Son of Serge Bastarde (19 page)

  'I didn't like to ask him. He was upset enough as it was.'

  'There's something not quite right about all this,' said Helen. 'I'll get to the bottom of it eventually.'

  I called to Buster and he unexpectedly dropped the stick and came running back. Maybe the setback was only a temporary one. A bit of sensible training and he'd be the model of good behaviour. That's what I was hoping, anyway. I had conveniently omitted to tell Helen how he had nearly run into the road. I didn't want her to think me completely irresponsible.

  'Look at him,' I said. He was standing at our feet, looking up at us so sweetly.

  'Oh all right, he's a real nightmare but I just can't help it – I love him so much,' said Helen, bending down to fuss him.

Helen and I love Biarritz. It's a wonderful seaside town with its sandy coves, impressive beaches, small harbour and breathtaking views of the Atlantic Ocean across the Bay of Biscay. It's like an exotic Eastbourne inhabited by the rich, the chic and the well-to-do elderly. During July and August the beaches heave with holidaymakers bronzing themselves and cavorting in the foaming surf. But we much prefer Biarritz out of season when the town returns to its normal sleepy state.

  We decided to treat ourselves to a day out with Buster as it's just a short drive down the motorway past Bayonne. We spent the morning mooching around the harbour, but when we walked along the promenade Buster went wild, pulling on his lead desperately trying to get to the sea. We wanted to let him run free – dogs are allowed to on the wild sandy beaches that run right up the coast towards Bordeaux, but here there were notices warning that dogs are forbidden on the beach. Buster, who can't read, pulled so hard it made my arms ache and we decided to give up and make our way back up the zigzag communal garden path to the town for some light refreshment. We had parked our car up a shady backstreet and we left Buster with some water, put the sunblinds up on the windows and headed for our favourite place in Biarritz, the Miremont Salon de Thé.

  When I was touring the UK with the doo-wop group Darts in the seventies Helen and I loved to frequent the old English tea rooms in the seaside towns. The Miremont is the French equivalent, a wonderful establishment that has been serving the Biarritz gentry for well over a hundred years. We pushed through the glass doors and stopped for a moment to gaze at the incredible display of savoury delicacies and exotic sweet pastries. Then we went upstairs to the restaurant where the decor is belle époque: chandeliers, pink walls and cream-painted wooden panels with Louis XV revival furniture upholstered in pink stripes. It's like stepping back in time to an infinitely more stylish era. The period from the end of the nineteenth century to the beginning of World War One is called
la belle époque
by the French because in retrospect they realised it had been a golden age.

  We waited at the top of the stairs to be seated by the maître d'. We were hoping for a table by the picture window with a sea view, but although the restaurant wasn't that busy they were all taken. The maître d' showed us to a table in a corner and we were about to sit down when a high voice called out from across the room.

  
'Coucou! C'est moi Johnny!'

  We turned, looking across to a window table where a woman was standing up waving at us. Helen threw me a querying look and I felt myself redden. It was Claudette, Serge's neighbour, in all her glory. I'd recognise her anywhere, even though I'd only met her the once – the night Serge destroyed the beautiful walnut buffet.

  'Who on earth's that?' Helen asked quietly.

  I gave an embarrassed grin as I realised I hadn't told her about Claudette. The maître d' raised a finger in acknowledgement, swerved off and guided us over to Claudette's table. Then he discreetly withdrew.

  I stood self-consciously smiling at Claudette. Up close she was vivid, larger than life, resplendent in a glittering sixties mini-dress and thigh-high boots with a feather boa slung round her neck. She was wearing a turban, bright blue eyeshadow, false eyelashes and pink Day-Glo lipstick.

  She grabbed me, pulling me close, kissing me warmly on both cheeks. Her perfume was overpowering. There was a hush in the restaurant. Everyone was staring at us as she leant round me, looking Helen up and down.

  'Is this your wife or your mistress, Johnny?' she asked in a loud voice.

  'Both!' replied Helen, quick as a flash.

  Claudette clapped her hands and laughed, delighted.

  
'Formidable!'

  People were smiling now.

  'Sit down my dears, you must join me for tea.'

  'This is Claudette, Serge's neighbour,' I said, making the introduction. The maître d' swiftly reappeared and slid the chairs into place as Helen and I sat down.

  Claudette ordered another pot of tea. 'What about cakes?' she asked. 'No scones though I'm afraid, Johnny. Let's have
gâteau Basque
.' She took charge and ordered.

  I pulled a tight smile at Helen.

  'You haven't been to visit me yet, Johnny.' She gazed into my eyes and fluttered her false eyelashes. Helen poked me in the leg, raising her eyebrows at me.

  'No, well I meant to,' I spluttered.

  'Shame on you, Johnny, hiding your charming wife away from me.'

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  'I like English people very much,' she said, smiling at us both. 'I love your sangfroid – very different from us French... we get excited so easily.' She opened her eyes wide as if acting in a silent movie. 'I lived in England for many years, you know.'

  'Really?' said Helen. 'Whereabouts?'

  'I was in London in the sixties.'

  'I'm from London,' said Helen. 'What part?'

  'Chelsea. I had a little apartment off the King's Road.

  'That must have been exciting,' said Helen.

  'Gosh, it's really expensive there now,' I said, trying to change the subject.

