Son of Serge Bastarde (2 page)

  I was contemplating a quick visit to the cafe when my attention was caught by a customer. She was interested in a polished mahogany Davenport that my wife Helen had picked up in England on one of our trips over there to buy stock. I explained how the diminutive desk was light and easily transportable. She was enchanted but appeared slightly put off by the price, even though it was, in my estimation, quite reasonable. During my time working the antique markets in France I had found that the French public in general were sometimes unaware of the value of desirable pieces of English furniture, although with changes in fashion they were learning fast. The woman said she liked the desk but wanted to fetch her husband to look at it.

  A few French dealers had turned up early looking for a bargain and now the Spanish dealers were beginning to arrive with wallets stuffed full of euros. They liked mahogany in Spain and I was hoping to sell the Davenport for a good price.

  I recognised a pair of Spanish dealers. One was a whey-faced, hugely overweight chain-smoker who wore dazzling white trainers and always carried a black silver-topped cane. His companion was short, dark and animated, with a warm, friendly manner. They were examining the antique wooden boxes I had placed in a prominent position on our black-cloth-covered tables. It is only the English and sometimes the Dutch who use black covers on their stands. The French find black far too funereal, preferring a clean white sheet. Louis, my French dealer friend who shares my love of jazz and blues, had recently pointed this out to me.

  'All that black – it looks like you should have a corpse on your table, or a bunch of chrysanthemums,' he chuckled.

  We had made that mistake with the chrysanthemums when we first moved to France. Invited to dinner by neighbours we brought them a lovely pot of chrysanths, only to be greeted by a look of abject horror. We discovered later that these flowers are only ever used to decorate graves on All Saints' Eve (Halloween) – you would never give chrysanths to a living person.

  The big fat Spaniard with the silver-topped cane smiled and beckoned me over. He spoke French falteringly, or as the expression has it,
'comme une vache espagnole'
(like a Spanish cow). He held up one of the boxes and grinned good-naturedly.

  'How much for all of these?' he asked, indicating three beautifully crafted Edwardian mahogany boxes. One was a writing slope and the other two had originally been tea caddies but had been altered to hold jewellery or other precious objects. This always threw me – having to work out a deal on several items. Maths was never my strong point, and I sometimes made awful mistakes under pressure. When I was a lad my dad decided to coach me in arithmetic and had the misguided belief that clipping me round the back of the head when I made a mistake would help me to learn. This traumatised me and had the opposite effect, putting me off numbers for life. My wife Helen, though, has always been understanding and had recently bought me a small calculator, which I actually felt too embarrassed to use in front of other dealers. My method in this instance was to jot down the prices, add them up, and then try to work out a reasonable discount. As they were regular customers I would try to give them a decent reduction. Spanish dealers appreciate this, and if you give them a good deal they come back again and again.

  I told the chubby dealer how much and he immediately said in English, 'Best price... last price?' These were handy bartering phrases he had learnt from trips to England buying in the big fairs at Ardingly and Newark. I knocked off another fifty euros and there were smiles all round. I had obviously made a mistake and been overgenerous. In their expensive antiques shop in Spain they were going to treble or quadruple what they had paid me. I bubble-wrapped and slid the boxes into plastic bags and they went off happy, clutching their bargain purchases.

  As I watched them go a small child in red dungarees came tottering past my stand. He must have only been about three years old. He looked up, caught my eye and smiled. I'm a sucker for kids. I gave him a little wave and a grin. He stood unsteadily for a moment and then teetered towards me, grabbing at the side of one of my tables. I rushed forward, worried he would pull the covers and send my stock flying and injure himself in the process, but he stopped as if hypnotised. He had spotted my little clockwork antique toy monkey. He had good taste, I'll give him that. The monkey was furry and when you wound him up he hopped about and banged a pair of cymbals together. He was a favourite of mine, an original tin toy manufactured in the 1950s by the Japanese company Daishin. I was secretly in no hurry to sell him. The child reached up and grasped it, bringing it up close to his face. He examined it carefully and suddenly put it in his mouth. I rushed forward again as I felt it was neither hygienic nor good for a valuable toy to be put in a child's mouth. But he saw me coming, gave me a mischievous look and ran away gleefully, clutching the monkey in his grubby little hands.

  I couldn't believe it! I looked around. How come this young child was wandering about unaccompanied? It didn't make sense. And he'd got my monkey!

  I nipped round my tables and went after him. He was only a toddler; he couldn't have gone far. But when I looked up the aisles, hoping to spot his red dungarees, there was no sign of him. He seemed to have vanished into thin air. I ran from stand to stand asking if anyone had seen a small child holding a toy monkey. Thibaut, a young rugby-playing furniture dealer friend of mine, said, 'He went that way, John,' pointing towards the other stands. And looking across the aisles I caught a glimpse of red and ran towards it. But when I got to where I thought he was, there was no sign of him. Things were turning a bit surreal – it was as if I had suddenly become an extra in the film
Don't Look Now
(the one where Donald Sutherland keeps seeing a little child in a red mac) and I was beginning to worry about my stand. Leaving it unattended like this was asking for trouble. I ran around frantically, looking under tables, trying to catch sight of him, but there were too many people milling about.

  I gave up and headed back and it was just as well I did because the woman who had been looking at the Davenport desk earlier had returned with her husband and they were examining it together. I was still thinking about my lost monkey and, although it was a good sign that the woman had brought her husband, I wasn't too optimistic. In my experience, husbands are usually less than enamoured of items their wives want to purchase. I'm just the same when Helen wants to buy something. I'm often underwhelmed. It's the thought of parting with money that causes the male of the species to frown and look disinterested. I waited, fully expecting the husband to put her off. But on the contrary, he seemed as charmed by the desk as she was. My hopes rose as they actually looked like they might buy it. The woman wanted to know a bit more about it. The French love to discuss the provenance and history of an antique. I was about to explain how this was an unusual and desirable piece when I was rudely interrupted. The stuck-up bloke with the ponytail and deerstalker suddenly reappeared and began to hold forth in a loud, haughty voice.

  
'C'est un Davenport, Madame. C'est très, très populaire en Angleterre!'

  He made no attempt at a French accent. He just sounded like a self-satisfied English snob speaking a foreign language in a loud voice.

  The French couple looked bemused. Who was this strange man? They smiled politely but I could see from their expressions that he was putting them off.

  
'Mais oui, le premier était attribué à Captain Davenport, un Anglais dans l'armée.'

  What was he going on about? I felt like telling him to bugger off. This upper-class twit coupled with the loss of my monkey had put me in a bad mood. Under my breath, through clenched teeth, I muttered, 'Don't help me!'

  I smiled at the couple, embarrassed. They weren't sure if this was a set-up and he was working with me to pressurise them into buying the desk. The idiot was totally thick-skinned. He began to pull out the little side drawers and explain how useful they were. Then he showed them how the desk could be moved around on its small brass castors. I tried to make light of his bombastic behaviour and take over, but it was obvious the couple had had enough. They made an excuse and said they were going off to think about it. I watched them walk away, fuming at how he had ruined my sale.

  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.