Son of Serge Bastarde

by John Dummer

  'I hope we can get his confidence back again,' I said.

  'He doesn't know who he belongs to,' said Helen. 'It's just like when children are moved from pillar to post and don't know who cares for them. He's like a problem child, an emotional mess.'

  'He'll be all right,' I said. 'He'll soon settle down.' I was trying to sound confident but I wasn't so sure. The next day he wasn't any better. If you tried to walk anywhere, he sprang along backwards ahead of you barking and biting your feet, mostly in play, but often his sharp little teeth actually snapped shut on your foot causing considerable pain. We tried talking to him gently, soothing and calming him, begging him to desist. I even resorted to shouting, but it made things worse. He thought it was all part of the game of rough house.

  We were at our wits' end. 'This is the last Staff puppy I'll ever have,' I announced, rubbing my sore toes. Helen found a possible solution for a misbehaving dog. 'You get a water pistol and squirt him with it whenever he's naughty and say "No!" firmly. They reckon it's a painless way to discipline a dog.' We bought one and tried it. As soon as Buster attacked our feet we gave him a squirt and said 'No!' firmly. He ignored us. In fact, he thought we were playing and ran round in circles, barking furiously. We believe it was this that started his obsession with hoses. Whenever we use one in the garden he attacks the spray as if it were alive, biting the nozzle until he rips the end off.

  This wasn't his only obsession. Sniffing around our field he discovered holes in the ground, the homes of ground squirrels or lérots, small rodents that look a bit like meerkats. They are strictly nocturnal and we have never seen one, they hide so well, although we once found the corpse of one the cats had killed. Buster was excited by their scent and liked to set about digging dementedly in an attempt to unearth them. However many times we caught him and ordered him to stop it made no difference; he would come inside all covered in dirt and mud, excited and panting as if we should be impressed. Then I'd forget, and walking across the field I'd step in one of the Buster-enlarged burrows and nearly break my leg. Once I heard a scream and ran out to find Helen had tripped in one of these holes and badly twisted her ankle. We took to shutting Buster in the house to keep him out of mischief, but his surplus energy built up until he began frantically twisting round in circles trying to bite his own tail.

  Gradually, with love and kindness, he started to trust us a bit more and by walking him down the lanes behind our house and getting him to 'heel' on the lead we began to calm him down. He even stopped throwing those evil little backward glances. The lanes ran through deciduous woods filled with oaks and horse chestnuts, a favourite spot for local hunters. We were taking him for his evening walk when a figure appeared on the brow of the hill.

  'It's that horrible farmer bloke from the next village,' cried Helen.

  'Oh no!' My heart sank.

  'And he's got his dog with him.'

  I grabbed Buster and snapped the lead onto his collar. The man was an oafish, taciturn character who always had an evil-looking rifle over his shoulder on the lookout for pheasant or deer, regardless if it was the hunting season or not. His dog was a giant mastiff-cross, a brute of a beast. I pulled Buster's lead tight and called him to heel. I was worried because the farmer's dog, a dominant male, believed that this was his territory. Buster was a puppy and if it came to a fight he wouldn't stand a chance. We froze as the dog spied us from afar and came bounding down the hill to investigate. Buster saw him coming and dropped down, crouching. The dog ran up to him, barking loudly. He was sizing Buster up, scolding him before he taught him a big lesson. I prayed his owner would call him to order and save us, but he was strolling down the hill with a big stupid grin on his face, enjoying our discomfort. The big dog loomed over Buster, who lay there silent, just waiting. As he came in to attack, Buster sprang to life, launching himself at the dog's throat. I tugged hard on the lead and stopped him as his jaws snapped shut a hair's breadth from the dog's jugular. The brute jumped back in surprise, let out a loud squeal, and ran away with his tail between his legs, cowed. The farmer stopped dead in his tracks, his mouth open. Our little puppy had seen his monster dog off. I couldn't believe it either, but I was secretly proud at this turn of events, even though I didn't really want Buster to learn to fight. He was a true Staff!

