by John Dummer
'It is a little paradise here,' said Frieda.
'It's so hard to leave this wonderful idyll,' said Berthold.
Frieda was crying and even Berthold wiped away a tear. I decided they must have done something right to have won over their French neighbours. They were a kindly couple. Perhaps the Franco-German alliance in the EU had forced the French to view the Germans in a new light.
As we drove off through the pines I looked back and saw the pair of them standing outside their house, waving us goodbye.
'What do you think?' I asked Helen.
'We can move straight in, they've done all the work.'
'All we've got to do is sell our place,' I said.
'Don't be so pessimistic,' she said. 'We'll sell it, wait and see. I've got a prêt relais lined up in the meantime. It'll give us two years to sell our place.'
'What if we don't sell it in two years?'
'Don't even think about it,' she said.
I wasn't that confident. Although I liked this house in the forest, I was daunted by the thought of moving and leaving a place I had grown so fond of and all the neighbours we liked. 'I'll miss Roland and Mr Leglise,' I said.
'There'll be other neighbours here and you can always go back and see our old friends, it's only a forty-minute drive away – not far.'
'I suppose,' I said.
But I had the same sad, lonely feeling I always had when I was about to leave somewhere. And I knew in my experience I tended not to go back once I left a place I loved.
20
EXQUISITE GOOD TASTE
'I'm fed up with all this scrabbling about selling bric-a-brac,' said Serge. 'It's a misery in this weather.' We were sheltering from the pouring rain under our parapluie (umbrella) hunched up in woollies and waterproofs at Anglet market near Bayonne, watching the wind catch the sheets of drizzle, spraying our tables, soaking our stock. It was cold and miserable and there wasn't a customer in sight.
A sudden strong gust of wind caught the parapluie so we had to grab the pole to stop it from going over.
'Anyway, I'm going to go upmarket,' said Serge, holding on grimly. 'I want to become a proper antiquaire, Johnny.'
I turned to look at him, surprised. It suddenly struck me as funny. I wanted to laugh, watching the rain dripping off the end of his nose. I thought he was joking but he was deadly serious. 'Yes, I think I'll book us into a salon d'antiquités and leave all this misery behind.'
Maybe he was right but I wasn't sure about it. Helen and I had taken stands at more upmarket fairs in England but so far we had never done a salon in France. The weather here was generally more conducive to open-air markets, but right now the idea was starting to appeal to me. Salons were normally held in halls, in the warm. The stands were expensive so you had to make several good sales just to pay your rent, the hope being that a richer type of customer would be attracted by the opulence of the antiques on offer. With a better-heeled class of clientele there was more chance of shifting several expensive pieces and making a bigger profit. That was the theory, anyway. Most brocanteurs I knew would never dream of risking their meagre earnings at a salon so I was surprised when Serge had mentioned it.
I thought he was just daydreaming but the following day he phoned to say he had booked a stand at a salon to be held in Rennes in the north of France and wanted us to share it with him and Diddy. The price was high but affordable when split between the two of us. It was a four-day fair and so we talked it over and decided we'd risk it. We would throw in our lot with Serge and Diddy and become 'big time antiques dealers'.
A month later Helen and I set off with Buster in the van for the salon, arriving late on Wednesday to discover to our horror that our cubicle had 'Bastarde & Fils' printed in big letters on a sign over it.
'I'm not standing under that all day,' said Helen. 'It's embarrassing. I don't care how big a deal this is.'
'He must have forgotten our half,' I said. 'He was very excited; he's probably always wanted a sign like that.'
'Yes, obviously I don't care about our name, it's just that name – "Bastarde and Son". It might as well say "Steptoe and Son"! Or better still, "Dick Emery and Son".'
We collapsed into hysterical laughter. What were we doing?
Looking around I was surprised to see most of the French dealers had already set up their stands, tastefully arranging them to resemble opulent rooms in expensive homes with valuable rugs and antique furniture softly lit with spotlights and table lamps, the walls bedecked with precious paintings.
'I hadn't imagined we'd need to bring our own lighting,' I told Helen. I felt discouraged as I began unloading our furniture, piling it up higgledy-piggledy.
'I don't know how I let Serge talk me into this – we're going to look like amateurs. The richos won't give our stuff a second glance.'
'Will you pull yourself together,' said Helen. 'Don't be so negative. You always get intimidated. I'll sort this out and make it look really nice.'
Under Helen's guidance we began arranging the stand and waxing and polishing some of the better pieces of English furniture we had brought with us. I was relieved to discover there were overhead spotlights available with a control panel and after a couple of hours' work our half of the stand began to look quite inviting. I moved a couple of spots to pick out the softly glowing pieces of polished furniture. Very classy! Helen had pulled it off, just like she said she would. And I had changed my mind. How could we fail to make a fortune?
