Son of Serge Bastarde (5 page)

The following Wednesday evening we were sitting in the
halle des sports
(sports hall) with everyone else in the village, listening to the mayor telling us about plans for the future. Any protest should have been lodged with the
mairie
months ago. We got the feeling there had been some sleight of hand somewhere along the line and that there were very few objectors. Everyone seemed just to accept it – except us. No one else said anything. Our house appeared to be the only one encompassed by a
lotissement
; all the others were on the edge of the road. Looking at a map it appeared that the
zone constructible
had been specifically extended out in a big loop to the edge of our property to take in all the fields around us. And the twenty houses had been an underestimation; Fagot envisioned over forty plots being sold off, with new houses encircling our home completely.

  We came away feeling depressed and defeated. But I still wasn't willing to give up.

  'We could plant some tall leylandii trees to grow up along the boundary of our land to hide us from the estate,' I suggested, clutching at straws. 'How bad could it be?'

  'I really don't know, but I'm not staying to find out,' said Helen with feeling.

It was still dark as I drove into Dax, but the town was slowly beginning to come to life. It was a warm, balmy morning and the colourful neon signs outside the numerous
boulangeries
gave the town a jolly party atmosphere. I like the way French bakers begin work at an astonishingly early hour and that you can purchase freshly baked bread or croissants before sunup. This is a blessing, especially on Saturday or Sunday mornings when revellers and wedding guests are wending their weary way home to sleep off their exertions. There is nothing like fresh croissants and a large
café crème
to combat the effects of an early-morning hangover – as I well remember!

  I turned off at the covered market in the town centre and drove round the square, parking my van in its usual place within easy reach of my regular pitch. It was the week after the Soumoulou market and the first Thursday of the month, when the Dax antiques market is held. Dax is no stranger to the English; the city experienced three centuries of English rule (1152–1453) and Richard the Lionheart is believed to have built the original castle and fortified wall, only parts of which survive. Dax is a well-known spa town and attracts large numbers of
curistes
, who come for the mud baths and natural hot water springs that run underneath it. The healing properties of the springs are reputed to have been discovered by a Roman soldier who was about to go off to war and, unable to take his rheumatic old dog with him, went to drown him in the river. The dog emerged with his rheumatism gone and acting like a puppy again. It's too good a story to ignore, whether true or not, and a larger-than-life-sized bronze statue of the legionnaire and his dog has been erected in the town.

  It was six-thirty in the morning and already a few
brocanteurs
were unloading stock from their vans and setting up their stands. My friend Louis was up and busy, staggering under the weight of a heavy box of LP records, which he was hefting onto one of his tables. He gave me a welcoming grin and came over puffing to shake my hand. I was still upset from discovering we were going to have to up sticks and move but the sight of Louis cheered me up.

  'Hey, John, look at this will you.' He pulled several LPs out of the box. 'I've picked up a load of Lester Young stuff when he was with Count Basie and some great Billie Holiday albums.'

  He knew this would get my attention, and that I loved Billie Holiday. I couldn't resist stopping to study the sleeves and we enthused about how great she was.

  'We can listen to this lot later and dig Prez and Lady Day all afternoon,' he said, slapping me enthusiastically on the back.

  The pitch next to mine was already crammed with expensive-looking antiques. Glittering objets d'art were positioned on polished fruitwood desks and walnut tables. Bronze figurines of scantily clad females glowed seductively, backlit by artfully placed spotlights. A closer look at the stock would reveal that most of these were reproductions with a handful of genuine antiques mixed in to add authenticity. This stand belonged to a seriously overweight individual with a turned-up nose and small piggy eyes whom Helen and I referred to jokingly as 'Monsieur Repro', but his real name was Laurent. He always carried a big stock of reproductions which he tried to pass off as genuine antiques. The trouble was that after a while it was difficult to tell which were reproductions and which were the real antiques; everything looked fake. He gave me a wave and carried on setting up his stand.

  There was some sort of commotion going on in the middle of the market. A large number of excited
brocanteurs
were crowding round, pushing and shoving, and there were cries of delight mixed with shouts of protest. Someone seemed to be selling off gear from a house clearance and torches were flashing as dealers examined the goods. I tried to ignore it all, telling myself I had no intention of stooping to such a level and getting caught in a bargain-buying frenzy, but the more shouting and whoops of delight I heard from ecstatic dealers, the more my iron resolve softened. In the end I could resist it no longer and found myself running across to join in. A young dealer I recognised from Bordeaux emerged from the scrimmage grasping an antique Venetian glass bowl and a bronze clock.

  
'Fantastique!'
he exclaimed, carrying them off.

