Son of Serge Bastarde Read online

  But he was oblivious. He picked up an old ukulele from my table and began plunking at it. The smug bastard was pleased with himself! He began singing 'When I'm cleaning winders, when I'm cleaning winders!' tunelessly in a high-pitched voice like George Formby.

  'These things never sell,' he said. 'Can't give 'em away.'

  He dumped the ukulele on the table and ambled off, still singing to himself.

  The swine! I wanted to run after him and hit him on the head with the instrument. If I whipped off his deerstalker and bonked him one, I could probably knock the git out!

  I was still seething when Reg, an English dealer I knew well, wandered past. Reg was a tattooed rough diamond and an unlikely antiques dealer. He had worked the French markets for years and was also quite scary, but a 'salt-of-the-earth' bloke who would help you out if you were in trouble. Rumour had it he'd 'done time' in French and Spanish prisons for various drug-related offences. He and his rangy and wild wife, Rita, complemented each other perfectly. They regularly stalled out at the brocante markets. I asked him if he knew the ponytailed pain with the deerstalker and plus fours.

  'Oh, you mean Lord Snooty?'

  'Lord Snooty? Is that his name?'

  'Nah, I just call him that. His real name is Algie.'

  'Algie?' I was taken aback. 'I've never met anyone called Algie in my life.'

  'Well, I say that,' continued Reg, 'but his actual name is Colin. He just tells everyone his name is Algie. I found a wallet once. No money in it so I looked at the passport and it said Colin Baxter, with Snooty's photo in it. I got the organisers to announce it over the loudspeakers and saw him slope off to collect it, embarrassed as everyone knows him as Algie. He's a right snob... well, fake. I can't stand people like that but it's good for a laugh. I enjoy taking the mickey out of him.'

  'I don't find him at all funny,' I said, and explained how he'd blown my sale.

  'Yeah, well he's a right Francophile. He hates all the expats over here, even if he does play the Hooray Henry Englishman to the hilt. The French love him for it. He treats me like dirt and the feeling's mutual. He gets right up my nose. Take no notice of him. Insult him if he gets on yer nerves. I call him a wanker and tell him to piss off. He can't do much about it.'

  I thanked Reg for the advice and said I'd do the same next time Algie or Colin, or whatever his name was, came round and tried to mess up one of my sales again. I asked Reg if he'd seen a small child in red dungarees and told him how he'd stolen my monkey.

  'Now you come to mention it, I saw that kid earlier. He's a tough little bruiser. I had to shoo him away. He was trying to touch stuff on my stand.'

  'You don't know who his parents are? Only I was kind of hoping to get my monkey back.'

  'I'm not sure but I think he belongs to one of the brocanteurs.'

  'You don't know which one exactly?'

  'He was with a young bloke I haven't seen before. He's stalled out round the back somewhere.'

  I thanked him and headed back to my stand, deciding to have a walk around later when it was quieter and try to find the child. It had turned into a bright sunny morning and the market was packed with people in a buying mood. I was so busy I almost forgot about my monkey and Lord Snooty and his interfering ways.

  Before I knew it, it was midday and I was beginning to feel hungry, ready to grab a quick lunch. I knew the dealer next to me. She was a kindly woman named Chantal. I had often watched her stand for her when she made her rounds visiting her friends on the market, getting all the latest gossip. I stowed away some of my more valuable items and indicated to her that I was off for a bite to eat and asked if she could keep an eye on my stand for me. She smiled and gave me a wink. My gear was safe in her hands. She would watch anyone looking at my stuff like a hawk, drive a hard bargain on a sale and keep any money safe for me.

