Son of Serge Bastarde

by John Dummer

  'What on earth's wrong with him?' asked Helen. 'He's gone backwards. He's out of control again. Did something happen at the market today?'

  'I was going to tell you,' I said, caught out. 'He escaped and ran into Mr Repro's stand.' I reluctantly described the whole sorry saga.

  'What? I can't believe you let him loose round the market. Look at him, he's all hyped up.'

  'I'm expecting to get a bill for the breakages,' I said. 'It was Serge and Diddy's fault. I tried to stop them but they got carried away.'

  'Serge and Diddy? What were you thinking of?'

  'They both loved Buster and he loved them. But then they play fought with him.'

  Helen stopped in her tracks. 'Play fought? Why didn't you stop them? You know what he's like.'

  'I know, but Serge really loved Buster. And then he got upset about not having a dog any more, it was really sad.' I bent down to pick up Buster's stick. He saw me reaching for it and as I grabbed it his teeth snapped shut and he wrenched it from my grasp. He ran off, shaking it violently.

  'Was Serge really upset?' asked Helen. I could see she had softened.

  'Yes, he was in tears.'

  'Poor devil. He's not heard anything from Angelique? Surely she'll get in touch. It's not like her.'

  'I didn't like to ask him. He was upset enough as it was.'

  'There's something not quite right about all this,' said Helen. 'I'll get to the bottom of it eventually.'

  I called to Buster and he unexpectedly dropped the stick and came running back. Maybe the setback was only a temporary one. A bit of sensible training and he'd be the model of good behaviour. That's what I was hoping, anyway. I had conveniently omitted to tell Helen how he had nearly run into the road. I didn't want her to think me completely irresponsible.

  'Look at him,' I said. He was standing at our feet, looking up at us so sweetly.

  'Oh all right, he's a real nightmare but I just can't help it – I love him so much,' said Helen, bending down to fuss him.

  15

  TEA IN BIARRITZ

  Helen and I love Biarritz. It's a wonderful seaside town with its sandy coves, impressive beaches, small harbour and breathtaking views of the Atlantic Ocean across the Bay of Biscay. It's like an exotic Eastbourne inhabited by the rich, the chic and the well-to-do elderly. During July and August the beaches heave with holidaymakers bronzing themselves and cavorting in the foaming surf. But we much prefer Biarritz out of season when the town returns to its normal sleepy state.

  We decided to treat ourselves to a day out with Buster as it's just a short drive down the motorway past Bayonne. We spent the morning mooching around the harbour, but when we walked along the promenade Buster went wild, pulling on his lead desperately trying to get to the sea. We wanted to let him run free – dogs are allowed to on the wild sandy beaches that run right up the coast towards Bordeaux, but here there were notices warning that dogs are forbidden on the beach. Buster, who can't read, pulled so hard it made my arms ache and we decided to give up and make our way back up the zigzag communal garden path to the town for some light refreshment. We had parked our car up a shady backstreet and we left Buster with some water, put the sunblinds up on the windows and headed for our favourite place in Biarritz, the Miremont Salon de Thé.

  When I was touring the UK with the doo-wop group Darts in the seventies Helen and I loved to frequent the old English tea rooms in the seaside towns. The Miremont is the French equivalent, a wonderful establishment that has been serving the Biarritz gentry for well over a hundred years. We pushed through the glass doors and stopped for a moment to gaze at the incredible display of savoury delicacies and exotic sweet pastries. Then we went upstairs to the restaurant where the decor is belle époque: chandeliers, pink walls and cream-painted wooden panels with Louis XV revival furniture upholstered in pink stripes. It's like stepping back in time to an infinitely more stylish era. The period from the end of the nineteenth century to the beginning of World War One is called la belle époque by the French because in retrospect they realised it had been a golden age.

  We waited at the top of the stairs to be seated by the maître d'. We were hoping for a table by the picture window with a sea view, but although the restaurant wasn't that busy they were all taken. The maître d' showed us to a table in a corner and we were about to sit down when a high voice called out from across the room.

  'Coucou! C'est moi Johnny!'

  We turned, looking across to a window table where a woman was standing up waving at us. Helen threw me a querying look and I felt myself redden. It was Claudette, Serge's neighbour, in all her glory. I'd recognise her anywhere, even though I'd only met her the once – the night Serge destroyed the beautiful walnut buffet.

  'Who on earth's that?' Helen asked quietly.

  I gave an embarrassed grin as I realised I hadn't told her about Claudette. The maître d' raised a finger in acknowledgement, swerved off and guided us over to Claudette's table. Then he discreetly withdrew.

  I stood self-consciously smiling at Claudette. Up close she was vivid, larger than life, resplendent in a glittering sixties mini-dress and thigh-high boots with a feather boa slung round her neck. She was wearing a turban, bright blue eyeshadow, false eyelashes and pink Day-Glo lipstick.

  She grabbed me, pulling me close, kissing me warmly on both cheeks. Her perfume was overpowering. There was a hush in the restaurant. Everyone was staring at us as she leant round me, looking Helen up and down.

