The Bag

Alice Marshall was not a woman to whom extraordinary things happened.  She had not, during the seventy-two years of her life, been the recipient of great good fortune, nor of bad.  She had enjoyed, mostly, a long and uneventful married life.  When Gerard died of an aneurysm eight years ago, she had felt properly bereft but also, mysteriously, released, and she accepted with gratitude the new terms of her existence. 

Her only child, Daphne, had married a Canadian engineer and lived far away in a town called Halifax that Alice had never visited and didn’t expect to.  Daphne’s husband, a great bear of a man, was not someone to whom Alice had warmed.  She’d tried, because her daughter loved him, but something about him shrivelled her own contentment.  In his presence, she felt old, diminished and of no account.  He called her Mother Marshall, which made Daphne giggle and made Alice feel like a medieval caricature.  He didn’t try; he didn’t even pretend.  He just wanted to be elsewhere, and soon he was.  Daphne flew back to stay with her for two weeks every year. 

In addition to her daughter’s visits, Alice had neighbours who were neighbourly in the old way, not too busy for curiosity, not too harried to stop and chat.  There were also one or two people whom she could count as friends.  It was enough.  If she had anything at all to regret, it was that she hadn’t saved a little more, whilst she had the opportunity, to offset the terrible cost of heating bills these days.  They were, it had to be admitted, a trial to her.

           For entertainment, once a fortnight or so, Alice went to town on the tram to visit the large department stores.  The ritual began with dressing up in the navy pleated skirt with the cream blouse, her best pair of support stockings, and the knobbly freshwater pearls that Gerard had given her for their fortieth wedding anniversary.  Next she put on her flat brown shoes and the brown coat that was thirty years old but still had so much wear left in it that she couldn’t think of replacing it.  In the winter, she wore a little brown hat and plum lipstick. In the summer she wore no hat and a coral pink lipstick. The lipstick gave her endless trouble, leaking into her wrinkles and what with her eyes not being as good as they once were, and her hand a little shaky these days, it took a long time to get it right but when she did, she felt she could face anything. 

“I don’t know why you bother,” said Gerard, her late husband, his voice familiar as her own, deep inside her head.  “No-one’s going to be looking.”

“True,” she thought, a little sadly, but she persevered with the lipstick anyway.  A final look in the hall mirror, a last minute adjustment to the collar of the blouse, a tweak of the grey curls, and she was ready.

There is comfort to be found in department stores.  The constant noise and bustle.  Tantalising odours, glittering displays and brilliant colours.  Such a whirl of people.  It is like being at the very centre of life itself, she thought.  No-one ever offered to make up her face at the Dior counter.  No-one asked if she’d like to try the new Estee Lauder perfume, beckoning with a little pump spray.  No-one spoke to her at all, but Alice didn’t mind.  It was all so very interesting.  She would wander around the store of her choice, pausing only once in the café to enjoy the extravagance of a cup of English Breakfast Tea.

The day that Alice came to think of as “The Bag Day” did not begin well.  The tram was late.  She’d had to wait a long time, standing at the stop.  By the time she climbed aboard, her legs were aching and her feet had swollen, the flesh puffy against the edges of her shoes.  But her spirits lifted when the tram rocked her along a wide, sunny boulevard lined with plane trees in full leaf, and the tower buildings of the central city loomed large.

The glass doors of the store parted before her, ushering her through on a perfumed breeze.  Alice paused at the directory board.  Ladies Fashions, she thought.  Even then, you see, she was thinking about handbags, though she couldn’t have explained why.  She had a perfectly good, brown leather handbag over her arm that she’d bought for Daphne’s wedding all those years ago.  She had neither need of, nor money for, another one but she had a fancy to look at them.  She rode the escalator to the second floor, made her way through lingerie and expensive fashions and there they were - shelf after shelf, and broad display tables of handbags.  There was leather and vinyl and embroidered fabric in all the colours you could think of.  There were bags for the evening and bags for the office, bags for shopping, bags for the beach and bags for the sheer loveliness of it – every sort of bag you could imagine.

She’d been looking for about ten minutes when she saw it.  A blue more perfect than a summer sky and soft!  Softer than a rose petal, she thought, stroking the brushed suede lovingly.  Alice looked at the label. Antelope hide, it said.  Antelope! she thought, with visions of lean beasts leaping across prairies.  She had an urge to press the bag against her cheek, so sensual was the feel of it, so overwhelming the expensive odour of fine leather.  It was only a small bag, and delicate, with a fine fringe at the bottom and an intricate band of beadwork across the width of it.  She dangled it from her arm.  It was light as air.  A work of art.  Her glance fell upon an aged leather bag, a briefcase, scuffed and scratched with its corners curling.  It didn’t look right, lying there on the shelf.

How odd, thought Alice. Why would anyone want to buy something in that state? 

