Son of Serge Bastarde

by John Dummer

  'It's a long story, I'll tell you another time.'

  There was a series of mirrored doors along one wall. Serge slid one back and a light came on to reveal shelf upon shelf of pairs of shoes carefully placed alongside one another, some still in their boxes with the lids open and sheets of coloured tissue peeled back. He lifted a pair out and examined them. 'These have never been worn.' He pulled out another pair. 'Or these.' He was amazed. 'Imelda Marcos, eat your heart out!'

  Inside the next cupboard were shelves full of stylish leather bags, all painstakingly labelled with stickers with copperplate writing and carefully arranged in neat rows. 'She certainly had a good choice of accessories,' exclaimed Serge. 'There must be hundreds of handbags here.' He examined one. 'This is crocodile skin, very chic.' He snapped open the clip. 'Beautifully crafted. Look at this.' There was a handwritten note tucked inside. 'M. Jean-Marc. Whoa! It says what he liked done to him. He must have given it to her as a gift.' He picked another bag and took out a slip of paper. 'It says Alexis on this. Look at this, she's written his name and his sexual proclivities.' He put his hand in front of his mouth and chuckled. 'Mon dieu! He had some nasty preferences. What a beast! And look at this one... it says Doudou on this. She must have liked him; she's put three kisses under his name. You know what? There are names in all of these and their sexual tastes. What a professional! She was making sure she used the bag each client had bought her whenever she went out with them and gave them what they liked best. She didn't want to make a mistake and offend them. Formidable!'

  He pulled out a very classy Hermès bag. 'Wonder who gave her this... Putain! I know him – he used to be the mayor in the next village. He's a grandfather with a grown-up family.' He took out another, eager to look inside, and extracted the handwritten note. 'Mon dieu! I recognise this name too. He was the chief of police. She certainly had some top-drawer clients. This is an eye-opener!' He picked up another bag, zipped open a pocket and withdrew a slip of paper. His eyes widened and he passed me the note. The name Bruno the Basque was written on it in neat handwriting.

  'It's Bruno!' yelled Serge excitedly. 'He must have been a regular customer too. See what he likes? If only I could broadcast that around, he'd be a laughing stock.'

  I couldn't say I was shocked. The first time I met Bruno he had struck me as a creepy lurker when he boasted about the 'little mini-skirted whore' who had pleasured him in the old quarter of Bayonne. It was no surprise to me that he sought the regular services of a prostitute of Claudette's experience and expertise. But I was surprised he appeared to have given her a handbag as a present. He struck me as the sort of oaf who would never give a woman a thing. Claudette must have been very persuasive for her favours.

  'It's this sort of information that can sometimes come in very handy,' said Serge. 'You never know, I might be able to use it one day. Anything to get one over on that connard!'

  Back in the living room Serge went across to a beautiful highly polished English mahogany roll-top desk. He tried to slide it open but it was locked.

  'This is a smart desk, isn't it?'

  'It's English, late Victorian, I think. Claudette said she liked English furniture.'

  'But where's the key?' asked Serge. He pulled at the drawers but they wouldn't budge.

  'Some of these desks are locked from the front,' I explained. 'There's a mechanism which drops down and blocks the drawers as well as the roll-top.'

  'Ah, ouai?' said Serge. He wasn't listening. He was rummaging through an ashtray full of various bits and pieces... paper clips, odds and ends.

  'I've taken them to pieces in the past,' I went on.

  'Good, that's interesting.' He had found some keys and went to try them out. He rattled the lock desperately but none of them opened it.

  'It must be around somewhere,' I said. 'They have very odd-shaped keys.'

  I again had the feeling that I was intruding and that Claudette might walk in any second.

