Son of Serge Bastarde (12 page)

  Serge and I were taking a shortcut down a narrow country road that crossed open fields and woodland between two small villages. In March, when the rains come, the River Adour bursts its banks and muddy water swirls through the bushes and brambles flooding the land here. When the floods recede you can see where the water has risen by the muddy line that runs along the bushes and up tree trunks.

  Often, coming back late from markets on warm summer nights, I have stopped and gazed in wonder at the starry sky, listening to the owls and the scurrying of small night animals foraging in the hedgerows. These fields and small streams are home to many beavers, or
castors
as the French call them. I'm not sure that these
castors
aren't actually coypu, the South American beaver-like rodent, but whatever they are the place is teeming with them. Whenever Helen and I take this route we say we are going via 'Beaverland' and we have often had to swerve to avoid them. Not everyone is so careful, however, and these large rodents often appear as bloodied roadkill.

  The beavers are not the only wildlife that treats this swathe of untamed countryside as home. Every year several pairs of storks return to their nests in the trees that run alongside the river to raise new broods. Someone in the nearby village of St-Vincent-de-Paul erected a wooden platform on a pole in their garden to entice the storks to build a nest there, and every year their efforts were rewarded by the return of a pair of storks raising their chicks high up above their garden. It was a regular attraction for motorists passing through. When they sold the house the new owners, with amazing insensitivity, cut down the pole and the storks, whose nest they had destroyed, rejoined the others nesting in the trees alongside the riverbank nearby. Since then, passing locals regularly sound their horns loudly to express their disapproval.

  Serge was laughing in disbelief at the muddy lines along the bushes and trees, marvelling at how high the waters had risen over the winter.

  'Heh! Look at that,' said Serge, pointing at the body of a dead
castor
slumped by the roadside. 'He's a big one.'

  He was too. And he had a thin, rat-like tail. That was definitely a coypu. The size of them was shocking – it was like a small terrier. It was hard to believe that such giant rodents were living here in south-west France. There had been a scare when a local fisherman contracted Weil's disease, a dangerous virus which can be spread by rodents' urine infecting the river water. The coypu was thought to be the obvious culprit and poison had been laid in an attempt to wipe them out. But they had continued to thrive over the winter months, safe in their own watery domain. Now the cars and lorries had returned they were falling casualty to the passing traffic.

  Ahead was the narrow bridge that crossed the River Adour. It is long and narrow and cars intending to cross are guided by two arrows, one red and one white, which indicate who has the right of way. I often find it difficult to tell which is which, and I'm sure I'm not the only one. I normally follow the rule that if someone is already on the other end of the bridge I wait for them to come through.

  'There's a hold-up on the bridge,' said Serge. '
Putain!
It's stretching back both sides.'

  'Probably an accident,' I said.

  We pulled up. There were about ten cars ahead of us. Doors were opened and drivers were climbing out to see what was happening. We sat back and waited for the traffic to start moving.

  'I meant to ask you, Johnny,' said Serge, lighting up one of his Gitanes cigarettes. 'You told me once that you put a new roof on your house when you first bought it.'

  'Well, yes, I did, but I know very little about roofing. We had an English builder staying with us, and we did it together.'

  'I thought you had, only I was going to ask if you would help me strip down an old roof and retile it. You could show me how it's done.'

  I wasn't really a builder and tiling a roof was a big commitment. Could I afford the time? 'I thought you lived in a flat, Serge,' I said.

  'No, it's not my roof, Johnny. Someone has asked me to reroof a house for them, that's all. I thought you might want to help me.'

  'Well, I'm not sure if I can,' I said, playing for time. Alarm bells were ringing in my head. 'I'm not sure if I'm up to it. It was a while ago and I don't know if I can remember how to do it.'

  'I bet you can. I would be really grateful if you could give me a hand.'

  'What's this all about?' I said. I had a feeling there was more to this than he was letting on. His voice had a pleading edge to it.

  'OK, Johnny, if you really want to know, I'm in a bit of a tight corner. You remember that guy, the one with the beautiful walnut buffet with the woodworm in it?'

  'The thug who was going to have you fed to the pigs or cemented into a Spanish motorway?'

  'Well, not exactly. But yes, that's the one.'

  'The Romanian with the flash flat in Biarritz?'

  'Yes, him. He wasn't too pleased about not getting his buffet back. I said we'd had a few problems but he's not a very patient man. He got very irritated and as I didn't have enough to pay him for the buffet he offered me some other options.'

  'What sort of options?' I asked.

  'Some of them were non-starters really. You're not far off with that "being fed to the pigs" one. It was actually mentioned.'

  'You didn't fancy that then?' I said, laughing.

  'Not really, Johnny, no,' he said, deadly serious. 'But he assured me that if I could fix the roof for a friend of his he would maybe forget about the buffet.'

  'What, only maybe?' I said.

  'Well, what choice have I got? I don't really want to get killed or worse.'

  'What could be worse?'

  'Believe me, there are a lot of things worse!'

  'I suppose there probably are.'

  '
Mais oui
, those guys can be very imaginative. Best not to think about it, eh? This house he wants me to reroof is in the foothills of the Pyrenees. It's a very nice Basque house.'

  'Crikey! They're usually really big.'

  'So, can you help me out?' he begged. 'If you could just show me how it's done – the basics, so to speak – I'm sure I can finish it myself. That's as long as my back holds out.'

  I felt sorry for him when he mentioned his back and caved in. 'Well, all right Serge, but will Diddy be helping, labouring or something? After all, he got you into this.'