'Still purveying tat to the peasants?' I looked up into the supercilious face of Lord Snooty.
'Algie!' I was pleased to see him, despite the arrogant comments. I was getting used to them, even finding them quite amusing. 'What are you doing here?'
'Oh, I always do the upper echelon antiques fairs; you get a much higher class of clientele.' He was wearing plus fours, a loud pair of golfing shoes and a tartan waistcoat set off with a Paisley pattern cravat and a tweed deerstalker. He looked like an eccentric lord. He was the French stereotype of a mad Englishman.
'I really can't believe you are sharing a stand with that little shyster,' he said, pointing at the 'Bastarde & Fils' sign. 'I'm surprised at you, Helen. I'd have thought you had better taste.'
Helen had taken one look at him and was suffering from a fit of the giggles. His outfit had got to her. She had set me off too and I was trying to control myself when I spotted Diddy wheeling a trolley stacked with cardboard boxes. Serge was walking majestically beside him, wearing an expensive-looking suit with the jacket draped round his shoulders, carrying a silver-topped lacquered cane in one hand. As he approached I could see he was even sporting a pair of long pointy-toed shoes, a style much favoured by all the gitans. He must have sold a couple of his gold coins and was feeling flush.
'Talk of the devil,' said Algie waving his hand disdainfully, 'and his son!'
Serge greeted us warmly, shook our hands and kissed Helen. He indicated to Diddy where he should place the boxes in his half of the stand and began unpacking the contents. They unwrapped tissue paper to reveal a collection of Chinese porcelain and statuettes of dubious provenance.
'Oh dear, they look new to me,' Helen whispered. 'They're all repro.' We watched, open-mouthed. 'Are you allowed to sell copies at this fair?' Helen asked.
'Quoi? Helen, these are not copies, they are valuable, much sought-after Chinese antiques.' He produced a file and pulled out a sheaf of papers. 'Here are the authenticated certificates of guarantee signed by an expert.'
'Was that the same expert who sold them to you?' Helen asked dryly.
Algie picked up a porcelain figure of a dragon and examined it. 'C'est nul!' (It's rubbish!) he told Serge, scornfully replacing it on the table. 'Where did you buy this lot Serge, GiFi? ('GiFi' is a cut-price chain of French stores.)
Serge waved the guarantees under his nose.
'If you need a signed guarantee to prove something is genuine, then it must be a fake,' said Algie. 'Everyone knows that, old chap.'
He was right a
bout that. We had visited antiques fairs in Spain that had featured stands selling so-called ivory netsukes (miniature carved Japanese sculptures) and intricately decorated tusks and figurines which the besuited salesmen had insisted were hand-carved from million-year-old mammoths' tusks recently discovered in Siberia. They screened non-stop videos of explorers digging up the mammoth remains and issued signed certificates as to their authenticity. But they were unable to offer us any believable explanation as to who had carved these tusks and pieces of ivory so perfectly with such incredible artistic skill. It was obvious that they were in fact very well cast in resin to resemble ivory. It was a scam and no amount of signed certificates or videos would convince us otherwise. In fact, the better antiques fairs in Madrid and the larger Spanish towns had barred these dodgy dealers completely.
Serge was unmoved by Algie's comments. 'You think I'm an idiot, do you? That me and my son would sell fakes?'
Algie guffawed rudely. 'Yes on both counts, Bastarde.' He turned to us. 'I really don't know what you're doing sharing a stand with this pair of buffoons.'
I was embarrassed by his outburst. Maybe Serge had got it wrong but we certainly weren't about to join Algie in poking fun at him.
'We thought it might be nice to sell inside in the warm,' I said. 'It's all very swish, isn't it?'
'Well, at least you have some quite nice pieces of English furniture,' Algie conceded. 'You should do all right, but I can't say the same for Bastarde and son.' He went off, chuckling to himself.
Exhausted from unloading and setting up our stand we left Serge and Diddy to it, took Buster for a swift walk round the block and checked into our hotel for an early night in preparation for the days ahead. Hotels and restaurants in France are very dog friendly and we have always been allowed to take Buster up to our room. It's impossible to stop him jumping up on the bed with us so we cover it with a blanket specially brought for the purpose.
The following morning found us queuing up with the other dealers, waiting to get into the hall early and add the finishing touches to our stand. While Helen unpacked some quality 'smalls' (as we English dealers call anything for sale that is not actually furniture; the French call them bibelots) and positioned them on our polished desks and tables, I fiddled with the lighting panel and tried to create even more tasteful lighting effects, taking inspiration from Mr Repro at Dax, hoping to impress the rich discerning buyers who were bound to turn up in droves. Serge arrived late.
'Where's Diddy?' asked Helen.
'He's gone to see his mother,' said Serge.
Helen and I exchanged looks. His mother?
When the doors opened at nine we were disappointed that just a handful of visitors strolled in.
