Son of Serge Bastarde (18 page)

We walked Buster every day, continuing to train him to heel and getting him used to being controlled on the lead again. Staffs react well to discipline as long as it's administered with love and understanding. He took to carrying a walking stick in his mouth. This was his special task and he was obsessed yet again. If I tried to take it from him, he hung on for grim death. At least he was barking and biting our shoes a bit less. We had managed to undo some of the bad habits he had learnt from Malcolm. He was still a rugged little terrier but no longer
têtu
(headstrong), as the French say.

  The following Thursday was the day of the monthly Dax market and I suggested to Helen I take Buster with me in the van to get him used to being out and about and meeting new people. I was confident he wouldn't be any trouble. He had got over his initial car sickness and now loved to sit up on the front seat next to me.

  'Just keep an eye on him and don't let him out to run around,' said Helen. 'He still gets overexcited.'

  This was true. Although he wasn't very good with other dogs, he loved people. All our previous Staffs had been the same. They are one of the friendliest breeds and like nothing better than making new chums.

  Dawn was breaking as I drove into the town centre. As usual, Buster had his head stuck out the window, taking in the sights. He was on the lookout for other dogs. Whenever we passed one his head swivelled and I could almost see the cartoon dotted line from his bulging eyes staring straight at every unsuspecting animal.

  I parked my van in my usual place opposite my pitch and began unloading my tables and boxes of stock. Monsieur Repro next door was already halfway through setting up his cunning mix of real antiques and
pompes
(fakes). He was serious about relieving the customers of as much money, and as early in the day, as possible. His real name was Laurent, and he wasn't setting up his stand himself; his young assistant from Toulouse was doing all the work while he just watched, relaxing in one of his reproduction antique armchairs. Now and again he got up, irritated, and showed his poor assistant how he wasn't doing something properly, pushing him to one side. I don't know how he did it but he was the only
brocanteur
with a connection to the electrical supply linked to the overhead lights and his assistant was arranging a series of tiny twinkling spotlights which bathed his wares in a soft, warm glow. The result was that his stand looked professional and highly seductive. He regularly got ridiculous money for his fakes, which he always insisted were genuine to any prospective customer. He loved to boast about his triumphs to other dealers in the tapas bar at lunchtime. He was generally disliked, but I thought secretly some of the
brocanteurs
admired his success and were even tempted to emulate him. Serge himself spoke about Laurent with admiration and the pair of them sometimes spent the night up at the Dax casino after a good day's sales, gambling away all their profits.

  I was wondering where Serge was when I saw his beaten-up old Renault van with SERGE BASTARDE – BROCANTEUR in big letters on the side circling the square. It turned at the traffic lights, drove along the service road that ran round the market and parked behind my van. Serge climbed out and shouted across to me. He was wearing his
béret extra large
, the one he bought at the Lourdes sale, an old pair of jeans and a striped T-shirt. He looked as stereotypically French as Lord Snooty always looked stereotypically English. All he was missing was the string of onions round his neck. I could see Diddy in the passenger seat, his head nodding on his chest, half asleep.

  'Eh Johnny!' Serge waved as he opened up the back of his van and began unloading his boxes of bric-a-brac. He ran round, opened the passenger door and shook Diddy, who reluctantly climbed out and began helping him. As Diddy passed my van window he did a double-take when he saw Buster sitting up front in the driver's seat. He tapped on the window and Buster gazed at him, unmoved. It didn't look like he was ever going to be a good guard dog. Diddy's face broke out in a big grin. When he turned I saw he was wearing a hooded
'pull'
, as the French call them, with the silhouette of a pit bull on the front. He came across smiling. 'He your pit bull, man? Nice dog.'

  'He's not a pit bull,' I said, 'he's a Staff.'

  'Oh right, an American Staff, nice dog.'

  'No, he's a Staffy Anglais,' I corrected him. 'They're almost the same, just a bit smaller.'

  Serge came over, excited. 'My God, Johnny, is he yours this pit bull dog?'

  'He's not a pit bull,' I repeated for his benefit.

  'Has he passed his driving test?' Diddy asked with a grin.

