Son of Serge Bastarde (27 page)

  It certainly wasn't something that would have worried Reg, though. He came over and slapped me on the back. 'How's it going?'

  'Not bad,' I said.

  'I heard you did one of those
salons
up north. Any good, was it?' He rubbed his fingers together greedily.

  'I don't think we'll be doing any more,' I said, wondering how he knew. 'It was OK.' I always try to avoid saying how well we did as it seems to make other dealers sick with jealousy.

  'Whose big idea was it to do that then?'

  I admitted Serge had suggested it. 'We shared a stand with him and Diddy,' I said.

  'Well, that was your first big mistake then. I don't think Serge knows anything about that upmarket
salon
lark. He's a common-or-garden outdoor lad like the rest of us.'

  'Actually, we're really worried about him,' I said. 'Something awful happened and we haven't seen or heard from him since.' I explained the whole story. How Anne-Marie had turned up and told Serge Diddy wasn't his real son and how devastated Serge had been.

  Reg's attitude changed. 'Blimey! Poor bloke. He obviously loved that boy despite all his moaning about him. What a bummer.'

  'He's disappeared,' I said. 'No one's seen hide nor hair of him. If you do see him, let me know, would you?'

  'Course I will,' said Reg.

  'We've been worried sick. He was in a terrible state... we thought he might have done something stupid.'

  Rita emerged from the caravan with a fag in her mouth and a cup of tea in the other. She plonked the tea on the table in front of Reg. She smiled at me. 'Fancy a cuppa, John?'

  'Thanks, but I better get back,' I said, looking around. There were more and more visitors arriving, parking in the square, thronging the market.

  'You go,' said Reg. 'It's starting to liven up. I'll send Rita over with a cuppa for you later.'

  He was right. The crowds were milling about. As I approached my stand I could see Chantal wrapping something and handing it to a customer. She pulled me to one side and counted out a wad of euros into my hand, delighted. 'I sold that set of tureens, full price,' she said. 'I refused to drop.'

  'Marvellous!' I said. 'Thanks, Chantal, I owe you one.' She smiled and crossed back to her stand to deal with her own customers. This was one of the things I liked about working the French markets. Through touring around we had gradually got to know most of the dealers, and by and large they were a friendly bunch.

  Algie strolled past my stand and, abnormally for him, spoke quite kindly. 'Reg told me about Serge. Poor bastard, so to speak!' He laughed out loud. 'But seriously, he's well out of that one if you ask me.' My stand was now thronged with customers. 'I'll leave you to it,' he said and wandered off.

  I sold a nineteenth-century naval telescope to a collector and the English tea sets and cutlery were flying out. I barely had time to draw breath. Over the sea of heads I recognised an older couple who were regular customers of ours. They owned a hotel in Lourdes where Bernadette's grotto drew a huge number of visitors every year and this had made them very wealthy. The lady was a doll collector and she had come specifically to see if we had any that might interest her. I have never been that keen on dolls, but Helen had the knowledge and took the risk and we now had a bit of a name for them. I was surprised to discover that as we sold them for a profit I was beginning to change my attitude. Money makes things more appealing, I've found. I was learning about the different manufacturers and tried to admire the craftsmanship and the pretty blandness of their little faces. Some of them were quite sweet! I must be going soft in my old age.

  The lady was excited as she examined an unusual antique French Limoges doll. Her husband stood by smiling – he clearly indulged her obsession. It didn't take her long to decide. She loved it and her husband handed the money over with a grin. I wrapped it carefully in bubble wrap to protect its fragile porcelain head and the pair of them went off happy.

  As the morning went on I had four or five
gitans
come past and ask if I had any violins for sale. One of them even came through and started nosing around in the back of my van as if he didn't believe me before I persuaded him I had none. He wanted to know when I would be getting any more, and when I told him I didn't know he seemed quite disgruntled about it, like I might be lying.

  The rush was beginning to ease up. Families were starting to stroll back to their cars. I was about to fetch my
pain au céréal and
some brie from the van to start my lunch when there was a shout and Le Duc came striding towards me. He looked annoyed and came between my tables and grabbed me by the arm.

  'John, I thought you were my friend.' He was squeezing me and his voice was filled with emotion.

  'I am,' I said. 'We are friends.'

  'Well, you're supposed to do favours for your friends.'

  'Of course,' I said hastily, hoping it wouldn't be some Herculean task.

  'Next time you have any violins for sale, bring them to me first,' he said emphatically.

  'OK, naturally I will,' I said, my heart sinking. 'I'll bring them to you first, I promise.'

  'Right, don't ever forget.' He shook my hand firmly and walked off.

  I sat down hard in the back of my van. It had dawned on me what this was all about. Le Duc was never insistent about anything. The violin I had sold to the young
gitan
earlier must have been worth much more than we realised. I imagined him going around bragging about how cheaply he had bought it from
l'idiot Anglais
and how much he was going to sell it for. That was the reason I had suddenly become of such interest to the
gitan
violin dealers. I felt sick. Because of our lack of knowledge I had made the most dreadful boo-boo. Ignorance in the antiques trade is never bliss. I was so depressed when the enormity of the mistake sunk in that I had to phone Helen and tell her about it.