  Serge had given up and was rifling through a pile of magazines on a bookshelf. Something prompted me to feel along the underside of the desk top. It was smooth. There was nothing there. I moved along the other side, towards the wall... and my fingers came into contact with a small metal box. It was screwed to the underside of the rim. I dropped down to my knees and examined it. There was a small indentation in the lid, and by inserting a fingernail in it and pulling I was able to slide it open. There was the distinctive brass key inside, which I triumphantly held up to Serge.

  'Incredible, Johnny!' He was amazed. 'How did you know about that?'

  'I didn't,' I said. 'Maybe Claudette helped me.' Serge had already opened the desk and was sliding the roll-top back to examine its contents. There were lots of pigeonholes and above these several small drawers with ivory knobs. He was rummaging through the papers in the drawers.

  'Look at this, Johnny.' It was a small notebook with names and contacts next to them. 'See – that's the chief of police I told you about. And these are quite large sums of money next to his name and they're all at monthly intervals. That's odd, don't you think?'

  'Was she blackmailing them then?' I said lightheartedly.

  Serge looked again at the book and then very seriously said, 'I think you might be right, Johnny. And there are other names here, too, with regular payments each month.'

  'I was only joking, Serge,' I said.

  'Actually, no, I think you are right. These are all much more than her average charges.'

  'How do you know? Were you a client of hers too then?' I quipped. I was trying to be funny and make him laugh, but instead he turned round defensively.

  'I've never had to pay for it, Johnny.'

  I'd hit a nerve. What did he mean? Was he a faithful client? I wondered. I decided to keep my mouth shut for a while and carry on sorting through her belongings.

  'Hang on, here's Bruno's name again and his contact number,' said Serge. 'And the amount in monthly payments she was receiving from him. Surely she wasn't blackmailing him? Impossible! He would kill anyone who tried. He's totally ruthless. Or was it payments she was making to him? That seems far more likely. Mind you, when you saw what his vices were she must have had a pretty strong hold over him.'

  There was the sound of a key turning in the front door lock and my heart missed a beat.

  Claudette was about to walk in and catch us going through her things... I was sure of it. I held my breath as the door swung slowly back to reveal not Claudette... but Diddy. He stood staring at us for a moment as if totally surprised to find us in there. Then he walked into the middle of the room and looked around, as if searching for something. When he turned his eyes were haunted. He looked desolate and lost, like a little boy.

  'I'm glad you're here, Diddy,' said Serge. 'We've just started sorting through Claudette's stuff. It's what she always said she wanted us to do when she went.'

  Diddy walked around as if in a dream and sat down heavily on the chaise longue, staring into space.

  Serge went over to him. 'Come on, the sooner we get this lot sorted the better. I was just telling Johnny, some of this stuff's worth a fortune. We were looking at all her expensive handbags stashed away; they must have been cadeaux from her rich clients. She certainly knew...'

  'Ta gueule!' Diddy shouted (Shut your mouth!). He jumped up. 'Leave her things alone!' He was shaking with anger. His face crumpled and he slumped back down, sobbing with his face in his hands.

  Serge looked at me, surprised. He mouthed 'Quoi?' (What?) to me. The penny dropped. Serge made a silent 'Oh!' and knelt down, putting his arm round his son. 'It's all right, Diddy, I understand. She had a good life.'

  Diddy wasn't listening. 'She was special... she understood... she was like a friend and a mother,' he choked out. He looked up. His eyes were wet with tears. He turned to Serge. 'She didn't smother me like my mum did. All my life she overwhelmed me with her love and tried to make me fill the gap you left. Claudette wasn't like that, she didn't want anything, she didn't demand my love. She just liked m
y company.'

  Serge's eyes widened. He hadn't expected this outburst.

  'Maman made me the centre of everything. It was unbearable... I couldn't do anything unless she was involved... it was too much... I had to get away. I was never allowed to be myself. That's the reason I came down here to find you. I thought you might be different... put things right.'

  Serge was at a loss. He patted Diddy, trying to comfort him.

  'I understand,' he said. 'I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you were growing up.'

