'What about the others?' I asked. He shook his head. 'They're trying to cut them out now, but it's not good.'
  I asked if there was anything I could do.
  'Not really. We've phoned his family. It's up to the cutting crew and medics now.'
  I drove on for a while and then pulled over, got out and leaned against the side of my van, feeling shaky. I was used to coming across crashed cars in the early hours of Saturday or Sunday morning on my way to markets. They more often than not involved young drivers who had over-imbibed at the local
boîte de nuit
(disco). But this one had been a bit close to home.
  On the other side of the village I picked up the dual carriageway and after a half-hour run turned off onto the Route National that runs through the forest. The only cars I had passed had been a few stragglers wending their way home from 'Le Soft' nightclub. But now, driving through the dense pine forests, the roads were deserted. My mind was turning as it tended to do at this early hour of the morning, mulling over the past, wondering about the future. The accident had shaken me up and I was re-evaluating my place in the world.
I was also slightly neurotically keeping an eye out for any stray deer that might jump out onto the road ahead. Startling stories appeared regularly in the local section of the
Sud Ouest
newspaper about motorists who had crashed off the road trying to avoid hitting
chevreuils
. Our village shop even sold small patented plastic whistling devices to fix on the outside of your car designed to scare off any deer that might be thinking of leaping out. It was a handy excuse for any motorist who lost control of his vehicle on the way home after one too many at the neighbourhood bar, so most reports of the phenomenon tended to be anecdotal.
  I kept looking at my Michelin map, checking I was on the right road. Helen had booked up with the fair organisers in advance and all I had to do was turn up early to set up. It was the first time I had done a market here so it was new territory for me. Despite their habit of accenting the importance of living the good life I had noticed the French tended to work hard, starting the day at a ridiculously early hour and continuing until quite late. The art was to make it look like you were really enjoying yourself and not working hard at all.
  The misty dawn light brightened as I left the forest and turned off onto a series of smaller roads winding through sleepy villages. There were thin blue lines denoting small rivers on the map and the village I was headed for appeared to be situated among them. I carried on down a tiny road with wide ditches and swathes of bulrushes on either side. I ignored a temporary sign by the side of the road warning of
'Inondation'
or flooding. I had long since adopted the French habit of disregarding any official-looking notices.
'Route Barrée',
or 'Road Closed' signs are regularly discounted by the French as being totally fanciful and they are often dismayed when they find the road actually is blocked.
  There was a ford ahead and I drove into the water presuming I would emerge onto a dry road and arrive shortly. But the rivers were in flood and when I leaned out the window I could see the water was almost up to the door on my van and hear it burbling around the exhaust pipe at the back. If only I had heeded the sign! I was driving across fields covered with deep water and it was only the avenue of willow trees ahead that showed me where the submerged roadway was supposed to be. If the area was swamped like this surely the market would be cancelled? I had passed no other
brocanteurs'
vans. I was risking being trapped in a torrent. And I couldn't turn round and go back â there was a danger of slipping into one of the deep ditches.
  The water was beginning to seep in round the bottom of the van door. Any second now the engine would cut out and I'd be stranded, forced to wade up to my waist through the icy waters, leaving all my stuff unprotected and at risk of being swept away.
  The engine missed a beat and I was sure it was about to cut out when the incline began to rise, the waters dropped away, and I was driving on dry road again. I reached the outskirts of town with adrenalin coursing through my veins but thankful to have emerged unscathed.
  I followed the signs to the centre and arrived in a large square, a covered plaza with stone arches surrounded by a rectangle of quaint old shops and buildings facing inwards. There were vans parked with br
ocanteurs
setting up their trestle tables and opening parasols. Serge was among them and when he saw me he came over with a big grin on his face.
  'Eh, Johnny, you didn't come in that way, did you?' He stepped back, looking at the water running off my van.
