by John Dummer
'I've got some jewellery I want to sell off, rings mainly. Would you take some of my stock and help me get rid of it?'
'We don't really buy jewellery much,' said Helen, giving me a look.
'No, I'm not asking you to buy it. All I want you to do is take a display cabinet and a few rings and bits of jewellery. I'll make it worth your while. Once they're gone that's it for me. I've decided I don't want to die like them. You never know who'll be next. I've only got a few bits and I don't want to take any risks. I've decided I like living too much.'
I looked at Helen. It didn't seem like that much to ask. Just putting out a display cabinet with a few rings and odds and ends of jewellery in it. Where was the harm in that?
Helen nodded to me. 'OK, Serge,' she said. 'We'll do it, but only if you promise me it's all legit, you rogue.'
Serge shrugged. 'Mais oui, would I lie to you?'
'Yes,' she said.
He pulled a hurt face, and then laughed and squeezed her arm.
As I set up my stand I could tell it was going to be a real scorcher, just like Reg had said. It was early, but you could already feel the power of the sun as it rose above the old medieval city. This was what the weather was usually like at the height of summer down here in the south-west. When we first moved out from England we would flop out on a bed with an electric fan going, unable to move. Now our blood had thinned down and we could carry on more or less as normal. But on our return visits to England in the summer I noticed that when everyone was walking about in shorts and T-shirts and sandals it felt quite chilly to me and I was obliged to don a pullover, jeans and trainers most of the time. Although I was now acclimatised to the heat here I was glad I had my parasols to protect me from the full force of the sun. Without them I'd have been fried to a frazzle.
I was laying out our stock when I looked across the way and was surprised to see Angelique hefting a parasol out of Serge's white van and positioning it in its stand. I looked around for Bernard but there was no sign of him. Serge climbed out of the back carrying a display cabinet. He came across with it.
'Here's the jewellery,' he said.
'Where's Bernard?' I asked.
'No idea, Johnny.'
'Angelique's on her own, is she?'
'She's helping me out today.' He placed the cabinet on my table and opened it.
'These rings are all gold and marked with a price tag. If you look on the back of the ticket I've written what the precious stones are and the gold marks.'
'That must be nice,' I said.
'What's that?'
'Having Angelique to help you out.'
'Yes, she's a good worker.'
'Pretty too.'
He glanced up. 'She's not just a pretty face. She's a nice person. I don't really like to see the way Bernard treats her.'
'He is a bit of a pig,' I said.
'You said it, Johnny… a right pig.'
He busied himself with his rings.
'I'll leave it to you to decide what discounts you give on these. Bear in mind I want to clear the stock but some of this stuff is really nice. Don't go mad on the reductions.'
I looked at the rings. They were big and shiny and that's about all I could say about them. The scrawl on the tags was hard to decipher. I had never sold jewellery and I wasn't sure I was up to this.
Serge thrust something into my hand. 'Here's the key to the cabinet, Johnny. Make sure you keep it locked when you're not serving. Some people have got light fingers.'
I pocketed the key and tried to concentrate.
'One other thing. The customers for rings like these tend to be fat, rich old bags. I'm warning you now, they can be a right pain in the arse, and sometimes it's difficult and they try your patience.'
'I'll remember that,' I said.
'I know you will, Johnny. You're nice to les clients. You shouldn't have any problems.'
I wished I felt so confident.
As people started to arrive I noticed we were set up on both sides of a thoroughfare into the market. It was good in a way because people had to push past and this meant they had to look at our stuff. But it worried me that I couldn't keep an eye on the stock at all times. Since we'd been working the markets in France we'd only ever had a couple of small items stolen from our tables. Generally people were honest and you could even leave your stand unattended for short periods without worrying. But now we had jewellery, albeit in a locked cabinet, I didn't feel quite so relaxed. I could see how jewellery dealers kept themselves to themselves. It was certainly more stressful.
Helen worked beside me as the customers poured into the market square. When the initial rush was over I went for a short stroll to check out how the other dealers were doing.
As I passed Serge's stand Angelique was hefting the base of a painted marble-topped dressing table into position. She was wearing a bright summer frock and despite the heat looked fresh and gorgeous. Serge was leaning over his stand reading a paper. On the way back to the van she pinched his bottom. It was intimate, the sort of thing Helen regularly did to me. He smiled but carried on reading his paper.
I realised Angelique was about to try and lift the marble top of the dressing table out of the van on her own and rushed to help her. We carried it over together and set it in place.
She was grateful. 'Thank you so much, er…'
'John,' I said.
'Ah yes, Jean.' She pronounced it the French way. 'You're the English brocanteur aren't you, Serge's friend?'
'That's right.' I was flattered she remembered me.
'Yes, Serge often talks about you.' She smiled indulgently over to where he was absorbed in his paper. He was oblivious.
'I'd better get back,' I said. 'My wife Helen's manning the stand on her own and it's getting quite busy.'
