Son of Serge Bastarde (13 page)

Sitting up high on a roof looking out across open countryside, breathing in fresh, clean air with the rest of the world stretched out below you – there's nothing quite like it. The blue-grey shadow of the Pyrenees dominated the skyline. A filmy mist hung over the secret valleys and foothills that rolled up to where the mountains began their push skywards.

  Serge was sitting on the tiles beside me with a faraway look in his eyes. When he turned and saw me looking at him he gave me a warm smile. This was the happiest I'd seen him since he had returned from Martinique, a broken man. We were perched side by side three storeys up on the roof of a big house with
Basque rouge
(dark red) shutters and doors. I had agreed to help him strip the roof, fix any beams that were damaged and re-batten and retile it. I was slowly adjusting to looking down from that height. After a while, looking down becomes as normal as looking up. When I was seven a bigger boy used to ambush me on my way home from junior school. He would wrestle me to the ground and sit on my chest, pinning me down by my wrists and dribbling spit on my face. It made my life a misery. I couldn't beat him, he was much stronger than me, so I devised a plan: I rushed out of school as soon as class was over and climbed as high as possible up a big old oak tree. I was safe up there in the tree and I discovered that no one ever looked up so no one knew I was there. From my vantage point I watched the bully boy pass on his way home.

  Gazing at the towering snow-capped mountains of the Pyrenees I was thinking about how my life had completely changed since we moved to France. There was still this excitement bubbling away. It was strange but I felt that if I pinched myself I might wake up and it would have all been a dream. I had a sense of wonder that never quite went away. However familiar our life became here, there was always that underlying thrill. It wasn't going to suddenly end. We didn't have to pack up and go home. We weren't on holiday. This was our life. It was real: these mountains, this beautiful countryside, the balmy air, the sunshine.

  'Look, Johnny, eagles!' Serge was on his feet. Circling in the distance were the silhouettes of two large birds of prey. Even from here you could see the distinctive way the wing feathers splayed out as they rose on the thermals. They were magnificent! And there was a third joining them. Higher and higher, soaring effortlessly in the blue sky.

  Eagles!
Aigles!
The word sounds the same in French as in English. They are the stuff of legends, the unchallenged rulers of the bird kingdom. Nothing can touch them. The sight of them sets the pulse racing. The idea that they nest high up on unreachable eyries in the mountains adds to their mystery.

  
'L'aigle royal!'
Serge cried. 'The most beautiful eagle of all.'

  I had seen these impressive birds before, but only when driving through the Pyrenees on the way to Spain. To see them here in the foothills was thrilling.

  'We call them golden eagles in English,' I said, 'but I think the word royal is better.'

  'It's true, they are royal,' said Serge, 'the king of all the birds.'

  We watched them circling, fascinated. I hoped they might come even nearer, but they eventually soared off and away, heading back to the mountains.

  We sat back down side by side, and contemplated the breathtaking view.

  Serge broke the silence. 'Well, what do you think, Johnny? Will we be able to do it, you know, just the two of us?'

  'Oh, the roof you mean? It's going to be quite a job,' I said. 'I hadn't expected such a big house.'

  'I didn't have much choice, Johnny. Bruno told me he only just managed to persuade that Romanian thug from Biarritz to give me another chance. If it hadn't been for Bruno, who knows what would have happened?'

  This sounded familiar. Serge was being bullied – like I was as a kid – by the Romanian and, I was certain, by Bruno, who was also a conman. I felt sorry for Serge.

  'Better get started then,' I said. I didn't believe that Bruno was on his side and nothing Serge said was going to convince me.

  'You're the boss,' said Serge. 'I'm being guided by you here.'

  This was a turnaround. It was Serge who had shown me the ropes when I first started out as a
brocanteur
. Now he was putting his faith in my building skills. I wanted to remind him that I had only ever done one roof before and that was when I had helped Tony, a friend of ours who was a skilled builder and carpenter. But I decided to shut up about that. It was hard to believe but maybe Serge would be willing to take advice from me for a change.

  'We'll start by stripping off all these old tiles,' I said, prising up a pair of broken ones and lobbing them into the air. They curved and fell, hitting the ground below with a satisfying shattering sound.

  'Ooh, I like that,' said Serge, yanking up some more. 'I always liked breaking things when I was a lad.' He slung the tiles over the edge and began on another row. Within a couple of hours we had stripped back a quarter of the roof and the resulting debris was spread round the back of the house like a bomb had hit it. We stopped for a breather and Serge lit up one of his strong cigarettes.

  Now that we had revealed the support beams I could see places where we were going to have to carry out repairs. I fetched a big steel jemmy I had bought when I was working with Tony and set about wrenching apart a joint between two beams that needed replacing.

  As I worked I began humming to myself the old Drifters' song 'Up on the Roof', and was surprised when Serge joined in on the chorus, singing out the 'up on the roof' bits in English. We worked away, singing together, levering off broken beams and slinging the bits over the edge.

  '
Putain!
These are full of wormholes,' said Serge.

  'Well, they've been here a few hundred years, it's hardly surprising,' I said. He was right, though; they were like honeycomb on the surface. But once you drilled down through the woodwormy bit the centres were as solid as iron. I'd broken several drill bits on ancient oak beams like this in our home when Helen wanted something hung up.

  We fetched a fresh piece of oak, sawed it to size and nailed it into place, strengthening the roof. Below us was the old
grenier
(loft). I nipped down the ladder to fetch another replacement length of wood from the van and when I came back up with it Serge had disappeared. I shouted out for him but there was no reply. What was he playing at? I yelled for him again and heard an answering shout from somewhere way down below inside the house. I swung down on a beam and landed with a thump on my feet in the
grenier
. The only light in here came from the gap in the roof and I could see a door made of planks at the far end. I opened it and felt my way down a narrow wooden staircase to the floor below. It was a long dark hallway. I called to Serge again. Nothing. At the end of the passage I could see a soft glow of light. I walked towards it and entered a furnished bedroom with one shutter half open letting in the daylight. There was a heavy carved walnut double bed with two
chevets
and an armoire. I had the feeling the old owner could walk in any minute. A chill ran through me when I heard a thundering noise coming up a wooden staircase. Then Serge appeared, clumping along the hall.

  '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.