Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette (23 page)

  I was about to suggest we all turn in when the animal stood up on all fours and shook himself. He walked confidently across the room, turned and gave a little bark.

  'He wants his dinner,' said Serge. 'In all the excitement I've forgotten to give him his dinner.'

  'But did you see him?' said Helen eagerly. 'He's not limping. He walked perfectly. The holy water – it's worked!'

  'My God! You're right!' said Serge. 'Look, he's fine now.'

  He opened a tin of dog food. When Robespierre smelled the meat he hopped around eagerly waiting for it to be dished up.

  We stood over him, watching him tuck in. The change in his behaviour was astounding.

  'The holy water has cured him,' said Serge. He picked up Robespierre and hugged him. 'It's a miracle!'

Helen and I lay in bed in our caravan in the dark talking. We were still filled with wonder, unable to sleep.

  I said, 'Do you think that holy water really cured Robespierre?'

  'Well, he did seem to suddenly get better.'

  'But surely holy water only works in horror films? He could have just twisted his leg and his hunger made him forget the pain.'

  'Maybe. But Serge is right – you've got to have faith when you want something wonderful to happen.'

  'That was wonderful though, what happened there at the grotto tonight,' I said softly. 'I've been trying to explain it to myself but my brain just goes numb. I can't seem to get to grips with it.'

  'I'm pleased we came,' she said. 'I don't want to move back to England now and I feel like life's not so bad after all.'

  I was relieved to hear it.

  'I'm glad,' I said. 'Perhaps that's the miracle of Lourdes.'

  'And I've changed my mind about Serge,' she said. 'He loves his dog so much. He's not so bad either.'

  'Hitler loved his German shepherd dogs,' I said, '… and he was a vegetarian.'

  'Everyone always says that,' she said.

Early next morning, when we arrived at Serge's hotel, he was already up, tucking into his coffee and croissants.

  'How's Robespierre?' asked Helen.

  'He's on top form,' said Serge. 'One hundred per cent. He broke off the end of a croissant, dipped it in jam and Robespierre took it daintily and licked the tips of Serge's fingers.

  We joined him for breakfast and I couldn't help noticing that he was shaved and scrubbed. He was positively glowing. Maybe it was just the access to the hotel shower and free toilet facilities, but he seemed more wholesome somehow, quite unlike his usual scruffy old self.

  'And what about you?' I said. 'You're all right?'

  'I'm more than all right, Johnny, I'm a new man.'

  There was something about his eyes. They were shining with a kind of zealous fervour.

  'After all that happened last night,' he said, 'our wonderful experience at the grotto and the miracle healing of my darling Robespierre, I've decided the time has come to turn over a new leaf.'

  We must have both looked incredulous because he seemed hurt.

  'No, truthfully, you may not believe me but I'm going to change my ways. When I think about some of the things I've done in my life I'm embarrassed. I've messed up every decent relationship I've ever had.'

  'What about Regine?' I said. 'You two love each other.'

  'I haven't told anyone yet; she dumped me a while back for a rich widower from Paris who's taken her and the children away and given them the lifestyle they deserve… not sweating over sewing machines churning out fake teddies.'

  'God, I'm so sorry,' I said.

  'Yes, well, let's face it, I deserved it. I've been unfaithful, dishonest. I've lied and cheated everybody.'

  'It's not so easy, the life of a
brocanteur
,' said Helen, comfortingly.

  'Yes, sometimes you have to be a bit tough to survive,' I said.

  'No, it's no good making excuses. I've acted like a swine. I'm ashamed of myself.'

  'Steady on, Serge,' I said. 'I'm not sure if I can cope with you turning into a goody-goody.'

  'I'm serious, Johnny. I lose Regine and now this little miracle with Robespierre. It's a sign. I've seen the light. I'm giving up my old selfish ways. I'm turning over a new leaf.'

Dawn was breaking when we finished breakfast and set off in Serge's van for the village where the
brocante
market was being held. Robespierre snuggled up on Helen's lap in the front. He seemed absolutely fine now.

  We began setting up our stall in the village square.

  'I'll just take Robespierre for a pee-pee,' said Serge. 'See if I can pick up any bargains.'

  The sun was rising over the rooftops, taking the morning chill out of the air, and we got so absorbed in unpacking our stock and serving customers that I forgot all about him. I was thinking about fetching a mid morning coffee from the cafe opposite when there was a commotion from inside: raised voices and then angry shouting.

  The door burst open and two bodies came flying out, locked together in mortal combat. It wasn't the sort of fighting you see in the films, either. They were rolling in the dirt, twisting ears, banging heads on the ground, biting and gouging. A couple of stallholders waded in to break it up. They pulled the combatants apart.

  'It's Serge!' said Helen incredulously. 'I hope he's not hurt.'

  We rushed forward to see, but the fight was over. Serge staggered back leaving his adversary lying on the pavement groaning. He wiped a dribble of blood from his nose with the back of his hand. His hair was roughed up and his face was grimy. He looked more like his scruffy old self again.

  When his opponent turned over and pulled himself to his knees I recognised him immediately. It was Serge's gun-running pal Bruno the Basque and surprisingly he appeared to have got the worst of it. He climbed unsteadily to his feet. One eye was swelling up and he had a nasty graze on his forehead. He shook himself and glared at Serge as if he was considering having another go. A couple of his burly cronies hovered in the background, unsure of what to do. Then they helped him to his feet. Bruno looked sullenly around at the crowd, thought better of it, and turned on his heel and slunk off.

  'My God, Serge,' said Helen. 'Are you all right?'

  'Yeah, I'm fine,' he said, smiling a lopsided grin.

