by John Dummer
'What's up, Johnny?' He was carrying an old brass candlestick and puffing from the exertion.
'I wondered where you were,' I said.
'Not scared are you – of ghosts, perhaps?'
'No,' I said quickly, then changed the subject. 'Where were you?'
'I was just having a look around.'
'So I see,' I said. 'Whose house is this?'
'I don't know but apparently the guy died recently. I think the Romanian bought it. He wants it fixed up so he can sell it for a good price.'
He placed the candlestick on the floor and walked over to one of the chevets. He pulled out the drawer, reached in and removed a white china potty, which he pushed under the bed. Then he felt around in the space where the drawer had been, tipped the chevet on its side and shook it about vigorously.
There was the sound of something dropping and a piece of chocolate money, the sort I used to get given at Christmas when I was a kid with a gold paper wrapper on the outside, fell, spun and rolled across the wooden floor, landing at my feet. Serge let out a cry of triumph. I bent down and picked it up. It felt harder than I had imagined... and heavier.
Serge was beaming. 'There you are, Johnny, what do you think?'
I examined it more closely. This wasn't chocolate money. I was disappointed. I just fancied a piece of chocolate, although it might have been a bit old. But it couldn't be what it looked like, could it?
'It says it's a Mexican fifty pesos,' I said. 'It can't be real gold, can it?'
Serge ignored me. He was back shaking the chevet again. There were two clunks, and two more coins fell out. He was ecstatic.
'I've hit the jackpot, Johnny! Who would have thought it? I knew my luck would change one day and today's the day!' He did a little dance, holding the coins aloft and waving them above his head.
'Just a minute, Serge,' I said. 'If they are gold, you can't keep these. What if the Romanian knows they're there?'
'Listen,' said Serge, 'have you ever wondered why when you buy these chevets at auction or in house sales the inside alabaster linings are dislodged or broken?'
Now he came to mention it, he was right. Normally the little cupboards in these bedside tables were lined with marble or alabaster to make it easier to clean them when the potty that was kept inside slopped its contents. I've had English people who have bought these chevets ask me, 'This is where they kept their jug of drinking water to keep it cool, was it?' I usually don't bother to enlighten them, and just say, 'Oh, yes!' Best not to gross out a prospective customer. But I had noticed that the insides were often damaged.
'Every brocanteur knows that country folk don't trust banks and they don't want the taxman to get their hands on their hard-earned cash,' said Serge. 'So they hide money away under the mattress or purchase valuable gold coins that go up in value and can be turned into cash for a rainy day. The first thing relatives or dealers do when someone dies is break up the insides of these chevets and search for anything hidden down behind the drawers. It's a well-known fact. People have been murdered for less.'
This was true. I had heard that when Gaston, the old peasant farmer who owned our house, died, a bunch of local lads had broken into the house and ransacked it looking for any hidden Louis d'or coins.
'I know about gold, Johnny, and these coins are worth a small fortune.'
'Are you mad? You can't take them,' I insisted, 'it's theft. They belong to the owner – that bloke who wants your guts for garters. Don't take any more risks, Serge.'
'Don't worry, Johnny, this furniture isn't his – it's mine. We have already come to an arrangement about it.'
'How do you mean "come to an arrangement"?'
'Bruno said I can take the furniture as payment for doing the roof.'
So that was what this was all about? The penny dropped. Lord Snooty was right – Serge the Snurge. He had pulled a fast one on me yet again. I thought his life was in danger, but in reality he'd negotiated doing a house clearance on the back of my helping him do the roof. What a sucker I was!
He was biting the fifty peso pieces now, examining them, shining them on the seat of his trousers. Suddenly it tickled me and I found myself laughing. I couldn't be mad at him for long. He was back on form again. He may have been a 'snurge' but he was the Serge the Snurge I knew and loved. I was relieved he had avoided any comeback for destroying the beautiful walnut buffet. And basically I liked the guy. It was great he had found the gold coins. God knows he needed some good news and I was sure he could do with the money.
'They're valuable then, are they?' I asked, wreathed in smiles.
'Listen, Johnny, I really do know what I'm talking about. You have to if you're doing achat d'or, or you end up losing out. These gold Mexican fifty Peso pieces are the business! They call them "poor man's gold". I can't say exactly how much they're worth today... but it's a lot.'
'So the poor bloke who slept in this bed and just died missed out on spending them?' I said.
'It happens. Life can be hard sometimes... and so can death.'
He spun one of the coins in the air, caught it and whacked it on the back of his hand. He looked at me questioningly...
'Heads!' I said.
He lifted his hand to reveal it was 'tails', the figure of an angel holding a wreath in the air.
'Bad luck, Johnny. Better luck next time, eh?' He laughed, gave me a hug and slipped the coins into his pocket.
