Son of Serge Bastarde Read Online Free Page A
Author: John Dummer
sneered and shrugged like he couldn't understand me.
  I explained in the nicest possible way that the little girl had taken it off my stand to play with earlier and that the monkey belonged to me.
  The guy blanked me and made a dismissive gesture. He turned his back. He wasn't the slightest bit interested.
  I could see I wasn't getting anywhere and was determined not to lose my monkey so I decided to find the market organiser to get him to sort it out. The man who ran the Soumoulou market was an impressive bearded individual who stood no nonsense from anyone. We arrived back at the young dealer's stand together and as soon as he saw the organiser his whole attitude changed. Faced with the pair of us he explained that the little girl had come back with the monkey and he thought she had found it thrown away somewhere or been given it as a gift. He was unaware it belonged to me, he pleaded. I couldn't do anything other than accept his profuse apologies, take my monkey and return to my stand, vindicated.
  It had been a somewhat unsettling day but in the end I had done OK and made a decent profit. By late afternoon most of the customers had drifted off and I began to pack up. Someone had left a couple of flyers on my stand. I threw them in my rubbish bag without giving them a second glance and continued packing. As I was taking down my parasol I noticed another leaflet stuck to my shoe. There were a few of them strewn around the place. I stopped and pulled it off. It was a flyer boasting the offer 'ACHAT D'OR' . There was a photo of a character smiling enticingly and holding up a wad of euro notes. He looked very familiar. When I looked more closely... I couldn't believe my eyes.
  I heard a distinctive voice and looked up to see Lord Snooty coming towards me, jubilantly waving one of the same leaflets in his hand.
  'There, what did I tell you? Isn't this your pal Serge Bastarde?' He was pointing at the photo triumphantly. 'Now tell me the chap's not an oik and a bounder. Serge the Snurge! I rest my case.'
  Yes, the smug prig was right. I now knew without a doubt it really was true. My eyes weren't deceiving me. It was Serge, as large as life. I'd recognise that face anywhere. And the way he was fanning the ever familiar fistful of euros â Serge Bastarde, in all his glory, plying the old cash-for-gold scam.
  What the hell was he playing at and where the hell was he?
  And if he was back, why the hell hadn't he got in touch with me?
3
SWALLOWS AND FIELDS OF CORN
The maize in the fields that surround our house was ripe and rustling in the morning sunshine. The russet pods that protected the corn had peeled back in places to reveal glimpses of the shiny yellow ears enveloped by silky spun cushions. The stalks of corn were now fully grown and we were completely hidden from the outside world. I loved early autumn, when the corn was at its highest and it felt like we were in a little secret world of our own.
  In the distance I could clearly see the shadowy blue outline of the Pyrenees. When the mountains are visible in this area of the Landes, it means that rain is coming within the next couple of days. Our neighbours had told us this when we first arrived here and at first we had been dubious. It sounded like an old wives' tale to us but they were right. It doesn't matter how fine it is or how brightly the sun is shining; if you can see the Pyrenees, rain is on its way.
  The fields of corn owned by Mr Fagot sloped gently down to Mr Leglise's farm and that morning I could hear his dog's excited barking and his yells of encouragement as the spry octogenarian drove his donkey and cow out into the pasture for the day. This meant it was eight o'clock; you could set your watch by the time Mr Leglise drove his livestock out into the fields.
  What a perfect morning for a stroll into the village to buy fresh croissants for breakfast! I told
  I explained in the nicest possible way that the little girl had taken it off my stand to play with earlier and that the monkey belonged to me.
  The guy blanked me and made a dismissive gesture. He turned his back. He wasn't the slightest bit interested.
  I could see I wasn't getting anywhere and was determined not to lose my monkey so I decided to find the market organiser to get him to sort it out. The man who ran the Soumoulou market was an impressive bearded individual who stood no nonsense from anyone. We arrived back at the young dealer's stand together and as soon as he saw the organiser his whole attitude changed. Faced with the pair of us he explained that the little girl had come back with the monkey and he thought she had found it thrown away somewhere or been given it as a gift. He was unaware it belonged to me, he pleaded. I couldn't do anything other than accept his profuse apologies, take my monkey and return to my stand, vindicated.
  It had been a somewhat unsettling day but in the end I had done OK and made a decent profit. By late afternoon most of the customers had drifted off and I began to pack up. Someone had left a couple of flyers on my stand. I threw them in my rubbish bag without giving them a second glance and continued packing. As I was taking down my parasol I noticed another leaflet stuck to my shoe. There were a few of them strewn around the place. I stopped and pulled it off. It was a flyer boasting the offer 'ACHAT D'OR' . There was a photo of a character smiling enticingly and holding up a wad of euro notes. He looked very familiar. When I looked more closely... I couldn't believe my eyes.
  I heard a distinctive voice and looked up to see Lord Snooty coming towards me, jubilantly waving one of the same leaflets in his hand.
  'There, what did I tell you? Isn't this your pal Serge Bastarde?' He was pointing at the photo triumphantly. 'Now tell me the chap's not an oik and a bounder. Serge the Snurge! I rest my case.'
  Yes, the smug prig was right. I now knew without a doubt it really was true. My eyes weren't deceiving me. It was Serge, as large as life. I'd recognise that face anywhere. And the way he was fanning the ever familiar fistful of euros â Serge Bastarde, in all his glory, plying the old cash-for-gold scam.
  What the hell was he playing at and where the hell was he?
  And if he was back, why the hell hadn't he got in touch with me?
3
SWALLOWS AND FIELDS OF CORN
The maize in the fields that surround our house was ripe and rustling in the morning sunshine. The russet pods that protected the corn had peeled back in places to reveal glimpses of the shiny yellow ears enveloped by silky spun cushions. The stalks of corn were now fully grown and we were completely hidden from the outside world. I loved early autumn, when the corn was at its highest and it felt like we were in a little secret world of our own.
  In the distance I could clearly see the shadowy blue outline of the Pyrenees. When the mountains are visible in this area of the Landes, it means that rain is coming within the next couple of days. Our neighbours had told us this when we first arrived here and at first we had been dubious. It sounded like an old wives' tale to us but they were right. It doesn't matter how fine it is or how brightly the sun is shining; if you can see the Pyrenees, rain is on its way.
  The fields of corn owned by Mr Fagot sloped gently down to Mr Leglise's farm and that morning I could hear his dog's excited barking and his yells of encouragement as the spry octogenarian drove his donkey and cow out into the pasture for the day. This meant it was eight o'clock; you could set your watch by the time Mr Leglise drove his livestock out into the fields.
  What a perfect morning for a stroll into the village to buy fresh croissants for breakfast! I told
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