  I grinned at the farmer. 'It's OK, don't worry, he's had his dinner.'

  He looked flummoxed. He wasn't sure if I was joking or not. He sneered, turned on his heel and strode off back up the hill closely followed by his dog, which had decided to pretend the incident never happened.

  'Did you have to say that?' said Helen.

  'Well, he has had his dinner.'

  'Yes, a good joke, but no need to antagonise him. Did you see him hefting his rifle? If there had been a fight, I think he might have used it.'

  'Oh, come on!' I said. But the thought made me go hot and cold.

  14

  MAYHEM IN THE MARKETS

  We walked Buster every day, continuing to train him to heel and getting him used to being controlled on the lead again. Staffs react well to discipline as long as it's administered with love and understanding. He took to carrying a walking stick in his mouth. This was his special task and he was obsessed yet again. If I tried to take it from him, he hung on for grim death. At least he was barking and biting our shoes a bit less. We had managed to undo some of the bad habits he had learnt from Malcolm. He was still a rugged little terrier but no longer têtu (headstrong), as the French say.

  The following Thursday was the day of the monthly Dax market and I suggested to Helen I take Buster with me in the van to get him used to being out and about and meeting new people. I was confident he wouldn't be any trouble. He had got over his initial car sickness and now loved to sit up on the front seat next to me.

  'Just keep an eye on him and don't let him out to run around,' said Helen. 'He still gets overexcited.'

  This was true. Although he wasn't very good with other dogs, he loved people. All our previous Staffs had been the same. They are one of the friendliest breeds and like nothing better than making new chums.

  Dawn was breaking as I drove into the town centre. As usual, Buster had his head stuck out the window, taking in the sights. He was on the lookout for other dogs. Whenever we passed one his head swivelled and I could almost see the cartoon dotted line from his bulging eyes staring straight at every unsuspecting animal.

  I parked my van in my usual place opposite my pitch and began unloading my tables and boxes of stock. Monsieur Repro next door was already halfway through setting up his cunning mix of real antiques and pompes (fakes). He was serious about relieving the customers of as much money, and as early in the day, as possible. His real name was Laurent, and he wasn't setting up his stand himself; his young assistant from Toulouse was doing all the work while he just watched, relaxing in one of his reproduction antique armchairs. Now and again he got up, irritated, and showed his poor assistant how he wasn't doing something properly, pushing him to one side. I don't know how he did it but he was the only brocanteur with a connection to the electrical supply linked to the overhead lights and his assistant was arranging a series of tiny twinkling spotlights which bathed his wares in a soft, warm glow. The result was that his stand looked professional and highly seductive. He regularly got ridiculous money for his fakes, which he always insisted were genuine to any prospective customer. He loved to boast about his triumphs to other dealers in the tapas bar at lunchtime. He was generally disliked, but I thought secretly some of the brocanteurs admired his success and were even tempted to emulate him. Serge himself spoke about Laurent with admiration and the pair of them sometimes spent the night up at the Dax casino after a good day's sales, gambling away all their profits.

  I was wondering where Serge was when I saw his beaten-up old Renault van with SERGE BASTARDE – BROCANTEUR in big letters on the side circling the square. It turned at the traffic lights, drove along the service road that ran round the market and parked behind my van. Serge cli
mbed out and shouted across to me. He was wearing his béret extra large, the one he bought at the Lourdes sale, an old pair of jeans and a striped T-shirt. He looked as stereotypically French as Lord Snooty always looked stereotypically English. All he was missing was the string of onions round his neck. I could see Diddy in the passenger seat, his head nodding on his chest, half asleep.

