Son of Serge Bastarde Read online

  'I adore hunting through the French brocante markets and this book will certainly add a whole new dimension to the experience. An entertaining read for anyone interested in antiques or France.'

  Judith Miller, founder of Miller's Antiques Guides and antiques specialist on the Antiques Roadshow

  'What a delight it is to be invited back into the world of Serge Bastarde – now with an equally roguish son in tow. From cupboards that crunch in the night, to the reasons why French people love floral china, this book is full of warmth, humour and colourful characters. John Dummer gives us a real insider glimpse into the world of the French antique markets. Don't go near one until you've read this book!'

  Karen Wheeler, best-selling author of Tout Sweet, Toute Allure and Tout Soul

  'An amusing and well-observed romp through the brocantes of south-west France inhabited by a host of colourful characters – a must for lovers of all things French. Lovejoy for Francophiles!'

  Marc Allum, antiques specialist on the Antiques Roadshow

  'A brilliant evocation of the life of French brocanteurs, full of camaraderie and incident, just make sure the woodworms don't devour the pages before you do.'

  Jamie Ivey, author of Extremely Pale Rosé

  Praise for Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette:

  'Dummer describes a very different France... Bastarde certainly lives up to his surname, cruising the countryside in his battered van tying to cheat clueless peasants out of their heirlooms. But Bastarde grows on you, with his imaginative lies and unexpected generosity.'

  THE FINANCIAL TIMES

  'Get a copy. You'll love it.'

  ANTIQUES DIARY

  'The book's startling title [is] surely up there as one of the best of the year... amusing... a nicely observed insight into rural life in south-west France. For the price, it's a bargain (hunt).

  FRENCH Magazine

  'Well written and set at an engaging pace, this comic autobiographical narrative wends its way through the daily lives of the author and his ex-pat community, as well as the day-to-day events of the local inhabitants of the area... this easy-to-read humorous account of one man's expat dream turning into an all-too-harsh reality is an enjoyable read. Filled with eccentric characters and unlikely adventures, this is a highly amusing romp through the real rural France.'

  LIVING FRANCE

  SON OF SERGE BASTARDE

  Copyright © John Dummer, 2012

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, nor transmitted, nor translated into a machine language, without the written permission of the publishers.

  The right of John Dummer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Condition of Sale

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

  Summersdale Publishers Ltd

  46 West Street

  Chichester

  West Sussex

  PO19 1RP

  UK

  www.summersdale.com

  eISBN: 978-0-85765-718-3

  Substantial discounts on bulk quantities of Summersdale books are available to corporations, professional associations and other organisations. For details telephone Summersdale Publishers on (+44-1243-771107), fax (+44-1243-786300) or email ([email protected]).

  For my darling Helen

  Photo by my wife Helen

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  John Dummer has worked as a reporter on a local paper, a music business press officer, a record plugger and a broadcaster. As a drummer in the 1960s he toured with his own John Dummer Blues Band, had a number one hit in France, 'Nine By Nine', and toured with legendary blues acts like Howlin' Wolf, John Lee Hooker and Lowell Fulson. In the 1970s he drummed with the hit doo-wop revival group Darts and met his wife Helen when she was the photographer on a Darts photo session. After Darts John and Helen formed their own group, True Life Confessions, and had a top fifty hit with their version of 'Blues Skies'. John went on to manage the powerhouse rock trio The Screaming Blue Messiahs and after three years of touring the States, burned out from all the madness, he upped sticks with Helen and moved to France. There followed a two year sojourn living in a windmill in the Alentejo region of Portugal, and a return to France with finances much depleted. They discovered if they registered as brocanteurs (antiques dealers) they could work and be covered under the excellent French health system. It was working in the French outdoor antiques markets and the amusing and fascinating characters he met that inspired John to write his first book, Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette. John and Helen now live in south-west France in the middle of the Landes forest with their dog Buster and quite a lot of cats.

  CONTENTS

  Preface

  1. Blue Beat and Little Monkeys

  2. Gold, Cash and Questions

  3. Swallows and Fields of Corn

  4. Buying Frenzy

  5. A Broken Man

  6. Berets and Lost Souls

  7. Woodworm and Walnut Buffets

  8. Life in a Box

  9. Storks and Bridges

  10. Eagles and Snowy Mountains

  11. To the Woods

  12. Fathers and Sons

  13. A Bit of a Handful

  14. Mayhem in the Markets

  15. Tea in Biarritz

  16. Handbags and Glad Rags

  17. Sandy Beaches and Straw Parasols

  18. Lorenzo and His Brothers

  19. Hares and Gingerbread

  20. Exquisite Good Taste

  21. Violins and Teddy Bears

  And Life Goes On...

