It was a hot Sunday afternoon in France when we realised that our hired car, parked in a narrow side street behind the hotel, had a puncture.
Not a problem, we knew that there was a spare tyre, plus all the necessary tools. The inside of the tool box was pristine, every tool was in its moulded plastic space - except for one. The gadget to loosen the wheel nuts was missing, its moulded space empty.
We searched the boot, but it was nowhere to be found. We returned to the hotel and the sleepy receptionist said the nearest garage was 3km up the road. Then I remembered seeing a police station in the square opposite the hotel - it was our only hope.
Leaving my husband with the car, I set off at a run. The police station was empty, except for one open door from which I could hear voices. Inside was a smartly dressed gendarme, sitting behind a large desk, interrogating a few youths, who had obviously committed some heinous crime.
When he saw me, he turned and politely asked if he could help me. I gabbled out our problem in very fast and very bad French. At one point I forgot the French for tyre and one of the youths, who had been listening intently to my story, helpfully offered "pneu" - gaining him a glare from the gendarme, as if he had given away a state secret. The gendarme said he would send a mechanic.
I ran back to my husband with relief.
Ten minutes later, an earth-shattering noise broke the peace of the quiet Sunday afternoon, and to our horror we saw an enormous recovery vehicle inching its way down the narrow road, all bright-yellow paint and flashing orange lights. The mechanic had arrived.
My husband groaned. "Oh no. This is going to cost a fortune."
As the mechanic stepped down from his cab, resplendent in his yellow flak jacket and rubber boots, I half-dragged him to the boot of the car and gabbled out my story once again, indicating the empty tool box.
He listened silently then walked to the side of the car, opened the passenger door, and with a polite "Permettez?" (May I?) he put his hand into the storage pocket in the door, rifled around among the folded maps and sweet papers, and a moment later triumphantly held up the missing gadget.
"What is it doing in there?" I gasped, knowing perfectly well that we hadn't put it there.
"C'est toujours là" he said (It's always there).
"What do you mean, 'It's always there?'" I screeched. "It isn't supposed to be there. It's supposed to be in the tool box."
He shrugged as he handed the gadget to my husband, and repeated "C'est toujours là."
Having made sure we didn't need any help changing the tyre, he began to walk back to his truck.
I ran after him, thanking him a million times, and then asked tentatively, "How much?" He shook his head and said "Rien." Nothing! The relief almost made me fall over.
"Not even a bottle of wine?" offered my husband, grabbing one from our stash in the boot, but hastily returning it when he saw the man's frown.
The man climbed back into his cab, switched on the flashing orange lights and made his way noisily back down the road and out of sight.
And so, dear fellow travellers, if you ever hire a French car and you can't find the gadget to loosen the wheel nuts, look in the passenger-door storage pocket. For some inexplicable reason known only to the French, it's always there.
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