CHAPTER TWO – COURRIERES
Courrieres was an annual event: a big flea market, and one of the best in Northern France, with the best part of a thousand sellers strung out under the trees in the Parc des Loisirs. Charlie arrived just before six and found the park already busy, even though trading was not officially due to start until eight. He found a parking space close to the entrance, and filled his pockets with euros. He had maybe six hundred, and six hundred well invested might well mushroom into a couple of thousand in sterling: such things could happen. Then they ambled off, with Jennifer in the lead, and both were beady-eyed. People sold everything and anything at Courrieres: from unwanted baby clothes and bits of old car engines to interesting furniture and bric-a-brac. Sadly the best bits tended to be pricey, for antique dealers foraged far and wide: Charlie heard a couple talking in English, their heads close together, and then some German and Dutch, or possibly Flemish. But dealers were not always as beady-eyed as the Tindals.
Jennifer pounced on a couple of small Limoges snuffboxes, and Charlie swung into action. He spoke French fluently, and could hold his own with the best. The price was rather high, he suggested delicately, as Jennifer frowned.
‘No, monsieur, they are a bargain.’ The stallholder was determined. Some more potential buyers were hovering in the background, and it was known that Belgians were mean, because this foreigner sounded like a Belgian, with his thick, mangled accent. The stallholder could also see that the man’s companion was hovering, taut with a little too much interest, despite her pretended nonchalance. He would not budge.
Charlie paid reluctantly. Buying in France was always a challenge. Prices might be hard to beat down first thing on a fine summer morning, when sellers brimmed with hopes and expectations. But charm might come into its own later in the day, when first excitements wore off. He ambled on, ignoring an attempt by Jennifer to make him move faster. Jennifer spoke no French. However he also kept a watchful eye open, because Jennifer possessed a very poor sense of location and direction, and sometimes lost herself. He passed stalls laden with junk, and more junk, and yet more junk, and his eyes searched all the time.
Jennifer stopped at a stall selling furniture polish, selling for much less than in England. Charlie bought several tins, and some steel wool, and found himself expected to act as porter. He wanted to go back to the Volvo, but Jennifer insisted on pressing on. He paused in protest to snatch a plastic cup half filled with bitter black coffee, and she turned back in disapproval to scold him. They ambled on, and on. Markets were like that, lots and lots of nothing, but from time to time an occasional flash.
Then Jennifer stopped at a brass chandelier hung about with garlands of glass drops, with a pair of matching wall lights. The woman selling them wanted a hundred euros, or around seventy pounds, but Jennifer shook her head. Charlie knew that she would like to pay fifty at most, and prepared to do his best. He began to inspect the chandelier slowly as she moved on, inch by inch, drop by glass drop. It lacked several drops, and it was an opening, a possible wedge, because drops could be expensive. He would not tell the woman that Jennifer kept boxes of spare drops at home.
He smiled at the woman. She looked tired, and a little worn, with washed out blue eyes and wispy fair hair, and a dress that seen better days. Jennifer drifted on her way. She would not move far, because now they were hunting. But good hunters hunt alone.
‘Ah, madame, I would like to buy it.’ He let his voice trail away.
‘It’s a beautiful one, monsieur. A real treasure.’ The woman spoke insistently, perhaps a little too insistently, her voice almost shrill, as though she had some pressure on her to sell. Perhaps she had debts. It was plain that she wanted the money.
Charlie touched the places on the chandelier missing their drops. ‘It is not perfect.’
‘Oh, monsieur, only a few are missing. You will easily find new ones.’ The woman tried to sound persuasive, but her voice lacked conviction.
‘Replacements are very dear.’ Charlie smiled politely and shrugged. He began to back away a little in a gesture of withdrawal.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe eighty? Perhaps seventy-five?’ She paused. ‘That’s a real market price.’
Charlie pursed his lips pensively, and measured his timing. He took a deep breath, and then spoke slowly and deliberately, because he was making a serious offer. ‘I’ll take it for sixty.’ He stared at the woman, and now his eyes were unyielding.
She hesitated. ‘Seventy, monsieur. Be generous, be kind.’
‘Sixty.’
‘Sixty-five?’ Now her voice was pleading.
‘Sixty.’
For a moment the woman hesitated, and then she shrugged, and gave way. She wanted money, and the chandelier was no use to her. She nodded slightly. ‘Yes, it’s alright.’
Charlie counted out his money, and she took it listlessly. He helped her pack the chandelier awkwardly into a large plastic shopping bag, and for a moment felt compassion. He had won, but she had lost, and losing is never pleasant. But buying is an art of the possible, of securing the best for the least, and not a thing to be watered down by sentiment.
Jennifer smiled approvingly at his price, equivalent to just over forty-one pounds, and moved on, leaving him to carry the bag. Charlie was good at bargaining, but could also sometimes develop ideas of his own importance. Porters are porters.
