Son of Serge Bastarde

by John Dummer

  'Feels like a frost's on its way,' said Serge. He looked a bit pathetic hunched over like that. 'How's the back?' I said.

  He made an attempt to half stand and let out a squeal of pain. 'Not good. Even if Diddy comes back I don't know how I'll get out of here. You'll have to leave me for the binmen to take for recycling.' He gave an ironic laugh. 'I only wanted a couple of boxes, is that a lot to ask?'

  'It'll be OK, we'll get you out,' I said. But as I thought about it, how exactly would we do that? I jumped up and down and slapped my arms against my sides. We were going to freeze in here.

  'It's getting chilly,' said Serge. 'We could make a kind of little camp out of cardboard boxes to keep us warm, that's what les clochards do.'

  I hesitated to ask him how he knew so much about what tramps do. But maybe it wasn't such a bad idea. I pulled one of the big flattened boxes over and tried to reassemble it. It kept collapsing but I managed to hold it together and wrap it round the pair of us. When I pulled the top flaps across it formed a little cardboard hut. It was slightly warmer inside and kept the cold air out.

  'Thanks,' said Serge leaning in closer. 'We could pass the whole night here if we have to.'

  'I bloody hope not!' I cried. I wasn't keen on spending the night in a cardboard box with Serge. He smelt strongly of tobacco and sweat, but it was definitely warmer in here and his body was giving off welcome heat. How did I get into these ridiculous situations with him? It was like he was jinxed.

  'OK if I have a cigarette?' he asked.

  'Well, no actually,' I said, feeling like a complete prig. 'I mean, you don't mind do you, Serge? Only I'll choke on the smoke in here.'

  'But it might help ease the pain in my back, take my mind off it.' He sounded pathetic.

  'Oh, all right,' I capitulated, 'but can you blow the smoke out of the box? They're a bit strong those Gitanes.'

  He fumbled about and lit up, took a deep drag and let out a sigh of satisfaction. The classic aroma filled the box. I'd stopped smoking years ago but I was almost tempted to have one myself.

  'How's it going with your move?' asked Serge. When I had told him about Farmer Fagot and how he was going to build a housing estate on the fields round our house he was shocked. 'I love your place,' he told me, 'it's so tranquil.'

  'Helen's been searching for another property and we've put our house on the market,' I explained, 'but so far no luck.'

  'Don't give up hope, something will turn up,' he said, blowing a couple of smoke rings and piercing them with his finger.

  There was the sound of a vehicle driving slowly and pulling up alongside the skip.

  'It's Diddy!' cried Serge, jumping up despite his bad back. He let out an agonising scream and dropped back down, moaning softly.

  The van stopped, leaving its engine running. Then we heard it pulling away.

  'What's he playing at?' said Serge. 'He's not driving off is he?'

  I jumped up and banged on the metal side of the skip with my fist. The blows rang out like a deeply resonating bell. I put my hands up, grabbed the side of the skip again and pulled myself up to try to look over the edge, but it was no use – I couldn't get high enough. The van stopped, we heard the door slam and Diddy walking back, then putting his foot on the metal rungs and starting to climb. I looked up expectantly, waiting to see him appear but a stranger's face popped up. It was a man with cropped hair. He leant over, scanning the inside of the skip.

  'Who's down there?' His voice was gruff and when he turned to the lamplight I saw he was wearing a dark jumper with a white line running across the chest.

  Serge saw it too and hissed, 'Les flics, mon dieu!'

  'Is anyone down there?' The gendarme sounded irritable, like he wasn't a patient man. A torch beam swept the inside of the skip.

  'What shall we do?' whispered Serge.

  'We're not doing anything wrong,' I said, standing up. The torch shone in my face.

  'Come out, you can't sleep in there!'

  I emerged from the clochard-style cardboard box. It was obvious what the gendarme was thinking and I got an inkling of how illegal immigrants must feel when they are caught on the hop.

  'We're not sleeping in here,' I said. 'We were looking for cardboard boxes and got stuck.' It sounded a bit lame.

  'Stuck?' He sounded incredulous.

  'Yes, my friend's hurt his back so he can't get out,' I said.

  'Oh yes, where is your friend then?' asked the gendarme. He sounded like he thought I was making it up.

  'Come on, show yourself,' I hissed at Serge, and kicked the box. It collapsed, revealing Serge bent over. He lifted one hand and tentatively gave the gendarme a little wave.

  'Bon-soir, M'sieu.' His voice was weak and apologetic. 'My friend is telling the truth. I've hurt my back and can't get out.'

  The gendarme looked unconvinced, like he imagined this might be some sort of a trap. He pulled back and we heard him climbing down the metal rungs. A car door opened and slammed again. We heard voices and the static and peeps of a two-way radio. Maybe he was calling for backup. Then came the scrape of boots on the metal rungs and two heads appeared over the edge of the skip.

  'You say you've hurt your back?' It was our original gendarme.

  'Yes, sir,' said Serge. 'I'm sorry. I don't know how it happened.'

  'Could you climb out if we give you a hand?'

