JOHNNY THE ONE-WOMAN MAN
Johnny spends every weekend tinkering with his motorbike in the garage by the house. A group of lads gathers around, squatting near the “iron horse” like a flock of sparrows, watching intently as he cleans the engine, tightens bolts, or polishes the chrome parts to a shine with a cloth.
“Blimey, this thing must go like the clappers!” the boys say admiringly. “Johnny, give us a ride, yeah?”
“Can’t take you lot—you’re too young. A motorbike’s serious business, not like a pushbike…”
The lads sigh, and then Johnny relents.
“Maybe just a few laps round the estate, that’s all…”
The “sparrows” cheer before darting off to the football pitch, ball in tow. Johnny heads home to wash up, while his mum grumbles.
“When are you gonna find yourself a girl? The Johnsons’ youngest just got married—he’s two years your junior! What’s rattling around in that head of yours? You’re not a boy anymore, fiddling with scrap metal in the garage…”
“Scrap metal” is what she calls Grandad’s old car, handed down to Johnny after he returned from his service. Johnny restored it to perfection—got it running, repainted it, made it gleam like new.
“My little Ford’s like new again. Put so much into it, made Grandad proud. Could sell it easy now—just don’t want to. Too attached…”
“That’s grand, but it’s been six years since you came home, and still no girl. I worry you’ll end up married to that heap of metal. Happiness is family, son…” sighs Helen.
“Where am I supposed to find a girl? Don’t do dancing—hate shuffling about. Cinemas are too dark to see anyone.”
“True enough. And what’s a decent girl got to talk to you about?” She waves a hand. “My fault, I suppose. Never got you into books, never took you to the theatre—museum neither. Just engines, bikes, and grease.”
“That’s my trade, Mum. Garage work. Trust me, my hands are never out of jobs.”
“Never out of grease, more like. My DIY lad. Ruined all the towels—had to switch to dark ones. What girl wants to natter about carburettors?”
“Plenty,” Johnny says, eyeing his hands. “The right one will.”
“At least pop down the museum. Boost that cultural side of yours.”
“On my own? Not a chance.”
“Not alone, silly. Your nephew Alfie’s on summer break. Take him. Your sister’ll be chuffed. Stroll round town, get an ice cream—call it a cultural outing.”
“Scouting for birds, more like?” He grins.
A few days later, over dinner, Mum announces, “Alfie’s coming tomorrow.”
“So?”
“Promised him you’d take him to the museum. Dead excited. Reckons he’s dressing up.”
Johnny sighs. “Right then. Suppose we’re going.”
The weather’s glorious. First stop: ice cream. Then, reluctantly, the museum. They buy tickets, and the clerk says, “Hurry—tour’s just started in the first hall!”
Alfie squeezes to the front. Johnny lingers at the back—until he spots the tour guide, a delicate thing in a white dress, sky-blue eyes, pearl beads. Spellbound, he hangs on her every word.
Her hands move like a songbird’s, holding a pointer. The lads fire questions; Johnny drinks in her voice. When the tour ends, she vanishes down a corridor. Outside, the heat hits them.
“Was nice and cool in there,” Alfie says. “Too shy to ask anything, though.”
“Next time, we’ll get it sorted,” Johnny promises, noting the museum hours. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?!”
“No time like the present.” He claps Alfie’s shoulder, grinning.
Mum’s baffled by their repeat plans but says nothing. Next day, Johnny asks the clerk, “Yesterday’s guide—what’s her name?”
“Which one?”
He stammers a description.
“Ah, that’s Lucy. Not in today—leading a coach tour. Try another time.”
Johnny’s gutted. Alfie tugs his sleeve. “So… no museum?”
“Been once,” Johnny snaps.
They get ice cream instead. Johnny replays her face in his mind—but at least he’s got a name.
“Next weekend—museum again?” Alfie smirks.
“Yeah. Prep some smart questions, eh? Don’t make us look daft.”
Alfie nods, licking his cone. They hit the fairground, then head home.
By Sunday, Johnny’s itching to go. They’re first through the doors. Quiet halls, creaky floors—then Lucy appears, now in a grey suit, same pearls glinting.
“Johnny?” she asks.
He blinks. “Yeah. How’d you—?”
“You handled the sound system at school. I joined in sixth form. Ran the announcements a few times… don’t remember?”
He flushes. “Bad with faces. But last time—felt like I knew you. Like déjà vu.”
They chat. She’s two years into this job, loves it. He offers free car repairs. They swap numbers.
Outside, Alfie rolls his eyes. “I prepped questions. You just asked about her.”
“Worth it,” Johnny says. “We’re coming back. Gotta up our culture game.”
“Not me. Your turn now.”
“Fine. Fancy a ride home in the Ford?”
The family’s thrilled when Johnny starts driving Lucy out most evenings.
“Knew that car’d do some good,” Grandad says. “Lad’s steady. Not one to chase skirts.”
“One-woman man,” Mum agrees. “Just hope she loves him right. Else what’ll become of him?”
“Don’t borrow trouble, Helen. Opposite sorts make the strongest pairs.”
Six months in, they marry New Year’s Eve. The Ford’s decked in ribbons, Alfie carries Lucy’s train, beaming.
At the reception, Grandad tells Alfie, “Take notes. That’s a proper lad. Make anything run. When you’re grown, we’ll take you to wed in this Ford.”
Alfie laughs. “Not yet! Gonna fix cars like Johnny, serve my country first…”
“Don’t take too long. Reckon I’ll hang on, but no dawdling.”
Alfie hugs him. “Stay healthy, Grandad.” Then he runs off—there’s photos by the car, guests waiting.