  PREFACE

  A few years ago my wife Helen and I bought a 300-year-old farmhouse in need of restoration in the Chalosse region of the Landes in France. We had always dabbled in antiques in England and discovered that if we registered as brocanteurs we could hopefully earn an income working in the colourful outdoor markets in south-west France and be covered under their excellent health system. But we had to learn about French antiques from scratch and needed help.

  My mentor appeared in the form of a short, tough Frenchman with wiry grey hair and a ready wit. His name: Serge Bastarde. When he found out I was English he went out of his way to be helpful and took it upon himself to show me the ropes. He invited me to accompany him on his trips out in the country to 'forage for hidden treasures'. I soon discovered he was a bit of a rogue but he gradually won me over and we became firm friends.

  A couple of years into our friendship Serge romanced and fell in love with another dealer's wife, Angelique, and much to our surprise they ran off together to Martinique. Helen and Angelique had become friends and kept in touch, but after a while the emails and phone calls stopped. We had no idea how to get in contact with them or where they were. What had happened to Serge Bastarde? It was a mystery…

  1

  BLUE BEAT AND LITTLE MONKEYS

  'Oh, fish knives and chintzy tea sets? Now there's a novelty, what!'

  A snooty-faced bloke sporting a ponytail and wearing a deerstalker hat and plus fours loomed over my stand. 'Every time I come past you're selling some tat. It's extremely galling.' He pulled a supercilious face, and picked up a cup and saucer from my table to examine them.

  'Eugh! Country Roses, how tasteless. I used to sell this sort of rubbish when I first started doing the markets here. So common.'

  'The French seem to like them,' I said. 'I sell quite a few.'

&nb
sp; 'Yes, well they don't know any better.' And with that he turned on his heel and strode off.

  From his exaggerated toffee-nosed manner and upper-class accent he could only be English. But the deerstalker and plus fours? He was like a P. G. Wodehouse character come to life. I watched open-mouthed as he disappeared into the crowd, his grey ponytail bobbing. Amazing! He couldn't possibly be for real.

  I was at a fair in the square of a little village called Soumoulou on the road from Pau to Tarbes, not far from Lourdes. The market is held right through the year and takes place on the first Sunday of each month. In the distance, the blue-grey mountains of the Pyrenees were silhouetted against the skyline. So far it had gone well. I had been selling since I opened at eight-thirty that morning.

  I couldn't help feeling a bit put out, though, after suffering the snooty bloke's criticism. I had regular, loyal customers who just wanted chintzy tea sets, after all. It amused them, they assured me, to serve up tea and cakes 'comme les Anglais' (English-style) to their friends. The French enjoy reminding us that we English love tea, and they find our obsession with it charming and slightly quaint.

  I was contemplating a quick visit to the cafe when my attention was caught by a customer. She was interested in a polished mahogany Davenport that my wife Helen had picked up in England on one of our trips over there to buy stock. I explained how the diminutive desk was light and easily transportable. She was enchanted but appeared slightly put off by the price, even though it was, in my estimation, quite reasonable. During my time working the antique markets in France I had found that the French public in general were sometimes unaware of the value of desirable pieces of English furniture, although with changes in fashion they were learning fast. The woman said she liked the desk but wanted to fetch her husband to look at it.

  A few French dealers had turned up early looking for a bargain and now the Spanish dealers were beginning to arrive with wallets stuffed full of euros. They liked mahogany in Spain and I was hoping to sell the Davenport for a good price.

  I recognised a pair of Spanish dealers. One was a whey-faced, hugely overweight chain-smoker who wore dazzling white trainers and always carried a black silver-topped cane. His companion was short, dark and animated, with a warm, friendly manner. They were examining the antique wooden boxes I had placed in a prominent position on our black-cloth-covered tables. It is only the English and sometimes the Dutch who use black covers on their stands. The French find black far too funereal, preferring a clean white sheet. Louis, my French dealer friend who shares my love of jazz and blues, had recently pointed this out to me.

  'All that black – it looks like you should have a corpse on your table, or a bunch of chrysanthemums,' he chuckled.

  We had made that mistake with the chrysanthemums when we first moved to France. Invited to dinner by neighbours we brought them a lovely pot of chrysanths, only to be greeted by a look of abject horror. We discovered later that these flowers are only ever used to decorate graves on All Saints' Eve (Halloween) – you would never give chrysanths to a living person.

  The big fat Spaniard with the silver-topped cane smiled and beckoned me over. He spoke French falteringly, or as the expression has it, 'comme une vache espagnole' (like a Spanish cow). He held up one of the boxes and grinned good-naturedly.

