by John Dummer
He was too. And he had a thin, rat-like tail. That was definitely a coypu. The size of them was shocking – it was like a small terrier. It was hard to believe that such giant rodents were living here in south-west France. There had been a scare when a local fisherman contracted Weil's disease, a dangerous virus which can be spread by rodents' urine infecting the river water. The coypu was thought to be the obvious culprit and poison had been laid in an attempt to wipe them out. But they had continued to thrive over the winter months, safe in their own watery domain. Now the cars and lorries had returned they were falling casualty to the passing traffic.
Ahead was the narrow bridge that crossed the River Adour. It is long and narrow and cars intending to cross are guided by two arrows, one red and one white, which indicate who has the right of way. I often find it difficult to tell which is which, and I'm sure I'm not the only one. I normally follow the rule that if someone is already on the other end of the bridge I wait for them to come through.
'There's a hold-up on the bridge,' said Serge. 'Putain! It's stretching back both sides.'
'Probably an accident,' I said.
We pulled up. There were about ten cars ahead of us. Doors were opened and drivers were climbing out to see what was happening. We sat back and waited for the traffic to start moving.
'I meant to ask you, Johnny,' said Serge, lighting up one of his Gitanes cigarettes. 'You told me once that you put a new roof on your house when you first bought it.'
'Well, yes, I did, but I know very little about roofing. We had an English builder staying with us, and we did it together.'
'I thought you had, only I was going to ask if you would help me strip down an old roof and retile it. You could show me how it's done.'
I wasn't really a builder and tiling a roof was a big commitment. Could I afford the time? 'I thought you lived in a flat, Serge,' I said.
'No, it's not my roof, Johnny. Someone has asked me to reroof a house for them, that's all. I thought you might want to help me.'
'Well, I'm not sure if I can,' I said, playing for time. Alarm bells were ringing in my head. 'I'm not sure if I'm up to it. It was a while ago and I don't know if I can remember how to do it.'
'I bet you can. I would be really grateful if you could give me a hand.'
'What's this all about?' I said. I had a feeling there was more to this than he was letting on. His voice had a pleading edge to it.
'OK, Johnny, if you really want to know, I'm in a bit of a tight corner. You remember that guy, the one with the beautiful walnut buffet with the woodworm in it?'
'The thug who was going to have you fed to the pigs or cemented into a Spanish motorway?'
'Well, not exactly. But yes, that's the one.'
'The Romanian with the flash flat in Biarritz?'
'Yes, him. He wasn't too pleased about not getting his buffet back. I said we'd had a few problems but he's not a very patient man. He got very irritated and as I didn't have enough to pay him for the buffet he offered me some other options.'
'What sort of options?' I asked.
'Some of them were non-starters really. You're not far off with that "being fed to the pigs" one. It was actually mentioned.'
'You didn't fancy that then?' I said, laughing.
'Not really, Johnny, no,' he said, deadly serious. 'But he assured me that if I could fix the roof for a friend of his he would maybe forget about the buffet.'
'What, only maybe?' I said.
'Well, what choice have I got? I don't really want to get killed or worse.'
'What could be worse?'
'Believe me, there are a lot of things worse!'
'I suppose there probably are.'
'Mais oui, those guys can be very imaginative. Best not to think about it, eh? This house he wants me to reroof is in the foothills of the Pyrenees. It's a very nice Basque house.'
'Crikey! They're usually really big.'
'So, can you help me out?' he begged. 'If you could just show me how it's done – the basics, so to speak – I'm sure I can finish it myself. That's as long as my back holds out.'
I felt sorry for him when he mentioned his back and caved in. 'Well, all right Serge, but will Diddy be helping, labouring or something? After all, he got you into this.'
'No, he's refusing to help... not his thing, apparently. And he made the excuse that he has to see his little daughter at weekends, but it's not true, he hardly ever bothers. I want to start it next week. The guy has a short fuse. I don't want to try his patience any more than I have done already.'
I suppose if it stopped him being fed to the pigs it wasn't that much to ask. But I knew from experience that reroofing could be a big job. I was kicking myself for being such a soft touch.
Serge flicked the burning stub of his cigarette onto the road and ground it out with his boot. 'This is pénible! Are we going to have to wait here all day?'
There was a Gateau pulled up in front of us. The Gateau is a make of small car that can be driven without a licence, and they tend to be owned by either retired peasants or drunk drivers who have been banned from a more powerful vehicle. This one was driven by a little old man wearing a tweed jacket and beret. He was sitting, patiently waiting, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. When Serge rapped on his window he jumped.
'What's going on, chef?' Serge asked.
The little man turned with a frightened look on his face and slid open the window. 'I think there's a problem on the bridge, m'sieu.'
'Well, I can see that. But what sort of problem?'
'I don't know, m'sieu.' He slid his window shut and turned and faced the front.
Serge looked heavenward and sighed. 'Come on, I'm going to see what's up.' We strolled over and joined a small crowd that had gathered by the bridge. Looking upriver I could see the storks' nests high up at the top of the trees. A large stork was perched on one of them and there were two young storks craning their necks, eager for food.
