Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette (27 page)

  I was shocked. The local
Sud Ouest
newspaper carried hardly any crime stories. Murder was something that happened in New York, not here in Landes. Most murders were in other parts of France, although we did get some action with ETA (the outlawed Basque separatist group), being so near the Spanish border and the Pays Basque. The terrorists tended to be caught hiding in houses in Landes with stashes of arms and explosives. Recently the police had taken to stopping and searching cars on the quiet back roads, usually with an armed marksman with an automatic weapon stationed behind them to open fire on any suspect cars making a run for it.

  Otherwise not much happened aside from the odd armed bank robbery, or the theft of wedding presents left in the house when the whole village was attending the church service and reception because the parents of the couple had placed an announcement of the happy day in the local paper. Our neighbours had even taken to hiring security guards to stop this occurring.

  'Someone told me they were missing for weeks before their bodies were found in shallow graves in the woods,' said Helen.

  'Really? I hadn't heard about it,' I said.

  'Yes, well that's our problem; as foreigners we're a bit outside their world even though we speak French. It's like being in a little village in England where you're an outsider for years.'

  'I'll ask about and maybe find out what happened tomorrow when I'm at Montauban,' I said. I was off in the early hours to do a two-day fair there and I could probably pick up on the gossip.

  'Why don't we go together?' she said. 'The people at the town hall said there was room to park our caravan nearby if we wanted to.'

  'That'd be even better. I'd like that.'

  'Better get on with your restoration then… Or on second thoughts come in and make me a cup of tea. I'm dying of thirst.'

  'Tea… tea? Is that your answer to it all?' I said jokingly.

  'Yes,' she said, 'it is.'

The market square at Montauban was already thronged with white vans when we arrived. It was early in September but still hot and one of those shady sweet mornings under the plane trees before the full force of the sun begins to suck all the moisture out of the air. We parked our caravan overlooking the river and queued up to be allocated our pitch by
le placier
(the market supervisor). Once the van was in place we joined all the other traders in the local cafe for a coffee.

  Montauban was a bit out of our area so I didn't recognise a lot of the faces. But Louis, my jazz-loving friend from Dax was there as usual and he came across and pumped my hand, glad to see us. We talked about the Marciac Jazz Festival, which is held every year in a little village in the Gers. He regularly rented a stall in the market for the two week festival and sold collectors' records, esoteric T-shirts and memorabilia to the jazz fans. He hadn't taken a lot of money this year, but it was more like a labour of love for him.

  'There's not many of the "greats" left alive now, John. It's sad, isn't it?'

  I was agreeing and sympathising when I felt a dig in the ribs and turned to see Reg.

  'Oi-oi, Johnny boy, we can't go on meeting like this.'

  I was pleasantly surprised to see him again. Things were seldom boring when he was around. 'And you must be his wife, darlin',' he said, turning to Helen. 'Nice to meet you. Serge told me a bit about you, and Johnny 'ere never stops talking about you.'

  'I didn't know you ever got over this way Reg,' I said, feeling slightly embarrassed.

  'I don't as a rule. But it's been a bit quiet and I thought, why not? It's gonna be a scorcher today too by the looks of it. Good job I've got me caravan parked nearby so Rita can bring me drinks an' that.'

  'That's a coincidence,' I said, 'because we've brought ours as well.'

  'Great! We can all hang out together and have a laugh.' He nudged me. 'Watch out – here comes trouble.' He nodded towards the door where Serge was pushing his way through.

  Reg put an imaginary violin under his chin and mimed playing it. When Serge saw what he was doing he threw me and Helen a pained look. The lost violin was clearly still a sore point. He made a show of ignoring Reg's pantomime and shook my hand and hugged and kissed Helen enthusiastically.

  'Heh, Helen! I missed you,' said Serge, in French. He hugged her tightly. 'If you ever get fed up with Johnny here give me a ring.'

  'I'm fed up with him now,' said Helen. 'What's your number again?'