  'How much for all of these?' he asked, indicating three beautifully crafted Edwardian mahogany boxes. One was a writing slope and the other two had originally been tea caddies but had been altered to hold jewellery or other precious objects. This always threw me – having to work out a deal on several items. Maths was never my strong point, and I sometimes made awful mistakes under pressure. When I was a lad my dad decided to coach me in arithmetic and had the misguided belief that clipping me round the back of the head when I made a mistake would help me to learn. This traumatised me and had the opposite effect, putting me off numbers for life. My wife Helen, though, has always been understanding and had recently bought me a small calculator, which I actually felt too embarrassed to use in front of other dealers. My method in this instance was to jot down the prices, add them up, and then try to work out a reasonable discount. As they were regular customers I would try to give them a decent reduction. Spanish dealers appreciate this, and if you give them a good deal they come back again and again.

  I told the chubby dealer how much and he immediately said in English, 'Best price... last price?' These were handy bartering phrases he had learnt from trips to England buying in the big fairs at Ardingly and Newark. I knocked off another fifty euros and there were smiles all round. I had obviously made a mistake and been overgenerous. In their expensive antiques shop in Spain they were going to treble or quadruple what they had paid me. I bubble-wrapped and slid the boxes into plastic bags and they went off happy, clutching their bargain purchases.

  As I watched them go a small child in red dungarees came tottering past my stand. He must have only been about three years old. He looked up, caught my eye and smiled. I'm a sucker for kids. I gave him a little wave and a grin. He stood unsteadily for a moment and then teetered towards me, grabbing at the side of one of my tables. I rushed forward, worried he would pull the covers and send my stock flying and injure himself in the process, but he stopped as if hypnotised. He had spotted my little clockwork antique toy monkey. He had good taste, I'll give him that. The monkey was furry and when you wound him up he hopped about and banged a pair of cymbals together. He was a favourite of mine, an original tin toy manufactured in the 1950s by the Japanese company Daishin. I was secretly in no hurry to sell him. The child reached up and grasped it, bringing it up close to his face. He examined it carefully and suddenly put it in his mouth. I rushed forward again as I felt it was neither hygienic nor good for a valuable toy to be put in a child's mouth. But he saw me coming, gave me a mischievous look and ran away gleefully, clutching the monkey in his grubby little hands.

  I couldn't believe it! I looked around. How come this young child was wandering about unaccompanied? It didn't make sense. And he'd got my monkey!

  I nipped round my tables and went after him. He was only a toddler; he couldn't have gone far. But when I looked up the aisles, hoping to spot his red dungarees, there was no sign of him. He seemed to have vanished into thin air. I ran from stand to stand asking if anyone had seen a small child holding a toy monkey. Thibaut, a young rugby-playing furniture dealer friend of mine, said, 'He went that way, John,' pointing towards the other stands. And looking across the aisles I caught a glimpse of red and ran towards it. But when I got to where I thought he was, there was no sign of him. Things were turning a bit surreal – it was as if I had suddenly become an extra in the film Don't Look Now (the one where Donald Sutherland keeps seeing a little child in a red mac) and I was beginning to worry about my stand. Leaving it unattended like this was asking for trouble. I ran around frantically, looking under tables, trying to catch sight of him, but there were too many people milling about.

  I gave up and headed back and it was just as well I did because the woman who had been looking at the Davenport desk earlier had returned with her husband and they were examining it together. I was still thinking about my lost monkey and, although it was a good sign that the woman had brought her husband, I wasn't too optimistic. In my experience, husbands are usually less than enamoured of items their wives want to purchase. I'm just the same when Helen wants to buy something. I'm often underwhelmed. It's the thought of parting with money that causes the male of the species to frown and look disinterested. I waited, fully expecting the husband to put her off. But on the contrary, he seemed as charmed by the desk as she was. My hopes rose as they actually looked like they might buy it. The woman wanted to know a bit more about it. The French love to discuss the provenance and history of an antique. I was about to explain how this was an unusual and desirable piece when I was rudely interrupted. The stuck-up bloke with the ponytail and deerstalker suddenly reappeared and began to hold forth in a loud, haughty voice.

  'C'est un Davenport,
Madame. C'est très, très populaire en Angleterre!'

  He made no attempt at a French accent. He just sounded like a self-satisfied English snob speaking a foreign language in a loud voice.

  The French couple looked bemused. Who was this strange man? They smiled politely but I could see from their expressions that he was putting them off.

  'Mais oui, le premier était attribué à Captain Davenport, un Anglais dans l'armée.'

  What was he going on about? I felt like telling him to bugger off. This upper-class twit coupled with the loss of my monkey had put me in a bad mood. Under my breath, through clenched teeth, I muttered, 'Don't help me!'

  I smiled at the couple, embarrassed. They weren't sure if this was a set-up and he was working with me to pressurise them into buying the desk. The idiot was totally thick-skinned. He began to pull out the little side drawers and explain how useful they were. Then he showed them how the desk could be moved around on its small brass castors. I tried to make light of his bombastic behaviour and take over, but it was obvious the couple had had enough. They made an excuse and said they were going off to think about it. I watched them walk away, fuming at how he had ruined my sale.