  As I crossed the square I noticed other dealers heading for the cafe. I passed a battered shooting brake with a trailer on the back. One of the side doors was open and the car sound system was pumping out loud music. I stopped and listened because I recognised the track. It was quite an obscure one – 'Take Me Home Country Roads' by Toots and the Maytals. Fantastic! This segued into Toots' original version of 'Monkey Man' followed by Jimmy James and the Vagabonds' early blue-beat version of the Neil Diamond song 'Red, Red Wine' – three of my all-time favourites. I hadn't heard them for years. I was surprised to see Lord Snooty appear round the back of the trailer carrying a large framed oil painting which he hung up on a wooden stand. I couldn't believe my eyes or ears. Did he have good musical taste? It seemed unlikely.

  I couldn't help myself. I smiled and shouted across to him, 'Jimmy James and the Vagabonds – I used to see them at the Marquee in the sixties. Great band!'

  He leant over and turned down the sound. 'The Marquee? I was always down the Marquee,' he said. 'And the Roaring Twenties, and the Flamingo.'

  'The Flamingo All-niter, what! Georgie Fame and the Blue Flames, Herbie Goins and the Nightimers, Zoot Money and the Big Roll Band... those were the days,' I said. Way before I turned to antique dealing I'd had a colourful history in the music industry, writing a weekly pop column, then working for CBS Records, and later forming the John Dummer Blues Band, which toured Britain and Europe during the blues boom of the sixties. Hearing those tunes really took me back.

  He extended his hand and we shook. 'Name's Algie. Always pleased to meet anyone who spent their youth down the Marquee and the Flamingo. Did you manage to sell that Davenport?'

  'No, thanks to you,' I said sarcastically.

  'Ah yes, those certainly were the days,' he said, ignoring my remark.

  'We must have been down the same clubs together,' I said. And then, before I knew what I was saying, it just came out: 'Fancy a drink over the caff?'

  'Oh yah, certainly,' he replied. 'I'll just cover up and join you.'

  I wished I hadn't been so hasty. What was I thinking, inviting this twat for coffee? But he did have great taste in music – I had to give him that.

  'How has your morning been?' I asked.

  'Absolute rubbish. I haven't even broken even. I hope this afternoon is better or I might just have to top myself.'

  'That bad, eh?' I couldn't help myself. I was secretly glad he'd lost money.

  'I used to sell crap like yours when I started doing the markets here,' he said. 'But I got sick of all that.'

  I bet you did, I thought to myself, you belittling pain. Maybe you should go back to it if it was more successful.

  'You sell paintings now, do you?' I said, indicating the framed oil he had just put on display. It was horrendous; one of the worst examples of modern art I'd ever seen. A monkey could have done better.

  'Quality works of art, yes,' he said, 'and good French bronzes when I can get hold of them. I much prefer to handle tasteful antiques.'

  He shut his trailer and we headed off across the square. I was hoping I wasn't going to regret this. I still wasn't over the loss of my monkey or the pantomime with the Davenport. If he started acting up, giving himself airs or playing the silly goat again, I wasn't sure how I'd react. But looking at him now with his deerstalker and plus fours and his stuck-up manner I couldn't stop smiling to myself. Colin, Algie or Lord Snooty? He was so over the top he was comical.

  2

  GOLD, CASH AND QUESTIONS

  The cafe was packed with dealers grabbing a quick drink and a bite to eat. Thibaut walked over, lager in hand, and offered to buy me a beer.

  'Thanks,' I said, 'but I'd prefer a Coke.' He'd forgotten I was a reformed alcoholic sworn off the booze. It was often hard work to convince the French that I was teetotal. They really have no concept of what that means. It's almost as bad as being a vegetarian, which is totally unfathomable to them.

  'Did you get your monkey back?' he asked, chuckling. I told him I couldn't find the little blighter who took it but I wasn't giving up hope. I knew Thibaut liked a jolly good laugh. The pair of us had hung out with our mutual friend Serge Bastarde be
fore he had set off for pastures new, and our talk as ever turned to Serge and the laughs we had as we reminisced about old times.

  'Do you remember the first time you saw Angelique?' asked Thibaut. 'Before Serge stole her from that gars terrible [awful guy], Bernard. Serge and I knew she was prone to stripping off in public but you had no idea. That's why we hung around waiting for her to disrobe, but your face was priceless and you were so shocked when she started modelling those corsets she and Bernard were selling.'