He followed, burdened on one side by his carrier bag of polish, and by the chandelier and wall lights on the other, and his bags grew progressively heavier and heavier. A teenager bumped into him, and he swore under his breath. He was carrying too much, and must return to the Volvo. He stopped, to swap his bags from hand to hand, and decided to make a stand. He would go no further, not one step. But Jennifer beckoned as he opened his mouth to speak. She had stopped a little way ahead of him, by a big van parked close to a park gate, and the grass around the van was bestrewn with junk.
She picked up a pair of wall lights, also with drops, and Charlie looked around for somebody with whom to do business. A scruffy man, the right side of his face split by a deep scar, emerged from behind the van, and they both beamed. They had done business together on a number of occasions, the last not many weeks since, and were now almost old friends. They shook hands in greeting, exchanging pleasantries, and the scarred man smiled politely at Jennifer, now holding the wall lights hopefully. Then he ignored her. Business was a thing for men to conduct, and he knew the Englishman’s woman spoke no French..
‘You interested in the appliques?’ He shrugged: they were nothing very valuable. ‘For you, English, twenty-five.’
Charlie made a face. Bargaining is an art, and no dealer worth his salt pays an asking price, not between men. He shook his head. ‘No, that’s a little too much. Twenty?’ He let his voice die away.
The Frenchman shook his head. ‘Oh, my friend, do you want me to give them to you?’
Charlie looked hopeful, and the Frenchman laughed. ‘You are a good chum. You can take them for twenty.’
It was a deal. Charlie pulled a couple of ten euro notes from his wallet, and both men smiled. Then the Frenchman eyed him thoughtfully. ‘I have a nice fire in the van as well, at the back. A Belgian was due to meet me yesterday, we had a rendezvous. He never came. He might come today, but you know how Belgians can be. You go and have a look.’
Charlie hauled himself gingerly up into the back of the van, and sucked in his breath sharply. The stove was a small green Feu Flamand, a miniature cooking range, standing on four enamelled legs, and enamelled all around, with a flat top pierced with four cooking rings. It was grimy, and the top and the legs were a bit rusty, but they were steady, and the rust was nothing that would not come off with some careful sanding and polishing with blacklead.
He signalled to Jennifer, now looking impatient, and eager to be off hunting again. She knew how Charlie liked to gossip in French with every dealer he met, and took the view that he generally wanted to waste her time.
‘Come and look.’
Jennifer scowled. ‘I want to move on.’
‘No.’ Sometimes Charlie could assert himself, and now his voice was firm.
Jennifer hesitated, and allowed herself to be hauled up into the van reluctantly. She stared at the stove in silence, and her silence made it plain that she was impressed.
‘How much does he want for it?’
The Frenchman held up both hands. He spoke no English, but he scented her interest.
Charlie held up seven fingers. He was prepared to split the difference at eighty.
The Frenchman hesitated, and then held up eight. This Englishman was a good man: they had done rewarding business together in the past, and they might do more in the future. Eighty would bring him back.
Charlie paid, and dropped his chandelier bag and his cans of polish on the grass beside the van. ‘Can I leave these here as well?’
The Frenchman beamed. ‘I will guard them for you.’
They shook hands, and both men were content.
The Tindals moved on, and now Jennifer shed her impatience. Charlie had found a bargain that she could price at two hundred and fifty pounds, possibly even more than three hundred, depending on how it looked when he had cleaned it up. The stove would comfortably pay for the trip, with the chandelier and wall lights adding a useful bonus. Now they could afford to pick and choose. They drifted up a slope under the trees, and she bought a child’s doll, leaving Charlie to negotiate a good price, and drifted on.
Then she stopped. A group of men had begun making a great deal of noise a little way ahead, clustered around a small and rather scruffy dark blue Fiat. Jennifer edged closer cautiously, because they sounded most aggressive. She had seen men fight, in her younger days, and been thrilled in a strange way by their violence, but she was always cautious by nature. She decided to watch from a safe distance.
Somebody had smashed the back window of the Fiat, and a fierce-looking man stood waving an iron bar. A younger man stood complaining bitterly. Assorted bystanders watched curiously, but also kept well back, for the fierce man brandished his bar from time to time, and plainly meant business.
Charlie talked briefly to one of the bystanders, and translated. ‘He says the man with the iron bar had a table at the side of the road with his wife. The wife says the car drove over her foot, the man with the iron bar came rushing out and smashed the car window. The driver wants him to pay for the damage, the man with the iron bar says he can get stuffed.’
Jennifer looked the man with the iron bar up and down with interest. Charlie was a very gentle man, and she had never once seen him lose his temper in thirty-five years of marriage, even though she had shouted at him on a number of occasions. She was quite mercurial, he was wholly placid. It was something she now took for granted. But from time to time, perhaps when the moon was full, she sometimes experienced faint yearnings for more earthy behaviour. However she pushed the thought away quickly. The man with the iron bar looked very aggressive indeed.
They drifted on, making occasional small purchase, and then Charlie stopped to look at a small bedroom chair, what the French call a ‘chauffeuse’. The covering was possibly a little worse for wear and needing replacement, but basically all sound and shipshape. An auburnhaired woman in her thirties or early forties, dressed in a man’s shirt and jeans, with her hair pinned up, eyed him with interest, and Jennifer pushed away a little stab of jealousy.
