JOHNNY-THE-ONE-AND-ONLY
Every weekend, Johnny tinkered with his motorbike in the garage beside his house. A flock of neighbourhood boys crouched around the “iron steed,” watching intently as he tightened bolts, polished chrome parts, or scrubbed the engine clean.
“Wow, this’ll fly!” they murmured in awe. “Johnny, give us a ride?”
“Can’t, lads. You’re too young for this beast. Not like pushbikes, is it?”
The boys sighed until Johnny relented. “Maybe just a few laps round the yard—no promises beyond that.”
The “sparrows” cheered before darting off to the football pitch, ball in tow. Johnny washed up inside, where his mother tutted.
“When’s a nice girl coming into your life? The Wilsons’ youngest just got married—and he’s two years your junior! Still playing with scrap metal like a schoolboy…”
“Scrap metal” was her term for Granddad’s old banger, handed down after Johnny’s army service. He’d restored it to a shine, got it running, even repainted it.
“My little Austin’s good as new. Put my heart into it—Granddad’s chuffed. Could sell it easy now. But… I’d miss the old girl.”
“Lovely, but six years since you left the Forces, and still no sweetheart. I worry you’ll marry that motorbike. Happiness is family, son.”
“Where d’you expect me to meet one? Don’t dance—hate flailing about. Cinemas? Too dark to see a thing!”
“Right. And what’ll a decent girl talk to you about?” She waved a dishcloth. “My fault, I suppose. Never got you reading proper books, no theatre here, and museums? Ha! Just engines and spanners in that head.”
“I’m a mechanic, Mum. Good hands, steady work.”
“Hands like a coal miner! I’ve switched to dark towels, notice? What girl’ll chatter about carburettors with you?”
“The one who loves me,” Johnny grinned, examining his grease-stained fingers.
“At least visit the museum. Lift your horizons!”
“Alone? Not a chance.”
“Take your nephew Tommy—summer holidays! Ice cream after. Call it… cultural reconnaissance.”
“A girl hunt, eh?” Johnny laughed.
Days later, over supper: “Tommy’s coming tomorrow.”
“So?”
“Promised him the museum. He’s dead excited—even pressing his best shirt.”
“Oh. That.” Johnny sighed. “Fine. We’ll go.”
The day dawned golden. They hit a café first—raspberry ripple cones—then the museum, racing to join a tour. Tommy wriggled to the front; Johnny hung back, suddenly shy.
Until he saw her.
The guide was porcelain-delicate, a white-dressed figurine with sea-blue eyes and pearl beads. Her voice wove through the hall, light as dandelion fluff. Her hands—slender as a wren’s toes—gestured with a pointer. Johnny stood bewitched.
When the group dispersed, she vanished down a corridor. Outside, heat slapped them.
“Cool in there,” Tommy said. “Bottled asking questions, though.”
“We’ll return. Get proper answers.” Johnny checked the museum hours. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?!”
“Why wait? Questions won’t keep.”
At home, Mum arched a brow at their plans but stayed quiet. Next day, Johnny asked the clerk:
“The guide from yesterday—her name?”
“Which one? Several work here.”
He stammered a description.
“Ah, Lucy. Off today—leading a coach tour. Try another time.”
Johnny slumped. Tommy tugged his sleeve. “So… no museum?”
“Been once.”
They consoled themselves with chocolate sundaes. Johnny replayed Lucy’s laugh.
“Next weekend, then?” Tommy smirked.
“Aye. Prep proper questions—no gawping.”
Rotating teacups at the funfair passed the time.
Come Sunday, they arrived at opening. The hushed halls echoed their steps. Then—Lucy appeared, now in a grey suit, same pearls glinting.
“Johnny?” she said.
He flushed. “You know me?”
“You fixed the PA system at St. Mary’s. I did Sixth Form there—two years below. Remember?”
“Sorry. Faces… not my strong suit. But last time, I felt… like I knew you from somewhere.”
She laughed. They talked—her degree, his garage—exchanging numbers before parting.
Outside, Tommy huffed. “I prepped questions! You just nattered about her.”
“We’ll be back, mate. Culture’s important.”
“Not for me! You’re on your own now.”
Johnny ruffled his hair. “Fancy a drive? Drop you home in style.”
News of Johnny’s nightly dates in the Austin thrilled the family.
“Knew that car had more love to give,” Granddad chuckled. “Lad’s steady—not one to chase skirts.”
“One-and-only type,” Mum agreed. “But what if she doesn’t understand him?”
“Peace, Ellen. Opposites stick best when it’s real.”
Six months later, snow dusted the Austin’s bonnet as ribbons fluttered. Tommy—ring-bearer and proud—held Lucy’s veil aloft at the registry office.
After vows, Granddad clapped Tommy’s shoulder. “Your turn next, eh? We’ll polish the Austin again.”
“Not yet! Army first. Learn engines like Uncle Johnny.”
“Try not to leave it fifty years,” Granddad teased.
“You’ll live forever.” Tommy hugged him, then dashed to join the photo by the car—its chrome winking under winter sun.
