Son of Serge Bastarde

by John Dummer

  'Oh dear, looks like I done a bit of boo-boo there.' He put his arm round Serge's shoulders. 'Sorry, mate, I didn't know he was a good customer of yours.'

  Serge gave a dry smile. 'Le pirate, he's always ready for a bagarre, eh?' He was flattered, really, that Reg had come to help.

  'That's a pity,' said Reg to me. 'Those gitans don't like to lose face. That won't be the last we'll be seeing of that bloke.'

  I shrugged. It was beyond me. I hadn't a clue. I was just glad the incident hadn't ended in violence.

  It was midi and the crowds were starting to thin, heading for various buffet and restaurant tents. I made my way back to our caravan where Helen was preparing a meal. When I explained in detail what had happened we were once again amazed at Reg's behaviour. 'He's like a wild animal,' said Helen, 'but you can't help admiring him, and we like wild animals.' She laughed. 'Pity he upset that gitan, though. If I was Serge, I'd be worried now.'

  Algie came across, grinning in triumph. 'I just sold a very nice bronze to a client with good taste,' he said smugly. 'Better to wait for class than sell cheap tat to the peasants, what.' He was crowing.

  It was lunchtime and the atmosphere was laid-back, relaxed. Families with kids in tow were out to enjoy the fun of the fair. People mooched past eating churros or barbe à papa (candy floss). Over in a clearing the roundabouts and sideshows were in full swing. Helen and I sat out front watching the passers-by, drinking in the atmosphere. It was great living and working here in France. The weather was brilliant and the people of the Landes were warm and friendly and appeared to respect each other. The French have somehow managed to retain some of the old-world values we Brits have lost. We sometimes tried to fathom what gave them a different approach to life from us Anglo-Saxons. Was it because they had guillotined their aristocracy and destroyed the class system? Or was it the influence of their strong Roman Catholic background? Or was it the weather? We couldn't be sure. But we had been living in France so long now we felt just as at home here as we did in England.

  'I like the forest,' I said.

  Helen said she did too. 'We haven't looked at houses out here yet. What do you reckon?'

  'I thought you didn't like the woods,' I said. 'We ruled this area out before when we looked because of that.'

  'Yeah, well I was thinking like a typical Londoner then. I couldn't believe there weren't people lurking in the woods at night. I used to feel like that about open countryside until I discovered it was my imagination playing tricks. Now I think I might have changed my mind about woods, too. There's a sort of special air about them.'

  'I know what you mean,' I agreed.

  'We'll give it a go then, when the fair's finished?' she said.

  'Yes, it won't hurt to look.'

  Reg came over and sat with us in the sunshine. 'Done all right, have you?' he asked. He appeared to have put the incident with the gitan behind him.

  'It's been fun taking all that money and ummm... really interesting,' said Helen.

  'It's not over yet, darlin' – there's always a second wave in the afternoon.'

  'Really?' said Helen warily. 'I can't believe it, but if you say so...'

  Reg swigged at a can of lager. His freshly shaved pale pate had caught the sun and was starting to glow pink. He shouted across to Rita. 'All right, babe? Keep on working, raking in the old lolly!' He laughed when she gave him a V-sign.

  Over at Serge's stand Diddy had got over his fit of pique and was chatting up the pair of 'jailbait' girls. He had turned up a ghetto blaster pumping out loud rap and hip hop. He appeared to be trying to drown out the repetitive over-jolly fête music being broadcast over the fair's sound system. He was grooving along, showing off his choice moves, impressing the gypsy girls, who watched with rapt attention.

  Algie was walking back from lunch and saw them, wolf-whistled and began to gyrate his hips in a suggestive manner like he was down the Flamingo or the Roaring Twenties in Carnaby Street. I looked round to see Helen and Rita gesticulating to each other, sticking their fingers down their throats pretending to vomit. They obviously thought Algie was the pits. He said he had been to one of the restaurant tents where I realised he had been eating alone. He looked sneeringly at the remains of our simple meal.