  'Sorry? You're sorry! Where were you when I needed you? I needed to be protected from all that mollycoddling. If you had been there, we would have been a proper family and I could have been free to be a son, not a substitute partner to fill Mum's life up.'

  Serge reddened. He tried to speak but nothing came out.

  There was an awkward silence.

  'Look, maybe I ought to be going,' I said. 'I didn't know Claudette that well.'

  'No, it's OK,' said Diddy. 'Maybe you can understand how I felt growing up without a dad.'

  I didn't know what to say. My dad used to beat me when I was a kid and I always breathed a sigh of relief when he went out. Life was much more bearable when he wasn't around.

  'Claudette was good fun... we had a laugh... she was my best friend. She made life simple and I've never had that. My life has been a nightmare. I had to live with hidden secrets and lies. Claudette helped me, she really did. She told me about her life and I told her about mine.'

  I caught Serge's eye and nodded to him to come in the other room.

  'Maybe now's not a good time to do this,' I told him quietly. 'Diddy's really upset. He needs some time alone with his memories of Claudette. He's mourning her. It's hard for him.'

  'Well, I had no idea he felt like that about her,' whispered Serge. 'They got on well together, I knew that much... but all that stuff about his mum and how Claudette was so special to him... I had no idea. I'm quite shocked really.'

  'Let's give him some space,' I said. 'We can make a start clearing up tomorrow, can't we?'

  'I suppose,' said Serge. 'Here, you don't think I was a bad father do you, Johnny? I mean, I didn't even know he was born till he turned up looking for me. And my poor Adrien – will he feel like that? How could we have been a proper family if I didn't know I had one?'

  'You couldn't,' I said. 'If you'd known about him, you'd have been a proper dad. Don't beat yourself up, Serge. Look how you're trying to make it up to him now. It wasn't your fault.'

  He looked relieved. As if I'd lifted a weight off him.

  'OK, we'll leave him here in peace and make a start tomorrow,' said Serge. 'And thanks, Johnny...'

  'For what?'

  'For reassuring me... for telling me I'm not a failure as a father. It upset me when Diddy told me off like that... it really hurt!'

  We went back into the living room where Diddy was still sitting, gazing into space. 'I'm seeing Johnny off,' said Serge. 'I'll leave you alone for a while.' Diddy half turned in acknowledgement and then looked away. We went out, pulling the door shut quietly behind us.

  'I'll go back in a while and take him out for a drink,' said Serge, 'take his mind off it.'

  'I think it'll take more than a drink to do that, Serge,' I said.

  'Maybe so... that's a whole can of worms opened up in there now. Not sure if I'm up to all this, Johnny.'

  'You'll be fine,' I reassured him, giving his arm a squeeze.

  I left and as I glanced back at him standing all alone in the darkened hallway he looked almost as lost as Diddy did. What a mess, the pair of them, I thought to myself as I ran down the stairs.

  Outside, as I was leaving, something made me turn round and look up. Claudette was standing at the window, gazing down at me. I'd been right all along. She was still haunting the place. We stared at each other, she gave me a little smile... then she turned and disappeared back into the room.

  17

  SANDY BEACHES AND STRAW PARASOLS

  I turned off the busy motorway and headed down the deserted winding road towards the Atlantic coast. It was early on Sunday morning and I was off to the brocante market held every month throughout the summer at Hendaye on the Spanish border.

  The coast road that leads down to Hendaye is awe inspiring. As I negotiated the bends I glanced down over rugged cliffs to rocky beaches pounded by luminescent foaming surf. It always reminded me of a scene from the over-the-top Roger Corman horror film The Raven, starring Vincent Price.

