**Johnny the One-Love**
Every weekend, Johnny tinkered with his motorbike in the garage behind his house. The neighbourhood boys would gather around, squatting like a flock of sparrows, watching intently as he cleaned the engine, tightened bolts, or polished the chrome parts until they gleamed.
“Bet it’ll go like lightning!” they’d say, awestruck. “Johnny, can you give us a ride?”
“Can’t take you lot—you’re too young. A motorbike’s serious business, not like a bicycle,” he’d reply.
The boys would sigh, and then Johnny would relent: “Maybe just a couple of laps round the yard, but that’s it.”
The “sparrows” would cheer before dashing off to the football pitch, ball in tow. Johnny would head indoors to wash up, and his mother would grumble:
“When are you ever going to find a girlfriend? The Wilsons’ second son just got married, and both their boys are younger than you. What’s on your mind? You’re not a kid anymore, fiddling with hunks of metal in the garage all day.”
She called his grandad’s old car a “hunk of metal” too—the one he’d given Johnny when he got back from the army. Johnny had restored it to perfection, getting it running smoothly and giving it a fresh coat of paint until it shone like new.
“My little Austin’s good as new now. Put a fair bit into it—Grandad’s chuffed. Could sell it easy, but I don’t fancy parting with it,” he told her.
“All well and good, but it’s been six years since you came home, and still no girl. I worry you’ll end up married to your machinery, son. Happiness is family, you know,” sighed Helen.
“Where am I supposed to meet anyone? Don’t go dancing—hate shuffling about. Cinemas are too dark to see a thing,” he joked.
“True enough. And what’s a decent girl going to talk to you about?” She waved a hand. “My fault, I suppose. Never got you into books beyond school, no theatre in town, and I couldn’t drag you to a museum if I tried. Just engines, bikes, and gadgets on your mind.”
“That’s my trade, Mum. Garage work pays the bills. Trust me, there’s always demand for my hands.”
“Hands that never come clean, my little handyman. All the towels are stained—I’ve started buying dark ones, notice? And what girl’s going to chat about carburettors with you?” She smirked.
“Whoever falls for me,” Johnny said, glancing at his grease-streaked fingers.
“Start with the museum. Boost your cultural credentials, son.”
“On my own? Not a chance.”
“Who said alone? Your nephew Billy’s on summer break—take him. Your sister’ll thank you. Stroll into town, grab an ice cream, call it a cultural outing.”
“Scouting for ladies, are we?” Johnny laughed.
Days later, over dinner, his mother announced: “Billy’s coming round tomorrow.”
“And?”
“I promised him you’d take him to the museum. He’s excited—says he’ll dress smart.”
“Oh. Right.” Johnny sighed. “Fine, we’ll go.”
The day was glorious. First, they stopped at a café for ice cream—then, duty-bound, headed to the museum. The cashier urged them, “Hurry! Tour’s just started—catch them in the first hall!”
Billy wriggled to the front to hear better; Johnny lagged behind, oddly self-conscious. But he had a clear view of the tour guide—a delicate thing in a white dress, sky-blue eyes, pearl beads glinting. She held a pointer, her fingers elegant as a songbird’s claws on a branch. Johnny was spellbound.
When the tour ended, she vanished down a corridor. Outside, heat hit them like a wall.
“Nice and cool in there,” Billy said. “Wish I’d asked questions though.”
“Next time we’ll do proper,” Johnny promised, noting the museum’s hours. “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” Billy blinked.
“Why wait? Ask while it’s fresh.” Johnny ruffled his hair, cheerful all the way home.
His mother raised an eyebrow at their repeat plans but held her tongue. Next day, Johnny asked the cashier: “That guide from yesterday—what’s her name?”
“We’ve several, love.”
He fumbled a description.
“Ah, that’s Lucy. Not in today—she’s guiding a coach party from London. Try another time.”
Dejected, Johnny turned away. Billy tugged his sleeve. “So… no museum?”
“Been and done,” Johnny muttered.
They settled for ice cream again. Johnny replayed Lucy’s eyes in his mind, soothed only by knowing her name now.
“Next weekend, museum again?” Billy asked slyly.
“Got questions to ask,” Johnny said gloomily. “Think some up—don’t want to look daft.”
Billy nodded, slurping his cone. They rode the carousel, then trudged home.
Johnny counted the days. At opening time, they entered the near-empty museum, footsteps echoing on creaky parquet. Lucy appeared, now in a grey suit, her pearls still shining.
She greeted them. Billy opened his mouth, but she spoke first.
“Johnny?”
“Yeah. How’d you—?” He flushed.
“You were two years above me at school. Always fixing the PA system. I did the announcements sometimes. Don’t remember?”
“Sorry, no. Bad with faces. Last time though… felt like I knew you. Now it makes sense.”
They talked—she’d graduated uni, loved her job. He offered help if her car ever needed repairs. Exchanged numbers, parted as friends.
Outside, Billy huffed. “I prepped questions, but you just asked about *her*!”
“Plenty more visits ahead,” Johnny grinned. “Culture’s important, lad.”
“Enough for me.” Billy rolled his eyes. “Your turn now.”
“Fair. Fancy a drive home in the Austin?”
“Proper!”
News of Johnny’s nightly drives to see Lucy thrilled the family.
“Knew that car’d do some good yet,” Grandad said. “And our Johnny’s no fool—picks wisely.”
“One-love, I reckon,” Helen mused. “Just hope she *gets* him.”
“Don’t fret. Shared past helps. Opposites attract, always have.”
Six months on, they married. Drove to the registry in the Austin, ribbons fluttering. Billy carried Lucy’s veil, puffed with pride.
After, Grandad nudged him. “Take notes. Hands like your uncle’s, they’re gold.”
“Not rushing,” Billy laughed. “Learn engines first, serve my time—”
“Try not to keep me waiting *too* long, lad.”
“You’ll live forever, Grandad.” He hugged him, then dashed off—guests were crowding round the car for photos.
*A man can rebuild engines all his life, but love? That’s the one thing you can’t fix once it’s broken.*
