by John Dummer
'And by the way, Johnny, how come your royal family are so ugly?' He pulled a face.
'I'm not talking about Princess Diana. She was beautiful. At least you've got two handsome princes now thanks to her. Harry and William are fine-looking young men. But look at the rest of them. Charles and Anne – they're like gargoyles.'
Amazing. He appeared to know more about the British royal family than I did. But he had a valid point, even if I couldn't agree with him completely.
We climbed back in our van and drove along in silence for a while, until he said, 'Well, we can kiss that bronze and my hundred euros goodbye.'
'Do you think it was stolen?'
'Probably. Or maybe someone dumped it without knowing what it was worth. Either way, we'll never see it again.'
He began to hum 'La Marseillaise' softly at first, and then louder, breaking into song.
Allons enfants de la Patrie
Le jour de gloire est arrivé!
Contre nous de la tyrannie!
L'étendard sanglant est levé
'La Marseillaise' is one of those great anthems, like 'The Red Flag', impossible to ignore. I tried to resist but I couldn't help myself. I found myself joining in, singing along enthusiastically until we were both yelling out the verses, waving our fists in the air.
We finished and I caught Serge looking at me with a benign grin on his face. 'See, Johnny, you sing 'La Marseillaise' like a Frenchman. In your heart, here,' he thumped his chest, 'you are French.'
I considered this for a moment. Could he be right? It was a hard thing to have to admit to myself – but maybe I was starting to turn native.
We drove along in silence for a while until Serge broke into 'La Marseillaise' again. He appeared to have forgotten all about the bronze figurine and his money. I glanced across at him singing away and smiling to himself and realised I was actually starting to grow quite fond of the 'little shit'.
7
HERCULES
We were still singing 'La Marseillaise' together, driving down a gently winding road through a shady glade of trees, when Serge suddenly stopped.
'Hang on, Johnny, slow down, there's a dog ahead.'
I'd already seen it, a short-legged, rough-coated hunting dog with long floppy ears and a bell on its collar. It was trotting along in the middle of the road, looking fearfully over its shoulder.
I slowed to a crawl, but instead of heading off for the verge out of our way it scurried along faster.
'Pull over,' said Serge. 'We're only frightening it.'
I stopped the van and cut the engine.
'Some peasant's taken it out hunting in the woods and it's got lost. If we can catch it it's probably got a collar tag.'
We climbed out and set off down the road on foot whistling and calling. The animal seemed to be spooked by our interest and hurried along with its tail between its legs, bell jingling.
The way ahead led down to a stone bridge with a metal handrail crossing a narrow river tributary. The dog approached this with trepidation, slowing down as if unsure of what to do.
'I hate to see a little mite lost and scared like this,' said Serge. He dropped down on one knee and began cooing out terms of endearment.
This appeared to have the desired effect. The dog hesitated. Its ears pricked up. Maybe it had misjudged us.
'Come on, it's all right, copain. We won't hurt you.' Serge was using his most cajoling voice.
The dog sat down in the middle of the road. It watched with interest as he crept forward on his knees, making encouraging kissy noises.
Then we heard it – the unmistakable sound of a car approaching. In the calm of the surrounding woodland we could hear the gear change and the whine of the motor as it began to climb. A heavy, white, highly polished saloon appeared over the brow of the hill and came sweeping down the road. Dappled reflections from the overhanging trees scrolled across the windscreen. A deep purr from the engine as it gathered speed.
The dog got up and trotted onto the bridge. We waved and shouted, but instead of braking the car accelerated.
The front bumper caught the dog with a thunk, lifting it bodily, sending it twisting in mid-air. It came down on the front of the bonnet, slid off and rolled under the wheels.
I couldn't believe what I had just witnessed. The driver must have seen the dog but had deliberately ignored it, as if it was of no worth. It was a heartless thing to do. I felt a rush of pity. And then I wanted to get at whoever had done it and make them pay.
Serge had the same reaction. We ran down the road screaming obscenities.
As the car drew nearer we could see the driver, a middle-aged woman with blonde hair, red lipstick and gold earrings. There was a man next to her in the passenger seat.
We charged, forcing it to slow down. The window was lowered and the man leaned across the woman. He looked scared.
I shouted in English, I was so angry: 'You idiot. You fucking idiot! You killed it!'
The woman appeared nervous but unmoved.
'C'était pas ma faute.' (It wasn't my fault.)
She wasn't the least bit sorry. She was almost smug. Her reaction was unforgivable. I saw red and tried to grab her. Serge had hold of the handle, pulling the door open.
I gripped the woman's arm but the man grappled with me and began shouting at the woman to drive off. The window came up, forcing me to let go as the car leaped forward, almost running me over.
