Son of Serge Bastarde Read Online Free
Author: John Dummer
superiors and betters and let the rabble and peasants take over.'
  I could see that Thibaut was starting to look annoyed. Lord Snooty was obviously rubbing him up the wrong way, and although Thibaut was usually quite easygoing, when riled he was a man you'd want to avoid.
  Lord Snooty (or Algie, or whatever), oblivious to the glowering Thibaut, carried on denigrating Serge and the French until he finished with: 'I'd say that most of the French are thieves and liars like Serge and that he's the type that gives us brocanteurs a bad name.'
  Thibaut exploded and lurched forward. He'd had enough. He grabbed Algie by the front of his jacket and lifted him bodily off the ground, cursing him nose to nose with some pretty strong swear words, several of which I hadn't heard before. He called him an English rosbif snob and let go, dropping him so he staggered and fell backwards.
  'I'm sorry, John,' said Thibaut, 'but I can't stay around listening to this connard any longer. I won't be responsible for my actions.' He took a final swig of his lager and walked out.
  Algie was dusting himself down. 'I don't much care for the company you keep,' he said to me. 'Are all your friends absolute blackguards like him and that Bastarde fellow?'
  I told him in no uncertain terms that I disagreed strongly with everything he'd said and that he'd gone too far. I walked out, furious. Outside I made a spurt to catch up with Thibaut.
  'I'm sorry about all that, Thibaut,' I said. 'I've only just met the bloke. I don't know him at all. He gives all us English a bad name. We aren't all rude like that, it's really embarrassing.'
  'C'est pas grave,' said Thibaut (it doesn't matter). 'I know Serge was no angel, but he is one of us â we must stick together.'
  I wished him luck and bon courage and made my way back to my stand. Amazing! Serge was still causing me trouble when he wasn't even in the same country.
  Surprisingly enough, Chantal had sold a silver-plated tea set for the full price on the ticket and she handed me the money in euro notes. I thanked her from the bottom of my heart and asked if she could watch my pitch a bit longer. I was determined to track down that toddler, the one who stole my monkey.
  I set off, checking every stand I passed. Most of the dealers were back from lunch and I was obliged to stop and greet everyone and have a chat. Fred, a book dealer I knew well, said he had seen the child in the red dungarees and pointed me towards a stand further along.
  I looked across, and sure enough there was the kid, sitting in a little chair out front. He saw me coming and I don't know if he recognised me but he got up and sidled round behind the legs of the young dealer running the stand. I had never seen this young brocanteur before and was surprised to see he was wearing â somewhat inappropriately for a brocante fair â white hip-hop gear set off with a touch of 'bling': a glittering gold neck chain, sparkling ear studs and a flashy watch. I smiled at him and bent down and looked at the kid.
  'He's a lad, isn't he?' I said, laughing. 'How old is he?'
  The guy looked at me with a surly expression.
  'He's not a boy, he's a girl.' He pulled a face that implied he thought I was a complete imbecile for making such an obviously stupid mistake.
  'Oh yes, of course, sorry,' I said. I now noticed the little sparkling studs in the child's ears. The Spanish and some French are in the habit of having their baby girls' ears pierced. But, as Reg said, this kid was a tough little bruiser â bit of an easy mistake to make in this case.
  As I stood up I noticed my little monkey sitting on one of his tables. It had a ticket on it and it was up for sale. I was speechless.
  I stuttered in disbelief, 'Ce petit singe, il vient d'où?' (The little monkey, where did you get him?)
  The young dealer
  I could see that Thibaut was starting to look annoyed. Lord Snooty was obviously rubbing him up the wrong way, and although Thibaut was usually quite easygoing, when riled he was a man you'd want to avoid.
  Lord Snooty (or Algie, or whatever), oblivious to the glowering Thibaut, carried on denigrating Serge and the French until he finished with: 'I'd say that most of the French are thieves and liars like Serge and that he's the type that gives us brocanteurs a bad name.'
  Thibaut exploded and lurched forward. He'd had enough. He grabbed Algie by the front of his jacket and lifted him bodily off the ground, cursing him nose to nose with some pretty strong swear words, several of which I hadn't heard before. He called him an English rosbif snob and let go, dropping him so he staggered and fell backwards.
  'I'm sorry, John,' said Thibaut, 'but I can't stay around listening to this connard any longer. I won't be responsible for my actions.' He took a final swig of his lager and walked out.
  Algie was dusting himself down. 'I don't much care for the company you keep,' he said to me. 'Are all your friends absolute blackguards like him and that Bastarde fellow?'
  I told him in no uncertain terms that I disagreed strongly with everything he'd said and that he'd gone too far. I walked out, furious. Outside I made a spurt to catch up with Thibaut.
  'I'm sorry about all that, Thibaut,' I said. 'I've only just met the bloke. I don't know him at all. He gives all us English a bad name. We aren't all rude like that, it's really embarrassing.'
  'C'est pas grave,' said Thibaut (it doesn't matter). 'I know Serge was no angel, but he is one of us â we must stick together.'
  I wished him luck and bon courage and made my way back to my stand. Amazing! Serge was still causing me trouble when he wasn't even in the same country.
  Surprisingly enough, Chantal had sold a silver-plated tea set for the full price on the ticket and she handed me the money in euro notes. I thanked her from the bottom of my heart and asked if she could watch my pitch a bit longer. I was determined to track down that toddler, the one who stole my monkey.
  I set off, checking every stand I passed. Most of the dealers were back from lunch and I was obliged to stop and greet everyone and have a chat. Fred, a book dealer I knew well, said he had seen the child in the red dungarees and pointed me towards a stand further along.
  I looked across, and sure enough there was the kid, sitting in a little chair out front. He saw me coming and I don't know if he recognised me but he got up and sidled round behind the legs of the young dealer running the stand. I had never seen this young brocanteur before and was surprised to see he was wearing â somewhat inappropriately for a brocante fair â white hip-hop gear set off with a touch of 'bling': a glittering gold neck chain, sparkling ear studs and a flashy watch. I smiled at him and bent down and looked at the kid.
  'He's a lad, isn't he?' I said, laughing. 'How old is he?'
  The guy looked at me with a surly expression.
  'He's not a boy, he's a girl.' He pulled a face that implied he thought I was a complete imbecile for making such an obviously stupid mistake.
  'Oh yes, of course, sorry,' I said. I now noticed the little sparkling studs in the child's ears. The Spanish and some French are in the habit of having their baby girls' ears pierced. But, as Reg said, this kid was a tough little bruiser â bit of an easy mistake to make in this case.
  As I stood up I noticed my little monkey sitting on one of his tables. It had a ticket on it and it was up for sale. I was speechless.
  I stuttered in disbelief, 'Ce petit singe, il vient d'où?' (The little monkey, where did you get him?)
  The young dealer
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