  'You're right, I couldn't believe it,' I said. 'But we were all even more amazed when she fell for Serge and they went off to live in Martinique. You don't have any news of them, do you?'

  'I heard they had a baby about three years ago,' said Thibaut, 'but since then nothing... disparu.'

  Lord Snooty butted in. 'Did I hear you right? You're not talking about that frightful oik Serge Bastarde, are you? An absolute bounder.' He looked appalled.

  'He wasn't that bad,' I said. 'We are friends of his.'

  'Well, you've got no taste, then. He's the most awful little man – you're well rid of him. We English have to represent our country like ambassadors, but Serge Bastarde displays all the worst traits of the French – greedy, money-grabbing and crooked, the lot of 'em.'

  I stood open-mouthed. Reg had said Algie was a Francophile, but this pontificating was the racist diatribe of a complete ignoramus. And he wasn't about to stop.

  'They're double-dealers in business, all their politicians get away with murder, they think they're great lovers but they have no idea how to treat a woman – unlike us Brits – their bureaucracy is a farce, and they guillotined all their superiors and betters and let the rabble and peasants take over.'

  I could see that Thibaut was starting to look annoyed. Lord Snooty was obviously rubbing him up the wrong way, and although Thibaut was usually quite easygoing, when riled he was a man you'd want to avoid.

  Lord Snooty (or Algie, or whatever), oblivious to the glowering Thibaut, carried on denigrating Serge and the French until he finished with: 'I'd say that most of the French are thieves and liars like Serge and that he's the type that gives us brocanteurs a bad name.'

  Thibaut exploded and lurched forward. He'd had enough. He grabbed Algie by the front of his jacket and lifted him bodily off the ground, cursing him nose to nose with some pretty strong swear words, several of which I hadn't heard before. He called him an English rosbif snob and let go, dropping him so he staggered and fell backwards.

  'I'm sorry, John,' said Thibaut, 'but I can't stay around listening to this connard any longer. I won't be responsible for my actions.' He took a final swig of his lager and walked out.

  Algie was dusting himself down. 'I don't much care for the company you keep,' he said to me. 'Are all your friends absolute blackguards like him and that Bastarde fellow?'

  I told him in no uncertain terms that I disagreed strongly with everything he'd said and that he'd gone too far. I walked out, furious. Outside I made a spurt to catch up with Thibaut.

  'I'm sorry about all that, Thibaut,' I said. 'I've only just met the bloke. I don't know him at all. He gives all us English a bad name. We aren't all rude like that, it's really embarrassing.'

  'C'est pas grave,' said Thibaut (it doesn't matter). 'I know Serge was no angel, but he is one of us – we must stick together.'

  I wished him luck and bon courage and made my way back to my stand. Amazing! Serge was still causing me trouble when he wasn't even in the same country.

  Surprisingly enough, Chantal had sold a silver-plated tea set for the full price on the ticket and she handed me the money in euro notes. I thanked her from the bottom of my heart and asked if she could watch my pitch a bit longer. I was determined to track down that toddler, the one who stole my monkey.

  I set off, checking every stand I passed. Most of the dealers were back from lunch and I was obliged to stop and greet everyone and have a chat. Fred, a book dealer I knew well, said he had seen the child in the red dungarees and pointed me towards a stand further along.

  I looked across, and sure enough there was the kid, sitting in a little chair out front. He saw me coming and I don't know if he recognised me but he got up and sidled round behind the legs of the young dealer running the stand. I had never seen this young brocanteur before and was surprised to see he was wearing – somewhat inappropriately for a brocante fair – white hip-hop gear set off with a touch of 'bling': a glittering gold neck chain, sparkling ear studs and a flashy watch. I smiled at him and bent down and looked at the kid.

  'He's a lad, isn't he?' I said, laughing. 'How old is he?'