  'Oh, I had champagne and oysters,' he boasted. 'Absolutely delicious!'

  'That's all your profit gone down your throat then,' said Helen scathingly.

  'Oh my dear, if only I had a lovely little caravan like yours,' he said disparagingly, 'I'd be able to live on bread and cheese like the rest of you paupers.'

  I thought Helen might give him a mouthful back, but she fell about laughing. Algie roared with laughter too. They appeared to be warming to each other. She was pleased to have found someone she could give a good bit of South London backchat to.

  Algie plonked himself down in a camping chair and belched loudly. He was clearly sated, the worse for wear.

  'How many bottles of champagne have you had?' asked Reg. 'You could have brought one back for us, you greedy git.'

  'Get your own,' snorted Algie.

  Serge came over and we men hung out on Algie's stand waiting for the afternoon rush to pick up, leaving Helen and Rita to cope on their own.

  'Your Diddy's got his mind on the job all right,' said Reg to Serge, waving across at the lad, who was still showing off to the gypsy girls. I translated for Serge, leaving out the irony.

  He shrugged. 'You're only young once, Johnny... le pirate is right. I was just the same when I was Diddy's age. But if he loses me any more regular clients like that gitan this morning I'll be going bankrupt.'

  People were coming back from their relaxed French lunch hour and the aisles were starting to fill up again. I had noticed Rita and Helen were giving us desperate looks but we carried on chatting away. As we gazed at the crowd we saw the tough gitan approach, closely followed by two other men.

  'What did I tell you?' said Reg. 'That bloke wasn't going to take that lying down.' He was trying to hold down his excitement at the prospect.

  'Maybe we should keep out of it,' I said, thinking that if Reg got involved it was bound to end in violence.

  Serge went over to join Diddy.

  'Nah, come on, Sergey needs us,' said Reg, already on his way. I had to run to keep up and Algie was following with long strides.

  'What's all this excitement about, old chap?' He had sobered up very quickly.

  We lined up in front of Serge's stand with Diddy behind us, and Serge joined us. We were like the Musketeers.

  The gitans stopped dead, eyeing up Reg.

  We had an audience. I could see Helen and Rita standing on chairs, trying to see what was happening over the heads of the crowd.

  The gitan spoke to Serge. 'I've come to apologise. I made a mistake this morning. I found this two-hundred-euro note in my pocket. I knew I only had the one and I could have sworn I used it to pay for the violin. I'm really sorry for all the bother earlier.'

  Algie, Serge and I visibly relaxed and Diddy looked triumphant. But Reg was ready, poised to go in for the kill. He hadn't understood a word. The other two young gitans looked worriedly at him.

  I turned to Reg. 'It's OK, it was all a mistake. He had the two hundred note in his pocket.'

  Reg looked at me in disbelief. 'What?'

  I repeated what I'd just said, putting my hand on his arm to calm him. He looked deflated. I'd seen this hyped-up state before, mostly in our Staffordshire bull terriers.

  Everyone was laughing now and chatting with the gitans. The two younger men with Serge's client were his brothers and it had turned all chummy and 'lads together'.

  The burly gitan's name was Lorenzo. He introduced us to his younger brothers, Syd and Fabio. They were charming and Lorenzo insisted he treat us to dinner as a way of making up. I had a feeling he didn't want to alienate Serge, who had obviously unknowingly undersold him some valuable violins over the years. I explained that Reg and I had our wives with us and he nodded dismissively at them. 'They can com
e too.'

  Later Fabio came round with a card with an address jotted down on it. They had booked us all into a celebrated local restaurant in the little village of Rion-des-Landes. When Serge saw the name he was impressed.

  'It's Chez Maïté, run by a famous French TV chef. The food, c'est le top.'

  When we'd all finished packing away we turned up at the restaurant and perused the menu outside, waiting for the gitans to arrive.