  'I don't think so, sir, it's agonising. I think I've pulled a muscle.'

  The second gendarme was on the tubby side and looked uncomfortable balanced up there. 'What about you?' He said looking at me. 'Have you hurt your back too?'

  'No, sir,' I said, following Serge's obsequious example. 'I'm fine, just a bit cold.'

  'What did you want cardboard boxes for?' said the one with cropped hair. 'Are you sleeping rough?'

  'Oh no, sir,' Serge laughed like it was a ridiculous question. 'We're professional antiques dealers. We needed a big box to put a piece of furniture in.'

  'It's for Eastern Europe,' I chipped in.

  'So you're not sleeping rough then?'

  'Oh no, sir!' said Serge. 'We live in houses.' That sounded a bit stupid, even to me, and I sniggered.

  'What's so funny?' asked Cropped Hair.

  'Nothing,' I said, feeling my face redden.

  'Where's your house then?' Tubby asked me. 'You're a long way from home, aren't you?'

  'I live not far away,' I said. 'In the Chalosse.'

  'You're not from Belgium then?'

  'No, I'm from England.'

  'Oh yes, whereabouts?'

  'London,' I said, 'originally.'

  I was thinking about how long it seemed since we left London. It felt like a lifetime ago. Tubby said something to the other one. Then he nodded to us and they went back down. I didn't like the way this was going. I felt I was about to be arrested and deported back to England. They couldn't do that, could they? We were all in the EU. I hadn't done anything wrong.

  We heard murmuring, scrapes on the ladder again and Tubby reappeared.

  'Right, we're phoning les pompiers. They're used to climbing about like monkeys. Just relax, they'll be here directly.'

  What a relief! I hopped from foot to foot. It was cold and the sooner the firemen arrived and got us out of here the better. When would I ever learn not to get involved in Serge's hare-brained schemes? I always ended up regretting it.

  Serge was doubled up. His face was lit by the overhead neon lighting. He was clearly in considerable pain. I was beginning to feel sorry for him.

  'I need a pee-pee Johnny,' he said pathetically.

  'Can't you hang on a bit? We'll be out of here soon.'

  'I'm desperate!'

  'OK, we are in a skip,' I said. 'It'll be all right to go in here.'

  'I'm scared,' he said, 'what with the gendarmes here.'

  'They won't know. Just do it quietly.'

  He waddled over to the other side in the shadows and there was the unmistakable sound of running water against the metal side of the iron box. I
t seemed to go on for ages. When he'd finished he let out a sigh of relief just in case there was any doubt about what he had been doing. In reality, in France men can pee anywhere and no one bats an eyelid. Helen and I were in a supermarket car park and a man relieved himself against the front of our car facing us while we sat there open-mouthed. Blokes stop anywhere and pass water like it's their God-given right.

  The flattened cardboard bounced as Serge came back. 'I think I got away with it,' he whispered.

  We heard sirens in the distance coming closer, then there was the flash of blue lights, and the sound of a heavy wagon arriving, raised voices, shouts and a general commotion. Two men wearing firemen's helmets appeared over the top edge of the skip.

  'Ça va?' They were reassuringly calm and confident. An aluminium ladder was lowered and a fireman in blue overalls descended. I explained Serge had hurt his back but when he realised I was fine I was sent up and over the top to be guided down by the other one. He went back up and soon the pair of them reappeared, carefully lifting Serge over the edge and lowering him down to the ground. He stood bent over, gritting his teeth against the pain.

  The pompiers and the gendarmes appeared to know one another and were shaking hands, chatting together, smiling and commenting on Serge's predicament.

  'We're going to call an ambulance to take you to hospital,' said the tubby one.

  Serge was mortified. 'No, not the hospital! I've got a special belt. My son has it in the van. I don't need to waste the rest of the evening hanging around there.' He was bent over looking up at the gendarme.

  Tubby considered this for a moment, looking around for the phantom van.

  'You're sure? You look pretty bad to me.'

  Serge grasped his hand like a chimpanzee. 'I'll be fine, sir, honestly. As soon as I get my belt on, I'll be right as rain. My son will be here very soon.'

  I could see a white van with its lights dipped slowly approaching. Diddy! He was back!

  Serge had seen him too. He dropped the gendarme's hand, let out a cry and was off, shambling towards it, bent over like Quasimodo. I followed and soon caught up with him. Diddy seemed worried. He wound down the window and looked across at the police car.

  'Where the hell have you been?' shouted Serge. He was livid. 'You idiot! Do you realise we've been trapped in that bloody tin box for hours? What were you playing at?

  'I saw les flics and drove off,' he said. 'I thought they'd arrested you. You said never to talk to les flics. It's not my fault.'

  Serge looked up at me and pulled an exasperated face. He opened the van door and felt around in the glove compartment.

  'Putain! I was sure my belt was here. Well, never mind. We'd better just tell les flics we're off. They don't like it if you don't tell them what you're doing.'

  The gendarmes and pompiers greeted him like a long-lost friend as he staggered back.

