cathy bramley s nda girl

The special record made grown-up Lisa feel 17 again. Could she really part with it at a car boot sale?

It had still been dark when Angie and I arrived at the site, but now the sky had brightened to a pale wintry blue and I could see just how huge this car boot sale was. Row after row of vans and cars, each with an assortment of tables, clothes racks and crates to display their wares.

Odd really, when you thought about it; hundreds of people all congregating at dawn to swap unwanted possessions.

Not that all this stuff was unwanted in my case, I thought sadly, casting my eye over Mum’s beloved collection of Lladró figurines. But with only a short time to empty her council house now that she’d passed away, I didn’t have much choice.

“How much for this blanket, love?” A woman with a leopard-print faux-fur hat and a red nose interrupted my musings.

“Just a pound,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady as an image of Mum by the fire, snug under her hand-crocheted knee-warmer, entered my head.

The woman pulled a face and yanked it about, considering whether to part with her money.

It’sworthfarmorethanthat, I felt like saying. Hours, that blanket had taken her. Perhaps I should keep it after all; I’m sure I could find room for it somewhere.

“A pound! Good heavens!” A strident voice cut through the muffled sounds of the market. My best friend Angie appeared on my side of the table, carrying two steaming drinks. “There must be twenty quid’s worth of wool in there! You should ask a fiver, Lisa.”

“Go on then, a pound,” the woman grunted, handing over a coin before I had a chance to put the price up. She stuffed Mum’s blanket into her shopping trolley and trundled off.

“Cheeky devil.” Angie tutted and passed me my hot chocolate. “Here you go, love, this’ll warm you up.”

“Thanks.” I wrapped my hands around the piping hot cup and winced as I took a sip.

“And ta-dah!” She pulled two paper bags from the pockets of her sheepskin coat and handed one over. “Bacon butties.”

“You’re a lifesaver. And thanks for doing this car boot sale with me,” I said, squirting a sachet of ketchup inside the bread roll. “I couldn’t have faced it by myself.”

“Ah, that’s what old friends are for.” She gave a snort of laughter and bit into her sandwich. “And they don’t get much older than me. Besides, I love having a poke through other people’s lives. You never know, I might pick up a bargain, or, better still, a bloke!”

“You know, you haven’t changed a bit,” I said, warmly, taking in my friend’s dancing green eyes and glossy auburn curls, admittedly assisted by L’Oréal these days, but glorious nonetheless.

And there was nothing fake about her wide smile with the gap between her front teeth and that cute dimple which had always sent the male customers at HMV, where we’d both worked, weak-kneed with lust. We’d both worked on Sundays, although it never really felt like work – playing our way through the charts and chatting up all the good-looking boys.

“Yeah, right.” She pulled the sides of her face back towards her ears to smooth out the wrinkles. “Course I haven’t.”

For the next few minutes we were kept busy with a large group of women sifting through bin bags of curtains, old sheets and duvet sets. I watched the entire contents of Mum’s linen cupboard being bundled into bags bound for new homes.

Then I leaned on my car to finish my hot chocolate while Angie batted her

eyelashes at a man who was kicking the tyres on our old lawnmower.

We’d always stayed in touch, Angie and I, even when I’d moved away after college. We’d kept up to date with news of our jobs (French teacher in my case, dental nurse in hers) and family life (both divorced: two kids for her, one grown-up son for me).

Since I’d come back to my home town last summer, she’d been my rock – sitting with Mum for an hour when I’d needed a break, helping organise the funeral and now this, turning out on a freezing Sunday morning to help me clear Mum’s things.

If it hadn’t been for her, I’d have been so lonely these last six months.

The man walked away pushing the lawnmower and Angie waved a twenty-pound note at me triumphantly.

“Hey, there’s a do on at the Irish Club next Saturday,” she said, tucking the cash into my money belt. “It would be like old times – me and you, a few drinks, a bit of

w OLD FRIENDS e o ey o e MUCH OLDER me

a boogie, maybe chat up a few nicelooking fellas. What do you say?”

I suppressed a shudder. I couldn’t think of anything worse. It had been a dive when we were teenagers and from what I’d heard, age hadn’t improved it.

“It’s a lovely thought,” I said diplomatically, “but I’m really not sure that I’m up to going out. Not so soon after Mum’s funeral.”

“Oh, go on,” Angie urged, nudging me. “Janet would want you to have a bit of fun. Besides, what else have you got planned for next weekend?”

