Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette

by John Dummer

  '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.

  17

  CAMPING

  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.

  I half-stumbled, half-ran back to our caravan to tell Helen the shocking news.

  'This isn't a nature reserve, it's a nudist camp!' I yelled. 'The sun's brought them all out. It's the opposite to vampires.'

  She just laughed.

  'No, it's true, honestly.'

  'Oh well, never mind,' she said. 'We'll just have to brazen it out. We've run out of water. Could you fill our plastic tank?'

  'How can I go out there?' I said.

  'Try it, you might like it. Just strip off and stop being so sensitive.'

  'What, go out there in the nuddy?'

  'Why not?'

  I was taken aback. I know Helen stripped off at every chance in the garden but I had to convince myself I could cope with this. I pondered for a minute.

  'OK, I'll do it,' I said.

  I divested myself of my shorts, pants and T-shirt and set off. But I felt strangely eccentric hefting the empty polythene tank with fresh air circulating freely round parts that were usually hidden away. I peeked into the front of Serge's van just to assure myself he was asleep. Happily he was still snoring loudly, dead to the world.

  As I walked along the gravel path headed for the water taps I felt myself slip automatically into the 'Naturist's Saunter', turning my naked body and leaning back to catch the sun's rays. I was beginning to feel I could pull this off. I looked the part and I actually felt like a real nudist – enough of one anyway to allay all suspicions.

  I looked around in vain for evidence of other naturists, but there was no one about. The beach ball girls had vanished and there was no sign of the nude family.

  As I filled my water tank I inadvertently splashed cold water on my private parts and jumped back in shock. I was starting to realise just how uncomfortable p
erforming seemingly simple day-to-day functions could be without clothes on. When I staggered back with the full tank Helen couldn't stop laughing. 'You might as well empty our chemical loo while you're at it,' she giggled.

  Yes, why not? There was nothing to be afraid of. I was starting to get into the swing of this nudist lark. Everyone was equal in the buff. It was somehow invigorating and liberating at the same time.

  I set off ready for the task in hand when from behind I heard: 'Hey, Johnny, how's it hanging?'

  I turned round, surprised. Serge had come up behind me. He was stark-bollock-naked. And he had a big smug grin on his face. But what struck me most was how amazingly hirsute he was. So much so that he didn't really need any clothes at all. It was an uncalled for and slightly repulsive revelation.

  'So that's what à poil means?' I said.

  'Yes, of course, Johnny. I thought you knew. Mind if I join you? I fancy a shower.'

  'OK, certainly,' I said, trying to act normally. We set off up the path with me carrying the plastic Portaloo and Serge walking beside me with a towel over his shoulder.

  'It's turned out nice again,' I said, trying not to look at his hairy body. 'Much warmer than yesterday.' It felt like a scene from Carry on Camping.

  'Beautiful,' he said. 'And we'll soon get nice and bronzed, won't we?'

  I couldn't help noticing he was doing the 'Naturist's Saunter', leaning back to catch the sun. Was this really his first visit to a nudist camp?

  As we approached the toilet block we came face to face with a couple of builders wearing their traditional blue overalls and a woman I guessed to be an architect, examining plans spread out on a table. They were all fully clothed and the two of us were now in the unenviable reversed role of being stark naked. They ignored us, heads down, discussing what I presumed was to be some type of new building.

  The woman looked up and smiled broadly at me. 'Bonjour…' (and then I could have sworn she stared pointedly at my private parts) '… m'sieu!'

  She glanced at Serge, appeared slightly appalled and looked quickly away.

  The two builders gawped at us and one of them raised his eyebrows and smiled almost conspiratorially. As Serge and I entered the toilet block I realised he probably thought we were a gay couple on holiday together. My face was on fire. I wanted to tell them we were neither homosexuals nor nudists. We were in fact impostors who had snuck in undetected under false pretences.

  As I emptied our Portaloo, I could hear Serge singing to himself in the shower, puffing and blowing like a grampus. I waited and he came out steaming, rubbing himself with his towel and making no attempt at modesty, like we were two pals up at the YMCA.

  I looked out of the door hesitantly, dreading having to pass the builders and the woman again in such a vulnerable state. But I needn't have worried. They were climbing into a smart car and driving off.

  Then, surprisingly, as we re-emerged, the world appeared to have reverted back to its 'naked as nature intended' state. There were nude couples wandering hand in hand, the man I had seen earlier with his wife and family reappeared and there were other naturists cavorting about bursting with health. Bare skin was in vogue again.

  I ambled back with Serge towards our caravan, feeling quite at ease. We were managing to pull off this naturist lark. It wasn't as hard as I had imagined. All you had to do was keep a clear head, try not to panic and avoid any erotic thoughts that could lead to an embarrassing arousal situation.