  'Hope you packed your water wings. No one uses that road anymore. The river has changed its course; it's always flooded. You should have taken the other route with the bridges.' He waved towards the far side of the square. 'You're lucky you weren't drowned.' He shook his head in disbelief. 'Never mind, you made it, that's the main thing. Come on, I've spoken to the organisers and you can stall out next to me.' I followed him to a spot under the medieval stone arches.
  'There we are, right next to the cafe and within strolling distance of the
boulangerie
. Never say I don't look after you.'
  As I set up my table and umbrellas I looked around and noticed there were quite a few traders I knew. I was delighted to discover the
brocanteur
on my immediate left was my old pal Louis, the jazz-loving books and records dealer from Dax market. He was setting up his reconditioned antique gramophone, but when he saw me he came over and shook me warmly by the hand.
  'Listen, John, this will interest you, I've got a whole pile of rare Charlie Parker and Bud Powell 78s I bought off an old jazzer in Biarritz at a knock-down price. You wait till you hear them.'
  He showed me a pile of 'Vogue' records with their distinctive red and white labels. I flicked through and noted he had some of the original Gerry Mulligan, Chet Baker Quintet stuff from the fifties that included 'Walkin' Shoes', one of my all-time favourites.
  'We'll be all right for a spot of bebop this afternoon then?' I said.
  'You bet, John. Go, baby, go!' He began to tap out an irregular beat on the top of his trestle table.
  I left him to it and continued unloading. I was lifting a heavy piece of nineteenth-century garden statuary of the god Pan playing a flute when someone grabbed me from behind and I turned to look up into the smiling face of Thibeau, one of the antique furniture dealers. He was built like one of his armoires and was a much-valued scrum forward playing regularly for his local rugby team.
  'Eh, John, your luck's in. It's not every day you get those two for neighbours.' He nodded towards a stall opposite where a young woman in jeans and sweatshirt was bent over trestle tables covered with shiny pink satin cloths.
  A balding man in camouflage combat trousers, with what was left of his hair tied back in a ponytail, was lolling back in a canvas chair with the legend DIRECTOR stencilled on the back. He watched nonchalantly as the woman unloaded painted furniture, cupboards, tables and chairs, all on her own from the back of a van. He didn't lift a finger to help her. She took out what looked to me like heavy boxes and staggered across with them to unpack on the trestle tables. They contained female undergarments which she picked out daintily piece by piece, arranging them tastefully on the pink cloths. The man yawned and stretched, and looked bored as the woman erected a series of rails and arranged a variety of sexy corsets and coloured basques for display.
  'What a coquette!' said Thibeau, squeezing my arm. '
Mais la coquetterie est le fond de l'humeur des femmes, n'est-ce-pas?'
(But all women are basically coquettes, aren't they?)
  He was over-excited, eyes popping, watching every move the woman made. I couldn't understand why he was so thrilled. She was attractive, but his reaction was over the top.
  '
Putain!
It ought to be against the law,' he spluttered. 'It's more than flesh and blood can stand!'
  'If it means so much, you can have my place,' I said.
  'No, you enjoy it, John. You've not seen anything yet, believe me.'
  I decided it must have been the sight of a young woman arranging sexy underwear that he found so erotic. I began to regard him in a new light. I hadn't got him pegged as a voyeur before, but now I wasn't so sure.
  The man in combat trousers nodded at me and wished me
'Bonjour, voisin'
(Good day, neighbour). When I went over to shake hands he told me he was Bernard and that was his wife Angelique 'over there'.
  Thibeau's face was a picture when she joined us and distributed kisses. They were warm and highly perfumed, so maybe that was what he liked about her.
  When Bernard realised I was English, he livened up and got quite chatty. He insisted on religiously showing me his stock, which Angelique had just painstakingly arranged.
  'You know the corset is making a big comeback in this country, John,' he said, matily. 'After fifty-odd years in the wilderness French women are starting to realise just how comfortable and alluring one can be.'