The pair of us were left staggering, cursing impotently as it disappeared round the bend. We stood listening for a moment, trying to get our breath. Then all was peaceful again, as if nothing had happened.
'What filth!' shouted Serge. 'May she rot in hell for all eternity.'
Still shaken, we started back down towards the bridge. The dog was lying on its side with a small pool of blood on the road by its half-open jaws. It must have died almost instantly without knowing what had hit it. We carried the still warm body to the verge and Serge examined the collar tag.
'His name was Hercules and there's a phone number,' he said. He tapped it out on his mobile and waited.
'I didn't tell you, Johnny, but he's just like my old Danton. The same sort of dog, almost the same colour. How could anyone do such a thing?' There were tears of frustration welling up in his eyes.
Someone answered the phone and Serge began to explain what had happened. He pulled out a Bic and wrote an address down on the palm of his hand.
'It's only in the next village. Poor old Hercules was on his way home.'
We picked up the body, placed it gently in the back of the van and set off.
The house was on the outskirts of the village, set back up a dirt road. There was a woman in a blue floral pinafore waiting by the wrought-iron front gate and when she saw us she gave a little wave of acknowledgement. She called out to someone in the house and a man appeared in his shirtsleeves and braces. We opened the back of the van and showed them the body.
'Dear old Hercules, I was worried something had happened to him,' said the woman. 'He often got lost but he always made it back on his own before.' Her voice cracked. 'He was a good boy.'
When Serge tried to explain what had happened he broke down and began to sob uncontrollably. The woman put her arm round his shoulder and we helped him into the house. The man poured a brandy and Serge swigged at it.
'If only we could have done something.' He was distraught, tears streaming down his face. 'I'm so sorry. Please forgive us. There was nothing we could do.'
I explained how he had recently lost his own dog, a similar breed to Hercules, and they listened as I told them about the accident. There was a strength between them, as if they were used to facing small tragedies like this together.
When I'd finished the man excused himself and went to fetch a plastic tarpaulin to wrap the body in.
By the time he returned Serge had almost managed to pull himself together. He knocked back the glass of brandy and accepted a top-up. He still looked upset though. His eyes were red and he had t
o keep blowing his nose.
I could hear the man and woman talking together in the kitchen. They came back in and the woman said she wanted to show us something out in the barn. Serge got up with his brandy in hand and we followed her out to the courtyard and through a weather-beaten door into a stone building which smelled of straw and cows. She led us over to a cattle stall with waist-high worn wooden partitioning. There was a rustling and snuffling followed by the scratching of tiny claws against the panel. She reached over and pulled out a puppy by the scruff of its neck.
'This is one of the last of Hercules' pups.' She thrust the small animal at Serge. He passed me his drink and took it in his arms. He was taken aback, unsure how to react. Used to feeling he had the upper hand when dealing with people he classed as rustics or peasants, he'd shown a softer side of himself and I had the impression he felt at a disadvantage.
'He's eight weeks old and ready to leave his mum. He needs someone like you to give him a good home.'
'Oh, I don't know if I'm quite ready to…'
He threw me a resigned look and then grinned goofily as the puppy struggled and licked his face.
'Go on, Serge, he likes you,' I said. The puppy was biting his collar.
'We'd like you to have him,' said the woman. 'You've been so kind about our Hercules.'
Serge was holding the little animal gently. It had stopped wriggling and was nuzzled up against his neck. 'I suppose he is a bit of a sweetie.'
He'd melted. He was keeping the dog.
We went back into the kitchen and sat chatting as the woman plied us with coffees, slices of home-made chocolate tart and sugared almonds. Serge had perked right up. He was almost back to his old self with his new friend fast asleep on his lap.
'That's quite a nice old buffet you've got there,' he said. 'Have you ever thought of selling it?'
I glared at him but he ignored me. I couldn't believe he'd said it.
'I could offer you a good price for it. Cash of course. A bit of ready cash always comes in handy, doesn't it?'
Ten minutes later we were waving them goodbye with the buffet loaded in the back. I felt stunned. Serge held the puppy up and waved its little paw at them and blew kisses. He was gleeful about his new pal, happier than I'd ever seen him.
We drove off through the country lanes towards home. Eventually he said, 'It's been a strange day, hasn't it, Johnny?'
I agreed that it had.
'I'll never forgive that woman for killing that dog.'
'Me neither,' I said.
'Still, it's not all bad. I've got my new little friend here.'
I couldn't hold it in any longer.
'How could you do that?' I blurted out. 'How could you take advantage of those poor people when they were so down?'
He didn't know what I was talking about.
'The buffet!'
'What about it?'