  As we approached our caravan I saw Helen at the window laughing hysterically before ducking down out of sight.

  18

  PIRATES AND VIOLINS

  The room was packed to the rafters and buzzing like an all-night party. Dealers pushed through to bag a place, greeting each other warmly and shaking hands. Women were kissed ardently on both cheeks and pleasantries exchanged. In this salle des ventes (auction room) it was hard to imagine these same dealers would be fighting like hyenas to outbid each other once the sale started.

  It was a couple of weeks after our visit to Lourdes and Serge had persuaded me that a six-hour drive deep into the heart of the Auvergne on a buying trip would be worth it.

  'They're still living in the Dark Ages over there and you can pick up good old rustic furniture for nothing… they're practically giving it away.'

  I was hoping – probably in vain – that he still had some vestiges of the new man left in him, so decided to accept his offer. After all, he'd been right about the Mickey Mouse cheque.

  The countryside had been stunning but the trip a fraught one. My van had begun to play up in a most alarming manner. The accelerator stuck and the engine raced, sending us hurtling down a steep hill into a sleepy village, careering dangerously from side to side as I fought desperately to regain control. When I eventually managed to stop in neutral with the engine screaming we climbed out like Laurel and Hardy, looking baffled. Serge managed to fix it more by luck than judgement, but the trouble kept recurring and we needed to get to a garage and have the problem sorted out by a proper mechanic.

  I was worrying about it as we pushed our way through the throng of dealers trying to get a look at the furniture.

  My experience of salerooms in Britain had left me unprepared for what went on in France. Helen had told me but I hadn't really believed her. Here, as in most French auctions, there was no catalogue with descriptions of the items and their lot number. You had to remember what you wanted to buy and wait until it came up. There appeared to be no rhyme nor reason as to when goods were picked out to go under the hammer and the sale verged on the farcical. This was in no small part due to the mother and daughter team who ran the place. They had a passable double act going between them which would not have seemed out of place on the variety stage.

  The daughter was perched high up behind a desk on a dais, while the mother helped out the teenage porter, moving round the hall, showing off special items, shouting comments and cracking jokes. She was sixty if she was a day and fancied herself as something of a femme fatale.

  She decided to model a fur coat that was up for sale, slinking down the aisles like Brigitte Bardot to wolf whistles from the crowd, fluttering her eyelids and throwing lewd wisecracks at a dealer half her age she had the hots for. The daughter, meanwhile, who was trying to run the auction, periodically halted the proceedings to threaten her mother with her gavel, telling her to act her age and stop fooling around.

  I felt a nudge in the ribs. 'Oi-oi, mate. 'Ow's it goin'?'

  I turned to look into the deeply lined, weather-beaten face of Reg, an English dealer I'd seen around.

  'Bleedin' froggy farce, eh? What are they playing at?'

  He raised his eyebrows and they disappeared under his shaggy mop of hair. He'd stuck with the same Rolling Stones style all his life, only now it was streaked with grey and was perhaps even more unruly than it had been in the sixties. He lifted his arm to shout out a bid and revealed a muscled forearm covered in tattoos. Reg's tattoos weren't the fake tribal designs of today's youth. Besides stylised bluebirds like the one I had he sported dripping daggers, tombstones, staring skulls and tributes to Jimi Hendrix and the Grateful Dead.

  'I see you've got your froggy mate with you,' he said, nodding at Serge, whom he viewed with a mixture of amusement and contempt.

  'Is his surname really Bastarde? Unbelievable! Is that why you hang out with him, just for a laugh?'

  I ignored the remark but felt slightly chastened. Despite his bigoted bluff exterior, Reg was nobody's fool. I couldn't help feeling he had an uncanny insight into what made us tick.

  He play-punched Serge, who grinned and gave his hair a tug. I knew Serge was impressed by him. He referred to him as Le Pirate and recognised a fellow jovial degenerate when he saw one.

  The mother and daughter team were well into their stride now. The daughter had knocked down an ormolu clock to someone at the back of the room and a squabble broke out. The dealer who thought he had won the bid began to argue vociferously when he realised the clock was goi
ng to a rival. Voices were raised in anger and a certain amount of bad-tempered jostling began. Any sensible auctioneer would have nipped a dispute like this in the bud, cancelled the sale and restarted the bidding. But the daughter joined in the fight, pointing and screaming, insisting that her decision was final. The mother seized the opportunity to back the loser and a slanging match developed between the pair of them.

  Serge sided with one of the dealers and, to my horror, began shouting disparaging remarks about the daughter's competence.