by John Dummer
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 brocanteurs 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 markets still retain a hint of their early gla
mour.
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.
'Eh, Johnny!' Serge leaped up. 'Come on, join us for breakfast.'
It was more of an order than an invitation. He picked up a grubby cup off the plastic sheet on the floor where Thibeau had some of his stuff displayed, slopped in some Chianti and handed it to me.
'Good health and plenty of money!'
He chinked my cup with his and quaffed it back. 'Help yourself to oysters, they give you…' he bent up a stiff forearm and waggled it suggestively about. I took this to mean they had aphrodisiac properties.
Thibeau picked up an oyster, slit open the shell with a knife and gave it to me. 'Go on, get that down your throat, John.' He chopped up a long loaf with several strokes of a rusty hand axe, offered me a thick wedge and watched as I lifted the shell to my mouth and touched the slippery stuff to my lips.
But it was no good, there was no way I could eat an oyster this early in the morning. I felt the bile rise in my throat.
'I'm sorry, it's a bit early for me,' I said, replacing the shell on the pile. 'Besides, I've already had my breakfast.'
'That's all right,' said Thibeau. 'We know you British don't care for food much.' He took the shell, threw back his head and gulped down the oyster flesh in one go. 'Or sex!' He made a loud smacking noise with his mouth, rubbed his stomach and belched enthusiastically.
Hang on a minute. I could go along with the lack of interest in food but not sex!
A pair of cheerful inebriates in the cafe opposite watched with bemused grins on their faces, then returned to the serious business of downing their first Ricards of the day.
'I'd better get to work,' I said, 'serve the customers.'
I made my way back to my stand. The morning bargain hunters were doing the rounds. I sold a little nineteenth century barbotine Majolica jug in the shape a monkey playing a guitar, which I believed was probably either Italian or Portuguese, to a middle-aged man who went off happy, apparently well satisfied with his purchase. Helen had bought it in a vide grenier, or car boot sale, in our village. The man had asked if I would accept a cheque and when I told him no trouble as long as it was a French bank account he paid the amount in full without disputing the price. When this happens I tend to think the customer is more knowledgeable than I am and the item was probably worth a lot more. This can play on your mind so it's best to put it behind you, move on and concentrate on the next sale or you'll send yourself nuts. I was attempting to put my misgivings behind me when I glanced at the cheque and realised with horror he had omitted to sign it. I leaped up in a panic and rushed after him. But he had disappeared and I couldn't really remember what he looked like. I passed Serge, frantically scanning the crowds of people, waving the cheque in the air.
'What's up, Johnny?'
'God, that customer has forgotten to sign his cheque and now he's disappeared!'
'Here, let's see.' I gave it to him. 'I'll sort this out for you, Johnny.' Before I could stop him he produced a Bic, signed the cheque with a flourish and handed it back to me.
'You can't do that!' I cried, appalled.
'It happens all the time.' He gave a Gallic shrug. 'We always sign cheques when the customer forgets.'
I walked off, not feeling very comforted. When I looked at the cheque and saw the signature I did a double take. I ran back to Serge and shouted at him: 'You've signed this cheque Mickey Mouse! Mickey Mouse? You can't sign a cheque Mickey Mouse!'
'Don't worry, I always do that when someone forgets. My bank has never queried it.'
I stumbled back to my stand dumbfounded, with the cheque fluttering in my hand. Serge made the rules up as he went along. What was I thinking of? I pocketed the cheque and imagined what Helen would say when she saw it. I decided not to tell her and secretly sneak it into the bank.
The sun was almost overhead now and I was beginning to be glad of the shade afforded by my parasol. I was carefully wrapping up a particularly fine set of Limoges dinner plates with hand-painted designs of freshwater fishes for a charming elderly retired couple when a deafening braying sound blasted out in such close proximity and ear-splitting volume that I nearly dropped the lot. I slapped my hands to my ears to shut out the din and looked round to see Louis doing the same. It took a few teeth-rattling moments to grasp that this was the town air raid siren and a glance at my watch confirmed it was signalling midi, the holy French lunch hour. Many of these country towns continue to use their sirens in this way. Presumably when the war finished the mayor and townsfolk couldn't bear to dismantle such an authoritative and efficient instrument of aural torture, unlike the British who, having suffered years of the Blitz, couldn't wait to dump theirs along with all the other unpleasant memories.
Thibeau was quite right about one thing, though: compared to the French us British don't care about food. At least this used to be more true than maybe it is now.
When Helen and I first came to France and our knowledge of the language was fairly rudimentary we always wondered exactly what the French were talking so animatedly about. Was it philosophy or politics or the great questions of the day? As our vocabulary and translating skills improved we realised they were mainly discussing one thing: food.
The French can talk endlessly about what they ate or what they intend to eat, or the best way to prepare something they are going to eat. We used to think, God save us! How long are they going to go on and on about food? Isn't there something more interesting to talk about? What on earth's the matter with them? But now we've been living in France for so long, wouldn't you know it, we're just the same. We talk about food, too. We're as tiresome about it as they are. Also, we're spoilt as far as food is concerned. We are disappointed if the food we are served up when we eat out is not good and appetising. We are picky and feel let down when we get something bland or tasteless as if the cook hasn't bothered to even try.
With the aftershock of the air raid siren still ringing in our ears Louis and I covered up our stuff and headed for the restaurant opposite, fought through the other brocanteurs and ordered an aperitif for Louis and an orange juice for me. Sitting at the bar I recognised Jesus Raines, the guitarist who lost his family when his caravan caught fire.
'Eh, Johnny, how you going, en forme?' He seemed more cheerful than when we first met at St Michelle and appeared pleased to see me.
'You know what today is, Johnny? T
he twenty-first of June. And you know what that means, don't you?'
Of course, La Fête de la Musique! I'd quite forgotten all about it. Every year throughout France on this date every French musician worth his salt gets to play somewhere for the evening. All the music bars, clubs and most of the cafes feature groups or solo musicians, the only drawback being that ever since I'd been in France it had pissed down with rain on the night of the fête. I don't know why this should be, but as a lot of the gigs take place in the open air the weather always proved to be something of a dampener to the proceedings.
'There's going to be a big jam session tonight. You ought to come along,' said Jesus.
'Maybe I will,' I said.
'Hey, you've got to meet my son Buddy, the one I told you about.' He signalled across to a hip young guy with a shaved head and a short trimmed beard who came across. Jesus put his arm round his shoulder. 'He's dragged himself away from all his charming Parisian women to come down and visit his poor old dad.'