  'Blimey,' said Reg, 'I could never afford to eat here.'

  A big Mercedes white van pulled up across the road and Lorenzo and his brothers piled out. They came swaggering across, and Lorenzo was greeted as a valued customer by the maître d', who showed us to the best table in the house.

  Syd and Fabio had taken to Diddy. The three of them nattered fast together in French so peppered with slang I could barely understand what they were on about. Serge and Lorenzo, meanwhile, talked business, while the English contingent – me, Reg and Algie – sat together with Helen and Rita, who were chatting and laughing, cracking jokes about the men.

  Algie began to pontificate about 'young people these days'.

  'They don't seem to have any self-discipline,' he insisted, looking across at Diddy. 'When I was a boy we had discipline instilled in us. If I crossed my father, I got a good hiding. We soon learnt to do what we were told.'

  'I never had to beat my boy,' said Reg. 'But when he grew up I always told him if he got caught, keep your head down, do your bird and get out. It's the only way.'

  'I didn't need to beat my boys,' said Algie. 'I kept them under control with the voice. They didn't dare cross me. It wasn't worth it.'

  'My dad used to beat the living daylights out of me and my brother with a heavy leather slipper,' I said. 'He'd storm in and lay into us, knocking ten bells out of us for no apparent reason. He'd throw us across the room into the wall and once he knocked me out.'

  I looked up. Reg and Algie were staring at me, shocked.

  'What?' I said. 'I thought that was normal.'

  'I don't think that's right, mate,' said Reg gently.

  Algie looked embarrassed. 'Yes, a bit excessive, old chap.'

  'Helen says that too,' I said.

  There was an awkward silence between us. I pulled out my trusty ever-ready harmonica and started to play 'Baby Please Don't Go', the old Big Joe Williams number. Within a few minutes everyone in the restaurant was smiling and clapping. The staff were jolly, Lorenzo and his brothers were ecstatic. Laissez les bontemps rouler! (Let the good times roll!) Music gave me an escape route and always saved me. It was a universal language and a cure for all ills.

  The evening ended full of geniality and bonhomie. We all parted in good spirits, handshaking, kissing and hugging. As we drove home Helen squeezed my leg. 'I'll get on to the estate agents round here first thing tomorrow,' she said. 'It feels like we could have a nice life hidden away here in the woods.'

  I agreed with her but inside I felt sad, knowing that soon I was going to have to leave our house in the Chalosse where I was safe and comfortable. It had been the only place – apart from Helen's flat in Clapham and our windmill in Portugal miles from anywhere – that I felt at home.

  It all felt a bit daunting and I couldn't say exactly why.

  'So can we get another Staffordshire bull terrier as well then?' I asked.

  'Ooh, I've wanted one for ages,' said Helen. 'It's been so long without one since Spike. I'd really like that – a new house, and a new dog to love.'

  'You're on,' I shouted, punching the air. 'YES! To the woods!'

  13

  A BIT OF A HANDFUL

  This wasn't quite working out the way we had hoped. Our Staffordshire bull terrier puppy was attacking our feet, trying to bite our shoes as we walked. He barked and jumped with glee, tail wagging furiously, clearly excited, as if this was what we wanted. He was a 'red' (tan-coloured) Staff and we had christened him Buster – the way he was turning out we couldn't have chosen a better name. We had bought him from a Staffie breeder at le Petit Crécy in the middle of France.

  To be fair, this behaviour wasn't his fault. We'd had to leave him with dog sitters while we returned to England on a buying trip when we'd only had him for two weeks. We needed to spend a few days bidding in the auction rooms in the UK, scouring through the antique fairs and car boots for bargains that might go down well in France. We couldn't take him with us as we had to wait until he was six months old to have his first rabies jab. Then we had to wait a whole year for them to issue him with a special 'doggy passport'.

