that question would have been no. Most gitans dressed smartly in the latest fashion, unlike Serge, who looked like he'd just tumbled out of bed and pulled on the nearest thing to hand from a pile on the floor. But I was still thinking about poor Estelle. No wonder she hid herself away. Was the wink the man had given me an insinuation that she and her brother were involved in some sort of incestuous relationship? Surely not.
  'Hang on a moment, what's that in there?' Serge was peeking through the hut window. 'There, on the desk. That looks like the sort of thing we're after.'
  He went in brazenly and came out with a statuette of a naked woman holding a flaming torch with flowing hair covering her breasts and nether regions.
  'That's a signed bronze that is,' said the man. 'I found it in a box of rubbish a while back.'
  Serge examined it closely. He took out a penknife and scratched the base.
  'I'll give you fifty euros for it,' he said finally.
  'For a bronze like that? You're mocking me!'
  'It's not a bronze; it's a spelter,' said Serge. 'The scratch is dull yellow, not shiny and silvery.'
  This was a pathetic attempt at a con. The metal in a spelter figure is a mixture of lead and tin and a small scratch usually shines brightly. Serge knew that if the scratch was dull yellow it was probably a bronze and doubtless the man knew it too.
  'I wasn't born yesterday. That statue is definitely a bronze.'
  'All right, eighty euros. Take it or leave it.'
  The man was tempted. He was pondering the offer. He took off his US Cavalry hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
  'Come on, Johnny,' said Serge. 'We're wasting our time here.' He climbed in the van and waited for me to start her up. The man watched us, still clutching the bronze figure. As we pulled away he ran after us, tapping on the window. I stopped and Serge wound it down. The Junkyard Cowboy said, 'OK, look, make it a hundred and you've got yourself a deal.'
  'That's more like it,' said Serge. He peeled off a couple of fifties. 'There, you can buy yourself a new Buffalo Billy shirt and fais la fête all weekend.'
  He took the figurine from him and laid it on the seat.
  'You've not got any other old bronzes hidden away in that hut of yours then?'
  The Junkyard Cowboy shook his head. He was beginning to think maybe he'd made a mistake.
  'OK, Johnny, let's go,' said Serge, winding up the window.
  I drove round the pile of scrap iron and out through the gates.
  'I know a dealer who'll give me six hundred euros for this little whore, no questions asked,' said Serge as we bumped long the track.
  'I've got a good feeling about today, Johnny. A delicious free meal and now this bronze here. Is our luck starting to change or what?'
6
SNOBS
We drove along with the bronze statue bouncing about on the seat between us and Serge shouting out the chorus from a French popular song from the forties. I'd heard it before â a favourite on our local radio station â about a Romeo farmer who can service all his mistresses in the one day thanks to his trusty Mobylette.
  He stopped singing. 'Quick! Pull in here. This place looks like it's owned by bourgeois richos with more money than sense.' We were passing a large house with blue painted shutters set back from the road. There was a swimming pool in the garden and a couple of shiny cars parked out front.
  I had little faith in Serge's snap judgements but followed instructions and swung into the drive. One of the cars was a four-wheek drive jeep and as we drew nearer I realised it had an English number plate.
  'This is no good. It's owned by English people,' I said, braking and starting to reverse out.
  'No, carry on, Johnny. I've often bought stuff off the English. They clear out their old junk the same as the
  'Hang on a moment, what's that in there?' Serge was peeking through the hut window. 'There, on the desk. That looks like the sort of thing we're after.'
  He went in brazenly and came out with a statuette of a naked woman holding a flaming torch with flowing hair covering her breasts and nether regions.
  'That's a signed bronze that is,' said the man. 'I found it in a box of rubbish a while back.'
  Serge examined it closely. He took out a penknife and scratched the base.
  'I'll give you fifty euros for it,' he said finally.
  'For a bronze like that? You're mocking me!'
  'It's not a bronze; it's a spelter,' said Serge. 'The scratch is dull yellow, not shiny and silvery.'
  This was a pathetic attempt at a con. The metal in a spelter figure is a mixture of lead and tin and a small scratch usually shines brightly. Serge knew that if the scratch was dull yellow it was probably a bronze and doubtless the man knew it too.
  'I wasn't born yesterday. That statue is definitely a bronze.'
  'All right, eighty euros. Take it or leave it.'
  The man was tempted. He was pondering the offer. He took off his US Cavalry hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
  'Come on, Johnny,' said Serge. 'We're wasting our time here.' He climbed in the van and waited for me to start her up. The man watched us, still clutching the bronze figure. As we pulled away he ran after us, tapping on the window. I stopped and Serge wound it down. The Junkyard Cowboy said, 'OK, look, make it a hundred and you've got yourself a deal.'
  'That's more like it,' said Serge. He peeled off a couple of fifties. 'There, you can buy yourself a new Buffalo Billy shirt and fais la fête all weekend.'
  He took the figurine from him and laid it on the seat.
  'You've not got any other old bronzes hidden away in that hut of yours then?'
  The Junkyard Cowboy shook his head. He was beginning to think maybe he'd made a mistake.
  'OK, Johnny, let's go,' said Serge, winding up the window.
  I drove round the pile of scrap iron and out through the gates.
  'I know a dealer who'll give me six hundred euros for this little whore, no questions asked,' said Serge as we bumped long the track.
  'I've got a good feeling about today, Johnny. A delicious free meal and now this bronze here. Is our luck starting to change or what?'
6
SNOBS
We drove along with the bronze statue bouncing about on the seat between us and Serge shouting out the chorus from a French popular song from the forties. I'd heard it before â a favourite on our local radio station â about a Romeo farmer who can service all his mistresses in the one day thanks to his trusty Mobylette.
  He stopped singing. 'Quick! Pull in here. This place looks like it's owned by bourgeois richos with more money than sense.' We were passing a large house with blue painted shutters set back from the road. There was a swimming pool in the garden and a couple of shiny cars parked out front.
  I had little faith in Serge's snap judgements but followed instructions and swung into the drive. One of the cars was a four-wheek drive jeep and as we drew nearer I realised it had an English number plate.
  'This is no good. It's owned by English people,' I said, braking and starting to reverse out.
  'No, carry on, Johnny. I've often bought stuff off the English. They clear out their old junk the same as the
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