  'Eh Johnny!' Serge waved as he opened up the back of his van and began unloading his boxes of bric-a-brac. He ran round, opened the passenger door and shook Diddy, who reluctantly climbed out and began helping him. As Diddy passed my van window he did a double-take when he saw Buster sitting up front in the driver's seat. He tapped on the window and Buster gazed at him, unmoved. It didn't look like he was ever going to be a good guard dog. Diddy's face broke out in a big grin. When he turned I saw he was wearing a hooded 'pull', as the French call them, with the silhouette of a pit bull on the front. He came across smiling. 'He your pit bull, man? Nice dog.'

  'He's not a pit bull,' I said, 'he's a Staff.'

  'Oh right, an American Staff, nice dog.'

  'No, he's a Staffy Anglais,' I corrected him. 'They're almost the same, just a bit smaller.'

  Serge came over, excited. 'My God, Johnny, is he yours this pit bull dog?'

  'He's not a pit bull,' I repeated for his benefit.

  'Has he passed his driving test?' Diddy asked with a grin.

  'He's a Staffy Anglais,' I explained again. 'Come on over and say hello, he likes people.'

  'I'm not sure, Johnny,' said Serge. 'Does he bite?'

  'Of course he doesn't, he's a sweetheart.'

  I opened the van door and wound down the window. Buster stuck his head out, wanting a fuss. Diddy and Serge leant back warily.

  'Come on, he won't hurt you,' I said. 'He just wants a stroke.'

  Diddy, full of bravado, managed to overcome his fear and scratched Buster behind the ears.

  This was just a short step away from Buster trying to climb onto his shoulder and lick him to death. They took to each other. Serge insisted on getting him out of the van and Buster was all over them, jumping up, snorting with delight. He had decided the pair would make ideal playmates and when they began mock-fighting with him he was overjoyed. We had just spent weeks training some sense into him and now Serge and Diddy were undoing all our good work.

  'Best not fight with him,' I said. But they weren't listening. Serge was rolling on the floor kicking out and laughing as Buster worried at his trainers while Diddy was slapping at him, holding onto his collar and pulling him away. Serge's béret extra large fell off and Buster snatched it up and began a tug of war, growling and shaking his head from side to side, trying to break Serge's grip. He was overexcited and I had a feeling it was going to end in tears.

  'Perhaps you should let him calm down for a bit,' I said, grabbing his collar. Buster's eyes had gone wild. It was a state that Staff owners are familiar with, when their dog passes the point of sanity and good sense. It's best to give them a break to pull them back from the brink. I dragged Buster away and put him back in the van. He was straight up at the window looking at them, wild-eyed.

  'Oh, he's adorable!' said Serge.

  'Yeah, cool dog,' said Diddy. He went across and fussed Buster, who stuck his head out and licked his face.

  'Can we take him over and show Thibaud?' asked Diddy. 'I'll pretend he's mine.'

  'I'd rather you didn't,' I said. I was remembering what Helen had said about not letting him run around.

  'Oh, go on, Johnny,' said Serge, 'we'll look after him.' He was excited, like a big schoolboy. It was nice to see him like that. What harm could it do?

  'All right, keep him on the lead and don't let him run around.'

  'Don't worry, we won't, you can trust us,' said Diddy.

  I watched the pair of them set off across the market with Buster, head down, pulling out front. Could they control him? What was I thinking of? Of course they couldn't! I rushed across the square. When I caught up with them Diddy and Thibaud were holding the ends of an antique walking stick with Buster gripping the middle, hanging on with his teeth. His feet were off the ground, but he wouldn't let go, shaking his head so his whole body twisted and jerked like a crazy puppet. My friend Louis the bookseller turned round, laughing. 'Have you seen this pit bull, John? He's a maniac!'

  'Yoiks! Tally-ho!' Lord Snooty was striding across the market square. 'I say, a Staffordshire bull terrier, isn't it? Now that's what I call a real English dog... indomitable, with a great heart. Much better than those pathetic little French bulldog things.'

  'I rather like le bouledogue français,' I said.

  'No, they're pitiful creatures. The French prefer poodles. This Staffy can't be Serge's, he must be yours, John.'

  'OK. Yes, he's mine. His name's Buster,' I said.

