Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette (26 page)

  He was put on the spot. He couldn't face it but didn't want to offend Rita. He swallowed with difficulty and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He looked about to vomit. 'I've just got to nip out for a moment,' he said. 'I won't be long.' He stumbled out the door, still clutching his violin.

  'Sweet little bloke,' said Rita. 'What did he say?'

  'He's just off to the loo,' I said.

  'What's 'is name again?'

  'Serge,' I said. 'Serge Bastarde.'

  'Never,' she said. 'Is his name really Bastarde?' She had a fit of the giggles. She appeared as incredulous about it as Reg was.

  'It's not that uncommon a surname in France,' I said.

  'Blimey, fancy that,' she spluttered.

  Reg had polished off his cauliflower cheese and was helping himself to the last of the beans, liberally coated with HP sauce. The meal appeared to have completely revived him. He was his old self again. He grinned at me.

  'All right then, mate?'

  'Brilliant,' I said, trying to appear enthusiastic. The food actually tasted fine, although baked beans and cauliflower cheese held no terrors for me. I'd been brought up on the sticky stuff. It was hard to comprehend how the French saw these dishes as strange and somehow exotic. Christmas pudding always came top of the chart of Bizarre British Dishes, but baked beans were up there somewhere, probably in the top five.

  'Where's Serge?' asked Reg.

  'He's gone to the loo, I think.' I was beginning to worry about him. What if Bruno and his thugs knew he was here? He wouldn't stand a chance out there on his own.

  'Feeling a bit Tom and Dick is he?'

  'He's hardly touched his dinner,' said Rita. She had produced a 'cubey', a big square plastic bottle of cheap red wine, and was sloshing a glass full. She knocked it back and poured herself another.

  'Those gypo kids are being a right nuisance, babe,' she said, taking a last drag on the tip of the joint, stubbing it out on Reg's plate and dropping the end into his glass. 'There's one of them fancies me. He keeps leering and lurking around. Gives me the creeps, so he does.'

  'Do you want me to knock him out?' asked Reg.

  Rita let out a cackle.

  He leaned over and looked out the caravan window. 'Point him out to me. I'll go and do him.'

  'I think he's the sprog of that Antonio what's-'is-name, the one who reckons he's the King of the Gypsies,' she said.

  'Bloody gypos!' said Reg, flopping back. 'I used to do a fair old trade with them. But they can't get the good stolen stuff anymore. What's the use? They're not worth bothering with.' He began to help himself to the 'cubey' but stopped as the strains of a violin drifted in from outside. It was exquisitely played, a romantic air dripping with emotion. Reg put down his drink, leaned over, lifted the plastic net curtains and peered out of the window.

  'That's nice,' said Rita. 'Fancy being able to play the violin like that.'

  'He can't,' I said. 'Least, not as far as I know.'

  As we listened the music segued unexpectedly into a jazzy blues. Whoever was playing certainly knew their stuff.

  We left our meals and went outside where a little old man in shirtsleeves, waistcoat and a black trilby hat was playing the violin like a man possessed.

  Serge was standing close by, watching spellbound. He wasn't sick after all. Tears welled in his eyes. His face was flushed with emotion.

  The little old man finished the blues and began a flamenco, passionate and strutting at the same time. Serge swayed to the music, blinking back the tears. He smiled beatifically at us.

  'See, listen to that. Fantastic! That's my violin that is. I knew it was a good one.'

  The enormity of the moment hit us. We were jubilant. All three of us grabbed him and went into what I can only describe as a group hug, dancing with delight. Then, slightly embarrassed, we pulled back and clapped in time to the music.

  When the flamenco finished, we broke into spontaneous applause. The man handed the violin to Serge, bowed to us, waved his hand with a flourish and walked off towards the other caravans with great dignity.

  'Blimey, who was that bloke?' said Reg.

  'He's a
gitan
violinist,' said Serge, his voice cracking.

  'How did he get off the fag packet then?' said Reg. He looked at me like I'd appreciate the joke. I assumed he was referring to the picture of the romantic Gypsy with silver earrings on the old blue Gitanes cigarettes packet, and laughed knowingly.

  'He couldn't half play that fiddle,' said Rita.

  'He assured me my violin was a very rare find made by craftsmen,' said Serge. He was beginning to sound a bit smug.

  We went back into the caravan where Serge waxed lyrical about what he intended to do with the fortune he was going to make when he sold his violin.

  'I've always wanted to travel, Johnny,' he said. 'I think I'd like to see India. Maybe Egypt… the pyramids in the moonlight.'

  I explained it all to Rita. 'What about a cruise?' she volunteered. 'A cruise would be nice.' I could tell she was viewing Serge in a new light. She leaned in closer and smiled seductively. He did have a certain attraction for some women. It was obvious to me now.

  Reg turned the violin in his hands. 'It's a beauty, isn't it? And what a lovely tone it's got.' He placed it carefully on the table as if it were alive and delicate like a newborn baby. 'You done all right this time, mate.' He mimed an enthusiastic thumbs-up. 'Will you still talk to me when you're rich? I bet you won't want to know me.'

  Serge had a dreamy look on his face, as if he'd won the lottery. Rita was cooing to him. 'You'll need someone to keep you company on your world tour, babe. I could do that for you… look after you and help you spend the money.' Her hand was on his knee. I wondered if Reg had noticed and how he'd react. I anticipated him punching Serge on the nose and the blood spurting.

  But Reg was rubbing his fingers together in a miserly fashion and pulling a greedy face.

  'I think maybe I'll retire,' said Serge. 'Take a break. Not retire exactly, but do all the things I've always wanted to do. You know, live a lavish lifestyle, treat all my friends, throw big parties.'