'That's her over there with the red hair?' she said pointing towards our stand. 'She's nice. I think I've seen her before.'
'Yes, probably,' I said. We often work together.'
'It's agréable, n'est-ce-pas, to work together, sharing the load,' she said.
I agreed it was. As I was leaving, Serge looked up.
'How's it going, Johnny? Making a fortune?'
I nodded and pulled a face at him and he buried his head back in his paper.
At our stand Helen was in the middle of a rush of buying fever.
'It's gone mad here,' she said, 'I really need a hand. If you can wrap up this dinner service I can see to the rings.'
There was a cluster of older women round Serge's jewellery cabinet. Helen went over to serve them. They appeared to be charmed by her English manner. The rings were selling well because of the discounts, although some of the prices seemed incredibly high even with the reductions. Quite a few were encrusted with diamonds (it said on the tickets) and the women were impressed and keen to pay up for them in cash. We were beginning to see why jewellery dealers did so well. It was a revelation.
Helen went off to prepare lunch and I was left alone coping with the punters, who seemed to be getting less accumulative as thoughts of food filled their minds.
A jolly gitan family arrived, pushing their way through. There were numerous wild-faced, laughing children who expressed great interest in the objects on our stand, picking up pieces and demanding to know what they were.
A confident little lad in a blue and white shell suit was fascinated by our wind-up gramophone, delighted by the music it produced when the needle was lowered onto the rotating shellac disc. I had a loud 78 recording of 'The Dam Busters March', which always impressed both kids and grown-ups. I was yet again amused at how a generation of children brought up on computers in the digital age viewed the music produced on a mechanical gramophone as some kind of strange magic.
His sisters were more interested in the teddy bears and dolls, cuddling them, asking if they could take them home. As I chatted to them I was conscious of how Gypsy families like this were regarded by the locals: thieving gitans, not to be trusted. But they were charming and I had no intent
ion of being so prejudiced. I realised I was subconsciously making a special effort to empathise with them.
They shouted across to their dad, who was so overweight he was having to use walking sticks to get about. Despite his disability (he was so fat I couldn't imagine him squeezing through a caravan door) he still carried himself with a proud, macho air.
Their mother, a voluptuous blonde, was immediately drawn to Serge's cabinet of jewellery. She was accompanied by a vivacious dark-haired young woman who might have been her sister. They were keen to try on the rings and I was happy to oblige as they flirted outrageously, knowingly flattering my male ego.
They picked out a large diamond ring. The mother slipped it on and commented on the quality of the gold and how the diamond sparkled in the sunlight.
She loved it. She was hooked.
She made me a ridiculously low offer (less than half the ticket price) and I had to explain that I was selling it for a friend and would ask him if he was willing to let it go so cheaply. She gave me a secret smile and said she would be back later with the cash. They all went off noisily together laughing and joking. That was the last I'd see of them, I thought.
It was well and truly past midi now, so I covered the tables, locked Serge's jewellery cabinet in the back of the van and headed for where our caravan was parked in the shade under the trees.
A delicious smoky smell of barbecued burgers greeted me. Reg was cooking them over a portable charcoal grill, dressed in shorts and sandals and wearing a stripy apron.
'Fancy a burger, mate? I've got plenty.'
'Ta, mate, but I'm vegetarian,' I said, feeling slightly embarrassed to be so finicky.
'Oh right, veggie is it?' he said, like he expected as much.
Rita was lying back on a plastic lounger in a bikini outside the caravan swigging from a bottle with a fag in her hand. When she saw me she waved and took a deep drag.
'How's it going, lovey? Making a lot of money?'
I told Reg about the gitan family and their interest in the rings.
'Bloody 'ell, mate! Don't let bloody gypos try on jewellery. Are you soft or what?'
'They seemed friendly enough,' I said. 'They wanted to buy a diamond ring but I don't think they could afford it.'
'Afford it? Course they can afford it! But pikeys like that don't buy valuables, they nick 'em. If they come sniffing round my stuff I tell 'em "Dégagez!", which is like sod off in froggy. That gets rid of 'em.'
'I don't think they were that bad,' I said.
'Look, John, I live with gypos. I buy off 'em, stay on their caravan sites. Take my word for it. Don't trust 'em. They're outside our society. They live off their wits. If you give 'em an inch they take a mile. Once they suss you as a mug you've 'ad it.'
I couldn't help feeling he was being predictably prejudiced. I believed if you treated people with respect then they would appreciate it and act accordingly and return the favour.
Helen had been chatting to Angelique and had invited her and Serge to join us for lunch. When they arrived we all sat down together.
Rita fussed over Serge, despite Angelique being there.
''Ere you are darling, want a burger?' She appeared to have developed a permanent soft spot for him.
When I told him how the jewellery was going he was pleased. 'That's it, Johnny, let's get rid of it, eh? I'm selling off a lot of my other baubles.'