  'No, he's refusing to help... not his thing, apparently. And he made the excuse that he has to see his little daughter at weekends, but it's not true, he hardly ever bothers. I want to start it next week. The guy has a short fuse. I don't want to try his patience any more than I have done already.'

  I suppose if it stopped him being fed to the pigs it wasn't that much to ask. But I knew from experience that reroofing could be a big job. I was kicking myself for being such a soft touch.

  Serge flicked the burning stub of his cigarette onto the road and ground it out with his boot. 'This is
pénible
! Are we going to have to wait here all day?'

  There was a Gateau pulled up in front of us. The Gateau is a make of small car that can be driven without a licence, and they tend to be owned by either retired peasants or drunk drivers who have been banned from a more powerful vehicle. This one was driven by a little old man wearing a tweed jacket and beret. He was sitting, patiently waiting, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. When Serge rapped on his window he jumped.

  'What's going on,
chef
?' Serge asked.

  The little man turned with a frightened look on his face and slid open the window. 'I think there's a problem on the bridge,
m'sieu
.'

  'Well, I can see that. But what sort of problem?'

  'I don't know,
m'sieu
.' He slid his window shut and turned and faced the front.

  Serge looked heavenward and sighed. 'Come on, I'm going to see what's up.' We strolled over and joined a small crowd that had gathered by the bridge. Looking upriver I could see the storks' nests high up at the top of the trees. A large stork was perched on one of them and there were two young storks craning their necks, eager for food.

  In the middle of the bridge two cars had pulled up, facing one another. The one coming from the other side was a big shiny white Mercedes saloon. It looked like the two drivers had set off from either side at the same time and met in the middle. The driver on our side clearly had right of way. It was a stand-off.

  'The
connard
in the Mercedes is refusing to budge,' said a man in blue overalls. 'I'm late for an important appointment.'

  'Why won't he back up?' I asked. 'If he doesn't, we'll be here all night.'

  'You're right,' said Blue Overalls. 'I always take this shortcut to save time. If this happens, what's the point?'

  Serge was looking over at the Mercedes. His face drained of colour, and when he looked at me I could see panic in his eyes.

  Someone sounded their horn behind us and this set off a chorus of high-pitched hooting. Serge turned to the man in blue overalls.

  'Come on, let's be sensible here. If you start to back up, we'll do the same and everyone can go home.'

  'You're joking,' said the man. 'It's my right of way. I'm not going to back up for you or anyone else.'

  'Someone's got to see sense,' said Serge. 'You're acting like a kid.'

  'Don't call me a kid, friend. It's him in the flash car that's the kid. Tell him to back up.'

  'Look, let's surprise everyone,' said Serge. 'We've all got things to do. This is how wars start.'

  Blue Overalls looked at Serge, then turned to me. 'What do you think?' he asked.

  'Don't ask him, he's English,' said Serge. 'The English never back down, they're maniacs.'

  'We are not,' I said, deciding that I wasn't going to take that kind of slur.

  'You went into Iraq with the Americans. Blair was Bush's poodle, everyone knows that,' said Serge.

  'OK he was, I admit that. But...' I was lost now. I didn't have an acceptable come back.

  'All right, I'll back up,' said Blue Overalls resignedly. 'I'm convinced – this is stupid.'

  He climbed into his car and began to reverse as Serge directed the traffic behind, waving his hands, cajoling the drivers. Gradually the line moved back until the way was clear for the cars on the bridge to back off, leaving an open road for the Mercedes. The big white saloon came rolling over and pulled up alongside us. The window was wound down and I found I was looking into the sneering face of Bruno the Basque.

  'Eh, Rosbif! Long time no see.' He reached out to shake my hand, grinning like he was my old pal. I looked at Serge. He seemed cowed, not at all like his usual self.

  'I'm still waiting, Serge,' said Bruno, frowning. 'I hope you're not going to let me down.'

  Serge had a forced grin on his face. 'Don't worry, Bruno, I'm coming next week. And Johnny here, he's an expert; he's agreed to help me.'

  Bruno turned to me, smiling. 'Hey, I'm impressed! And good, I'm glad you'll be there, Rosbif, to make sure he doesn't mess things up.' He made a dismissive gesture, the window rolled up and the Mercedes accelerated off.

  As we walked back to our van I tackled Serge. 'What was all that about then?'

  'What's that, Johnny?'

  'I thought Bruno was your sworn enemy.'

  'No, that's not true, we went to school together.'

  'Come on, Serge, last time I saw you two together you were rolling on the floor pulling each other's hair out.'

  'Yes, well things have changed since then, Johnny. Old friends can always make up. We've got a bond, Bruno and me.'

  I didn't believe a word of it. I wasn't as green as I had been when I first met Serge and started working the markets. I remembered he had said it was Bruno who put him onto the Romanian with the walnut buffet at Biarritz. That was the key to his fawning manner with Bruno. Serge was frightened and the pair of them had him running scared.

  'So it's Bruno's roof we'll be fixing next week?' I said.

  'It's one of his properties, yes.' He opened the van door and stopped.

  'Look, I know what you think of me, but I didn't have much choice here. That Romanian and Bruno have been threatening me for months. Now they've agreed that if I do this, I'll be quits and all that business with the buffet will be behind me.' He climbed in and we drove off.

  'You're right, though, it was Diddy's fault anyway,' he moaned as we crossed the bridge, which was now clear and back to normal.

  We drove through the village and when we passed the front garden where the storks' nest used to be Serge sounded his horn in protest. We could hear the chorus of hoots behind us as we headed back to the market.