Son of Serge Bastarde (21 page)

  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.

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'.

  Serge began unloading huge armfuls of designer clothes which he hung on metal display stands like the ones they use in shops. They were the gowns from Claudette's flat and out here in the morning sunshine they looked very impressive. He wheeled out a large antique cheval mirror and positioned it where the customers who would want to try on these wonders could see themselves. Diddy had woken up and was standing around with his hands in his pockets, looking miserable. Serge set him to work arranging Claudette's huge collection of handbags and shoes in several big cardboard boxes. A few early-morning bargain hunters were beginning to drift into the market but they were all walking straight past my stand, drawn towards Serge's expensive-looking display. I realised straight away that it had been a bit of a mistake to have arranged a place for him next to my stand. As soon as the people checked out the prices they couldn't believe their eyes and a crowd of eager women began to swarm round. I pushed through and examined the tags. Serge had priced the stuff very reasonably, maybe even too cheaply. Some of the women were beginning to lose it, grabbing at the handbags and dresses, trying to squeeze their feet into Claudette's shoes.

  Serge strolled over, looking pleased as Punch. 'Think I'm going to have a good day today, eh Johnny?' He was chuffed. 'You know, I forgot to tell you – I finished reroofing that big old Basque house with a bit of help from Diddy and Bruno was pleased with the job. Looks like I won't be walking around on crutches after all.' I was glad to hear it. I promised myself in future I would try to stay as far away from Bruno as possible. Serge pointed across the road. 'I've fixed up a curtain in the back of my van so my charming lady customers can try on the dresses in private. I've got it all worked out.'

  Diddy was serving a large woman in a bright floral print dress. She bought a crocodile skin handbag and as he went to wrap it up another woman grabbed at it, insisting she had seen it first.

  The large woman pushed her and a heated argument began. Diddy looked peeved and upset. He normally enjoyed a good catfight.

  'We're going to sell out at this rate,' said Serge. 'Luckily I've got a whole lot more. Claudette was a right hoarder, God bless her.' A young woman came over with a Biba dress. She wanted to try it on so Serge took her across the road to his van, lifted the curtain and helped her in. He looked over and winked at me. He was enjoying this.

  I returned to my stand. It was a bit depressing watching the mad rush round Serge's but a Spanish couple were examining an oak student's desk I had for sale. They said it would suit their son, who was going to college. These little honey-coloured desks made in the early part of the twentieth century fit snugly against a wall and are ideal for a bedroom or small study. That's why the Spanish, who have a taste for English furniture, love them and as they're not too expensive they sell well. I knocked a little bit off the price and they bought it. As I helped them with it across the road to where their four-wheel drive was parked, I heard a loud yell and Serge came running across the road, waving madly at me.

  'Johnny! Johnny!' He was beside himself. 'I've just seen Angelique!'

  I put down the desk. 'No! Where?'

  'She was on the deck of one of those yachts in the marina! It was her, she had my little Adrien with her!'

  'Are you sure, Serge?' I said.

  'It was her all right. Look after my stand, please,' he pleaded. 'Diddy's throwing a moody. I'm going over to see her.'

  And before I could answer he was back across the road, running along the marina.

  I helped load the desk into the couple's car and went back over to his stand, which was swarming with women excitedly examining dresses, shoes and handbags. Diddy was sitting in a canvas chair staring into space, ignoring them. Buyers were frantically looking around for someone to pay for their purchases. Gowns were strewn about and it was futile trying to rearrange them on the hangers and take money at the same time. When you get a buying frenzy there's not much you can do but go with the flow. A crowd always attracts inquisitive customers who think they might get a bargain as well, and Claudette's clothes were driving them crazy. Luckily Serge had priced up his stock. By law, in France traders are obliged to display prices on all items. This discourages the dubious practice of sizing up the prospective customer and, if they seem rich, bumping up the price. Serge told me he had been inspected by the gendarmes before and fined on the spot for every piece not carrying a price tag. Since then he'd been religious about pricing up.