  We followed him back into the cafe, where a petite, neatly dressed woman was holding Robespierre. Serge thanked her, picked him up and hugged him.

  The owner appeared to have safeguarded Serge's glass of Ricard. He topped it up and gave Serge a wink. 'This one's on the house,
mon ami
.'

  'What was that all about?' I asked. 'How come you're always getting into scraps with Bruno the Basque? I thought you two were supposed to be friends.'

  He spluttered in his drink and coughed spatters of Ricard onto the counter. 'We were… once,' he said. 'I'd decided to ignore the incident of the lamp – you know, the one he stole from me at the chateau? But he just pushed my good nature too far and took advantage. He poked fun at me and, what's worse, he poked fun at my Robespierre here.' He stroked the puppy's ears and kissed him on the top of the head.

  'I was telling him about the holy water and how it had cured Robespierre's broken leg. But he simply laughed and began mocking us. I saw red and went for him. I just couldn't help myself.'

  'Sounds like he asked for it,' I said.

  'He was goading me,' said Serge. 'I'll kill him next time.'

  I was wondering what had happened to the new man who'd turned over a new leaf this morning, but decided not to comment. Deep down, though, I think I was glad to have the old Serge back.

The sign read 'CAMPING – SITE DE NATURISME.'

  'Oh goody, a nature reserve,' I said to Helen. 'Let's camp here.'

  We were on our way back from Lourdes and had decided to stop off for the night.

  'Yes, this'll do. Let's go in,' she said. 'It'll be dark soon.'

  Serge pulled alongside in his van. He had a big grin on his face. He got out and came over.

  'This looks like a nice place, Johnny. I've always wanted to go
à poil
. Let's stay here.' He winked at Helen.

  'What does he mean?' said Helen.

  'I've no idea,' I said.

  The camp looked pleasant enough: neat rows of cypresses with wooden chalets and in the distance tennis courts and a swimming pool.

  There was a notice pointing to the '
Accueil
' (Reception). 'Serge and I will go and book us in,' I said.

  As we walked across the freshly cut grass, the place seemed empty. No caravans or tents or holidaymakers about. If this had been England I'd have been surprised, but in France it wasn't unheard of. The holiday season had just finished on the last weekend of August and now it was deserted. It's only throughout July and August that campsites get packed to bursting as the French holiday
en masse.

  We approached the wooden 'Reception' hut and Serge knocked loudly on the door. A big brown dog appeared out of the gloom and began to bark loudly at us. It bared its teeth and looked ferocious.

  'Let's forget about booking in,' said Serge stepping back. 'There doesn't seem to be anyone about. I saw the toilet blocks on the way over. If we bag a couple of pitches we can avail ourselves of all the facilities. If the owners don't show up we can sneak off in the morning and no one will be any the wiser.'

  The dog was emitting deep, threatening growls. Serge was foolhardy enough to get down on one knee and try his kissy-kissy sound. The animal's hackles came up and it made a sudden bound forward. Serge leaped up and we made a rapid retreat, looking back fearfully. The dog watched us go, barking in triumph.

  Back at our caravan, Helen cooked vegetarian sausages and mash. We sat down together, squashed up round the galley table. When we told Serge there was no meat in the sausages he didn't believe us. 'It's not bad,' he said, although I knew he'd decided we were completely mad for not eating meat. He cut up some bits and fed them to Robespierre.

  'Robespierre likes them, anyway,' he said. 'But I don't think he's ready to become a vegetarian just yet.'

  It was growing dark outside and there was still no sign of anybody about. Serge's eyelids were heavy and he stifled a yawn.

  'We've got some blankets; you can sleep on the floor in the caravan if you like,' said Helen. I knew she hoped he'd say no – I didn't think she liked him
that
much.

  'No, I'll be fine in the front of the van,' he said. 'I'm shagged out. I'm going to sleep like a log.'

  I made him take some extra blankets in case it grew cold in the night. Marcel freezing to death in his van at Bordeaux had made more of an impression on me than I realised. Serge thanked me, shouted
'Dormez bien!'
and we heard his van door slam shut.

We must have both passed out as soon as our heads hit the pillows because the next thing I knew it was morning and the sun was streaming in through the caravan skylight. I decided to take an early shower and shave. As I tiptoed past Serge's van I was amazed at how loud his snoring was; classic long snorks followed by long drawn-out whistles like I'd only ever heard in
Popeye
cartoons before.

  The cold snap had passed and it was a balmy morning. I was warm enough in just a T-shirt, shorts and sandals. As I exited the toilet block, drying my hair with my towel, I glanced across the campsite towards the tennis courts and immediately did a double take. My eyes were met by a sight reminiscent of the naturist magazine
Health and
Efficiency
, circa 1950. Two young maidens divest of every stitch of clothing save sneakers and white socks were bouncing a multicoloured beach ball in the air, their naked bodies glowing in the clear morning light.

  Slightly stunned, I staggered on towards our caravan to be confronted by an even more unsettling sight: a whole family of nudists coming down the gravel driveway. I looked around for an escape route but realised I could not avoid them. They were coming towards me – a naked father and two children with his nude wife bringing up the rear. The man was doing what I can now identify as the 'Naturist's Saunter', a gentle, strolling gait, leaning back to allow his whole body the full benefit of the sun's healing rays. As they drew level I managed a smile and wished them
'Bonjour'
.

  Strangely, I felt embarrassed for being overdressed.

  'It's warm,' I said, looking him in the eye, trying not to let my eyes be seen to drop to the 'naughty bits'.

  
'Mais oui,'
he replied,
'beau temps.'
He sauntered off, followed closely by his bare-bottomed family.