It Started With A Kiss

That night, Uncle Dudley sent me a text imbued with so much enthusiasm I could feel it emitting from my handset.

Meet us at Furnace End Car Boot, 6am tomorrow

LOTS to tell! Xx

The next morning, my uncle was waiting impatiently by the gate in the dark when I arrived at the muddy field, chunky red torch illuminating his bright red cheeks, thick woollen scarf and tweed flat cap. Together we started to walk up the steep path towards the hulking shadows of cars and vans in the darkness of the field beyond.

‘No Auntie Mags this morning?’ I asked, my breath rising in white clouds as I spoke.

‘She’s in the car with Elvis and the heater on. Says they’re not getting out till the doughnut van opens at seven. You know your auntie. Likes her home comforts too much to fully appreciate the joys of car booting.’

Car booters were laying out their stalls as a surprising number of people milled around.

‘I thought we’d be the first ones here.’

‘Flippin’ ’eck, no! Most of this lot would’ve turned up at five when the site opened. Got to get here early for the bargains, see. The dealers get here before everyone else to snap up the good stuff. Arrive after eight and all you’ve got is an outdoor tat sale and a dodgy hot dog van.’

‘Wow.’

‘Now I just need to see my mate Trev on the military memorabilia stand and then we can grab a cuppa.’

For most people, going to a car boot sale is a leisurely weekend pastime. For Uncle Dudley, it’s a highly intricate set of unwritten rules, all designed to lead him to the Holy Grail – the find that will one day make his fortune. And, to give him his due, this approach has paid dividends in the past. A couple of years ago, while rummaging through an old suitcase full of yellowing newspapers and back copies of Good Housekeeping, he came across an unassuming notebook, filled with what appeared to be watercolour studies of animals, children and pastoral scenes. The stallholder, keen to shift his stock, agreed to sell Uncle Dudley the suitcase and all its contents for £10. When my uncle took the notebook to an antique dealer, he discovered that the notebook was in fact a pottery artist’s personal collection of designs for a major pottery firm in Stoke-on-Trent. At auction, the notebook sold for over £700 – enough to fund a dream trip to Bruges for him and Auntie Mags and a repaint for Our Pol.

Watching my uncle at work was an education in strategy. While the casual observer would merely see a fifty-something man engaged in friendly banter with stallholders, to the trained eye it was apparent that Uncle Dudley was a skilful negotiator, cleverly steering the conversation towards a killer deal.

‘It’s all about stealth and patience, Romily,’ he explained, after I’d seen him barter for a tiny, stylised tank ornament, bringing the price down from £35 to £15. ‘I’m like a car boot ninja, ready to strike when they least expect it. This little beauty was made by one of Birmingham’s famous armament factories as a salesman’s sample during the First World War. Worth about £50, I’d guess. Point is, he wanted £35 for it and I would’ve happily paid £40. It’s the ones who claim to know the most about their stock that know nothing, see. If they don’t say anything but the price doesn’t move, chances are they know their stuff.’

We walked to ‘Dave’s Diner’ – the grubby-looking refreshment van in the middle of the field – and ordered polystyrene cups of scalding hot tea, the warm steam stinging our faces as we blew on our beverages. Above us, the lightening sky and swelling birdsong heralded the slow arrival of dawn.

‘Verdict on Furnace End, then?’

‘Nice. In a strangely damp and freezing way.’

Uncle Dudley punched my arm. ‘That’s why I love you, Romily! You crack me up, you really do.’

‘Thanks – I think. So what’s the latest on Operation Phantom Kisser?’

His eyes lit up. ‘Right. Hold this for us, chick.’ He handed me his cup and rifled through his pockets until he found a folded wad of papers. ‘Now, I was looking on the web last night and I found these …’ He cleared his throat and started to read from the document in his hands. ‘“Ellen Adams, 42, has been reunited with a good Samaritan who rescued her car from a snowdrift on Valentine’s Day, twenty years ago. A passing remark to a friend led to a blog to find the handsome stranger who had remained in her heart all that time. By chance, the man’s sister, Janet Milson, 44, read about the campaign in her local paper and encouraged John Ireland to contact Ellen. When the pair met in August this year, a mutual attraction was obvious. They started to date and, last week, John proposed. ‘It just goes to show that true love always wins out,’ said a delighted Ellen. ‘I never forgot him during all that time and was amazed to discover that he felt the same way.’ The couple plan to marry on Valentine’s Day next year, exactly twenty-one years since they first met.” How about that, our Rom?’

‘Wow. That’s … erm …’

‘And there’s plenty more where that came from! Love, against the odds, couples reunited after thirty, forty, fifty years sometimes, and amazing coincidences bringing old flames back together. Don’t you know what this means?’

I had to admit, I didn’t. Nice though the story was, what did it mean for my handsome stranger and me? I didn’t have twenty years to wait for a reunion: I had a year – no, less than a year now – to find him again. ‘I’m sorry, Uncle Dud.’

‘It means it’s possible, sweetheart! There are so many people who’ve followed their heart and believed in dreams other folks have written off as plain daft – and those dreams have come up trumps! Now I’m not saying you’ve got to wait for thirty years to meet this chap again. What I’m saying is that the idea works! And if we can get it in the papers, so much the better!’

‘Let’s just see how my blog goes first,’ I suggested gently, dreading to think what lengths Uncle Dud was considering for publicising my search. ‘I don’t think I’m ready for large-scale printed public humiliation just yet.’