by John Dummer
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.'
The town was coming to life. I arranged to meet up with Serge later as I had to get back and set up my stand before the first wave of curistes hit the market.
As I unloaded my van and arranged the stock on my tables I couldn't help marvelling at Serge's sudden return. It was so unexpected and he hadn't told me the whole story of what had happened yet. It was no good. I couldn't put it off any longer. I rang Helen.
'Guess what?' I said when she answered.
'Serge is back,' she replied.
'What? How did you know?' I was flabbergasted.
'Well, he was bound to come back some time, remember – we predicted as much,' she said.
'Yes, but how the hell did you know what I was going to say?'
'I don't know, it just came to me out of the blue.'
'Well, that's amazing,' I said. 'I never imagined he'd be here doing Dax market today. It was a total shock.'
'What about Angelique? Is she with him?'
'I'm not sure. I was too embarrassed to ask him.'
'What?! I can't believe you didn't find out. Right, if you see him later invite him over for dinner. I must find out about her – I want to know exactly what happened to them in Martinique.'
'OK, I will,' I said. 'One other thing...'
'What?'
'He's got a grown-up son in tow working with him.'
'No!' There was a moment's silence as this sunk in.
'And guess what?'
'What?'
'His name's Diddy.'
There was a snort of stifled laughter at the other end of the phone. 'You mean his name's Diddy Bastarde?' Followed by a fit of the giggles.
5
A BROKEN MAN
At Helen's insistence I had brought Serge home with me and everything had been fine until halfway through the meal, when Helen raised the subject of Angelique.
'I've been worried ever since I stopped hearing from her,' she told him. 'Is she all right?'
Serge seemed pleased to see us both, and up until then everything was normal, but this q
uestion changed all that.
'She's gone,' he said, pushing his plate away and leaning forward on the table, head in his hands. Helen reached across and when she put her arm round his shoulders all the buried emotions rushed to the surface and he began to sob uncontrollably.
Helen held him as he shook in little spasms. I could feel myself welling up, too. She gave me a wide-eyed look. What could we do? How could we make it better? When I'd invited him over for dinner, I really hadn't expected him to be in such a state. It was a bit of a shock. But Helen was handling it all much better than I was.
'What do you mean gone?' I blurted out.
'She's left me,' he said softly.
To give him his due, he was making a huge effort to control himself, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve and taking a swig of the Spanish brandy I had cracked open for the occasion.
'I always knew this would happen,' he spluttered. 'Let's face it; Angelique was beautiful, way too good for me, completely out of my league.' He looked up and caught my eye. 'You see, everyone knew it. What was I thinking? I must have been mad.'
'It's OK, Serge,' said Helen, 'it's not your fault.'
'No, it was my fault – don't you see it was my fault? All my fault.'
'Don't worry,' said Helen, 'you can always talk to us about it all, we're your friends.'
'Yes, I've got to tell someone.' He pulled out a voluminous red spotted handkerchief and blew his nose. 'It's my little Adrien, I don't know how much longer I can bear being parted from him.' The thought of his little son set him off again. He slumped forward and fresh silent tears ran through his fingers and plopped onto the table.
I poured another slug of Spanish brandy and pushed the glass towards him. He lifted it to his mouth with a shaking hand and swigged it back.
'We've got some ice cream,' I said, trying to cheer him up. 'Would you like some?'
Helen shook her head at me and frowned.
'Well, I just thought,' I mouthed at her. 'You know...'
'It really was my fault,' said Serge. 'That island, Martinique, is incredible, you've no idea.'
'I've heard it's beautiful there,' said Helen.
'I loved it, but what interested me was I'd never seen so many rich people. It was unbelievable. And I was envious. I wanted some of it and I saw my chance to get rich, too.'
Helen gave me a look, as if she knew what was coming.
'I had a grand scheme to start a whole new business shipping antiques over from France and selling them at extortionate prices. It couldn't fail.'
He was excited now as he relived the moment.
'And my beautiful Angelique was my pièce de résistance. After she had our baby, our little Adrien, we put my plan into action. You know, she still had her beautiful slim figure even after the birth and she was blooming, even more stunning than before. I got her to schmooze all the potential clients. Men swarmed round her like flies and she gave them the works. It was designer this and designer that – they had so much money. I encouraged her to chat them up because they were dripping cash and I knew I could offload tons of expensive stuff on them to put in their mansions and on their shiny yachts.'