'Tell him about the gypos,' said Reg. 'He loves gypos after all that violin business.' He gave Serge a nudge. 'That's right, ain't it, Sergie? You love the old gitans, don't you?' He went through his violin mime again.
Serge looked at me, questioningly. When I explained about the Gypsy family, I was surprised by his reaction. 'If they want to buy, go ahead, Johnny… But be careful. I don't need to tell you that.'
The afternoon was baking hot and the square had emptied. The air was shimmering in the heat and I dozed off sitting in a camping chair in the shade. I woke up later feeling groggy, like I might have got a touch of the sun. But despite the heat the afternoon buyers were beginning to drift back. I had to get out there. Helen stayed in the caravan. She could take less heat than me, and she, Rita and Angelique were having a chat and a laugh, no doubt at the expense of us men.
I uncovered our tables and was replacing Serge's jewellery cabinet when the blonde woman reappeared with her raven-haired friend. Could she have another look at that ring? And had I asked my friend about lowering the price?
I unlocked the cabinet and passed her the ring. She tried it on again and her friend went through the others, trying to find one that took her fancy.
As I served them I felt a hand on my arm and turned to be confronted by a diminutive Indian couple – a neat little man in a dark suit, white shirt and tie, and a woman wearing a colourful silk sari. I was taken aback, as I had never seen an Indian couple like this in this country region of France. He was charming and well spoken. I was completely disarmed.
They decided on an inexpensive ring almost immediately and he passed over a five-hundred-euro note to pay for it. I have heard these purple euro notes referred to colloquially as Bin Ladens – 'everyone's always looking for them but they are hardly ever seen'. It was normally only the Spanish who carried such large denomination notes. They liked to pay in cash and someone had told me it was because they had a huge 'black' economy and mistrusted banks.
I was trying to keep an eye on all my customers at once but it wasn't so easy on my own without Helen to help me.
I had opened my bumbag, searching through for change, when the charming Indian woman reached over and started flicking her fingers through the notes in my bag, pointing out how much I should give her husband.
My instinctive reaction was to pull away.
'Excusez-moi, madame!' I exclaimed, alarmed, jumping back.
'I've changed my mind,' said the little man, seemingly offended.
He passed back the ring.
I was thrown by this sudden change of behaviour. But the customer is always right, I thought grudgingly to myself, the customer is always right.
'Bien sûr, m'sieu, sans problème.'
I handed him back his bloody 'Bin Laden'. They were a flipping nuisance anyway, as no French shopkeepers would take them.
I looked around, feeling put out and befuddled by what had happened.
The blonde Gypsy woman and her friend had vanished. And when I turned back, the Indian couple had also disappeared, melting into the crowd.
But then I spotted them on the far side of the square. They appeared to be talking to the big fat Gypsy I had seen earlier.
Instinctively I checked Serge's jewellery cabinet. The diamond ring had gone and several others seemed to be missing as well. A feeling of panic and disbelief overtook me. I left my stand and ran over to where I had seen the Indian couple and the fat Gypsy. But there was no sign of them.
It dawned on me that I'd been taken for a mug in a professionally executed 'sting'.
I felt so stupid. How could I tell Serge what a total twat I'd been… robbed in broad daylight right under my nose? The Gypsies and the Indian couple had been working as a team. I'd been set up.
What an idiot!
When I told Helen she was shocked and blamed herself for not coming to help. 'What the hell's Serge going to say?'
I left her on the stand and went over sheepishly to tell him.
He listened as I told him what had happened. His eyes widened in disbelief. When I had finished he looked at me sternly.
'Well, that's my retirement ruined. He put his head in his hands. I watched him and felt like a shit. He suddenly spluttered and burst out laughing, slapping me on the back.
'Heh, Johnny, I'd like to say I'm upset, but it's really quite a funny story, I'm sorry. Look it's my own fault, I should have warned you that gold attracts gitans like flies and never ever let them touch the goods. It's asking for trouble. And don't feel too bad, none of the stones in those rings were actually diamonds. Most of them are semi-precious or worthless
cut glass.'
The relief I felt when he told me this was spectacular. But when I realised he'd had us unwittingly offering fake diamond rings as genuine to the public I felt totally used.
'You mean to tell me most of those rings are virtually worthless?'
'Not worthless exactly, Johnny. Let's just say they've got a high mark up.'
'Oh great! So I had once again been acting as an innocent accomplice in another of Serge's little rip-off schemes. Helen was right. Nothing Serge did was legit.
On the other hand the blonde Gypsy woman and the Indian couple had been to a lot of trouble for very little. That was some consolation, but despite it all I couldn't help feeling a grudging respect for the way they'd pulled it off. I was impressed how these diverse members of two marginalised sections of society had worked successfully together. There were lessons there for us all. If we could work together in harmony as these Gypsies and Asians had then the world might be a better place. Maybe not if our joint efforts were used for swindling people, though.