Son of Serge Bastarde (26 page)

  'No, I'm afraid not.' Anne-Marie looked at us, embarrassed.

  'It's OK, these are my friends, Helen and Johnny,' he said, touching her arm.

  We said 'hello' and went to leave, but Serge stopped us.

  'No, please stay, this is Diddy's mother.' She smiled and we all sat down uneasily together.

  'I need to tell you something, Serge,' she said. 'It's very hard for me.' She looked at us.

  We got up to leave yet again and Serge stopped us.

  'These are my closest friends,' he told her. 'You can speak freely in front of them.'

  Helen and I felt uncomfortable. We held hands and Helen squeezed mine gently.

  'Please go ahead, Anne-Marie,' said Serge. 'I'm very pleased to see you. I've enjoyed having Diddy working alongside me. He's a credit to you.'

  Helen squeezed my hand again. I got the message. Had it been a pleasure?

  'I didn't know he was with you,' said Anne-Marie. 'He left and didn't say where he was going. I know he's a man, but to me he's still a child, even though he's a father himself. I think that was what made him come and find you.'

  Serge looked proud and beamed. 'I'm pleased he did,' he said. 'You know, Anne-Marie, if I had known I would have come back. I would have been a proper father to him. Why didn't you tell me about him?'

  'Oh, Serge!' She was close to tears. 'You obviously love him. It's a really long story but, I'm so sorry to have to tell you... he's not your son.'

  Helen and I froze.

  'Sorry?' Serge repeated. 'Did you say NOT my son? What do you mean? He's just like me!'

  Helen squeezed my hand again. Yes, he certainly was just like him!

  'You must understand, Serge. It was very difficult for me. We were so young. There were so many problems,' said Anne-Marie. 'You went out a lot and then you were in the army. There was someone else... someone who was kind to me.'

  'What do you mean kind?' said Serge.

  'My parents put so much pressure on me to marry. And you grew more and more distant. And then you started going away, and the army... I was lonely.'

  'So you had someone else? Who was it? Where is he now? Why does Diddy think I'm his father then?'

  'It's complicated,' she said.

  'Why? I don't understand. How do you know that he isn't mine and that he's this other man's? Presumably you were sleeping with us both!'

  Helen was squeezing my hand tighter. We were both staring at the floor. We didn't know where to look.

  'He couldn't bring Diddy up,' said Anne-Marie. 'We split up... he loved me, but he couldn't marry me or be a dad, it would have destroyed him. He wasn't that strong.'

  'Just tell me who he is, for God's sake,' he pleaded.

  She took a deep breath. 'It was Father Gregorie.'

  Serge looked stunned.

  'I went to him for all my problems... he helped me... and then we fell in love. He wanted to leave the church and marry me... but his faith was too strong. It's a small village. The scandal would have destroyed him... and I loved him so. I told everyone Diddy was yours. No one doubted it. When you didn't come back people were sympathetic, they felt sorry for me. It was the perfect solution. Diddy was accepted. I thought you might come back and we would be together again... but you never did. I gave up.'

  'Oh,
formidable
!' said Serge. 'And would you have told me? Or would you have let me carry gaily on like a cuckoo bringing up someone else's child?' He stopped dumbfounded for a moment. 'Are you absolutely certain he's not mine?'

  'Yes. I never thought he would come and find you,' said Anne-Marie.

  'Yeah, well that's great!' snorted Serge. 'I have a son you know – a real one – and I've lost him, and now I've lost another. And where's Diddy now, anyway?'

  'I told him and he's angry with me,' said Anne-Marie. 'He's gone away again. I thought he might have come here.' She looked around at the dealers packing up their stands.

  'Well, you can't blame him for being angry,' said Serge. 'I'm angry... I'm hurt... I'm...' He was suddenly lost for words. He covered his face with his hands and slumped forward. Helen went to comfort him as Anne-Marie stood watching, helpless. 'I'm so sorry,' she said to me. Tears were streaming down her face. She looked around, lost.

  Then she turned and walked straight off towards the exit. She didn't look back.

  Serge stayed bent over, head in hands. We began packing up our things but he still didn't move.

  'This is terrible,' said Helen. 'I think he's in shock. What are we going to do?'

  'I think we might have to help him pack up his stock,' I said. 'He seems to have lost interest.'

  As I loaded his Chinese porcelain into their cardboard boxes Serge sat as motionless as one of his reproduction statuettes. His silver-topped cane lay cast aside and kicked into a corner.

It was the monthly Soumoulou fair at the little village on the road to Tarbes not far from Lourdes, and I was setting up my stand on our regular pitch. I'd left Helen at home packing up boxes for our move. We hadn't seen or heard from Serge for some time, ever since the
salon d'antiquités
. He didn't answer my calls and I'd been to his flat several times but there was no one there – he'd disappeared again. I had arrived at the fair at about 6 a.m. as usual to make sure I could park my van easily. The stands were so close together that if you arrived late it was impossible to drive up the narrow aisles and squeeze your vehicle into its allotted space. The man who ran the Soumoulou market was a bearded giant, a stickler, insisting the market should run like clockwork. He was
'sérieux'
as the French like to say, to indicate he was professional and treated his job with the import it deserved. Consequently all the dealers arrived at the market at a ridiculously early hour to get parked and had to hang around in the dark waiting for it to grow light and the first customers to arrive.

  I greeted and shook hands with a
gitan
dealer who was known by everyone as Le Duc (the duke). He carried himself proudly and he and his wife sold from a big van parked in their regular place at the market. They were both well respected and liked by all the other dealers. They had always been very friendly to me and Helen.
Gitans
are often treated like outsiders and I believe that as we were foreigners, and immigrants, to boot, Le Duc was more helpful and sympathetic to us. If Brits living in France complain to me about 'immigrants', I enjoy pointing out that we ourselves are immigrants and that as such we should be more sympathetic.