  Serge loved that. He chuckled and then unexpectedly suddenly swung round and play-punched Reg in the stomach. The pair of them grappled together and ended up laughing.

  '
Le Pirate,
he's typical
rosbif
,' said Serge. 'Everything's a big joke, eh?'

  Reg put his arm round his shoulders. 'Never mind, mate, that violin's bound to turn up one day.' He looked at us… 'Not!'

  'Were you at the funeral yesterday, Serge?' asked Helen. 'The one for the couple who got murdered.'

  'You're joking, I wouldn't go to their funeral… and they wouldn't come to mine.'

  'Didn't you get on with them?' said Helen.

  'They were jewellery dealers. Jewellery dealers keep themselves to themselves in case they get rolled. But now there are a lot more tough gangsters about who don't give a shit. Those two disappeared for ages and no one knew where they were. Some people thought they'd pulled off a big deal somewhere and run away to live on an island. But then their bodies were found in the woods, killed and robbed of everything. God knows how long they'd been there.'

  'That's terrible,' said Helen.

  'That's the risk you take, I'm afraid, when you deal in valuable gear. In fact, Johnny, I was going to ask you a favour today.'

  I was about to say 'anything', like a mug, but managed to stop myself.

  'I've got some jewellery I want to sell off, rings mainly. Would you take some of my stock and help me get rid of it?'

  'We don't really buy jewellery much,' said Helen, giving me a look.

  'No, I'm not asking you to buy it. All I want you to do is take a display cabinet and a few rings and bits of jewellery. I'll make it worth your while. Once they're gone that's it for me. I've decided I don't want to die like them. You never know who'll be next. I've only got a few bits and I don't want to take any risks. I've decided I like living too much.'

  I looked at Helen. It didn't seem like that much to ask. Just putting out a display cabinet with a few rings and odds and ends of jewellery in it. Where was the harm in that?

  Helen nodded to me. 'OK, Serge,' she said. 'We'll do it, but only if you promise me it's all legit, you rogue.'

  Serge shrugged. '
Mais oui
, would I lie to you?'

  'Yes,' she said.

  He pulled a hurt face, and then laughed and squeezed her arm.

As I set up my stand I could tell it was going to be a real scorcher, just like Reg had said. It was early, but you could already feel the power of the sun as it rose above the old medieval city. This was what the weather was usually like at the height of summer down here in the south-west. When we first moved out from England we would flop out on a bed with an electric fan going, unable to move. Now our blood had thinned down and we could carry on more or less as normal. But on our return visits to England in the summer I noticed that when everyone was walking about in shorts and T-shirts and sandals it felt quite chilly to me and I was obliged to don a pullover, jeans and trainers most of the time. Although I was now acclimatised to the heat here I was glad I had my parasols to protect me from the full force of the sun. Without them I'd have been fried to a frazzle.

  I was laying out our stock when I looked across the way and was surprised to see Angelique hefting a parasol out of Serge's white van and positioning it in its stand. I looked around for Bernard but there was no sign of him. Serge climbed out of the back carrying a display cabinet. He came across with it.

  'Here's the jewellery,' he said.

  'Where's Bernard?' I asked.

  'No idea, Johnny.'

  'Angelique's on her own, is she?'

  'She's helping me out today.' He placed the cabinet on my table and opened it.

  'These rings are all gold and marked with a price tag. If you look on the back of the ticket I've written what the precious stones are and the gold marks.'

  'That must be nice,' I said.

  'What's that?'

  'Having Angelique to help you out.'

  'Yes, she's a good worker.'

  'Pretty too.'

  He glanced up. 'She's not just a pretty face. She's a nice person. I don't really like to see the way Bernard treats her.'

  'He
is
a bit of a pig,' I said.

  'You said it, Johnny… a right pig.'

  He busied himself with his rings.

  'I'll leave it to you to decide what discounts you give on these. Bear in mind I want to clear the stock but some of this stuff is really nice. Don't go mad on the reductions.'