In the middle of the bridge two cars had pulled up, facing one another. The one coming from the other side was a big shiny white Mercedes saloon. It looked like the two drivers had set off from either side at the same time and met in the middle. The driver on our side clearly had right of way. It was a stand-off.
'The connard in the Mercedes is refusing to budge,' said a man in blue overalls. 'I'm late for an important appointment.'
'Why won't he back up?' I asked. 'If he doesn't, we'll be here all night.'
'You're right,' said Blue Overalls. 'I always take this shortcut to save time. If this happens, what's the point?'
Serge was looking over at the Mercedes. His face drained of colour, and when he looked at me I could see panic in his eyes.
Someone sounded their horn behind us and this set off a chorus of high-pitched hooting. Serge turned to the man in blue overalls.
'Come on, let's be sensible here. If you start to back up, we'll do the same and everyone can go home.'
'You're joking,' said the man. 'It's my right of way. I'm not going to back up for you or anyone else.'
'Someone's got to see sense,' said Serge. 'You're acting like a kid.'
'Don't call me a kid, friend. It's him in the flash car that's the kid. Tell him to back up.'
'Look, let's surprise everyone,' said Serge. 'We've all got things to do. This is how wars start.'
Blue Overalls looked at Serge, then turned to me. 'What do you think?' he asked.
'Don't ask him, he's English,' said Serge. 'The English never back down, they're maniacs.'
'We are not,' I said, deciding that I wasn't going to take that kind of slur.
'You went into Iraq with the Americans. Blair was Bush's poodle, everyone knows that,' said Serge.
'OK he was, I admit that. But...' I was lost now. I didn't have an acceptable come back.
'All right, I'll back up,' said Blue Overalls resignedly. 'I'm convinced – this is stupid.'
He climbed into his car and began to reverse as Serge directed the traffic behind, w
aving his hands, cajoling the drivers. Gradually the line moved back until the way was clear for the cars on the bridge to back off, leaving an open road for the Mercedes. The big white saloon came rolling over and pulled up alongside us. The window was wound down and I found I was looking into the sneering face of Bruno the Basque.
'Eh, Rosbif! Long time no see.' He reached out to shake my hand, grinning like he was my old pal. I looked at Serge. He seemed cowed, not at all like his usual self.
'I'm still waiting, Serge,' said Bruno, frowning. 'I hope you're not going to let me down.'
Serge had a forced grin on his face. 'Don't worry, Bruno, I'm coming next week. And Johnny here, he's an expert; he's agreed to help me.'
Bruno turned to me, smiling. 'Hey, I'm impressed! And good, I'm glad you'll be there, Rosbif, to make sure he doesn't mess things up.' He made a dismissive gesture, the window rolled up and the Mercedes accelerated off.
As we walked back to our van I tackled Serge. 'What was all that about then?'
'What's that, Johnny?'
'I thought Bruno was your sworn enemy.'
'No, that's not true, we went to school together.'
'Come on, Serge, last time I saw you two together you were rolling on the floor pulling each other's hair out.'
'Yes, well things have changed since then, Johnny. Old friends can always make up. We've got a bond, Bruno and me.'
I didn't believe a word of it. I wasn't as green as I had been when I first met Serge and started working the markets. I remembered he had said it was Bruno who put him onto the Romanian with the walnut buffet at Biarritz. That was the key to his fawning manner with Bruno. Serge was frightened and the pair of them had him running scared.
'So it's Bruno's roof we'll be fixing next week?' I said.
'It's one of his properties, yes.' He opened the van door and stopped.
'Look, I know what you think of me, but I didn't have much choice here. That Romanian and Bruno have been threatening me for months. Now they've agreed that if I do this, I'll be quits and all that business with the buffet will be behind me.' He climbed in and we drove off.
'You're right, though, it was Diddy's fault anyway,' he moaned as we crossed the bridge, which was now clear and back to normal.
We drove through the village and when we passed the front garden where the storks' nest used to be Serge sounded his horn in protest. We could hear the chorus of hoots behind us as we headed back to the market.
10
EAGLES AND SNOWY MOUNTAINS
Sitting up high on a roof looking out across open countryside, breathing in fresh, clean air with the rest of the world stretched out below you – there's nothing quite like it. The blue-grey shadow of the Pyrenees dominated the skyline. A filmy mist hung over the secret valleys and foothills that rolled up to where the mountains began their push skywards.
Serge was sitting on the tiles beside me with a faraway look in his eyes. When he turned and saw me looking at him he gave me a warm smile. This was the happiest I'd seen him since he had returned from Martinique, a broken man. We were perched side by side three storeys up on the roof of a big house with Basque rouge (dark red) shutters and doors. I had agreed to help him strip the roof, fix any beams that were damaged and re-batten and retile it. I was slowly adjusting to looking down from that height. After a while, looking down becomes as normal as looking up. When I was seven a bigger boy used to ambush me on my way home from junior school. He would wrestle me to the ground and sit on my chest, pinning me down by my wrists and dribbling spit on my face. It made my life a misery. I couldn't beat him, he was much stronger than me, so I devised a plan: I rushed out of school as soon as class was over and climbed as high as possible up a big old oak tree. I was safe up there in the tree and I discovered that no one ever looked up so no one knew I was there. From my vantage point I watched the bully boy pass on his way home.