He took another slurp of brandy and blew his nose noisily in his hankie. He sat staring into space for a moment, remembering.
'There was one guy in particular.' His voice took on a hard edge. 'He had a massive yacht like a floating palace – even had a helipad on the deck. It was amazing. He had private bodyguards and a personal trainer. He would have had Nubian slaves fanning him with palm fronds if it had been acceptable.' He gave a mocking laugh at his own joke.
'He just lured her away; I didn't stand a chance. She fell for his charms hook, line and sinker. He was rich and handsome and I sensed something was going on between them but I was greedy and ignored it. Then one day he took Adrien and Angelique out on his yacht and they never came back. I waited and waited and in the end I went to the police and they were totally unsympathetic. They just laughed. My darling Angelique had found someone younger who was more fun and who had more money than I could even dream of. He stole her away and took my son, my little Adrien – everything I cared for in the world – and sailed off into the sunset.'
That explains why the emails and phone calls from Angelique suddenly stopped, I thought.
'And who could blame her?' Serge went on. 'Look at me – what have I got to offer a woman like that?'
We both sat impotently trying to think. He was right. Put like that, it was hard to come up with anything convincing.
'Well, what about your Diddy?' I blurted out. 'He's your son as well, your long-lost son.'
He stared blankly into the middle distance. 'It's not the same, Johnny,' he said flatly. 'He's from a previous life, and frankly, I can't seem to believe he's mine.'
'You've not heard anything from Angelique since?' asked Helen. 'I mean, she can't have just disappeared.'
'I've tried to find out where they went but there's just a big wall of silence. I was desperate; I phoned everyone and just sat and waited on the marina for days on end, scanning the horizon. That handsome Lothario had completely covered his tracks. In the end I just had to give up and come back home.'
'What's he like, your Diddy?' asked Helen, trying to change the subject.
'If you've got money like that, you can do whatever you please,' said Serge, ignoring the question.
'Us miserable sods with no money or influence can go hang ourselves. We don't stand a chance. The big boys up there have got it all sewn up. They can do whatever they please, make us jump like a box full of puppets.'
'But it must have been a nice surprise for you,' Helen persisted, 'when you came back and found out about Diddy?'
It worked. Serge turned to her. 'It was amazing – he'd been searching for me all the time I was away. But you're right, it was a surprise, a big surprise. I used to live with his mother in a little village in the north of France when I was fresh out of the army. What with one thing and another it didn't work out and we split up after a couple of years. We weren't married. I was young and foolish. Her parents put a lot of pressure on us to marry. I didn't want to be tied down. I ran away down south. I didn't know she was pregnant. She brought Diddy up telling him his father was a handsome soldier and when he was older he could come and find me. And that's exactly what he's done.'
'Life has a strange way of turning things round and balancing things up, doesn't it?' I said, surprising myself by unexpectedly waxing philosophical. It was an emotional situation and I was out of my depth, unsure how to handle it. Helen was better equipped than I was. She always knew what to say. I could have done with a swig of brandy myself. It would have taken the edge off things and allowed me to relax, tackling such an emotive subject. Pity I was on the wagon.
'What about Robespierre?' I asked. And as soon as I had asked I wished I hadn't.
Serge's shoulders began to shake and he collapsed in a fit of sobbing again, blubbing like a baby.
Helen put her arms round him again and looked at me. I pulled a face and wished I'd kept my big mouth shut. But what had happened to Robespierre? I really wanted to know. He'd been a great little dog. He was given to Serge as a puppy by an old couple who were touched when we returned the body of their dog Hercules after we witnessed him being run down and killed by a hit-and-run driver. Robespierre was one of a litter of Hercules' puppies and Serge was moved to tears because Hercules was exactly like his beloved dog Danton, that had recently died. The old couple were so touched they insisted Serge take one of the puppies. Serge named him Robespierre after Maximilien Robespierre, the bloodthirsty instigator of the Reign of Terror during the French Revolution.
Eventually Serge raised his head and looked up. His face was haunted but he was making a huge effort to pull himself together. Helen fetched a box of tissues, pulled one out, handed it to him and he blew his nose noisily.
'It's all right, Serge,' she said. 'You don't have to tell us if you don't want to.'
'No, you need to k
now,' he said. 'You're my friends, the only ones who'll really understand.' He made a little choking sound. 'They took him as well... they took my Robespierre with them.'