  I passed on these musings to Reg and Rita.

  'Ah, bless,' said Rita.

  'Yeah, good on you, mate,' said Reg. 'You enjoy yourself.' He lifted his glass to propose a toast. They knocked back the wine and laughed together.

  The violin was on the table. I picked it up reverentially and examined it. I thought I'd memorise exactly what it was like just in case my luck changed and I came across another one worth a fortune. It'd never happen… but you just never knew. I looked in through the S-shaped holes.

  'My God! Look at this. Read the label.'

  I passed it to Reg, who took it and peered in through the slots.

  'Blimey! It's clear as day… Made in China. They've done him. Someone's done a swapsy. It must have been that old fag packet bloke.

  Serge was in a reverie. His head was leaning on Rita's bosom. He was smiling at her as she stroked the back of his neck.

  Reg poked him hard and shouted at him.

  'Look at this! They've conned you, you prat!'

  Serge looked up guiltily. He thought Reg was attacking him for partaking of the pleasures of his wife. But Reg was pushing the violin at him, indicating inside.

  Serge grasped the instrument and peered through the apertures. His eyes widened as he read the label. He couldn't believe it. He looked round in panic.

  Then suddenly he was off and out the door, legging it across the site, disappearing through the caravans, shouting at people.

  I went to follow and help the poor sod. But Reg stopped me.

  'Don't bother, mate. He'll have to go some to catch that little bloke. That was a set-up, that was. He's got no chance. He and that violin will be long gone.'

  Serge reappeared later, looking utterly dejected. He was muttering pathetically. 'Everyone denied that bloke existed. They said they'd heard nothing… no one like that here… They turned their backs on me.'

  Rita helped him back into the caravan.

  'Come on darlin', never mind, eh? You never finished your dinner and there's rhubarb and custard for afters.'

  Serge gave her a wan smile.

It was a baking hot afternoon but cool in our
atelier
, where I was antique-waxing a walnut country table. Helen was out at an auction and, apart from the gentle cooing of the pigeons in the nesting boxes on the barn wall and the distant purr of a tractor, all was calm and peaceful.

  I looked out through the open door across the fields thick with maize that now completely surrounded us. The stalks rustled soothingly as a gentle breeze stirred the drying leaves. It was now fully grown and ready for the combine harvester. I was reminded of the line from the song 'Oh, What a Beautiful Morning' from the Rogers and Hammerstein musical,
Oklahoma,
in which the corn is described as being 'as high as an elephant's eye'. It possibly depended on the size of the elephant but we were now completely hidden in our own secret little world.

  I recognised the throb of the tractor. It belonged to Mr Leglise, a sprightly eighty-five-year-old with a twinkle in his eye, one of our
agricole
neighbours, who wore wooden clogs, a blue cotton jacket and trousers and a beret in all weathers. When it was hot he left off the jacket and went barefoot, walking confidently across his land. He had a small farm across the way; a couple of lush meadows, one cow, a donkey and a small mongrel dog. The donkey was prone to letting fly intermittent loud braying cries at any hour of the day and night. It was driven into the meadows with the cow every morning to the accompaniment of frantic barking from the dog.

  I had recently set up my drum kit in our caravan near the
atelier
and when I got the urge I would treat myself to a deeply satisfying thrash about on it just to keep my hand in. I was slightly worried that the loud sound of my abandoned workouts might annoy the neighbours, but when I stopped to wish Mr Leglise
'bonjour'
after one of my sessions, he assured me, 'The beat of the drums, I love it. It's full of life.' Anything that brought a bit of life and soul to the village appeared to be embraced wholeheartedly by one and all and I received no complaints, even though Helen assured me the sound was deafening.

  Wednesday was market day in our local village and Mr Leglise never missed a get-together with all his octogenarian pals. I felt slightly envious of them sometimes when I passed the bar and saw them laughing uproariously together, knocking back glasses of Pernod. They were relaxed in one another's company and had probably known each other since their schooldays. I couldn't help comparing them to some of the sad-faced pensioners I'd seen hanging disconsolately around shopping malls in England. Where has our modern society gone wrong?

  I discovered Mr Leglise was as prone to letting himself go and expressing himself as I was. On hot afternoons he would set up his gramophone outside his farmhouse and sing along to his collection of old 78 and 45 rpm records. He had a strong, rich baritone voice and the spirited sound of his singing would waft across the fields.

  I half-expected to hear him start up now as I enjoyed waxing the walnut table, buffing it up and seeing the satisfying deep lustre of the wood as it began to shine. Ah, the small pleasures of furniture restoration. As I polished away I was thinking absent-mindedly about our trip last weekend into the Auvergne and wondering if we would ever discover who it was that nicked Serge's Stradivarius. My money was on Serge's old friend turned arch-enemy Bruno the Basque. I had a strong hunch he was the brains behind it.

  I jumped involuntarily. Someone had crept up on me and pinched my bottom. Well, well… I wonder who? I turned to see Helen smiling wickedly.

  'I thought you were at an auction,' I said, pleased to see her.

  'I was, but the auctioneer stopped it early. She completely lost her temper because everything was going cheaply. She went berserk and threw us all out.'

  'Good God! Why?'

  'All the other dealers were at a funeral so there were only private buyers and me there. There weren't many bids and things were going ridiculously cheap, it was great. But she didn't like it and blew a fuse.'

  I'd seen the woman auctioneer she was talking about and wasn't really surprised. She ran her sales like an ayatollah, punishing anyone who crossed her, regularly losing her temper and scolding dealers who stepped out of line.

  'The funeral was of a married couple –
brocanteurs
who did the markets,' said Helen, 'and guess what – they were murdered!'