Gazing at the towering snow-capped mountains of the Pyrenees I was thinking about how my life had completely changed since we moved to France. There was still this excitement bubbling away. It was strange but I felt that if I pinched myself I might wake up and it would have all been a dream. I had a sense of wonder that never quite went away. However familiar our life became here, there was always that underlying thrill. It wasn't going to suddenly end. We didn't have to pack up and go home. We weren't on holiday. This was our life. It was real: these mountains, this beautiful countryside, the balmy air, the sunshine.
'Look, Johnny, eagles!' Serge was on his feet. Circling in the distance were the silhouettes of two large birds of prey. Even from here you could see the distinctive way the wing feathers splayed out as they rose on the thermals. They were magnificent! And there was a third joining them. Higher and higher, soaring effortlessly in the blue sky.
Eagles! Aigles! The word sounds the same in French as in English. They are the stuff of legends, the unchallenged rulers of the bird kingdom. Nothing can touch them. The sight of them sets the pulse racing. The idea that they nest high up on unreachable eyries in the mountains adds to their mystery.
'L'aigle royal!' Serge cried. 'The most beautiful eagle of all.'
I had seen these impressive birds before, but only when driving through the Pyrenees on the way to Spain. To see them here in the foothills was thrilling.
'We call them golden eagles in English,' I said, 'but I think the word royal is better.'
'It's true, they are royal,' said Serge, 'the king of all the birds.'
We watched them circling, fascinated. I hoped they might come even nearer, but they eventually soared off and away, heading back to the mountains.
We sat back down side by side, and contemplated the breathtaking view.
Serge broke the silence. 'Well, what do you think, Johnny? Will we be able to do it, you know, just the two of us?'
'Oh, the roof you mean? It's going to be quite a job,' I said. 'I hadn't expected such a big house.'
'I didn't have much choice, Johnny. Bruno told me he only just managed to persuade that Romanian thug from Biarritz to give me another chance. If it hadn't been for Bruno, who knows what would have happened?'
This sounded familiar. Serge was being bullied – like I was as a kid – by the Romanian and, I was certain, by Bruno, who was also a conman. I felt sorry for Serge.
'Better get started then,' I said. I didn't believe that Bruno was on his side and nothing Serge said was going to convince me.
'You're the boss,' said Serge. 'I'm being guided by you here.'
This was a turnaround. It was Serge who had shown me the ropes when I first started out as a brocanteur. Now he was putting his faith in my building skills. I wanted to remind him that I had only ever done one roof before and that was when I had helped Tony, a friend of ours who was a skilled builder and carpenter. But I decided to shut up about that. It was hard to believe but maybe Serge would be willing to take advice from me for a change.
'We'll start by stripping off all these old tiles,' I said, prising up a pair of broken ones and lobbing them into the air. They curved and fell, hitting the ground below with a satisfying shattering sound.
'Ooh, I like that,' said Serge, yanking up some more. 'I always liked breaking things when I was a lad.' He slung the tiles over the edge and began on another row. Within a couple of hours we had stripped back a quarter of the roof and the resulting debris was spread round the back of the house like a bomb had hit it. We stopped for a breather and Serge lit up one of his strong cigarettes.
Now that we had revealed the support beams I could see places where we were going to have to carry out repairs. I fetched a big steel jemmy I had bought when I was working with Tony and set about wrenching apart a joint between two beams that needed replacing.
As I worked I began humming to myself the old Drifters' song 'Up on the Roof', and was surprised when Serge joined in on the chorus, singing out the 'up on the roof' bits in English. We worked away, singing together, levering off broken beams and slinging the bits over the edge.
> 'Putain! These are full of wormholes,' said Serge.
'Well, they've been here a few hundred years, it's hardly surprising,' I said. He was right, though; they were like honeycomb on the surface. But once you drilled down through the woodwormy bit the centres were as solid as iron. I'd broken several drill bits on ancient oak beams like this in our home when Helen wanted something hung up.
We fetched a fresh piece of oak, sawed it to size and nailed it into place, strengthening the roof. Below us was the old grenier (loft). I nipped down the ladder to fetch another replacement length of wood from the van and when I came back up with it Serge had disappeared. I shouted out for him but there was no reply. What was he playing at? I yelled for him again and heard an answering shout from somewhere way down below inside the house. I swung down on a beam and landed with a thump on my feet in the grenier. The only light in here came from the gap in the roof and I could see a door made of planks at the far end. I opened it and felt my way down a narrow wooden staircase to the floor below. It was a long dark hallway. I called to Serge again. Nothing. At the end of the passage I could see a soft glow of light. I walked towards it and entered a furnished bedroom with one shutter half open letting in the daylight. There was a heavy carved walnut double bed with two chevets and an armoire. I had the feeling the old owner could walk in any minute. A chill ran through me when I heard a thundering noise coming up a wooden staircase. Then Serge appeared, clumping along the hall.