  'Oh, what an awful, common name! Couldn't you have thought up something a bit classier?'

  'I would have thought a Labrador was more your sort of thing,' I said.

  'You're forgetting I'm a Londoner. Ask Helen, we've always loved Staffordshire bull terriers in London.' He went over and grabbed one end of the stick with Serge. 'C'mon Buster m'lad, let's see what you're made of.' He began to shake the stick violently. I pulled at Buster's collar but he still wouldn't let go.

  'He's a spunky little chap, isn't he?' said Snooty.

  A small crowd of brocanteurs had gathered round to watch the spectacle, joking amongst themselves.

  'Oi, oi! No dog fighting allowed!' It was Reg. He ran in and grabbed the other end of the stick with Serge. Buster was hanging on for grim death and kicking both back legs, desperate to shake them off. There was a loud crack, the stick broke and Buster dropped to the floor and gleefully ran off with one end, his lead dragging behind him. Lord Snooty, Serge, Diddy, Thibaut, Reg and me chased after him, but he dodged us all easily; to him it was a great game. He ran between the tables, waving the end of the stick and daring us to catch him. My heart sank. The road was ahead and it was now eight in the morning and busy with rush-hour traffic. I shouted for Buster to stop. He paused for a split second and looked back. Then he was off again, veering towards Monsieur Repro's beautifully arranged stand.

  Monsieur Repro didn't see him coming. He was sitting back in his chair with his feet up on a gout stool, looking the other way. Buster's paws caught one of the electrical leads and a series of spotlights zipped up in the air one after another, crashing down and popping out. Monsieur Repro was up on his feet, mouth wide open, hands above his head. 'Qu'est-ce que c'est? Qu'est-ce que c'est?'(What is it?) He was apoplectic. A large, expensive-looking vase was swaying precariously. It overbalanced, fell and was caught by Monsieur Repro's assistant in the nick of time. A stack of shelves displaying bronze and spelter figures began to rock alarmingly before Monsieur Repro leapt forward and managed to steady them. An expensive looking gilt French ormolu clock decorated with winged cherubs toppled and would have fallen if Reg hadn't caught it. Thibaut managed to grab Buster's collar and hold him while I clipped his lead on. But he lurched forward and caught the leg of a big cheval mirror in the middle which tipped forward and fell as if in slow motion, hitting the ground and shattering with a loud crash.

  'My mirror, my beautiful mirror!' moaned Monsieur Repro. 'Is he yours, this pit bull?' His face was bright red.

  'He's not a pit bull,' I said.

  'He should be put down!' he screamed. 'He's a menace!'

  'Sorry about your mirror,' I said. 'I'll pay for any damage.'

  'It was worth a fortune,' insisted Monsieur Repro.

  'What, that tat?' chipped in Snooty. 'Don't make me laugh. What utter rubbish! I've been to the same cut-price warehouse where you got it. That's a cheap pompe.'

  'Let me know how much I owe you Laurent,' I said, leading Buster off.

  'Don't worry, old chap,' said Lord Snooty, following me. 'You could smash all his tat and get change out of twenty euros.'

  'Maybe, but it's still really embarrassing,' I said. I was just so relieved that Bust
er hadn't run out into the road. I opened my van and Buster hopped up on the front seat. His eyes were wild and his tongue was hanging out. He'd really enjoyed all the fun. Serge went over and stroked him, getting his face licked clean for his trouble. He turned round, wiping his face with the back of his hand, and there were tears in his eyes. 'Oh, Johnny! Your Buster has brought all the memories flooding back. I miss my Robespierre so much I can't tell you. My heart is breaking – I can't bear life without a dog. I'm never going to see my Robespierre or my little Adrien again.'

  He looked so pathetic I put my arm round him. 'You will,' I said, trying to comfort him. 'You will, give it time.'

  Later that evening when Helen and I took Buster for a walk he had completely forgotten everything we had taught him. He was back to attacking our feet, barking and acting up.