Son of Serge Bastarde (16 page)

  The man looked over at us with a face like thunder. He was cursing under his breath.

  'Now he's accusing Diddy of shortchanging him. I came over as Diddy was completing the sale of that violin.' He pointed at the instrument the man was holding like a club ready to hit Diddy. 'He's a good client of mine; it's a problem.'

  The
gitan
approached me like I might be able to help. He was incandescent with anger. 'I gave this
résidu de
fausse couche
a two-hundred-euro note but he refuses to give me my change.'

  'You liar!' Diddy yelled, standing up close, right in the man's face. He didn't like being called a 'leftover from a miscarriage' one little bit. 'You gave me a hundred-euro note and I gave you fifty back.' He was facing up to him ready for a
bagarre
(fight). But judging by his size, my money was on the
gitan
if it came to fisticuffs. He was rough and tough.

  It crossed my mind that somewhere along the line they might have fallen foul of a typical shortchange trick and I wasn't sure which one was the trickster. I'd been stitched up by it myself a few times. I had learnt to hold on to a large denomination euro note in full view of the customer when giving change. Once the transaction was over the note could then be put away and there could be no argument. The customer couldn't claim he had given you more money than he had.

  'How many two-hundred-euro notes have you got then, Diddy?' I said, attempting to soothe the situation. He pulled out a fistful of euros and waved them with disdain in the man's face. He had clearly had a good morning. The
gitan
went to grab his money, Diddy pushed him, and the man snapped and went to hit him. From behind me Reg appeared in a blur right between the pair of them. He was grinning insanely. With his shaven head he looked unhinged, ready to do some serious damage. One touch could tip him over the edge. It wasn't a pleasant prospect.

  The
gitan
looked taken aback, thought better of it, turned on his heel and was off, disappearing into the crowd.

  Serge was upset. '
Putain!
That's another good client lost.' He turned to Diddy. 'What's the matter with you, you want to drag the good name of Bastarde right through the mud?' Diddy looked hurt. He sneered and walked off in a huff.

  Reg wasn't sure what had happened. His eyes were still glowing from the adrenalin rush as I explained the situation to him.

  'Oh dear, looks like I done a bit of boo-boo there.' He put his arm round Serge's shoulders. 'Sorry, mate, I didn't know he was a good customer of yours.'

  Serge gave a dry smile. '
Le pirate
, he's always ready for a
bagarre
, eh?' He was flattered, really, that Reg had come to help.

  'That's a pity,' said Reg to me. 'Those
gitans
don't like to lose face. That won't be the last we'll be seeing of that bloke.'

  I shrugged. It was beyond me. I hadn't a clue. I was just glad the incident hadn't ended in violence.

  It was
midi
and the crowds were starting to thin, heading for various buffet and restaurant tents. I made my way back to our caravan where Helen was preparing a meal. When I explained in detail what had happened we were once again amazed at Reg's behaviour. 'He's like a wild animal,' said Helen, 'but you can't help admiring him, and we like wild animals.' She laughed. 'Pity he upset that
gitan
, though. If I was Serge, I'd be worried now.'

  Algie came across, grinning in triumph. 'I just sold a very nice bronze to a client with good taste,' he said smugly. 'Better to wait for class than sell cheap tat to the peasants, what.' He was crowing.

  It was lunchtime and the atmosphere was laid-back, relaxed. Families with kids in tow were out to enjoy the fun of the fair. People mooched past eating churros or
barbe à papa
(candy floss). Over in a clearing the roundabouts and sideshows were in full swing. Helen and I sat out front watching the passers-by, drinking in the atmosphere. It was great living and working here in France. The weather was brilliant and the people of the Landes were warm and friendly and appeared to respect each other. The French have somehow managed to retain some of the old-world values we Brits have lost. We sometimes tried to fathom what gave them a different approach to life from us Anglo-Saxons. Was it because they had guillotined their aristocracy and destroyed the class system? Or was it the influence of their strong Roman Catholic background? Or was it the weather? We couldn't be sure. But we had been living in France so long now we felt just as at home here as we did in England.

  'I like the forest,' I said.

