,” said Grant.

Jill tipped the remaining contents of the bag onto the driver’s seat. It was futile. The wallet wasn’t there.

“OK, don’t panic,” said Grant. “Look under your seat, maybe it’s slipped out of your bag.”

Jill got out of the car, crouched down and looked under the seat. Nothing.

Tears now welled up in her eyes.

“It’s gone,” she cried. “We’ve lost all our money. Why didn’t we bring travellers cheques? I told you we should take travellers cheques.”

It was at that point the petrol station attendant came across from the office and said something in Spanish which Grant didn’t understand. Jill was now bawling and that had started Ben and Sally off too.

“No money. Stolen, all gone.”

The Spaniard looked bewildered.

“What are we going to do?” sobbed Jill. “We can’t even pay for the petrol.”

“Yes we can,” said Grant. “I still have my American Express card.” He reached into the back pocket of his shorts and brought out a thin card holder. He brought out the gold Amex card.

“American Express no good,” said the attendant, pointing to a sign on the door of the garage shop.

“No accept.”

Grant thought quickly. He took off his watch and showed it to the attendant.

“Look. Rolex,” he said. “You keep watch until I come back with money. OK?”

The man shrugged his shoulders and took the watch,

Grant stuffed the contents on the seat back into his wife’s bag. He got in the car, throttled the accelerator and headed back the way they had come.

“Where are we going?” asked Jill.

“Back to that damned bakery,” fumed Grant.

“But I didn’t buy anything,” said Jill, still anguished.

“No, but I bet that’s where you either dropped it, or had it pinched from your bag. It’s probably a waste of time, but we have got to try.”

It was. The two elderly assistants in the shop spoke little English.

“Come on, let’s go,” said Grant furiously. “We have to find a police station and report it.”

Nobody in the car spoke as they searched for a police station. They found it in the main square in the old quarter of the town, a crumbling sandstone building with huge front doors and narrow windows.

Grant parked the car and told the family to stay inside. He had to report the loss if he was to have any chance of claiming on the insurance. As soon as he entered the building he noticed the drop in temperature and wished then he had kept his shirt on. He had left it in the car, so was only dressed in shorts and trainers. Two armed police brushed past him as he walked along the tiled corridor to reception. Inside he heard animated voices. As he entered, the moustached police officer behind the desk took one look at him at shouted “Out!” Thinking he had walked in on some private conversation and that he was meant to wait outside the room he turned and went back out.

The conversation inside reception again became animated and a few seconds later the elderly bespectacled gent who had been the object of the policeman’s anger shuffled past Grant in the corridor. Grant went back in.

“Out!” the policeman shouted again. Grant ignored the order and went to the counter.

“I have come to report the theft of my wallet,” he began to say.

“Out!” shouted the officer again. “You offend our king coming in to a government building improperly dressed.”

It wasn’t the first time he had been reprimanded for not wearing a shirt in a public place. He had once been unceremoniously ejected from Chartres cathedral for the same reason, and another time he was marshalled off Wentworth golf course. He wasn’t even playing, just spectating.

“I’m sorry,” he began to apologise.

“Go away,” ordered the policeman and turned his back.

Dumbfounded, Grant turned and left and went back to the car.

“What’s up?” asked Jill.

“They won’t talk to me because I’m not wearing a shirt,” he fumed. He grabbed his shirt from the seat and headed back in to the police station. The same officer was talking to a colleague. He looked at Grant, then turned away and continued the conversation. Eventually he came over to the counter.

“Where did you leave your wallet senor?” he asked.

“I didn’t leave it anywhere,” Grant said indignantly. “It was stolen from my wife by one of your countrymen.” Now he was getting annoyed.

“So you saw who took it?” pressed the policeman.

“Not exactly,” Grant stuttered. “It was taken from her bag in a bakery. It had 1500 euros in it.”

There was no flicker of sympathy.

“And where is this bakery?” asked the officer.

“Plaza de Torres,” he said, “less than an hour ago.”

The official went across to a filing cabinet and took out a buff coloured form. He brought it back to the counter and rubber stamped it.

“Fill this in and bring the top copy back to me. You keep a copy for your insurance.”

“So you don’t think there’s much chance of finding the money?” asked Grant.

“Not with 150 euros in it,” said the policeman.

“Not 150 euros,” corrected Grant, “1500 euros.”

The policeman’s jaw dropped. “I am sorry senor,” he said. “I misunderstood. That is a great deal of money to lose.”

Grant accepted the apology.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he said, “about the shirt. I didn’t think.”

The officer nodded.

“I’ll drop the form in later,” said Grant, and went back to the car.

“Will we get it back on the insurance?” asked Jill.

“Not all of it,” said Grant. “There is an excess on the policy.”

On the opposite side of the street was a bank with an ATM. He crossed over and withdrew the 500 euro limit on his card.

“What do we do now dad? “asked Emma.

“Go back to the garage and get my watch,” said Grant, “Before they sell it.”

It had not been such a good day after all.

Sara was not having such a good day either. Her mother and Alan had taken her to one of the small beaches by the hotel and she was bored.

“Why don’t you play with some of the children you met at the hotel?” her mother asked.

“Maybe,” Sara replied. She wriggled closer into the hot sand and rested her head on her hands and looked idly across to a young couple about 20 feet away. She was topless and had small breasts with conical shaped dark brown nipples.

I have bigger boobs than that, thought Sara. The couple must have been in their late teens, early twenties. He was slim, almost thin, with short fair hair. He wore a small gold cross and chain around his neck that glinted when it caught the sun. Sara’s eyes became transfixed on the cross and her mind darted back to the gold cross on her father’s coffin. She blinked. Her gaze followed the line of his body over the hairless contours of his chest past his flat abdomen to the slight bulge in his light blue swimming trunks. Her thoughts raced back to Adam Cochrane sitting astride his motorbike in his tight leather trousers. The young couple broke off their embrace.

“Sara, Alan and I are going back to the hotel. Do you want to come with us, or stay here a little longer?” asked her mother.

“I’ll stay,” said the teenager. “You go back and I’ll catch you later.”

They got up and Liz brushed the sand from her beige cotton shorts. Alan put on the straw Panama hat she had bought for him at the hotel shop and the two of them headed off. Sara watched them until they disappeared, then sat up and looked around.

There was nobody from the hotel on the beach. She wondered what Emma’s dad would be doing now and if he would be in the pool the next morning for another early swim.