Read Online Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette by John Dummer - Free Book Online
Authors: John Dummer
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French.'
  A woman appeared from round the back of the house wearing a floral-print dress and floppy straw hat and carrying a trug and a pair of pruning shears. She came towards us with an expectant look on her face. I felt stupid and wasn't sure how I was going to play this. But she spoke before I had a chance to explain.
  'Vous cherchez quelque chose?'
  Her French was good. It was obvious she wasn't just someone over for a short stay in a holiday cottage.
  I was tempted to answer her in French and pretend we were lost. But Serge was watching me closely and would have noticed I wasn't going through the rigmarole of asking if she had any valuable antiques she was willing to unload on us for a song.
  So instead I spoke in English, the first thing that came into my head.
  'Sorry to disturb you like this⦠we seem to have made a mistake and come to the wrong house.'
  Serge nodded and grinned as if he knew exactly what I was saying.
  He was pleased the woman had spoken French because he chipped in, ' Mais oui, et je peux payer en espèces pour les belles choses. ' (Yes, and I pay in cash for anything good.) He predictably pulled out his wad of euros and wafted them under her nose.
  She looked shocked and slightly repulsed.
  'Does your friend make a habit of waving his money about?' She had a cut-glass English accent.
  'We're on our way to do a house clearance,' I said. 'I'm sorry about that, he never misses an opportunity to try and pick up a bargain.' (I was starting to make up a pack of lies just like Serge. I was turning into him. That was it! I was definitely not coming out with him again.)
  'Why, have you got a shop?'
  'No, we're brocanteurs. We only do the markets,' I said.
  'What's the matter, darling?' A man appeared dressed in a pair of brightly coloured swimming shorts and sporting a brilliant white Panama hat.
  'These people are knockers,' she said, making it sound like it came just below paedophiles in her list of utter scum.
  'Really?' said the man.
  'Not knockers, exactly. We're professional brocanteurs. ' I could feel my face reddening. She reminded me of a particularly scary teacher from my infant school. 'Actually, I've only just started and he's showing me the ropes.'
  'But your friend appears to be a knocker. He's certainly vulgar enough with his fistful of money.' She pulled a face as if there was a nasty smell under her nose.
  'He's a bit keen but he always pays a fair price,' I lied. It was becoming second nature to me now.
  She raised her eyebrows. 'So which is it to be? Are you knockers or are you lost?'
  'We're supposed to be picking up some stuff from a house round here⦠It's for a friend of his,' I said lamely.
  I glanced at Serge with his grazed nose and scruffy jeans holding the wad of euros. He had a smear of cherry pie juice on his chin. I wasn't much smarter myself. We looked like just the sort of unsavoury characters these people had come to France to avoid.
  'Is he a Gypsy? He looks almost too disreputable to be one.'
  'No, he's a Basque,' I said trying to lighten the mood.
  'He looks like a common or garden knocker to me. Perhaps he's not the best person to model yourself on if you're hoping to be a legitimate brocanteur .
  Serge was wondering what we were on about.
  'Tell them the mayor sent us,' he said. 'That always does the trick.'
  I laughed like this was some sort of joke.
  'Yes, well, we'll be off and leave you in peace,' I said, deciding it was best to cut and run. 'Sorry again to have bothered you.' I went to get back in the van.
  'Come on, Serge, let's go.'
  'Have they got any old English furniture they want to get rid of?' said Serge. 'Save them going up the tip.'
  I ignored the remark, laughing it off. 'He's like a little
  A woman appeared from round the back of the house wearing a floral-print dress and floppy straw hat and carrying a trug and a pair of pruning shears. She came towards us with an expectant look on her face. I felt stupid and wasn't sure how I was going to play this. But she spoke before I had a chance to explain.
  'Vous cherchez quelque chose?'
  Her French was good. It was obvious she wasn't just someone over for a short stay in a holiday cottage.
  I was tempted to answer her in French and pretend we were lost. But Serge was watching me closely and would have noticed I wasn't going through the rigmarole of asking if she had any valuable antiques she was willing to unload on us for a song.
  So instead I spoke in English, the first thing that came into my head.
  'Sorry to disturb you like this⦠we seem to have made a mistake and come to the wrong house.'
  Serge nodded and grinned as if he knew exactly what I was saying.
  He was pleased the woman had spoken French because he chipped in, ' Mais oui, et je peux payer en espèces pour les belles choses. ' (Yes, and I pay in cash for anything good.) He predictably pulled out his wad of euros and wafted them under her nose.
  She looked shocked and slightly repulsed.
  'Does your friend make a habit of waving his money about?' She had a cut-glass English accent.
  'We're on our way to do a house clearance,' I said. 'I'm sorry about that, he never misses an opportunity to try and pick up a bargain.' (I was starting to make up a pack of lies just like Serge. I was turning into him. That was it! I was definitely not coming out with him again.)
  'Why, have you got a shop?'
  'No, we're brocanteurs. We only do the markets,' I said.
  'What's the matter, darling?' A man appeared dressed in a pair of brightly coloured swimming shorts and sporting a brilliant white Panama hat.
  'These people are knockers,' she said, making it sound like it came just below paedophiles in her list of utter scum.
  'Really?' said the man.
  'Not knockers, exactly. We're professional brocanteurs. ' I could feel my face reddening. She reminded me of a particularly scary teacher from my infant school. 'Actually, I've only just started and he's showing me the ropes.'
  'But your friend appears to be a knocker. He's certainly vulgar enough with his fistful of money.' She pulled a face as if there was a nasty smell under her nose.
  'He's a bit keen but he always pays a fair price,' I lied. It was becoming second nature to me now.
  She raised her eyebrows. 'So which is it to be? Are you knockers or are you lost?'
  'We're supposed to be picking up some stuff from a house round here⦠It's for a friend of his,' I said lamely.
  I glanced at Serge with his grazed nose and scruffy jeans holding the wad of euros. He had a smear of cherry pie juice on his chin. I wasn't much smarter myself. We looked like just the sort of unsavoury characters these people had come to France to avoid.
  'Is he a Gypsy? He looks almost too disreputable to be one.'
  'No, he's a Basque,' I said trying to lighten the mood.
  'He looks like a common or garden knocker to me. Perhaps he's not the best person to model yourself on if you're hoping to be a legitimate brocanteur .
  Serge was wondering what we were on about.
  'Tell them the mayor sent us,' he said. 'That always does the trick.'
  I laughed like this was some sort of joke.
  'Yes, well, we'll be off and leave you in peace,' I said, deciding it was best to cut and run. 'Sorry again to have bothered you.' I went to get back in the van.
  'Come on, Serge, let's go.'
  'Have they got any old English furniture they want to get rid of?' said Serge. 'Save them going up the tip.'
  I ignored the remark, laughing it off. 'He's like a little
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