  The guy looked at me with a surly expression.

  'He's not a boy, he's a girl.' He pulled a face that implied he thought I was a complete imbecile for making such an obviously stupid mistake.

  'Oh yes, of course, sorry,' I said. I now noticed the little sparkling studs in the child's ears. The Spanish and some French are in the habit of having their baby girls' ears pierced. But, as Reg said, this kid was a tough little bruiser – bit of an easy mistake to make in this case.

  As I stood up I noticed my little monkey sitting on one of his tables. It had a ticket on it and it was up for sale. I was speechless.

  I stuttered in disbelief, 'Ce petit singe, il vient d'où?' (The little monkey, where did you get him?)

  The young dealer sneered and shrugged like he couldn't understand me.

  I explained in the nicest possible way that the little girl had taken it off my stand to play with earlier and that the monkey belonged to me.

  The guy blanked me and made a dismissive gesture. He turned his back. He wasn't the slightest bit interested.

  I could see I wasn't getting anywhere and was determined not to lose my monkey so I decided to find the market organiser to get him to sort it out. The man who ran the Soumoulou market was an impressive bearded individual who stood no nonsense from anyone. We arrived back at the young dealer's stand together and as soon as he saw the organiser his whole attitude changed. Faced with the pair of us he explained that the little girl had come back with the monkey and he thought she had found it thrown away somewhere or been given it as a gift. He was unaware it belonged to me, he pleaded. I couldn't do anything other than accept his profuse apologies, take my monkey and return to my stand, vindicated.

  It had been a somewhat unsettling day but in the end I had done OK and made a decent profit. By late afternoon most of the customers had drifted off and I began to pack up. Someone had left a couple of flyers on my stand. I threw them in my rubbish bag without giving them a second glance and continued packing. As I was taking down my parasol I noticed another leaflet stuck to my shoe. There were a few of them strewn around the place. I stopped and pulled it off. It was a flyer boasting the offer 'ACHAT D'OR'. There was a photo of a character smiling enticingly and holding up a wad of euro notes. He looked very familiar. When I looked more closely... I couldn't believe my eyes.

  I heard a distinctive voice and looked up to see Lord Snooty coming towards me, jubilantly waving one of the same leaflets in his hand.

  'There, what did I tell you? Isn't this your pal Serge Bastarde?' He was pointing at the photo triumphantly. 'Now tell me the chap's not an oik and a bounder. Serge the Snurge! I rest my case.'

  Yes, the smug prig was right. I now knew without a doubt it really was true. My eyes weren't deceiving me. It was Serge, as large as life. I'd recognise that face anywhere. And the way he was fanning the ever familiar fistful of euros – Serge Bastarde, in all his glory, plying the old cash-for-gold scam.

  What the hell was he playing at and where the hell was he?

  And if he was back, why the hell hadn't he got in touch with me?

  3

  SWALLOWS AND FIELDS OF CORN

  The maize in the fields that surround our house was ripe and rustling in the morning sunshine. The russet pods that protected the corn had peeled back in places to reveal glimpses of the shiny yellow ears enveloped by silky spun cushions. The stalks of corn
were now fully grown and we were completely hidden from the outside world. I loved early autumn, when the corn was at its highest and it felt like we were in a little secret world of our own.

  In the distance I could clearly see the shadowy blue outline of the Pyrenees. When the mountains are visible in this area of the Landes, it means that rain is coming within the next couple of days. Our neighbours had told us this when we first arrived here and at first we had been dubious. It sounded like an old wives' tale to us but they were right. It doesn't matter how fine it is or how brightly the sun is shining; if you can see the Pyrenees, rain is on its way.

  The fields of corn owned by Mr Fagot sloped gently down to Mr Leglise's farm and that morning I could hear his dog's excited barking and his yells of encouragement as the spry octogenarian drove his donkey and cow out into the pasture for the day. This meant it was eight o'clock; you could set your watch by the time Mr Leglise drove his livestock out into the fields.