She wondered how much they’d charge for such a shabby thing.  She picked it up, looking for a price tag.  Something heavy slid from one end of the bag to the other.   She opened it and saw a large bunch of keys.

My goodness, she thought. 

Then she saw two blue ballpoint pens, a muesli bar half out of its wrapping and also, tucked into one of the folds of fabric, a wallet.  Alice put her hand in gingerly.  The wallet was full of money.  More money than Alice had ever had in her hands, which doesn’t mean it was a great deal, but it was enough to impress upon her that someone, right at this moment, must be missing this bag very much indeed. 

“How dreadful,” she gasped, and looked around rather wildly for someone to tell her what to do. 

As usual, people hurried past the little woman in her brown coat, not seeing her. 

I’ll have to go to the cashier, thought Alice, and did so.

There was a queue at the cashier’s desk and Alice’s attempts to bypass it certainly attracted attention, but not the kind she wanted. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry.  So sorry,” she found herself saying and went to stand at the end of the queue, shrinking into herself a little more with every murmur of disapproval.  She would have liked to explain that she wasn’t a queue-jumper by nature and that something rather important had occurred, but she didn’t think anyone would listen.  When her turn came, she explained about the bag.  The young woman cashier gave her an exasperated look.  “You don’t want me,” she said.  “You want Security.”

Alice looked at her.  “Security?”  Don’t we all, she thought.

“Wait over there.  I’ll ring through for you.”

“Oh thank you so much.” 

Alice would have liked to sit down, but couldn’t see a chair.  After what seemed like quite a long time, the security guard arrived. A tall, broad man who walked with a powerful swagger, rather like Daphne’s husband, thought Alice, thankful for her lipstick.  He wore a dark uniform with objects hanging from his belt and a gun in a holster on his hip. 

“Ma’am?” he said, frowning, but not, she thought, not quite looking at her.  “You reported a bag?”

“Oh yes,” said Alice.  “I have it right here.”

He didn’t take the bag.

“If you’ll come this way, Ma’am,” he said, and set off across the store without looking back.

Alice followed, holding tightly to the briefcase, through crowds of shoppers.  She wasn’t invisible, in the shadow of the security guard. Indeed no.  Everyone she passed gave her a curious look, a disapproving or pitying glance. 

Why, they think I’m a shoplifter! she thought indignantly.  It must look as though he’s arrested me. 

Her cheeks blazed red at the thought. 

The guard moved swiftly. By the time they reached the security area, set back behind the fitting rooms, Alice was out of breath.  He took a clipboard from the desk and motioned her to a seat without looking at her.  Alice sat, gratefully. They weren’t in a real office; it was just an area set aside with a desk and chairs.  Alice could see the whole world of the store happening right before her eyes.  She could hear someone complaining about a mislaid lay-by purchase, and two women laughing together in the fitting rooms, but from where she sat it might have been another planet.  She suppressed a little shiver. 

I could do with a cup of tea, she thought.  On such an extraordinary day, a vanilla slice might be in order if she had the money to spare.  She tried to remember how much change she had in her purse.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, what was that?”  The man had asked her a question and not, it seemed, for the first time.  She must try to concentrate.  At this very moment, some poor person was worried to death about the loss of this briefcase.  But why did the man want her name and address?  She wasn’t at all comfortable with that.

“Look,” she explained, “it’s nothing to do with me.  There are keys in there, and credit cards in the wallet.  You just need to track down the owner and return it.  Quickly,” she added.

“I still need your name, please,” the guard repeated, raising his voice. 

He was looking down at the clipboard, tapping his pen against the edge of it.  He still hadn’t looked at Alice.  Not properly.  Not courteously.  He’s not interested, she thought, feeling as though she had fallen into a category in his mind, a ticked box, of no account.  The “old nuisance”.  Or perhaps the “nosy old woman.”  But he’s rude, she thought.  I don’t believe he’s got his mind on this at all.  Bored with his job and brooding about some young woman, I dare say.  Someone he’d like to sweep off her feet and carry away.  Half a world away, no doubt, to Canada or some such place, she thought, and she didn’t reply.

“Look Ma’am,” he said, with an exaggerated sigh, “it’s a question of procedure.  I have to have your name and contact details.  Why…”

She saw the idea flash behind his eyes.

“…what if whoever owns this briefcase is so happy to have it back that he wants to give you a reward?  How will he contact you if I haven’t filled in this form?”

“But I don’t want a reward,” said Alice patiently.  “I just want to know that this briefcase is going to get back to its owner without any unnecessary delay.  And I’m not at all convinced,” she said, squaring her shoulders, “that you are the person to do it.”

“Have to fill the form in, lady.   That’s the way it goes. That’s my job.  You want to get that briefcase back to its rightful owner, you’ve got to give me your details.”

“I don’t think so,” said Alice, wondering a little at her temerity.  “I think I’d like to see the Manager, please.”