There was a shout from down below and we stopped for a moment, listening. Then it came again, a gruff voice bellowing out for Serge.
'Sounds like someone's calling you,' I said.
Serge looked guilty and his hand went to his pocket as if to protect his stash of gold coins.
The voice yelled again. Serge froze. 'It's Bruno!' He looked scared.
'Better go and see what he wants,' I said. Serge didn't move.
'He knows we're here,' I said. 'Your van's outside and there are broken tiles everywhere.'
Serge pulled a cartoon face of doom and I followed him back along the hallway, and up into the grenier.
'Bend down so I can climb on your back and reach the beams,' he said.
Reluctantly I knelt down and he clambered over me, stepping on my shoulders and squashing my ear painfully as he pulled himself up. Once back on the roof he reached down and tried to pull me up after him. I hung for a moment with my legs pedalling in the air until he lost his grip. I landed heavily on the wooden planks of the grenier floor, lost my balance and fell over.
'Find something to stand on,' said Serge. 'I can't pull you up all the way.'
I searched around the grenier and found a dusty rush-seated chair. When I stood on it my foot went right through the straw.
Bruno bellowed out for Serge again. 'It's no good, Johnny, you'll have to go down the stairs and out the front door. I'll climb down the ladder and see what he wants.'
'Right,' I said, and set off down the wooden stairs and along the dark hallway until I reached the winding staircase that led to the entrance hall and front door. The heavy oak door was locked fast and I slid back the series of iron bolts. It swung back with a loud creak. I walked out into the bright sunlight and looked across to where Bruno was standing with one foot on the bottom rung of the ladder. He was glowering up at Serge, who was coming down cautiously. When he reached the ground Bruno stepped back and Serge turned to face him. He was grinning like a chimp, more in fear than good humour.
'What's all this?' said Bruno, gesturing at the broken tiles strewn on the ground. He looked annoyed. 'I hope you're going to clear up all this mess.'
'Don't worry, Bruno, we will,' said Serge. 'We've got to get all the old tiles off first, it's the only way.'
Bruno turned to me. 'Is this right, you've got to just throw this stuff about?'
'Well, yes, we'll make a start shovelling it up tonight,' I assured him.
'It's really hard work this is,' said Serge. He pulled his spotted handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his brow to emphasise the point and I sa
w something glittering fly out, curve in the air, and roll in the grass. Serge saw it too and his eyebrows went up in disbelief. It was one of the gold coins! Without a second thought I stepped forward and put my foot on it. I coughed and tried to look nonchalant. Had Bruno noticed?
Serge went into action. He took Bruno's arm and guided him away, pointing up at the roof and explaining what we were doing. Bruno shook him off and my heart sank as he came striding back to me. He stopped and stared into my eyes. I stared back, trying to keep my cool. I was certain he had seen me step on the coin, which now felt like it was red hot under my foot. I waited in dread, holding my breath. Then, suddenly, Bruno gave me a big grin and shook my hand, holding on tight.
'Good... good,' he said, 'keep up the work, John, and don't let this joker sit down on the job, eh? Anything to do with hard work – he hates it.' He pulled me in closer and I felt my flesh crawl. I was sure he had seen the gold coin and was just playing with me.
'Oh, he's slaving away,' I blurted out, 'can't stop him.' I glanced at Serge, who threw me a tight grin.
'The guy who's bought this is un gros bonnet,' (a big cheese) said Bruno. 'I don't want a rushed job, but the sooner you can get it done the better.'
'We'll do our best,' said Serge, 'you can trust me, copain.'
Bruno flinched when Serge called him copain. I didn't think Serge was his mate any longer – more like his slave. He turned on his heel, strode over to his white Merc and drove off, bumping over the broken tiles. I wiped my hand on my jeans and it wasn't till he was completely out of sight that I had the nerve to bend down and retrieve the gold coin. I handed it to Serge.
'Thanks, Johnny,' he said. 'I was nearly a goner then. That was quick thinking.'
'Couldn't let Bruno get your gold, could we?' I said.
'Too right! Let's call it a day, eh?'
'Yeah, let's,' I said. My confrontation with Bruno had left me shaken.
'And remember, best not to mention this gold business to anyone. You know what people are like. If it ever got back to Bruno, or the gros bonnet, I'm a dead man.'
'Don't worry, Serge,' I said, 'my lips are sealed.'
'Good, Johnny, I knew I could trust you. A couple more days like this and I'll have got the hang of this roofing lark. I'll get Diddy to help me finish off the job.'
'OK. Serge,' I said, 'are you sure?' I couldn't believe I would be off the hook so soon.
'Mais oui, Johnny, I don't want to take over your life.'
Don't you? I thought. He was wrapping the coins up carefully in his spotted hankie and his eyes were glinting. I couldn't help noticing that he had begun to look a bit like Fagin.