Frenchwomen always seemed to like Charlie. But he was good at beating prices down. She looked at the chair carefully. She could cover it, no problem, because she had some material that would suit it nicely. All depended on the price. Maybe fifteen or twenty pounds, but not more than twenty. She held up two fingers, watched him nod, and drifted off to leave him to it.
Charlie made eyes at the auburnhaired woman. ‘Nice chair.’
The woman smiled. She was bored, Alain had gone off heavens knew where, and business was slow. She could see this man had a woman with him, hanging around jealously in the background, and it would be a real temptation to wind her up a bit. Maybe she could talk him into buying the chauffeuse, and a second one still in the van. They were a pain, because they needed upholstering, and she did not want the bother.
‘Ah, m’sieur, they could be very pretty, with a little effort.’
Charlie sniffed. ‘Too much hard work.’
‘Some pretty material, carefully done. You could made a good profit.’
‘Expenses, more expenses, and even more expenses.’
‘Not much, really.’ She arched her back and flexed her shoulders. ‘Do you come from far away?’
Charlie sighed. It was a moment to swap telephone numbers, and follow through with a rendezvous. But he lived in England, all of two hundred and something miles away, not to mention the Channel. ‘I am English.’
‘Ah.’ The woman looked disappointed. Such a nice looking man. But facts are facts, and cannot be dreamed away. She returned to the world of the possible. ‘But you speak French well. Do you like the chair?’
Charlie made a face. ‘It’s going to be a lot of work.’
‘I’ll give it to you for thirty.’
He grinned. ‘A lot of work.’
The woman was silent for a moment. Then she moved a little closer, lowering her voice. ‘I have a second, in the the van. You take them both, and you can have them for forty.’
Charlie took a deep breath, and smiled with a touch of sadness. ‘Oh, madame, I wish I could please you. I’ll take them both. But I can’t go beyond twenty.’ He spoke in a low voice, and they might have been exchanging the most intimate blandishments.
The woman looked a little shocked, but she stayed close. ‘For each one?’
He shook his head slowly, wondering whether there might be sufficient concealment in the back of the van for a quick embrace or two. But Jennifer was watching, even if from a little way away, and the woman probably had a man with her. Angry Frenchmen may smash car windows. But a jealous Frenchman might do far worse.
‘For the two.’
The woman was silent for a moment, but now her eyes burned. This was a man with cheek, as well as charm, and the most attractive material for an adventure. But Alain was around somewhere, and Alain’s temper was mercurial. ‘Thirty?’
‘Twenty.’
‘Between the two?’ Her voice was wheedling.
‘No. Twenty for the two, and you’ll have a little less to take back home.’
The woman was silent. She could see this man’s woman moving closer, plainly wanting to take him away. She sighed again. He was telling the truth, because she really did not want to keep the chairs. She knew, deep in her heart of hearts, that she would never cover them, and they would only grow tattier and tattier. She shrugged, and held out her hand. ‘They are yours.’
Charlie held over two pink ten euro notes, and she closed her fingers around his for a brief moment as she took them. ‘You are a good trader.’
He laughed, because he had secured another good deal. ‘I have many talents.’
The woman’s eyes were wells of desire.‘I believe you.’
‘Perhaps we will meet again another day.’
‘Markets are not always the best places.’ Now her voice was almost a whisper.
Charlie pressed her fingers. Jennifer was now a mere couple of feet away, and plainly growing most impatient. ‘We will find each other again.’
The woman released his fingers reluctantly. ‘Ah, m’sieur, I hope for it. Truly.’
It was an ending. She broke away to lift the second chauffeuse out of her van, and Charlie piled one upside down on top of the other, so that he could carry both in a single load. They were more awkward than heavy.
Jennifer looked at them disapprovingly. She was all for bargaining, but not Charlie making a fool of her. ‘How much did you pay for them?’
Charlie preened himself. ‘Twenty.’
‘Each?’ Her voice rose sharply. He seemed to have taken a great deal of time to lay out forty euros for two battered old chairs.
‘For the two.’
Jennifer sniffed. She could not say much: Charlie had landed his second bargain of the day, perhaps his third, considering the price he had paid for the chandelier, though she had found it. She looked at her watch. ‘We’d better go and do some shopping.’
They made their way back to the Volvo, with Jennifer leading the way and cleaving a path through the crowd, and Charlie carrying the two chairs piled one on top of the other in front of him, and moving pretty much blindfold. Jennifer stacked them in the car, and there was still plenty of room for the range and chandelier, and possibly some more bits, if they hit another rewarding fleamarket after shopping and picnicing.
Fortunately the man with the scarred face was close to a park entrance. Jennifer stood guard on the Volvo while the two men manhandled the range into the back of the car, next to the two chairs, and then packed the chandelier and wall lights neatly into a corner, whilst Charlie and the Frenchman shook hands and told each other what a wonderful job they had done. She inspected her purchases proudly. Men always talked a great deal, but women were best at planning, and she had left plenty of room for food and wine. Now they could stock up at a Champion supermarket at Carvin, and pick up some picnic goodies.