  Helen said she did too. 'We haven't looked at houses out here yet. What do you reckon?'

  'I thought you didn't like the woods,' I said. 'We ruled this area out before when we looked because of that.'

  'Yeah, well I was thinking like a typical Londoner then. I couldn't believe there weren't people lurking in the woods at night. I used to feel like that about open countryside until I discovered it was my imagination playing tricks. Now I think I might have changed my mind about woods, too. There's a sort of special air about them.'

  'I know what you mean,' I agreed.

  'We'll give it a go then, when the fair's finished?' she said.

  'Yes, it won't hurt to look.'

  Reg came over and sat with us in the sunshine. 'Done all right, have you?' he asked. He appeared to have put the incident with the
gitan
behind him.

  'It's been fun taking all that money and ummm... really interesting,' said Helen.

  'It's not over yet, darlin' – there's always a second wave in the afternoon.'

  'Really?' said Helen warily. 'I can't believe it, but if you say so...'

  Reg swigged at a can of lager. His freshly shaved pale pate had caught the sun and was starting to glow pink. He shouted across to Rita. 'All right, babe? Keep on working, raking in the old lolly!' He laughed when she gave him a V-sign.

  Over at Serge's stand Diddy had got over his fit of pique and was chatting up the pair of 'jailbait' girls. He had turned up a ghetto blaster pumping out loud rap and hip hop. He appeared to be trying to drown out the repetitive over-jolly
fête
music being broadcast over the fair's sound system. He was grooving along, showing off his choice moves, impressing the gypsy girls, who watched with rapt attention.

  Algie was walking back from lunch and saw them, wolf-whistled and began to gyrate his hips in a suggestive manner like he was down the Flamingo or the Roaring Twenties in Carnaby Street. I looked round to see Helen and Rita gesticulating to each other, sticking their fingers down their throats pretending to vomit. They obviously thought Algie was the pits. He said he had been to one of the restaurant tents where I realised he had been eating alone. He looked sneeringly at the remains of our simple meal.

  'Oh, I had champagne and oysters,' he boasted. 'Absolutely delicious!'

  'That's all your profit gone down your throat then,' said Helen scathingly.

  'Oh my dear, if only I had a lovely little caravan like yours,' he said disparagingly, 'I'd be able to live on bread and cheese like the rest of you paupers.'

  I thought Helen might give him a mouthful back, but she fell about laughing. Algie roared with laughter too. They appeared to be warming to each other. She was pleased to have found someone she could give a good bit of South London backchat to.

  Algie plonked himself down in a camping chair and belched loudly. He was clearly sated, the worse for wear.

  'How many bottles of champagne have you had?' asked Reg. 'You could have brought one back for us, you greedy git.'

  'Get your own,' snorted Algie.

  Serge came over and we men hung out on Algie's stand waiting for the afternoon rush to pick up, leaving Helen and Rita to cope on their own.

  'Your Diddy's got his mind on the job all right,' said Reg to Serge, waving across at the lad, who was still showing off to the gypsy girls. I translated for Serge, leaving out the irony.

  He shrugged. 'You're only young once, Johnny...
le pirate
is right. I was just the same when I was Diddy's age. But if he loses me any more regular clients like that
gitan
this morning I'll be going bankrupt.'

  People were coming back from their relaxed French lunch hour and the aisles were starting to fill up again. I had noticed Rita and Helen were giving us desperate looks but we carried on chatting away. As we gazed at the crowd we saw the tough gi
tan
approach, closely followed by two other men.

  'What did I tell you?' said Reg. 'That bloke wasn't going to take that lying down.' He was trying to hold down his excitement at the prospect.

  'Maybe we should keep out of it,' I said, thinking that if Reg got involved it was bound to end in violence.

  Serge went over to join Diddy.

  'Nah, come on, Sergey needs us,' said Reg, already on his way. I had to run to keep up and Algie was following with long strides.

  'What's all this excitement about, old chap?' He had sobered up very quickly.

  We lined up in front of Serge's stand with Diddy behind us, and Serge joined us. We were like the Musketeers.