11
TO THE WOODS
It was like a scene out of the old Wild West. We had drawn up our vehicles and formed protective circles. The brocanteurs – a motley crew so far – were installed over here: and over there, camped up in a clearing beyond the trees, were the gitans, their smart white vans, caravans and satellite dishes sparkling in the late-afternoon sunlight.
Meanwhile, the market traders, in an assortment of expensive camper vans and battered lorries, were gathered together in their camp, chatting and shooting the breeze. Lining the woodland tracks were miscellaneous traders, erecting their stands and unloading their wares.
This was a weird and wonderful place to hold a market, a secret sylvan world deep in the Landes forest normally only inhabited by deer and wild pigs.
Other dealers had told me about this El Dorado of fairs; a huge market held in the depth of the woods. In previous years they had offered this as an excuse as to why there was nobody at whatever town market we were doing.
'They've all gone to the big fair in the forest,' they'd say wistfully, and I'd wished I was there, wherever that was. They might as well have been talking about the Teddy Bears' Picnic. Serge had suggested we do it this year. He'd said it would be all of us together, like before his break-up with Angelique. I didn't like to point out to him that he was on his own now and so it wouldn't be quite the same, but he insisted we hurry up and book a pitch at this fabled market, which he said was at a place called Ousse-Suzan.
'Helen, you must book it tomorrow.' He was adamant. 'Only a few brocanteurs will be there, just those in the know.' He described it like he was a member of an elite clan. 'The place is always packed with people. They get over twenty thousand visitors in just the one day, it's unbelievable.' He had scribbled down a contact number before he left and Helen booked us a pitch.
And now here we were in this impressive forest, surrounded by lofty pines in the heart of Gascony. It was only a forty-minute drive from our house in the Chalosse but the landscape was completely different.
We had turned up earlier in the afternoon and joined the queue of white vans stretching back along the forest roads, waiting to be checked into our respective places by an army of men in Day-Glo jackets. Following the line of vehicles bumping along the sandy tracks through the trees we had marvelled at how fantastic the forest was with the sun shining down through the pines. It was thrilling to think we were going to be camped out here for the night. This job wasn't like work at all. The market would start the next day so we had time to meander around and gawp at all the other dealers and peruse their stands. I told Helen I was going for a wander and as I ambled past the rest of the bric-a-brac and antique dealers I couldn't help but notice that us brocanteurs were less of an elite clan than a hodgepodge of raggle-taggle miscreants. I was looking out for Serge and Diddy but there was no sign of them.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned, but there was no one there.
'If you go down to the woods today, you better not go alone.'
I swung round the other way and saw Reg had ducked down. 'Oi, oi! John, what brings you to this neck of the woods?' He had a manic grin on his face like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. But the real shock was that his bushy Rolling Stones hairstyle had gone. His head was now shorn very short, right down to the scalp! I must have looked surprised because he chuckled, stood up and rubbed his head.
'Decided to change me image. I've not been inside, if that's what you're thinking.'
'No, I wasn't,' I said, embarrassed. What I had been thinking was he looked terrifying without hair. Like some kind of axe murderer. Also, he had tattoos on his earlobes that I hadn't noticed before.
'And I haven't got nits, neither.'
'It never crossed my mind,' I said. 'It's good, it suits you,' I lied.
'Can't go on livin' in the sixties forever, can you?'
'Why not?' I joked.
'Yeah, well, that'd be good, but it ain't gonna happen, is it? First time you been here?' he asked, changing the subject.
'We thought we'd see what it was like,' I said. 'Serge insisted we should book in and do it.'
'You always do what he says then, do you?'
'No, not exactly.' I felt my face redden. I was finding it difficult to come to terms with how violent he looked.
'I heard about what happened to old Sergey with that Angelique sort,' said Reg. 'She was a right little darlin', wasn't she? And he was batting well above his average there. It had to happen.' He put his arm round my shoulders. 'Actually, John, this market is usually a good one. Punters galore! You hardly get a chance to think once they start pouring in. Me and Rita have got our caravan parked just over there, but I'll move over to join you lot. We can get together later for a drink and a bit of a laugh. Keep the old Brit spirit alive. What do you say?'
I looked across and could see his van and battered caravan. And there was Rita, lounging out front on a plastic recliner, smoking a fag. She saw me and waved. I waved back. 'Right then,' I said. 'You're on. I'm just taking a stroll, see what's happening.'
'Yeah, all right mate, see you later,' he said, patting me on the back.
I liked Reg. I knew a lot of the French dealers were wary of him, but his heart was in the right place, even if he wasn't much moved by Serge's little tragedy. I'd mixed with a few characters like him when I was a musician
and also working in the music business. He was a maniac, but he was one of our maniacs.