My diary was, of course, totally clear, but I was saved having to answer by a man who wanted to know if I’d accept twenty quid for a Royal Doulton tea service which Mum and Dad had had as a wedding present and never used

because it was to be kept “for best”.

“Thirty,” I said, grimacing as he dropped the lid of a sugar bowl into a box of kitchen utensils. We did the deal, and I was just pocketing the money when I noticed a man rifling through a pile of my old vinyl records.

I couldn’t see his face, but from his profile I could see he was tall, handsome, his dark hair shot through with silver at the temples and he was wearing blue-black jeans and an expensive-looking ski jacket.

Icoughed loudly to attract Angie’s attention, knowing she’d be all over him like a rash, but she was engrossed in conversation with a lady about a set of non-stick saucepans.

The man, however, looked up, startled. In his hand was my treasured 12-inch remix of SundayGirl by Blondie, which had the song in French on the B-side.

“Oh, sorry, I was just…” He broke off mid-sentence and gaped at me. “Sunday Girl!”

“I’m afraid that shouldn’t be in there,” I said, scampering over to take it from his hand. “This was a present. From a special person. A long time ago, but, even so, it’s not for sale.”

I tried to take the record from him, but he held on to it and covered my hand with his other one.

o SOMEONE SPECIAL ou you RECORD, you we e SAYING

“Lisa?” His voice breathy with surprise, his bright-blue eyes searched mine. “It is you! You look… fantastic! Wow.” “Johnny Redmond! I don’t believe it!” I blinked, gasping as the memories came flooding back of Johnny as he’d been when he was a Saturday boy working at the same record shop as Angie and me.

Our paths only crossed on special occasions like the Christmas sales, when everyone who was free came in to work. But the times he and I got the chance to work together were the best.

He’d been funny, not to mention gorgeous, and a walking encyclopaedia when it came to music.

Then, one day, I’d found the record he now held in his hand stuffed through the door of my staff locker, together with a note asking if his favourite Sunday girl would go out on a date with him. Angie and I had squealed the staffroom down with excitement.

But I’d had to say no. My dad wouldn’t let me have a boyfriend and he’d have made me quit my job if he’d found out. He’d been fiercely protective of his little girl. Johnny mostly avoided me after that. I’d been heartbroken.

And yet here he was now, thirty-odd years later. Older, broader, but still absolutely gorgeous. And seemingly wanting his record back. He cleared his throat and flushed. “Just John these days. Once I got my first grey hair, Johnny started to sound a bit desperate.”

We smiled, and for the first time in a long time I felt my insides flutter girlishly.

“So someone special bought you this record, you were saying?” he began shyly.

“Oh, my days!” Angie screeched, suddenly tuning in to our conversation. “It never is! Johnny Redmond!”

“Hello, Angie.” John stuck out a hand, but she ran round to his side of the table and flung her arms around him.

“What you up to these days?” She glanced down at his hand. No ring. I’d already checked. “Married?”

He shook his head, but kept his eyes on me. “Divorced. You?” I nodded. “The same.” “Ditto me. Lisa’s just moved back home,” Angie put in, simultaneously beaming at Johnny and winking unsubtly at me. “Isn’t that lucky?”

“My mum died recently,” I explained, feeling my throat tighten with still-fresh grief. “And I’m having to get rid of lots of her things – and some of my own – and as I haven’t got a record player any more I –”

“I have,” John interrupted me. “Still got the full hi-fi system, turntable, double-cassette player… The works.”

“Old-school.” Angie pointed at him, nodding. “I like it.”

“You’re right! You’re right!” I said, feeling flustered. I had to start letting go of stuff – no use hoarding things. “You should have the record. Is a pound OK?”

John held out a coin and caught hold of my fingers as I took it from him.

“Froidecommeglacemaisaussi savoureuse,” he murmured, looking so intently into my eyes that my breath caught. “Eh?” said Angie, confused. “Coldasicecreamandstillas sweet,” I said softly, my heart thumping at his smile, just as it had when I was seventeen. “It’s a line from the song SundayGirl, the French version. I haven’t heard it in ages.”

“I used to love it when you spoke in French. I can play it for you if you like?” He raised an eyebrow hopefully. “I would like,” I said, with a smile so wide I was in danger of swallowing him. “Very much.”

“Fantastic!” His eyes lit up. “What are you doing next weekend?” “Nothing,” Angie put in hurriedly. I scribbled my phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to him.

“Until next weekend, then.” He bent to kiss my cheek. “Sunday Girl.”

“It’s a date,” I said, my chest heaving with pleasure. I’d waited thirty-eight years to say that.