  He unhooked a turquoise satin number trimmed with black lace and ran his fingers over it.
  'This one dates from the beginning of the nineteenth century and would first have been worn in the bordellos by women of the night. It soon became popular with respectable women though. They didn't want to leave the art of seduction in the hands of just the professionals.' He beamed as he replaced it.
  'But the corset wasn't always so risqué. A simple cotton whalebone corset to control the figure was considered a mark of respectability.' He passed me a long, beige cotton corset with brocade round the bust and suspenders decorated with gold fleur-de-lys.
  'This is what they called
La Sylphide,
from the beginning of the nineteenth century. As you can see it wasn't so rigid and was quite comfortable to wear. Some of the tighter whalebone corsets had the effect of reducing a woman's dress size by about five or six sizes,' he said. 'Incredible, eh, John?'
  I looked around to see if anyone was looking at me with a frilly corset in my hands. I was beginning to feel embarrassed and slightly pervy handling women's underwear in public, however historically interesting it was. Also, unlike Thibeau and Bernard, I wasn't finding floppy old corsets that much of a turn on. I excused myself, telling him I really ought to get back to setting up.
  'Yes, I'll show you more about women's undergarments through the ages straight after lunch when it's a bit quieter,' he threatened. 'Some of these items are quite reasonably priced. You might want to pick out something as a present for your wife⦠or mistress.' He raised his eyebrows and made a suggestive clicking noise with his mouth.
  'I'll look forward to that,' I lied.
  I noticed Angelique had laid out a dust sheet, unloaded a stripped-down dressing table and was in the process of repainting it in the currently popular 'shabby chic' style. Serge had reappeared and was standing by watching, offering her little tips and pointing out bits she'd missed.
  I went back to unloading stock and arranging it on my tables.
  The sun was creeping over the medieval buildings on the square, warming the air and brightening up the early morning shadows. I munched away on a couple of croissants I'd bought from the nearby
boulangerie
and sipped at a large cup of creamy coffee, a takeaway from the cafe. These antiques fairs in small country towns could be a real pleasure. The residents were normally friendly and interested to see what little treasures they could unearth. Given the fact that they were comparatively isolated with only small local shops serving a widespread rural community, we
brocanteurs
were viewed as an alluring diversion: an exotic taste of the world outside. It is a tradition that has deep historical roots in France and despite the advent of the motor car, TV and Internet the
brocante ma
rkets still retain a hint of their early glamour.
  First to do the rounds were the dealers from the surrounding district, those with antiques shops in the far-flung towns and villages with an eye out for a bargain they could resell to the locals and tourists for a good profit. The accepted style of bartering was to haggle over the marked price, which was normally set high enough to allow a satisfactory reduction. I sold a flowery tea set to a woman who enthused about how she loved English porcelain, and an antique stick to an old gentleman.
  Bernard next door appeared to be doing less well. He cast his eyes over my stuff and sighed.
  'I've had a lot of prospective customers looking at my lingerie, John, and some interest in our painted furniture, but no one wants to part with their money. It's the peasants, they're a bit tight.'
  Despite this, he still had a constant stream of other
brocanteurs
wanting to pass the time of day with him. I'd noticed several young men coming up to shake his hand and receive the obligatory warm-scented kiss from Angelique. They lurked about, hanging on her every word, and the older ones kept sneaking her little touches to emphasise a point they were making. She seemed to blossom from the attention, giggling and touching back.
  My reverie was interrupted by a string of wild monkey whoops echoing across the square. These were followed by loud cat calls and screams of laughter. They sounded familiar. I asked Louis to keep an eye on my stall while I took a stroll around to investigate.
  The source of all the noise turned out to be Serge sitting with Thibeau on a battered settee eating plates of oysters off a rusty old garden table. It was eight-thirty in the morning and they were gulping back oysters, swigging from straw-covered bottles of Chianti and yelling exuberantly.