  Others pushed in to take his place. I tried to squeeze in and work my way through to the front, but the mass of excited dealers was virtually impenetrable. After a bit of jostling I got a glimpse of the
brocanteur
running the sale. He was wearing a hoodie, which was pulled up over his head, hiding his face. What was I doing? Dealers were shoving each other aside using elbows and behaving like vultures or jackals all bent over their prey. I pushed my way back out of the scrum. I didn't want any bargains like this. It wasn't worth it.

  It was growing lighter and as the crowd of dealers milled about there was a shout of 'Mind yer backs!' and my English friend Reg came pushing through carrying a heavy pair of decorative
chenets
(firedogs). I shouted out a greeting in English and as I did there was a cry from the middle of the crowd and a figure rose up from within the melee holding a cardboard box aloft like Aphrodite rising from the sea. The man turned and, looking across at me over the heads of the crowd, cried out, 'Oi, Johnny!'

  I couldn't believe my ears! I'd have known that voice anywhere. It was Serge!

  
'Qu'est-ce que tu fiches?'
(What the hell are you doing?) I shouted out.

  He dropped down and disappeared and a few seconds later came pushing his way through. He ran up to me and hugged me.

  
'Eh Johnny, longtemps je ne t'ai pas vu!'
(Long time since I've seen you.)

  He was wringing my hand and slapping me on the back.

  'Where've you been, Serge?' I asked, delighted to see him. 'I thought you were dead!'

  'No, I'm not dead, Johnny. I got fed up and decided to come back home. Being retired didn't really suit me. I didn't know what to do with myself. Lying about on the beach all day – it's not all it's cracked up to be.'

  I was surprised to hear this from him. His face was drawn, his hair was greyer and he looked like he'd aged.

  'It's great to see you, Serge,' I said. 'Are you back for good or what?'

  'Well, Johnny, it's a long story. I'll tell you all about it later, eh? I'll fill you in on the past few years. You wouldn't believe the things that have happened to me.'

  We turned to look at what was left of the bargain-frenzied crowd.

  The 'hoodie' was now running an impromptu auction of the remnants. A couple of women dealers were arguing vociferously about who had won the bidding on a battered doll.

  'I missed all this,' said Serge, gesturing at the throng of
brocanteurs
.

  The auction was degenerating into a free-for-all. The arguing women were grabbing at each other, and we watched in horror as they began pulling each other's hair. The 'hoodie' was laughing out loud, egging them on, while the men with the women were shouting at him to stop, trying to pull them apart. Someone shouted that they were calling the gendarmes.

  I looked at Serge. He had gone white. The 'hoodie' was facing up to the men, trying to goad them into a fight. He pushed back his hood, the better to stand up against them, and I realised where I had seen him before. It was the flashy young dealer from Soumoulou with the light-fingered child.

  'There's something important I've got to tell you, Johnny,' said Serge. He looked at me, deadly serious. 'That lad there – he's my son.'

  I looked at him in amazement. 'Really? You don't say?' I felt I was about to burst into hysterical laughter.

  'Can you help me get him out of here before
les flics
arrive?'

  I hesitated, trying to get a grip on all this new info. I didn't really want to get involved in another of Serge's farcical ventures.

  'Come on,' said Serge, pleading. 'Once he gets going like this he doesn't know when to stop.'

  Reluctantly I followed him, barging our way through to the young idiot who seemed ready to take on the world. We got either side of him and dragged him away. He carried on shouting aggressively.

  Once we were safely inside a bar the lad began to calm down. Serge put his arm round his shoulder. 'This is my son Didier, Johnny.' There was a touch of pride in his voice.

  He nodded and we shook hands. He regarded me like he'd never seen me before.

  'It's Diddy, for future reference – like P. Diddy,' he said.

  I smiled and tried not to snigger. Diddy Bastarde! Ken Dodd would just love that! I couldn't wait to tell Helen.

  Diddy wandered off, pulling out a wad of euros and counting them, completely unfazed. Serge was watching him with an indulgent look of fatherly pride on his face. 'He just turned up and said he was my son. Been looking for me for ages, apparently. He says he just wanted to be with his old dad. I haven't seen his mother for years. I didn't even know she was pregnant. She swears he's mine.' He paused for a moment. 'But you know, I've been thinking about getting one of those paternity tests you hear about.'

  I tried hard to look sympathetic. Then he continued, more upbeat.

  'He's been helping me out and I'm teaching him the trade. You know – all the wrinkles I taught you once, Johnny.'

  I smiled, remembering the tricks he got up to when we were out together.

  'Tell me, Johnny, what do you think? Does he look like me?'

  I looked over at Diddy. He was totally absorbed, still counting his euros.

  'Oh yes, Serge,' I said. 'I think he's your son all right.'