'Did you have to con them?'
'Con them?' He was indignant. 'I never conned them. It was a business transaction. You saw them, they were happy enough to get the money.'
It was pointless pursuing it. He had no idea.
We drove along in silence until he said, 'I've thought of a name for him, Johnny. I'm going to call him Robespierre. What do you think?'
'Good,' I said. 'I like it.'
'Not too severe is it? You know the real Robespierre wasn't really a very nice character.'
'I was just thinking,' I said.
'What?'
'It would be a good name for you.'
'How do you mean?'
'Robespierre Bastarde… perfect!'
He hadn't a clue what I was on about, but he didn't like my tone.
'Let me remind you, Johnny, when I sell that buffet half the profit is yours. Share and share alike. It's hard to survive in this game. We're out working here. You have to grab at every chance you get.'
'I don't want it, you keep it,' I snarled.
We drove along in silence until I dropped him off. We parted on a very cold 'au revoir'.
Later, on my way home, the accident kept playing and replaying vividly in my head. I couldn't shake it off. The bumper catching Hercules; his body twisting in mid-air, sliding down the bonnet and rolling under the wheels. I felt a burning anger at the blonde woman with the lipstick and gold earrings. I wanted her to suffer for what she had done. I tried to remember exactly what she looked like so that if I ever saw her again I could confront her and make her pay.
I began to realise I had been traumatised by what I had witnessed. Serge had too, and I felt sorry for him – but that thing with the buffet.
An early memory popped up. It was of my first dog, the one I had befriended when I was a child on holiday. He was a beautiful long-haired red setter called Bruce and I had played with him every day on the beach. He grew so attached to me that his owners agreed to let us adopt him as they couldn't cope with him for some reason and, to my great joy, we were able to take him home with us at the end of the holiday.
I loved that dog with a passion and I would fall asleep cuddled up to him in his basket. Bruce was the first of many wonderful dogs that have given me so much love and pleasure over the years. When I thought of all the mongrels, Labrador retrievers and processions of Staffordshire bull terriers that have enriched my life I felt like crying.
And there it was again – the unwelcome graphic footage of Hercules, twisting in mid-air, sliding down the bonnet and rolling under the wheels of the big, shiny white saloon car.
I thought about Spike, our big old brindle Staffordshire bull terrier, an alpha male who had played such an important role in our lives for over twelve years both here in France and during the time we spent in Portugal. He had moved out from England with us and our two other Staffs – his mum Pugsley and his 'auntie' Lily – and throughout this time he had looked after us all and been a constant source of pleasure and support.
He had died not long since and Helen and I were still grief-stricken. He started to have epileptic fits soon after his mum died and would keel over and pass out, his limbs shaking involuntarily. He had to take epilepsy tablets and then cortisone as his legs became infected and swollen.
While Helen was in England visiting family and friends, he became so ill I had to make the difficult decision on my own at the vet's to have him 'put down'. The way he'd bravely gone into the surgery, greeting the vet and pleased to see him, broke my heart. The memory of burying his still-warm body under the apple tree in our orchard in the pouring rain suddenly got to me and I began to sob, wiping away the tears so that I could see to drive.
When I got home Helen was waiting. She was tired and had been out at an auction all day, but she immediately realised something was wrong.
It was a beautiful evening and we sat outside in the courtyard behind our house, watching the sun set as I told her all about my day. She was as upset as I was when I described what had happened to Hercules.
'How could someone do something like that?' she said. 'It seems so cold-blooded, inhuman. And a woman as well.'
'It's like the world's gone mad,' I said. 'It sort of destroys your faith in humankind. Not that I've got much faith in humankind anyway. We're just a load of jumped-up monkeys as far as I can tell.'
'You know, I think about Spike and then my mum and dad,' said Helen. 'It makes me feel so bad sometimes, I just look in the sky and hope for some sort of sign to let me know everything's all right, and they're sort of still there, looking over us. I know it sounds mad or desperate, but…'
We heard a thrumming sound. Three horses came galloping up the field that slopes down to the lane behind the house; a stallion, a mare and a foal. They stopped right in the middle, breathing hard, magnificent, backlit by the setting sun.
We looked on in silence and awe. Then they turned and walked slowly and quietly away as if they'd never been there. We looked at one another in disbelief.
'There are no horses free here, are there?' I said.
'No.'
'Then I think tha
t was the sign that everything's all right.
'I think so too,' said Helen.' She squeezed my hand. 'I think those three have escaped from the pony club across the river. But, yes, I believe it was a sign.'
'So do I,' I said.
The ancient bell in the village church across the fields began to toll and the bats that nest under the tiles in our roof started to emerge one by one, flitting across the courtyard.