  'He's a Staffy Anglais,' I explained again. 'Come on over and say hello, he likes people.'

  'I'm not sure, Johnny,' said Serge. 'Does he bite?'

  'Of course he doesn't, he's a sweetheart.'

  I opened the van door and wound down the window. Buster stuck his head out, wanting a fuss. Diddy and Serge leant back warily.

  'Come on, he won't hurt you,' I said. 'He just wants a stroke.'

  Diddy, full of bravado, managed to overcome his fear and scratched Buster behind the ears.

  This was just a short step away from Buster trying to climb onto his shoulder and lick him to death. They took to each other. Serge insisted on getting him out of the van and Buster was all over them, jumping up, snorting with delight. He had decided the pair would make ideal playmates and when they began mock-fighting with him he was overjoyed. We had just spent weeks training some sense into him and now Serge and Diddy were undoing all our good work.

  'Best not fight with him,' I said. But they weren't listening. Serge was rolling on the floor kicking out and laughing as Buster worried at his trainers while Diddy was slapping at him, holding onto his collar and pulling him away. Serge's
béret extra large
fell off and Buster snatched it up and began a tug of war, growling and shaking his head from side to side, trying to break Serge's grip. He was overexcited and I had a feeling it was going to end in tears.

  'Perhaps you should let him calm down for a bit,' I said, grabbing his collar. Buster's eyes had gone wild. It was a state that Staff owners are familiar with, when their dog passes the point of sanity and good sense. It's best to give them a break to pull them back from the brink. I dragged Buster away and put him back in the van. He was straight up at the window looking at them, wild-eyed.

  'Oh, he's adorable!' said Serge.

  'Yeah, cool dog,' said Diddy. He went across and fussed Buster, who stuck his head out and licked his face.

  'Can we take him over and show Thibaud?' asked Diddy. 'I'll pretend he's mine.'

  'I'd rather you didn't,' I said. I was remembering what Helen had said about not letting him run around.

  'Oh, go on, Johnny,' said Serge, 'we'll look after him.' He was excited, like a big schoolboy. It was nice to see him like that. What harm could it do?

  'All right, keep him on the lead and don't let him run around.'

  'Don't worry, we won't, you can trust us,' said Diddy.

  I watched the pair of them set off across the market with Buster, head down, pulling out front. Could they control him? What was I thinking of? Of course they couldn't! I rushed across the square. When I caught up with them Diddy and Thibaud were holding the ends of an antique walking stick with Buster gripping the middle, hanging on with his teeth. His feet were off the ground, but he wouldn't let go, shaking his head so his whole body twisted and jerked like a crazy puppet. My friend Louis the bookseller turned round, laughing. 'Have you seen this pit bull, John? He's a maniac!'

  'Yoiks! Tally-ho!' Lord Snooty was striding across the market square. 'I say, a Staffordshire bull terrier, isn't it? Now that's what I call a real English dog... indomitable, with a great heart. Much better than those pathetic little French bulldog things.'

  'I rather like
le bouledogue français
,' I said.

  'No, they're pitiful creatures. The French prefer poodles. This Staffy can't be Serge's, he must be yours, John.'

  'OK. Yes, he's mine. His name's Buster,' I said.

  'Oh, what an awful, common name! Couldn't you have thought up something a bit classier?'

  'I would have thought a Labrador was more your sort of thing,' I said.

  'You're forgetting I'm a Londoner. Ask Helen, we've always loved Staffordshire bull terriers in London.' He went over and grabbed one end of the stick with Serge. 'C'mon Buster m'lad, let's see what you're made of.' He began to shake the stick violently. I pulled at Buster's collar but he still wouldn't let go.

  'He's a spunky little chap, isn't he?' said Snooty.

  A small crowd of
brocanteurs
had gathered round to watch the spectacle, joking amongst themselves.

