Read Online Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette by John Dummer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John Dummer
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terrier once he scents a bargain.'
  I pulled a tight face at Serge. 'No, they haven't got anything. Let's go.'
  But he wasn't ready to give up so easily.
  He went up to the man, grinning with his hand out.
  'The mayor asked us to come round and see you,' he said, immediately calling the man 'tu' in an overfriendly manner. 'We've visited all your neighbours.'
  The man took his hand and shook it. 'Well, that's strange because I am the mayor and I've never met you before in my life.' He spoke perfect French.
  Serge was completely wrong-footed by this remark.
  'No, that's not possible. You can't be the mayor.'
  'I can assure you I am,' said the man.
  'But you're English.'
  'Yes.'
  'And the mayor?'
  'Yes.'
  Serge was dumbfounded.
  'I think it might be best if you both stop telling stories and leave, don't you?' said the woman darkly.
  I started the van and Serge climbed in zombie-like beside me. I pulled away, sticking my head out of the window.
  'Bye then,' I said, accelerating up the drive.
  But they had turned away and were disappearing into the house.
  We drove along in silence. Serge appeared deeply troubled. After a while, he said, 'They were a bit snobby, weren't they?'
  He was right. What an understatement. It was indicative that the French had to borrow an English word to describe a characteristically English attitude. They were bloody snobs all right.
  We were entering a village. 'Pull over here,' said Serge pointing to a cafe, 'I need a drink.'
  We sat at the bar while he revived himself with a stiff brandy.
  There was a young English couple talking in loud voices at a nearby table and a party of friends joined them and started ordering drinks and laughing loudly together.
  'You get a lot of English in here?' I asked the cafe owner in French.
  'You're not joking,' he said. 'The place is full of English. In fact, even the mayor's English.'
  'We know, we just met him,' said Serge hollowly.
  'Well, he's not what you might call really English, more of an Anglophile. He's actually French but he grew up in England and married an Englishwoman,' said the owner. 'He gets on well with all the English in the commune and they voted him in. He's all right, but his wife's a right dragon.'
  'We know, we met her too,' I said.
  'Don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking it; English money's as good as anybody's. But house prices have shot up. Our young people can't afford to buy here any more. My son and his wife have had to build their own place two villages away. It's beginning to cause bad feeling.'
  I'd heard about this. When the English first began buying up all the old properties the French were delighted to unload them for what they thought were extortionate prices, as the young French, bored with country life and lack of jobs, moved to the larger towns. At least the English were white Europeans (if they'd been Arabs it would have been a different story) and were generally polite and enamoured with la vie française. But now the sheer number of Brits was starting to change the landscape forever. Resentments were building. There had even been critical exposés of the phenomenon on the telly.
  As we walked back to the van I noticed there were a lot of pasty overweight people in shorts and straw hats strolling about. Normally a French village like this would be dead so soon after lunch.
  We were driving through the outskirts when a police wagon overtook and signalled us to pull over.
  'Mother of Jesus,' said Serge. 'What have we done now?'
  I stopped and a pair of formidable-looking gendarmes climbed out. 'Leave me to do all the talking, Johnny,' said Serge under his breath. 'I know what to say to les flics. '
  My confidence in Serge's ability to deal with the police
  I pulled a tight face at Serge. 'No, they haven't got anything. Let's go.'
  But he wasn't ready to give up so easily.
  He went up to the man, grinning with his hand out.
  'The mayor asked us to come round and see you,' he said, immediately calling the man 'tu' in an overfriendly manner. 'We've visited all your neighbours.'
  The man took his hand and shook it. 'Well, that's strange because I am the mayor and I've never met you before in my life.' He spoke perfect French.
  Serge was completely wrong-footed by this remark.
  'No, that's not possible. You can't be the mayor.'
  'I can assure you I am,' said the man.
  'But you're English.'
  'Yes.'
  'And the mayor?'
  'Yes.'
  Serge was dumbfounded.
  'I think it might be best if you both stop telling stories and leave, don't you?' said the woman darkly.
  I started the van and Serge climbed in zombie-like beside me. I pulled away, sticking my head out of the window.
  'Bye then,' I said, accelerating up the drive.
  But they had turned away and were disappearing into the house.
  We drove along in silence. Serge appeared deeply troubled. After a while, he said, 'They were a bit snobby, weren't they?'
  He was right. What an understatement. It was indicative that the French had to borrow an English word to describe a characteristically English attitude. They were bloody snobs all right.
  We were entering a village. 'Pull over here,' said Serge pointing to a cafe, 'I need a drink.'
  We sat at the bar while he revived himself with a stiff brandy.
  There was a young English couple talking in loud voices at a nearby table and a party of friends joined them and started ordering drinks and laughing loudly together.
  'You get a lot of English in here?' I asked the cafe owner in French.
  'You're not joking,' he said. 'The place is full of English. In fact, even the mayor's English.'
  'We know, we just met him,' said Serge hollowly.
  'Well, he's not what you might call really English, more of an Anglophile. He's actually French but he grew up in England and married an Englishwoman,' said the owner. 'He gets on well with all the English in the commune and they voted him in. He's all right, but his wife's a right dragon.'
  'We know, we met her too,' I said.
  'Don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking it; English money's as good as anybody's. But house prices have shot up. Our young people can't afford to buy here any more. My son and his wife have had to build their own place two villages away. It's beginning to cause bad feeling.'
  I'd heard about this. When the English first began buying up all the old properties the French were delighted to unload them for what they thought were extortionate prices, as the young French, bored with country life and lack of jobs, moved to the larger towns. At least the English were white Europeans (if they'd been Arabs it would have been a different story) and were generally polite and enamoured with la vie française. But now the sheer number of Brits was starting to change the landscape forever. Resentments were building. There had even been critical exposés of the phenomenon on the telly.
  As we walked back to the van I noticed there were a lot of pasty overweight people in shorts and straw hats strolling about. Normally a French village like this would be dead so soon after lunch.
  We were driving through the outskirts when a police wagon overtook and signalled us to pull over.
  'Mother of Jesus,' said Serge. 'What have we done now?'
  I stopped and a pair of formidable-looking gendarmes climbed out. 'Leave me to do all the talking, Johnny,' said Serge under his breath. 'I know what to say to les flics. '
  My confidence in Serge's ability to deal with the police
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