  We found English dog sitters living in the Gers, a couple, Malcolm and Brenda, who had recently bought a small country cottage and moved out to France. Brenda seemed kindly and capable, but we weren't totally sure about Malcolm. He never stopped talking from the moment we arrived. He appeared to have a completely over-romanticised view of France and everything French.

  'I love it here,' he insisted. 'The builders are real trained professionals, not cowboys. You wouldn't catch me going back to England... no way!' He admitted he couldn't speak a word of French, but he was determined to learn with the set of CDs he'd just bought.

  'I love dogs,' he said, down on his knees play-fighting with Buster. 'I've always had German shepherds – marvellous dogs! So intelligent and easy to train.'

  'Best not fight with Staffs,' I advised him gently. 'They get overexcited and don't know when to stop.'

  'I could play fight with my Alsatians for hours,' he insisted. 'I only had to give them the command and they stopped immediately.'

  'It doesn't work like that with Staffordshire bull terriers,' I said. 'Trust me, we've had eight and it's best not to get them too worked up. When their eyes glaze over they kind of lose it.'

  'My dogs were well trained and totally obedient,' he persisted. 'I could do anything with them. Don't worry, when you get back you won't believe the change in this little chap.'

  'There's really no need,' we said. 'Just feed him and exercise him, he'll be fine.'

  Brenda was more practical. 'The garden's fenced so he can have the run of the place. He won't be any trouble.'

  As we drove off with them waving at the garden gate holding up Buster and waggling his little paw goodbye Helen had second thoughts. 'I'm not happy,' she said. 'Let's cancel the trip and take Buster home.'

  'He'll be all right,' I said. 'They're dog lovers. What harm can it do?'

  We returned a week later with a van full of English goodies and were keen to see how Buster had got on. Helen had been phoning regularly while we were away to be reassured by Brenda that he was 'going great guns'. And it was true, he looked fit and healthy and even appeared to have grown. He was jumping up at the gate watched over by Malcolm, who was smiling proudly. As we walked up the garden path Buster attacked our feet, leaping back, growling and barking, going in for the kill, nipping at our toes right through our shoes.

  'He's a right little devil, isn't he?' said Malcolm. In through the back door he pointed at a pile of assorted trainers strewn across the floor.

  'I haven't got a decent pair left; he loves to have a good old set-to with my shoes.' He held up his foot in a torn tennis shoe and kicked out at Buster, who responded with a chorus of furious growls, biting the rubber sole and tugging at it. Malcolm then went in to play-attack him, slapping him round the head, pinching his hindquarters, knocking his feet from under him. Buster reacted like a maniac, biting Malcolm's sleeve and pulling it violently with all his strength and letting out menacing deep-throated growls.

  Helen gave me a wide-eyed look. What had we done, leaving our puppy with someone who hadn't grasped what a Staff was all about? Buster was hyped up and out of control. When I tried to call him he ignored me and threw me evil little backward glances as if to say, 'Who the hell are you... do I know you?'

  When I clipped his lead on his collar he reacted badly, twisting and turning, biting with eyes bulging like he thought I was carting him off to his doom.

  'He doesn't like the lead, does he?' said
Malcolm, chuckling.

  Well, he was walking with a lead and collar before we left, even though he was so young, I thought to myself. In one week Malcolm appeared to have undone our puppy's basic training. We managed to carry him out to the van and set off for home. Buster sat up front panting, staring out at the scenery flashing by.

  'I can't believe it,' said Helen. 'How has this happened? He was all sweet and cuddly when we left him.'

  Buster began to drool. 'Poor little chap, he's overexcited and he's not used to looking out of a moving vehicle,' said Helen. Suddenly he gave a strange moan and vomited all over the dashboard. We jumped to avoid the splashback. (This wasn't a new phenomenon for us. One of our Staffs, Iggy, had suffered with car sickness, but he loved travelling and you couldn't keep him out of the car.) We pulled up and attempted to mop up the mess, but it was a hot day and as we drove on the smell was overpowering. Buster was tired now and had settled down across Helen's lap.