A little short man came up to Serge and pointed at his stock. 'Is this yours?'
Serge, all proud, thought he was an early customer. 'Yes, what are you interested in?'
'All of it,' said the man. Serge looked triumphant.
'You're going to have to remove it all,' said the little man. 'You can't sell reproductions at this fair.'
'They aren't reproductions,' spluttered Serge. 'Who are you?'
'I'm Monsieur Belland the expert,' said the little man. 'I'm here at the request of the organisers to make sure everything sold at this fair is a genuine antique. You can pack up all this Oriental stuff and get it off your stand.' Serge was speechless. 'I'll be back in half an hour and it had better all be gone or else you'll have to leave,' he said officiously, walking off.
Serge watched him go. He looked stunned.
'Il est fou ce Monsieur Belland!' (He's mad!) 'He can go to hell!' But after a few minutes he began to pack some of the Chinese figures back in their cardboard boxes. It didn't matter much as the fair was dead. A few people meandered slowly about from stand to stand but no one seemed interested in buying. By midday we were starting to wish we hadn't come at all. We stood around, bored, praying at least one customer would show some interest. If it went on like this, we were going to lose money. I was beginning to wish we'd stuck to the brocante markets. I was missing the parasol and the open air. Why had I let Serge persuade us to go 'upmarket'?
Monsieur Belland returned to check Serge was following his orders. When he had made sure all the reproductions had been removed he went off satisfied. But once he was out of sight Serge pulled out a couple of the boxes and began replacing some of the banned items. This made us laugh.
'You're wasting your time, Serge,' I said. 'Might as well leave them in their boxes – no one's selling a thing.'
'Don't worry, it'll probably pick up tomorrow,' he said hopefully.
After lunch we sat around in an empty hall. Algie came past, looking glum. 'It's a misery,' he said. 'I've been chatting to the other dealers. It's a dead loss. I shan't be coming back here again.'
Around five in the afternoon, however, there was a flurry of buyers and an elderly silver-haired gentleman and his blonde, younger wife took an interest in a Swiss Mermod Frères cylindrical musical box Helen had bought in England. It was an exquisite piece with intricate machinery. I love anything that produces music and this was brilliant. It was the first music box of its kind we had ever had and the six melodic airs it played evoked childhood memories. The problem with a valuable and comparatively rare item like this is what level should you set the price? As it was the first one to pass through our hands we were unfamiliar with its subtleties. Helen had done some research and had set what she thought was a reasonable price. The silver-haired gentleman appeared to be familiar with exactly how the box worked and was obviously an avid collector. He made an offer which was somewhat less than we were hoping for but which gave us a good profit and would more than pay for the cost of our half of the stand. We hesitated but as the fair had been dead so far we accepted. As I wrapped the box Algie appeared and watched over my shoulder. He asked how much we had sold it for and when I told him he looked jealous. He squinted at the couple and I panicked – I thought he might interfere and start chatting to them. But he sloped off with a sick expression on his face.
Serge sat with his head in his hands looking glum. 'I don't know what's happened to Diddy,' he said. 'I've been ringing him all day. He's ignoring me. I don't think he's suited to this game. He gets bored so easily.'
'I'm sure he's all right,' said Helen. 'You haven't really needed him yet, have you? Only when you have to pack up.'
The fair started to pick up on Sunday morning. More people began turning up to look at what was on offer. Serge carried on sneaking back his Chinese repro little by little, but it didn't help; people just ignored his stock.
'I can't believe this,' he said, growing visibly more depressed. 'I was sure I was onto a good thing with these Chinese antiques.'
'Good job you found those gold coins in that house,' I said, trying to cheer him up.
He leapt up, grabbed me by the arm and pulled me over to one side. 'For God's sake, don't ever mention that again, Johnny! It never happened!' He was hissing in a stage whisper.
'Sorry, Serge, I didn't realise.' What had possessed me to bring that up? Me and my big mouth.
Just before lunch Algie came over to see us. 'I've just sold a bronze ormolu clock for a small fortune, and I've got a rich picture dealer interested in one of my oil paintings,' he crowed. His whole attitude had changed from yesterday.
Serge was totally down in the dumps. 'Did you hear that Bastarde? A small fortune! How's the GiFi stuff going? Not so good, what?'
Serge ignored him. He shot us a pleading look. He still hadn't heard from Diddy. He kept making circuits of the other stands with a haunted expression on his face, hanging round the entrance waiting for Diddy. We invited him to join us for lunch. It wasn't a very tempting offer. We sat in a corner together in a typically English manner eating home-made sandwiches and sipping hot tomato soup from plastic cups while the other French dealers laid out banquets of food and wine on their tables.
Algie came over. 'Ooh, cream of tomato soup, delicious! I always bring several tin
s back with me from Blighty. You can't beat it, that great British taste.'