  'Oi, oi! No dog fighting allowed!' It was Reg. He ran in and grabbed the other end of the stick with Serge. Buster was hanging on for grim death and kicking both back legs, desperate to shake them off. There was a loud crack, the stick broke and Buster dropped to the floor and gleefully ran off with one end, his lead dragging behind him. Lord Snooty, Serge, Diddy, Thibaut, Reg and me chased after him, but he dodged us all easily; to him it was a great game. He ran between the tables, waving the end of the stick and daring us to catch him. My heart sank. The road was ahead and it was now eight in the morning and busy with rush-hour traffic. I shouted for Buster to stop. He paused for a split second and looked back. Then he was off again, veering towards Monsieur Repro's beautifully arranged stand.

  Monsieur Repro didn't see him coming. He was sitting back in his chair with his feet up on a gout stool, looking the other way. Buster's paws caught one of the electrical leads and a series of spotlights zipped up in the air one after another, crashing down and popping out. Monsieur Repro was up on his feet, mouth wide open, hands above his head.
'Qu'est-ce que c'est? Qu'est-ce que c'est?'
(What is it?) He was apoplectic. A large, expensive-looking vase was swaying precariously. It overbalanced, fell and was caught by Monsieur Repro's assistant in the nick of time. A stack of shelves displaying bronze and spelter figures began to rock alarmingly before Monsieur Repro leapt forward and managed to steady them. An expensive looking gilt French ormolu clock decorated with winged cherubs toppled and would have fallen if Reg hadn't caught it. Thibaut managed to grab Buster's collar and hold him while I clipped his lead on. But he lurched forward and caught the leg of a big cheval mirror in the middle which tipped forward and fell as if in slow motion, hitting the ground and shattering with a loud crash.

  'My mirror, my beautiful mirror!' moaned Monsieur Repro. 'Is he yours, this pit bull?' His face was bright red.

  'He's not a pit bull,' I said.

  'He should be put down!' he screamed. 'He's a menace!'

  'Sorry about your mirror,' I said. 'I'll pay for any damage.'

  'It was worth a fortune,' insisted Monsieur Repro.

  'What, that tat?' chipped in Snooty. 'Don't make me laugh. What utter rubbish! I've been to the same cut-price warehouse where you got it. That's a cheap
pompe
.'

  'Let me know how much I owe you Laurent,' I said, leading Buster off.

  'Don't worry, old chap,' said Lord Snooty, following me. 'You could smash all his tat and get change out of twenty euros.'

  'Maybe, but it's still really embarrassing,' I said. I was just so relieved that Buster hadn't run out into the road. I opened my van and Buster hopped up on the front seat. His eyes were wild and his tongue was hanging out. He'd really enjoyed all the fun. Serge went over and stroked him, getting his face licked clean for his trouble. He turned round, wiping his face with the back of his hand, and there were tears in his eyes. 'Oh, Johnny! Your Buster has brought all the memories flooding back. I miss my Robespierre so much I can't tell you. My heart is breaking – I can't bear life without a dog. I'm never going to see my Robespierre or my little Adrien again.'

  He looked so pathetic I put my arm round him. 'You will,' I said, trying to comfort him. 'You will, give it time.'

  Later that evening when Helen and I took Buster for a walk he had completely forgotten everything we had taught him. He was back to attacking our feet, barking and acting up.

  'What on earth's wrong with him?' asked Helen. 'He's gone backwards. He's out of control again. Did something happen at the market today?'

  'I was going to tell you,' I said, caught out. 'He escaped and ran into Mr Repro's stand.' I reluctantly described the whole sorry saga.

  'What? I can't believe you let him loose round the market. Look at him, he's all hyped up.'

  'I'm expecting to get a bill for the breakages,' I said. 'It was Serge and Diddy's fault. I tried to stop them but they got carried away.'

  'Serge and Diddy? What were you thinking of?'

  'They both loved Buster and he loved them. But then they play fought with him.'

  Helen stopped in her tracks. 'Play fought? Why didn't you stop them? You know what he's like.'

  'I know, but Serge really loved Buster. And then he got upset about not having a dog any more, it was really sad.' I bent down to pick up Buster's stick. He saw me reaching for it and as I grabbed it his teeth snapped shut and he wrenched it from my grasp. He ran off, shaking it violently.

  'Was Serge really upset?' asked Helen. I could see she had softened.

  'Yes, he was in tears.'

  'Poor devil. He's not heard anything from Angelique? Surely she'll get in touch. It's not like her.'