She settled herself back in the chair and clutched her brown handbag together with the briefcase. I don’t like him at all, she thought.  He couldn’t care less about this bag, or his job, or me, sitting here when I could be in the café having a cup of tea.  I’m sure I don’t have to tell him where I live.  I’m not going to.  She turned her head away from him and closed her face.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him grip the edge of the desk and felt a thrill of alarm.  Oooh! Surely he wasn’t going to attack her?  There were hundreds of people within view, within earshot.  I can swing the briefcase at him, she thought, imagining it – thwack! – hitting the side of his head. 

“Don’t be more stupid than you have to be, Alice,” whispered Gerard, her dead husband. “You’ve no more sense than the day you were born.”

Alice ignored him too.

“The Manager is busy,” said the guard.  He changed tactics, going for a soft approach.  “Look lady, have a heart won’t you?  Just help me get through the paperwork?”

“I’m sorry,” said Alice, “but I don’t see why you have to have my name and address, and I’m not comfortable about the idea of leaving the bag with you.”

“Fine,” he snarled.  “Don’t leave it.  Go home.  Have a nice day.”

“I want to see the Manager,” said Alice, with a wobble in her voice.

There was silence for quite a long time.  Alice had to look at him to see what was happening and immediately wished she hadn’t.  He was staring right at her, an odd smile twisting his lips. 

He’s just trying to frighten me, she thought.  He’s a bully. I wonder if his mother knows he’s turned out this way. 

“Have you any idea,” he said eventually, “just how foolish you’ve been, Ma’am.”

“Foolish?” she squeaked. “Foolish to retrieve a bag containing money?  Foolish to try to do the right thing?”  She was on her feet now and knew that her voice was louder than a lady’s ought to be, but she didn’t care. 

He remained seated at the desk.  “Foolish,” he insisted.  “Very, very foolish.  Did you stop to think for one moment that an abandoned bag might contain a bomb?”

“A bomb?” she cried.

“A bomb?” echoed someone from the fitting rooms.

“A bomb!” chorused several voices at once, just prior to a scene of the utmost pandemonium.

People ran, shrieking and yelling for the exits.  Alarms began to go off all over the store as panicking shoppers ran into the street still clutching whatever they’d been looking at, or waiting to purchase. The security guard climbed up on top of his desk and bellowed:

“THERE IS NO BOMB.”

But no-one paid the slightest attention to him.  He spoke urgently into one of the little gadgets from his belt, but threw it down a moment later saying “Christ!” in a disgusted tone.  He turned to vent his fury on the woman responsible for this mayhem, but Alice Marshall had gone.

On the way home, she left the tram at Edgehill Road and called in at the police station on the corner.  She handed over the briefcase to the plump desk sergeant who listened carefully when she explained about the bag, and she gave him her name and address. 

“Which department store was it, Mrs. Marshall?” he asked.

“Oh, now,” said Alice, with some thought of self-preservation, “I can’t remember.  I’m so sorry.  I was in more than one store… they all look the same to me… you know, I’m getting on a bit…”

“That’s fine.  Don’t you worry about it,” said the sergeant.  “There won’t be any problem finding the owner.  Look here, he’s even got his address on the key-ring.  Amazing, the silly things people do.”

“Isn’t it,” Alice agreed.

Despite this satisfactory outcome to the problem of the bag, Alice was unhappy.  Had she handled things properly?  Might all that trouble have been avoided somehow?  But I’ve as much right to some respect as the next person, she thought.  And I don’t have to give my address out to anyone if I don’t want to.  What a horrid, exasperating day!  Gerard would never have let that happen to me, she thought, tearful and more than a little weary of it all. 

“Alice,” she heard him say, as he had so often said, “you’re no eye-catcher lass, but you’ve got it where it counts.”

And where is that, she wondered?  I don’t feel as thought I’ve got anything that counts anymore, she thought, turning her key in the front door. 

She switched on the kettle before she’d even taken her coat off.  It was an age since she’d had a cup of tea. 

I’ll run a bowl of warm water with some Epsom Salts in it, for my poor feet, she thought.  That’ll cheer me up a bit. 

She remembered the Jaffa biscuits that she’d bought yesterday.  Orange marmalade and dark chocolate with that lovely bit of sponge cake at the bottom.  Things can’t be too bad if you can sit down with a cuppa and a Jaffa biscuit, can they?

It was when she tried to shrug off the sleeves of her coat that she got into a tangle and looked down to see, dangling from her wrist, the beautiful blue bag of antelope hide. 

My goodness! she thought, with a quick, blushing glance at the windows to see if anyone was looking.

Well!

She stroked the bag slowly.

I’m not going through all that again, she thought.  I’m not.  I’m not.

She held it up to the light. It was beautiful.

“You’ll never use it.”

“Be quiet, Gerard,” she said firmly.  “The bag stays.”