  The market is held in an airy square between the sea and an inland marina off the estuary. I checked my watch; it was ten past six as I parked my van on the promenade road. The fair organiser hadn't turned up yet so I decided to get some fresh air and take Buster for a walk along the beach, which was deserted apart from the neat rows of Caribbean-style straw parasols. It was late July, and later, when the sun came up, it would be thronged with holidaymakers. As soon as I unclipped Buster's lead he charged off, his short legs going like the clappers. All our Staffs had loved the seaside and Buster was no exception. I watched him in the distance, barking excitedly at the waves as I walked along feeling the soft sand between my toes. It took me back to the holidays we had in Devon when I was a kid, me and my brother playing on Woolacombe Sands. My dad had decided he wanted to get out of insurance and start a pig farm. We visited remote Devon farms trying to find a suitable place to buy. I loved the idea.

  My dad changed out there in the country. He wasn't his normal irritable self. He was relaxed and, dare I say it, fun. If he was going to become a farmer, I wanted to be there alongside him, working with animals. In the end it never happened. My mum hated the thought of being buried in the middle of nowhere and finally managed to talk him out of it and we stayed where we were, safe in the suburbs.

  In the distance I saw two figures with a dog coming towards me. I worried for a moment, that Buster might come back and cause trouble, but he was too busy barking at the waves. The couple drew closer and I could make out a woman and a young girl. The dog, a big German shepherd, was running along ahead of them. He suddenly swerved and made a beeline for me. He was one of those big powerful dogs with a thick mane of dark fur. He came bounding towards me and jumped up on his hind legs. For a heartbeat I felt a stab of fear. His panting jaws were up by my face. But he simply bounced his front paws on my chest, then dropped back down on all fours and went leaping off, back to his charges. I knew exactly what this was. Maybe I should have felt annoyed that such a large dog was not under the control of his owners, but I didn't, I was impressed. This intelligent dog was protecting his vulnerable mistresses. The woman apologised for his behaviour as they came past, but I assured her it was perfectly all right and that they couldn't be in safer hands (or paws). Buster, on the other hand, was the type of dog that wanted to make friends at all costs. He was more of a playboy than a guard dog but I loved him anyway. I crossed to where Buster was still barking at the waves and put him back on the lead.

  I could see a group of brocanteurs gathered round the market entrance and hurried across the road to join them. The market here was independently run by a woman called Françoise and her husband Jean-Pierre who worked together (as Helen and I did). Jean-Pierre let his wife do all the organising (as Helen does for me). They hired the square from the local commune through the mayor's office, arranged all the advertising and collected a fixed rate from the brocanteurs as rent for their stands. But some of the dealers gave her a hard time and were quite rude if they couldn't have their favourite place on the market. Françoise was an Anglophile and always allocated me a spot overlooking the marina where all the millionaires' yachts were moored – I never had anything to complain about.

  I was starting to unload my stock when I spotted Serge and Diddy arriving late as usual. I had asked Françoise if she could save the stand next to me for them and she'd hesitated. 'They were late last month,' she said, 'and that son of Serge's is really quite rude.'

  'He won't be this time,' I assured her. '
I'll have a word with him.'

  'Very well, John, but if he's difficult today I won't be giving them a place in future.'

  Serge was pulling up by the marina. I waved and went across to him.

  'I've fixed up for you to stall out next to me,' I explained. I was feeling pleased to be able to arrange something for him for a change. He leant out the van window, bleary-eyed.

  'Thanks, Johnny, I feel like a zombie – I've not had a wink of sleep.' He nodded towards Diddy, who was slumped back in the seat beside him fast asleep with his mouth open. 'He's dead to the world. We've been sorting through the stuff in Claudette's flat all night. Diddy found it hard – it's been hell.'

  He climbed out, opened the back of his van and began setting up his parasols. The sun was coming up, shining through the bristling masts of the hundreds of expensive yachts moored in the marina. Sandwiched between the beach and the blue of the estuary, this was a heavenly place to work. There was only one small drawback – across the river in Hondarribia in Spain they had built an airport and the planes took off regularly over the town, climbing with a jet roar into the clear blue skies. The French would never allow such a thing but in Spain 'anything goes'.