  The
gitans
stopped dead, eyeing up Reg.

  We had an audience. I could see Helen and Rita standing on chairs, trying to see what was happening over the heads of the crowd.

  The
gitan
spoke to Serge. 'I've come to apologise. I made a mistake this morning. I found this two-hundred-euro note in my pocket. I knew I only had the one and I could have sworn I used it to pay for the violin. I'm really sorry for all the bother earlier.'

  Algie, Serge and I visibly relaxed and Diddy looked triumphant. But Reg was ready, poised to go in for the kill. He hadn't understood a word. The other two young
gitans
looked worriedly at him.

  I turned to Reg. 'It's OK, it was all a mistake. He had the two hundred note in his pocket.'

  Reg looked at me in disbelief. 'What?'

  I repeated what I'd just said, putting my hand on his arm to calm him. He looked deflated. I'd seen this hyped-up state before, mostly in our Staffordshire bull terriers.

  Everyone was laughing now and chatting with the
gitans
. The two younger men with Serge's client were his brothers and it had turned all chummy and 'lads together'.

  The burly
gitan
's name was Lorenzo. He introduced us to his younger brothers, Syd and Fabio. They were charming and Lorenzo insisted he treat us to dinner as a way of making up. I had a feeling he didn't want to alienate Serge, who had obviously unknowingly undersold him some valuable violins over the years. I explained that Reg and I had our wives with us and he nodded dismissively at them. 'They can come too.'

  Later Fabio came round with a card with an address jotted down on it. They had booked us all into a celebrated local restaurant in the little village of Rion-des-Landes. When Serge saw the name he was impressed.

  'It's Chez Maïté, run by a famous French TV chef. The food,
c'est le top
.'

  When we'd all finished packing away we turned up at the restaurant and perused the menu outside, waiting for the
gitans
to arrive.

  'Blimey,' said Reg, 'I could never afford to eat here.'

  A big Mercedes white van pulled up across the road and Lorenzo and his brothers piled out. They came swaggering across, and Lorenzo was greeted as a valued customer by the maître d', who showed us to the best table in the house.

  Syd and Fabio had taken to Diddy. The three of them nattered fast together in French so peppered with slang I could barely understand what they were on about. Serge and Lorenzo, meanwhile, talked business, while the English contingent – me, Reg and Algie – sat together with Helen and Rita, who were chatting and laughing, cracking jokes about the men.

  Algie began to pontificate about 'young people these days'.

  'They don't seem to have any self-discipline,' he insisted, looking across at Diddy. 'When I was a boy we had discipline instilled in us. If I crossed my father, I got a good hiding. We soon learnt to do what we were told.'

  'I never had to beat my boy,' said Reg. 'But when he grew up I always told him if he got caught, keep your head down, do your bird and get out. It's the only way.'

  'I didn't need to beat my boys,' said Algie. 'I kept them under control with the voice. They didn't dare cross me. It wasn't worth it.'

  'My dad used to beat the living daylights out of me and my brother with a heavy leather slipper,' I said. 'He'd storm in and lay into us, knocking ten bells out of us for no apparent reason. He'd throw us across the room into the wall and once he knocked me out.'

  I looked up. Reg and Algie were staring at me, shocked.

  'What?' I said. 'I thought that was normal.'

  'I don't think that's right, mate,' said Reg gently.

  Algie looked embarrassed. 'Yes, a bit excessive, old chap.'

  'Helen says that too,' I said.

  There was an awkward silence between us. I pulled out my trusty ever-ready harmonica and started to play 'Baby Please Don't Go', the old Big Joe Williams number. Within a few minutes everyone in the restaurant was smiling and clapping. The staff were jolly, Lorenzo and his brothers were ecstatic.
Laissez les bontemps rouler!
(Let the good times roll!) Music gave me an escape route and always saved me. It was a universal language and a cure for all ills.

  The evening ended full of geniality and bonhomie. We all parted in good spirits, handshaking, kissing and hugging. As we drove home Helen squeezed my leg. 'I'll get on to the estate agents round here first thing tomorrow,' she said. 'It feels like we could have a nice life hidden away here in the woods.'