  'Oh yes, it was even then. I had a special friend who looked after me.'

  Helen looked askance. She had no idea yet she was talking to a 'lady of the night'.

  'Ah yes! The swinging sixties, I remember it well,' I gushed. 'Mmmmm,' agreed Claudette. 'I had some very influential friends. Most of them are gone now.' She pouted sadly.

  Helen looked at me, her eyes wide. She was wearing a fixed grin.

  'I knew lots of famous people. We were always partying,' said Claudette. 'Dinner dances at the embassies. Men really knew how to treat a lady in those days.' She leant across to Helen and said in a stage whisper, 'Always make them pay my dear, it's only right.'

  Helen nodded and glanced at me. 'I certainly will!' She was trying not to laugh – she'd fallen in.

  'Oh yes, stars, politicians – I knew them all.'

  'Really, like who?' asked Helen. She was genuinely interested now.

  'Oh no dear, I couldn't possibly say, we ladies have to be discreet.' She waggled her finger knowingly.

  'It must be lovely to live here near the sea like this,' I said gaily. 'Do you come here often?' Helen gave my leg an extra big squeeze and I realised she didn't want me to say 'only in the mating season', one of my favourite Spike Milligan quotes.

  'Oh yes, they all know me here. I'm very fond of the maître d'.'

  I choked on my tea and Helen had to hit me on the back.

  'But it's the young men I love the best,' said Claudette light heartedly.

  'Oh yes, don't we all,' said Helen. They both laughed loudly together at this.

  'Especially that Diddy, Serge's son.
Il est beau!
' she said with feeling. The three of us laughed at this.

  'I'm afraid I have a rendezvous I can't miss,' said Claudette looking at her watch. 'I'm going to have to love you and leave you.'

  'We've got to go too,' said Helen.

  'I must just visit the little girls' room first,' purred Claudette.

  As soon as she'd gone Helen turned to me. 'You never told me about her! I wonder why,' she teased. 'Is there anything you'd like to tell me?'

  'No, nothing, I only met her the one time, honest.'

  'Oh yes, a likely story.' She was pulling my leg.

  'Amazing, she's always trying to drum up custom,' I said.

  'Yes, she's wonderful,' said Helen. 'I love her. What a character!'

  Claudette reappeared. She was twinkling with freshly applied make-up.

  'You don't have to leave just because I am,' she said.

  'No really, we have to go as well,' said Helen. 'We've left Buster in the car, he'll be wondering where we are.'

  'Buster?' said Claudette, interested. 'Who's Buster, your son?'

  'Oh no, I'm afraid not.'

  'Buster's our dog,' said Helen.

  'Oh, how sweet. I love dogs! My dear little Koko passed on last year. I still miss him most dreadfully.' She threw me a lovelorn look.

  She blew a kiss at the maître d' as we got up to leave, but when we stopped to pay he shook his head.
'Non, non,
c'est pas nécessaire.'

  Claudette was looking at a display of hand-made chocolates in the foyer. As she went to go through the door a young man in his early twenties bumped into her and she nearly toppled over. But he caught her by the arm and held her upright.

  '
Excusez-moi madame
, I'm so sorry, please forgive me.'

  Claudette pulled herself together quickly. 'I'm fine,
mon amour
.' She fluttered her eyelashes at him. She half turned to Helen and smiled. 'You see my dear, men are like buses... you wait hours and then they all come at once.' We all laughed again.

  As we stood outside on the pavement Claudette clung tightly, kissing me. 'Come up and see me sometime, Johnny,' she cajoled.

  'I will, I will,' I said, looking across at Helen.

  'You must both come,' said Claudette, turning and embracing Helen. 'I have so enjoyed your company.'

  We promised we would.

  As we watched her go, tottering up the street in her thigh-high boots, people were waving and calling out greetings to her. She was clearly a well-known and much-loved local character.

  'God, she's absolutely brilliant!' said Helen.

  'But isn't she a bit sad too?' I asked.

  'You think so? I didn't get that. Why do you say that?'

  'I don't know,' I said, 'just a feeling. I'm not sure what it is really.'

  'I hope we can see her again,' said Helen. 'She invited us both to visit her.'

  'Yeah, let's do it... soon,' I said.

A couple of weeks later, Serge rang. 'How's Buster?' he asked straight away.

  'He's good,' I said. 'He's here with me now.'

  'Give him a big pat for me, will you?'

  'Of course, Serge, I'm doing it now,' I said, and Buster snorted like a happy little pig.

  'Listen, Johnny, you remember my neighbour Claudette? You met her once here with Diddy.'

  'How could I forget Claudette?' I said. 'Helen and I bumped into her in the Miremont in Biarritz not long ago. She and Helen really hit it off.'

  'It's not good news,' said Serge. 'She's dead.'

  'What? No!' I was shocked. 'What happened? She was fine when we saw her.'

  'She got the
grippe
– it's going about – and she died. It was very quick. She was eighty-five years old. I suppose she just couldn't fight the virus.'

  I didn't know what to say. I couldn't believe it.

  'Johnny,' said Serge, 'are you still there?'

  'Yes, I'm still here, Serge.' I was thinking about Claudette. I could picture her happily waving goodbye to us in Biarritz. 'That's awful,' I said. 'She was such a great character. We both really liked her.'