  'Is this your wife or your mistress, Johnny?' she asked in a loud voice.

  'Both!' replied Helen, quick as a flash.

  Claudette clapped her hands and laughed, delighted.

  'Formidable!'

  People were smiling now.

  'Sit down my dears, you must join me for tea.'

  'This is Claudette, Serge's neighbour,' I said, making the introduction. The maître d' swiftly reappeared and slid the chairs into place as Helen and I sat down.

  Claudette ordered another pot of tea. 'What about cakes?' she asked. 'No scones though I'm afraid, Johnny. Let's have gâteau Basque.' She took charge and ordered.

  I pulled a tight smile at Helen.

  'You haven't been to visit me yet, Johnny.' She gazed into my eyes and fluttered her false eyelashes. Helen poked me in the leg, raising her eyebrows at me.

  'No, well I meant to,' I spluttered.

  'Shame on you, Johnny, hiding your charming wife away from me.'

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  'I like English people very much,' she said, smiling at us both. 'I love your sangfroid – very different from us French... we get excited so easily.' She opened her eyes wide as if acting in a silent movie. 'I lived in England for many years, you know.'

  'Really?' said Helen. 'Whereabouts?'

  'I was in London in the sixties.'

  'I'm from London,' said Helen. 'What part?'

  'Chelsea. I had a little apartment off the King's Road.

  'That must have been exciting,' said Helen.

  'Gosh, it's really expensive there now,' I said, trying to change the subject.

  'Oh yes, it was even then. I had a special friend who looked after me.'

  Helen looked askance. She had no idea yet she was talking to a 'lady of the night'.

  'Ah yes! The swinging sixties, I remember it well,' I gushed. 'Mmmmm,' agreed Claudette. 'I had some very influential friends. Most of them are gone now.' She pouted sadly.

  Helen looked at me, her eyes wide. She was wearing a fixed grin.

  'I knew lots of famous people. We were always partying,' said Claudette. 'Dinner dances at the embassies. Men really knew how to treat a lady in those days.' She leant across to Helen and said in a stage whisper, 'Always make them pay my dear, it's only right.'

  Helen nodded and glanced at me. 'I certainly will!' She was trying not to laugh – she'd fallen in.

  'Oh yes, stars, politicians – I knew them all.'

  'Really, like who?' asked Helen. She was genuinely interested now. />
  'Oh no dear, I couldn't possibly say, we ladies have to be discreet.' She waggled her finger knowingly.

  'It must be lovely to live here near the sea like this,' I said gaily. 'Do you come here often?' Helen gave my leg an extra big squeeze and I realised she didn't want me to say 'only in the mating season', one of my favourite Spike Milligan quotes.

  'Oh yes, they all know me here. I'm very fond of the maître d'.'

  I choked on my tea and Helen had to hit me on the back.

  'But it's the young men I love the best,' said Claudette light heartedly.

  'Oh yes, don't we all,' said Helen. They both laughed loudly together at this.

  'Especially that Diddy, Serge's son. Il est beau!' she said with feeling. The three of us laughed at this.

  'I'm afraid I have a rendezvous I can't miss,' said Claudette looking at her watch. 'I'm going to have to love you and leave you.'

  'We've got to go too,' said Helen.

  'I must just visit the little girls' room first,' purred Claudette.

  As soon as she'd gone Helen turned to me. 'You never told me about her! I wonder why,' she teased. 'Is there anything you'd like to tell me?'

  'No, nothing, I only met her the one time, honest.'

  'Oh yes, a likely story.' She was pulling my leg.

  'Amazing, she's always trying to drum up custom,' I said.

  'Yes, she's wonderful,' said Helen. 'I love her. What a character!'

  Claudette reappeared. She was twinkling with freshly applied make-up.

  'You don't have to leave just because I am,' she said.

  'No really, we have to go as well,' said Helen. 'We've left Buster in the car, he'll be wondering where we are.'

  'Buster?' said Claudette, interested. 'Who's Buster, your son?'

  'Oh no, I'm afraid not.'

  'Buster's our dog,' said Helen.

  'Oh, how sweet. I love dogs! My dear little Koko passed on last year. I still miss him most dreadfully.' She threw me a lovelorn look.

  She blew a kiss at the maître d' as we got up to leave, but when we stopped to pay he shook his head. 'Non, non, c'est pas nécessaire.'

  Claudette was looking at a display of hand-made chocolates in the foyer. As she went to go through the door a young man in his early twenties bumped into her and she nearly toppled over. But he caught her by the arm and held her upright.

  'Excusez-moi madame, I'm so sorry, please forgive me.'

  Claudette pulled herself together quickly. 'I'm fine, mon amour.' She fluttered her eyelashes at him. She half turned to Helen and smiled. 'You see my dear, men are like buses... you wait hours and then they all come at once.' We all laughed again.

  As we stood outside on the pavement Claudette clung tightly, kissing me. 'Come up and see me sometime, Johnny,' she cajoled.

  'I will, I will,' I said, looking across at Helen.