  'Oh well, never mind,' she said. 'These things happen.' I was often amazed at how philosophical she could be. 'But you sold the Limoges doll and made a profit and we've had a good morning,' she said. 'Try to look on the positive side.'

  She was right. It was a sunny day, I had sold well and it was lunchtime. I sat looking at my beautiful
pain au
céréal
in its lovely little wooden box and my hunk of brie cheese... but I had lost my appetite. That violin could have been worth a fortune. We'd seen them go for thousands at French auctions. I felt like a complete fool. And the young
gitan
would be going around feeling superior, crowing at my foolishness.

  As I sat watching the crowds head off for
déjeuner
I was feeling miserable. How long had we been in this antiques lark? Surely I should have learnt to be more careful when selling an article with a potential high value. Priceless antiques still slipped through the hands of valuers everywhere, even in the auction houses. You couldn't always rely on them to spot the gems. That was one of the things that made this game exciting; the quest for that unexpected bargain among the general run-of-the-mill dross. No good, though, if you can't spot it. I ate my lunch listlessly and took a short siesta in the front of the van.

  When I woke up there was a toddler standing across the way looking up at a teddy bear sitting on the end of my table. He was fascinated. I smiled as he held up one hand towards it. It wasn't a valuable one, not a Steiff or anything like that. I went and picked it up and bent down to show him. He was spellbound. I remembered the violin and shut my eyes, vowing never to be such an idiot again. The bear was a Chad Valley, made in England in the fifties. We got it in a lot with the doll I'd sold to the lady from Lourdes. If someone had given me a teddy when I was a kid, I would never have forgotten it. He could keep the bear. Why not? As soon as I'd made the decision and saw his pleasure my depression lifted. I felt good again.

  Chantal called out, 'Bravo, John!'

  I got down on my knees and played with him, wiggling the bear about, making it come to life, dancing it around from side to side like Sooty (my favourite... the original with Harry Corbett) and the little boy gasped with delight. I saw Chantal smiling and laughing next door. The boy held out his arms to me so sweetly, asking to hold the toy. I passed it to him and he clutched it, cuddling it up close to his chest. The look on his face was priceless... he really loved it. As I crouched down in the dirt a dog came up to the boy. It was a short-legged, rough-coated hunting dog with long floppy ears. The boy held the teddy out to show him and he nuzzled it. Something stirred in my memory. A bell rang. Where had I seen a dog like this before? It sauntered past the little boy, came straight up and looked at me with its soft brown eyes. I put my hand out and it licked me. Then it licked me again more enthusiastically and jumped up and pawed at me. Its tail was wagging like mad. I dropped down and rolled over and the dog jumped on me, licking my face and making me laugh. A small crowd had gathered and looked on, enjoying it as much as I was.

  Then I recognised him. It was Robespierre – it had to be! But that was impossible. Robespierre was off somewhere on a yacht in the islands round Martinique with Angelique and Serge's real son, Adrien.

  'He remembers you then?' I looked up from the ground and there was Serge standing outlined against the sun.

  'Serge!' I was speechless.

  'She came back, Johnny. It was Angelique I saw at the marina in Hendaye. She came back to France and brought my little Adrien and my darling Robespierre. This is Adrien.' He ruffled the boy's hair.

  'But that's wonderful,' I said. I was on the edge of tears.

  Robespierre licked my face as I got up.

  'Adrien,
bonjour toi
!' He was cuddling his teddy.

  'I've got Adrien for the weekend,' said Serge. 'Angelique's affair with her rich boyfriend fizzled out. He brought her back to France. She's given me back Robespierre and I can see Adrien whenever I like now.' His eyes were glistening.

  
'Fantastique!'
I said. 'I can't wait to tell Helen...
C'est fantastique!
' And I meant it.

  'Serge, I'm so pleased to see you.'

  'And me you, Johnny... and me you.'

I'm sitting outside our gingerbread house in the forest as I write this. It's quiet, just the soft sound of the wind through the pines. Helen puts out seed for the birds every day and the deer come and eat it secretly, soft shadows slipping through the trees. I hardly dare to breathe as I look out for them. I have to admit she was right about selling up and moving to the forest. It's absolutely wonderful here. The atmosphere is like nowhere else we've lived, though I don't believe anywhere could be so idyllic. There must be a catch somewhere.

  We haven't sold our house yet and we've got a bridging loan hanging over our heads. We're crossing our fingers, hoping that someone won't mind a house next door to a
lotissement
. But I'm trying not to think about that now.

  Helen and Angelique have renewed their friendship and Angelique's version of what happened in Martinique turns out to be completely different from Serge's. No surprise there then!

  Serge is coming round to see us later. He's got his little Adrien for the weekend. He's a sweet little boy. It's nice to have Serge back and he's more like his old incorrigible self again. I have wondered what his cryptic comment about Bruno,
'pour lui la mayonnaise a tourné'
, meant. I've got a feeling I'm going to find out soon. But whatever happens I've promised Helen I'm going to stay out of trouble. When I tell her I won't get involved in whatever Serge suggests she smiles and says, 'Mmmm, yes dear...'

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