  I took a stroll up the road to buy a couple of croissants for breakfast and a
pain au céréal
for lunch. The bakery at Soumoulou opened early and sold an especially tasty
pain au céréal
which arrived hot in a small wooden box. Most of the French
boulangeries
bake their own loaves and patisseries on site in the shop. It was something you tended to take for granted. Once you've got your bread for the day in France, everything is all right with the world. Except I still couldn't stop worrying about where Serge was and if he was all right. It was always in the back of my mind.

  I walked back to my pitch and began setting up my parasols and tables. It was getting lighter and a few traders were huddled in groups, chatting together. A young
gitan
I didn't recognise was making the early morning rounds, going from dealer to dealer, asking if they had any violins. As it happened I did have a pair of violins for sale. We had bought them in England on our last trip. They were fairly battered and we didn't think they were of any great value, unlike the Stradivarius that Serge had once bought at a sale in the Auvergne. We had paid very little for ours and without any knowledge of violins you tend to assume they are probably worthless. When he arrived at our stand I produced the pair of tatty black violin cases from the back of the van. He opened them, head down, looking at the violins closely, tightening the bows and checking the bodies of the instruments for cracks or any damage. He pointed out several deficiencies and seemed to be giving me the impression he didn't care much. I assumed he didn't want me to up the price. When he had finished his examination he asked how much. I made up a higher price than we wanted and he looked dubious. He pointed out that they would need some repair and offered a lower figure. I wasn't in the mood for haggling and agreed. It gave us a reasonable profit and that was good enough. He went off happy and I thought no more about it.

  It was proving to be a good morning for customers. Chantal, the kindly woman who always stalled out next to me at Soumoulou, gave me the thumbs up. She had picked up this habit from me. I smiled and gave her the thumbs up back. I asked her to watch my stand for a minute and took a stroll over to where Serge used to stall out, just in case he was there. His place had been taken by Guy and Simone, an older French couple selling old copper and brassware. They hadn't been doing the markets long and the husband had told me he had purchased an industrial polishing machine which they'd set up in their garage at home. They enjoyed market life just as myself and Helen did. They bought all the old copper and brass they could lay their hands on, polished it up and presented it gleaming on their stand. It was like new lamps for old in the tale of Aladdin. They were doing well but we'd noticed that recently many of the long-standing regular
brocanteurs
had deregistered and stopped doing the professional antique markets. Instead they were selling at the
vide greniers
(car boot sales) alongside the
particulars
(private sellers) and amateur weekenders. This way they avoided the heavy monthly charges they were obliged to pay as registered professionals. Their places were being taken by retired couples with good pensions who had a taste for antiques and found working as
brocanteurs
enriched their lives – they were meeting people out in the fresh air and having fun. They were often successful as they were happy to sell things at cheaper prices and make less profit.

  Guy and Simone had both worked as shop assistants in a department store in Bayonne all their lives. Guy had swept back grey hair, sported a pencil moustache and was always immaculately dressed. Simone had worked in women's fashion and was
très chic
. They were both charming and sold well to the public and other dealers, who would buy in bulk from them at a knock-down price and sell on their own stands for much more. Guy never complained about this. He once told me he liked polishing brass and copper in his garage. 'I look on it more as an enjoyable hobby,' he said. 'The more I sell, the happier I am... it's not difficult finding filthy brass and copper ornaments that need cleaning and polishing. People just throw them out. But if they saw the difference when they shine like gold after I've been at work, they wouldn't part with them so easily.' He was tickled pink with his new job. The various pots, pans and brass ornaments glittered seductively, positioned artfully on shelves in an impressive display.

  Across the way I noticed Thibaut manhandling a huge provincial Louis XIV walnut armoire into position next to his stand. I went over to help him, although he didn't really need me. He was one of the few
brocanteurs
around strong enough to deal with these massive pieces of furniture on his own. This particular piece was magnificent. The wood gleamed with a beautiful honeyed glow. It was expertly crafted with pegged hand-cut solid planks of walnut. Pieces of furniture like this were much sought-after and he had no trouble selling them for a good price. I had heard his partner had just given birth to a baby girl and I offered him my congratulations. He was beaming, clearly delighted. 'She's beautiful,' he said.

  'Have you decided on a name yet?' I asked.

  'We both like the name Zoe.'

  'I like that too,' I said.

  'I think that's the one,' he said. He unlocked the door of the armoire and swung it open. It smelled sweet, of beeswax and polish. There were tiers of solid walnut shelving for stacking linen. Those old French craftsmen knew what they were doing when they made these armoires.

  Visitors were beginning to arrive in droves in a pre-midday rush. I wished Thibaut
'merde'
(the French all say this instead of good luck, a bit like the theatrical 'break a leg') and crossed an adjacent aisle to head back to my stand. On the way I passed Reg stalled out in front of his caravan, which was pulled up alongside the exterior wall of the bullring. Bullrings are in most French towns and villages right across south-west France, and bullfighting is gaining in popularity, especially among the young. The Spanish in Catalonia have banned them but the French celebrate them. I personally think it is an unwelcome throwback to the arenas and blood sports of the Roman games. Helen and I both find the idea of making a spectacle of torturing and killing animals abhorrent. We are never able to forget, as many
brocantes
and fairs are situated in close proximity to the arenas. We've even been to some in the bullrings themselves, with bloodstains on the sand.