  I looked at the rings. They were big and shiny and that's about all I could say about them. The scrawl on the tags was hard to decipher. I had never sold jewellery and I wasn't sure I was up to this.

  Serge thrust something into my hand. 'Here's the key to the cabinet, Johnny. Make sure you keep it locked when you're not serving. Some people have got light fingers.'

  I pocketed the key and tried to concentrate.

  'One other thing. The customers for rings like these tend to be fat, rich old bags. I'm warning you now, they can be a right pain in the arse, and sometimes it's difficult and they try your patience.'

  'I'll remember that,' I said.

  'I know you will, Johnny. You're nice to
les clients
. You shouldn't have any problems.'

  I wished I felt so confident.

  As people started to arrive I noticed we were set up on both sides of a thoroughfare into the market. It was good in a way because people had to push past and this meant they had to look at our stuff. But it worried me that I couldn't keep an eye on the stock at all times. Since we'd been working the markets in France we'd only ever had a couple of small items stolen from our tables. Generally people were honest and you could even leave your stand unattended for short periods without worrying. But now we had jewellery, albeit in a locked cabinet, I didn't feel quite so relaxed. I could see how jewellery dealers kept themselves to themselves. It was certainly more stressful.

  Helen worked beside me as the customers poured into the market square. When the initial rush was over I went for a short stroll to check out how the other dealers were doing.

  As I passed Serge's stand Angelique was hefting the base of a painted marble-topped dressing table into position. She was wearing a bright summer frock and despite the heat looked fresh and gorgeous. Serge was leaning over his stand reading a paper. On the way back to the van she pinched his bottom. It was intimate, the sort of thing Helen regularly did to me. He smiled but carried on reading his paper.

  I realised Angelique was about to try and lift the marble top of the dressing table out of the van on her own and rushed to help her. We carried it over together and set it in place.

  She was grateful. 'Thank you so much, er…'

  'John,' I said.

  'Ah yes,
Jean.'
She pronounced it the French way. 'You're the English
brocanteur
aren't you, Serge's friend?'

  'That's right.' I was flattered she remembered me.

  'Yes, Serge often talks about you.' She smiled indulgently over to where he was absorbed in his paper. He was oblivious.

  'I'd better get back,' I said. 'My wife Helen's manning the stand on her own and it's getting quite busy.'

  'That's her over there with the red hair?' she said pointing towards our stand. 'She's nice. I think I've seen her before.'

  'Yes, probably,' I said. We often work together.'

  'It's
agréable, n'est-ce-pas,
to work together, sharing the load,' she said.

  I agreed it was. As I was leaving, Serge looked up.

  'How's it going, Johnny? Making a fortune?'

  I nodded and pulled a face at him and he buried his head back in his paper.

  At our stand Helen was in the middle of a rush of buying fever.

  'It's gone mad here,' she said, 'I really need a hand. If you can wrap up this dinner service I can see to the rings.'

  There was a cluster of older women round Serge's jewellery cabinet. Helen went over to serve them. They appeared to be charmed by her English manner. The rings were selling well because of the discounts, although some of the prices seemed incredibly high even with the reductions. Quite a few were encrusted with diamonds (it said on the tickets) and the women were impressed and keen to pay up for them in cash. We were beginning to see why jewellery dealers did so well. It was a revelation.

  Helen went off to prepare lunch and I was left alone coping with the punters, who seemed to be getting less accumulative as thoughts of food filled their minds.

  A jolly
gitan
family arrived, pushing their way through. There were numerous wild-faced, laughing children who expressed great interest in the objects on our stand, picking up pieces and demanding to know what they were.

  A confident little lad in a blue and white shell suit was fascinated by our wind-up gramophone, delighted by the music it produced when the needle was lowered onto the rotating shellac disc. I had a loud 78 recording of 'The Dam Busters March', which always impressed both kids and grown-ups. I was yet again amused at how a generation of children brought up on computers in the digital age viewed the music produced on a mechanical gramophone as some kind of strange magic.