Son of Serge Bastarde Read Online Free Page B

Helen where I was going and set off along the track across the fields. I had showed her the 'ACHAT D'OR' leaflet but she didn't believe it; she said someone must have used an old photo of Serge. I tried not to think about it. Instead, I did what I always do when I walk across my land – worry about the weeds and brambles that take hold over the summer. And then guilt sets in as I recall the ecological disaster I caused through my ignorance when we first moved into our 300-year-old farmhouse a few years ago. There was a jungle of weeds round the house and one of our well-meaning French neighbours had advised me to control them with a chlorate weedkiller. I bought a plastic pump machine, diluted the concentrated killer and went around spraying the paths and driveway, wearing a face mask and goggles (you can't be too careful with poisonous weedkiller, it said on the bottle with its skull-and-crossbones logo).
    Â Â It worked like magic. After a few days the weeds wilted and died and the effect lasted throughout the year. I was so encouraged by this that the following season I went right round the house spraying the bottom of the walls where the weeds were springing up. And I noticed I wasn't the only one caught up in this weed-killing mania. Our neighbours sprayed the verges outside their houses, leaving just a dead area of earth where nothing could grow, not even grass. This had seemed a bit extreme, but as the French like to point out, 'C'est propre' (It's neat).
    Â Â On hot, humid summer evenings we were delighted to hear the sweet musical peeping sounds made by tiny green tree frogs around our house. Sometimes we would see one attached to one of the windows by the sucker pads on its feet. They were such wonderful little frogs, and the sound they made was magical. But the following summer they had disappeared, and with horror we realised too late that our beautiful tree frogs must have absorbed the deadly weedkiller. I had thoughtlessly wiped out a population that had doubtlessly been breeding round our property for generations. We hoped and prayed that some had survived and they would return. But they never did.
    Â Â The EU has recently banned chlorate weedkiller, and not before time. Now I never use weedkiller – I cut back the brambles and weeds by hand. This is not as effective and is much harder work, but I will never be able to rid myself of the guilt over the demise of our beautiful tree-frog colony.
    Â Â As I walked through the orchard behind our house the church bell in the village chimed quarter past the hour and I remembered Spike, our big brindle Staffordshire bull terrier who was buried in the far corner of the field. A walk without a dog isn't the same, and with Spike by my side the world had always seemed a brighter and more exciting place. He had a unique, stylish way of trotting that you couldn't help but admire, and his whole mien was the epitome of relaxed and casual 'cool'. This was the first time Helen and I had been without a Staff since we were first married. We had brought two cats with us and inherited two more from Gaston, the previous owner of the house, but to my mind there's something about having a dog around that makes life more worthwhile. I can think back to every dog I've ever had and how each one enriched my life. My earliest memories are of cuddling up in a basket with Bruce, a gentle red setter that befriended me on a beach in Worthing when I was a kid on holiday with my mum and dad. Bruce's owners were unable to cope with him for some reason and to my great joy agreed to let us keep him. As I grew up we had a succession of black Labradors and I still miss my little whippet-cross, Percy, my constant companion in my early twenties.
    Â Â We had spent too long without having a dog around. I decided when I got back with the croissants I would talk to Helen over breakfast about buying a Staff puppy. There must be a breeder here in France. American Staffs had become