  'Are you sure you're all right?' the tubby gendarme asked. 'We can still call the ambulance, get you up the hospital.'

  'No, I'm fine, just a bit cold. My son's here now, we'll be OK.'

  'We're all going up to McDo's for a coffee,' said Tubby. 'You're welcome to join us.' There was a roar of laughter from the pompiers and the other gendarme as they wandered towards McDonald's.

  Serge looked up at me. 'We could go with them, Johnny,' he said. 'Why not? I'll buy you that coffee and doughnut I promised you.'

  It didn't look like I was going to be able to get out of it. 'I'll just ring Helen,' I said, reaching into my coat pocket in the van and retrieving my mobile. 'She'll be worried.'

  This, as it turned out, was an understatement. 'I've been worried sick,' she said as soon as she answered. 'Where are you?'

  'I'm with the gendarmes and the pompiers,' I said. 'It's all right, I'm OK. Everyone's OK.'

  'What! Are you with Serge?'

  'We're just going to McDonald's for a coffee,' I explained. 'I've got to wait for Serge and Diddy to drop me back to my van and I can't really say no. I'll tell you all about it when I get home.'

  'What on earth's happened? Oh, I give up – just come home soon.'

  I followed the party up to the brightly lit entrance of McDonald's. I could hear the cropped-haired gendarme talking to Serge who was beside him, still bent over, walking with a monkey-like rolling gait.

  'So what exactly are these Eastern Europeans buying then?' he was asking, bending down to speak to him. I heard Serge launching into an enthusiastic explanation.

  And as we walked into McDonald's – gendarmes, pompiers, a man bent double – the young staff looked up briefly. And then carried on serving, totally unfazed.

  9

  STORKS AND BRIDGES

  It was a warm Thursday afternoon and I was driving back to Dax with Serge after helping him deliver some furniture he had sold to a couple of newly-weds. The brocante markets were picking up after a cold winter and spring was in full bloom. The night of mayhem in the freezing skip was just a distant memory. I had agreed to give Serge a hand, but this time in just dropping off an art deco bedroom suite and armoire at a house on a small lotissement on the outskirts of Dax. 'It's not much stuff,' he explained, 'but it's difficult for me to lift on my own and Diddy's off chasing some big moneymaking scheme he reckons is going to earn him a fortune. He's too busy to help his poor old dad. Since the skip my back has been playing up. I have to remember to wear my belt even to lift light things.'

  Young French couples tend to prefer stylish modern houses they have chosen from catalogues which they can have built to their own specifications on pleasant little estates. The lotissement was nice enough, but looking at all the houses squashed up together made me feel sick. This was what it would be like on the fields around our house. Helen was right, it would be unbearable – our beautiful natural countryside concreted over and ruined. She was out now viewing houses on her own. I had churlishly refused to go with her looking for a new place, pathetically trying to take a stand to stay in our old house, the one I realised I loved. Deep down I knew this sulking wouldn't work, but I would never admit to myself I was stubbornly fighting to make sure we never moved. When Helen took me to look at houses she thought were promising, I picked on any fault I could find. My task was made easier because restored houses in the Chalosse were too expensive and way beyond our budget. That coupled with the fact that the more people viewed our house and balked about the imminent housing estate, the more the price slipped down. It was a double-edged sword and a nightmare that I was trying to block out of my everyday life.

  Serge and I were taking a shortcut down a narrow country road that crossed open fields and woodland between two small villages. In March, when the rains come, the River Adour bursts its banks and muddy water swirls through the bushes and brambles flooding the land here. When the floods recede you can see where the water has risen by the muddy line that runs along the bushes and up tree trunks.

  Often, coming back late from markets on warm summer nights, I have stopped and gazed in wonder at the starry sky, listening to the owls and the scurrying of small night animals foraging in the hedgerows. These fields and small streams are home to many beavers, or castors as the French call them. I'm not sure that these castors aren't actually coypu, the South American beaver-like rodent, but whatever they are the place is teeming with them. Whenever Helen and I take this route we say we are going via 'Beaverland' and we have often had to swerve to avoid them. Not everyone is so careful, however, and these large rodents often appear as bloodied roadkill.

  The beavers are not the only wildlife that treats this swathe of untamed countryside as home. Every year several pairs of storks return to their nests in the trees that run alongside the river to raise new broods. Someone in the nearby village of St-Vincent-de-Paul erected a wooden platform on a pole in their garden to entice the storks to build a nest there, and every year their efforts were rewarded by the return of a pair of storks raising their chicks high up above their garden. It was a regular attraction for motorists passing through. When they sold
the house the new owners, with amazing insensitivity, cut down the pole and the storks, whose nest they had destroyed, rejoined the others nesting in the trees alongside the riverbank nearby. Since then, passing locals regularly sound their horns loudly to express their disapproval.

  Serge was laughing in disbelief at the muddy lines along the bushes and trees, marvelling at how high the waters had risen over the winter.

  'Heh! Look at that,' said Serge, pointing at the body of a dead castor slumped by the roadside. 'He's a big one.'