  'You must both come,' said Claudette, turning and embracing Helen. 'I have so enjoyed your company.'

  We promised we would.

  As we watched her go, tottering up the street in her thigh-high boots, people were waving and calling out greetings to her. She was clearly a well-known and much-loved local character.

  'God, she's absolutely brilliant!' said Helen.

  'But isn't she a bit sad too?' I asked.

  'You think so? I didn't get that. Why do you say that?'

  'I don't know,' I said, 'just a feeling. I'm not sure what it is really.'

  'I hope we can see her again,' said Helen. 'She invited us both to visit her.'

  'Yeah, let's do it... soon,' I said.

  16

  HANDBAGS AND GLAD RAGS

  A couple of weeks later, Serge rang. 'How's Buster?' he asked straight away.

  'He's good,' I said. 'He's here with me now.'

  'Give him a big pat for me, will you?'

  'Of course, Serge, I'm doing it now,' I said, and Buster snorted like a happy little pig.

  'Listen, Johnny, you remember my neighbour Claudette? You met her once here with Diddy.'

  'How could I forget Claudette?' I said. 'Helen and I bumped into her in the Miremont in Biarritz not long ago. She and Helen really hit it off.'

  'It's not good news,' said Serge. 'She's dead.'

  'What? No!' I was shocked. 'What happened? She was fine when we saw her.'

  'She got the grippe – it's going about – and she died. It was very quick. She was eighty-five years old. I suppose she just couldn't fight the virus.'

  I didn't know what to say. I couldn't believe it.

  'Johnny,' said Serge, 'are you still there?'

  'Yes, I'm still here, Serge.' I was thinking about Claudette. I could picture her happily waving goodbye to us in Biarritz. 'That's awful,' I said. 'She was such a great character. We both really liked her.'

  'Yes, she certainly was a character,' said Serge. 'I'm going to miss her too.' He paused. 'Look, I was going to ask you a favour, Johnny. Claudette made me promise that when she died I'd go and sort out her stuff before the state got hold of it all. But I'm a bit upset and I can't face it on my own. Diddy's disappeared and I've no idea where he is. Could you come round and help me? I'd feel much happier if you were there.'

  'Certainly I will,' I said, without a second thought. Clearing out someone's belongings is never much fun but when you knew and were fond of them… well, that's really tough. 'When are you going to do it?' I asked.

  'Would now be too short notice?' he asked.

  'All right, Serge,' I said. Helen was checking out houses in the forest. 'Give me an hour, I'll be right over.'

  I rang Helen on the mobile and broke the news. She was shaken and agreed I should go straight away. So I locked up and set off in the van with Buster sitting beside me.

  The smell of stale perfume was overpowering. It permeated the room and wafted up from the soft furnishings and plush cushions. Serge threw back the heavy curtains and the sun streamed in like the early morning rays of light that chase away the evil darkness of a vampire's tomb. The apartment was vintage opulence from the sixties and seventies.

  'She lived here all alone,' said Serge. 'She was always busy entertaining clients, but when they left she was just lonely. Remember that time you met her when she and Diddy came in after a night on the tiles?'

  'Yes, that night you destroyed that beautiful walnut buffet,' I said.

  'Don't remind me of that, Johnny. Poor Claudette, she never lost her zest for life. She was real class, she was.'

  I wasn't sure if 'class' was quite the best word to describe Claudette, but she was certainly special. I had been looking forward to going round to see her with Helen again. Now it was too late.

  I followed Serge through to the bedroom, which was dominated by a giant bed covered in black satin. The walls were hung with luscious pink drapes and strewn all over the bed and floor were exotic sequinned cushions. I had the distinct feeling that Claudette had just gone out for a minute and that we were intruding on her private domain.

  'She didn't have any relatives,' said Serge. 'I kept her spare key and an eye on the place whenever she was out at one of her do's. She had some very rich clients, men who kept up with her right to the very end.' He pulled a cord and the bedroom curtains swished back. 'She took to Diddy, the two of them got on really well. She had a soft spot for him.'

  He opened the drawer on a chevet next to the bed. 'She had no gold coins hidden away,' he said, ruefully. 'It was the first thing I checked. She always said that if anything happened to her I was to get in quick and clear her belongings out before the state got hold of them. She said I was to use the money to enjoy myself.'

  Yes, that's what she was like, I thought to myself. She had been so full of life. I only hoped I could be half as lively if I reached her age.

  There was a huge bird's-eye maple art deco armoire. Serge opened one of the mirrored doors. It was stuffed with what looked like expensive designer dresses. He pulled some out and threw them across the bed. 'Look at these labels... Biba, Mary Quant... She lived
in London when she was younger. Nothing but the best for Claudette. She was – how do you say – a dolly bird.'

  'Wasn't she a bit too old for that?' I asked.

  'Maybe, but she was very well connected. She rubbed shoulders with politicians, show business people, royalty even. She was quite a woman. I enjoyed hearing her exploits over a coffee together. I'll miss her.'

  'She must have been more of the Christine Keeler persuasion,' I said.

  'Who's that?' said Serge, mystified.