**Johnny the One-True-Love**
Every weekend, Johnny tinkered with his motorcycle in the garage by the house. Boys from the neighbourhood would gather around, squatting like a flock of sparrows, watching in awe as he polished the engine, tightened bolts, or buffed the chrome until it gleamed.
“Bet it’ll go like the wind!” they’d exclaim. “Johnny, can we have a ride?”
“Can’t take you lot,” he’d chuckle. “You’re too young, and a bike’s no toy—not like a pushbike.”
The boys would sigh, and Johnny would relent. “Maybe just a couple laps round the yard—but no more.”
The “sparrows” cheered before scampering off to the football pitch, ball in tow. Johnny would head inside, scrubbing the grease from his hands while his mother tutted.
“When’re you going to find a girl? The Thompsons’ youngest just got married, and he’s years behind you. What’s rattling round in that head of yours? You’re not a boy anymore, fiddling with scrap metal all day.”
“Scrap metal” was what she called Grandad’s old car, handed down when Johnny returned from service. He’d restored it to perfection—fresh paint, smooth engine—until it shone like new.
“My old Mini’s like reborn. Grandad’s chuffed. Could sell it easy, but I’m too fond of it now,” he’d say.
“That’s all well, but it’s been six years since you came back, and still no girl. I worry you’ll end up wed to this rust bucket. Happiness is family, son,” sighed Helen.
“Where d’you expect me to find one? Don’t care for dancing, cinemas are too dark to see anyone,” he laughed.
“And what’s a decent girl to talk to you about? My fault, I s’pose. Never got you into books, no theatre in town, and museums? Might as well drag a stone. Just motors and machines in that head.”
“That’s my trade, Mum. Garage work pays the bills. Folks need good hands.”
“Aye, hands you never scrub!” She smirked. “Dark towels now, if you’ve noticed. What girl wants to natter about carburettors?”
“One who loves me,” he muttered, eyeing his oil-stained fingers.
“At least pop by the museum. Lift your horizons.”
“And do what there? Mope alone? Not likely.”
“Take your nephew Alfie, then. Summer holidays—ice cream after. Call it a cultural outing.”
“Scouting for lasses, eh?” He grinned.
Days later, over supper, Helen announced, “Alfie’s coming tomorrow.”
“So?”
“I promised him you’d take him to the museum. He’s dead excited—even picking his best shirt.”
Johnny groaned but agreed.
The day was golden. They stopped for ice cream first (“obligation after,” Johnny said), then museum tickets.
“Hurry—tour’s just started!” called the clerk.
They dashed to join the group. Alfie wriggled front; Johnny hung back—until he saw *her*.
The guide was porcelain-delicate, in a white dress, sky-blue beads, eyes like cornflowers. Her voice wove spells as she quizzed the children, her slender fingers curled round a pointer like a fairy’s wand. Johnny stood entranced.
When the tour ended, she vanished down a corridor. Outside, heat slapped them.
“Cool in there,” Alfie mused. “Shame I bottled asking questions.”
“Next time, then.” Johnny glanced back, memorising opening hours. “Tomorrow?”
Alfie blinked. “Why wait?”
Next day, Johnny asked the clerk, “Who was yesterday’s guide?”
“Several work here, love.”
He fumbled a description.
“Ah, Lucy. She’s guiding a coach tour today. Try another time.”
Johnny’s shoulders slumped. Alfie tugged his sleeve. “No museum?”
“We’ve *been*,” Johnny grumbled.
They ate ice cream in silence, Johnny replaying Lucy’s laugh. Alfie eyed him slyly.
“Next weekend—museum again?”
“Got questions to ask,” Johnny said. “Think ‘em up. Look sharp.”
Alfie nodded, licking his cone.
Come Saturday, they were first through the doors. Footsteps echoed on creaky floors. Then—Lucy appeared, now in a grey suit, same beads glinting.
She smiled. “Johnny?”
“You—you know me?”
“You fixed the school radio—Year Eleven. I hosted shows sometimes. Don’t remember?”
He flushed. “Bad with faces. But last time… Felt like I *knew* you.”
They talked for ages. She’d graduated, loved her job; he offered mechanic help if ever needed. Numbers were swapped, parting as friends.
Outside, Alfie huffed, “*I* prepped questions—you just asked about *her*!”
Johnny ruffled his hair. “We’ll be back. Culture’s important, lad.”
“Not for me!” Alfie grinned. “Your turn now.”
News of Johnny’s nightly drives in the Mini thrilled the family.
“Knew that car’d do good,” Grandad said. “Lad’s steady—not one to chase skirts.”
“One-love type,” Helen agreed. “Hope she *sees* him.”
“Give over worrying,” Grandad chuckled. “Opposites stick best.”
Six months later, Lucy and Johnny married. The Mini, decked in ribbons, bore them to the registry. Alfie—proud page boy—carried Lucy’s veil.
After, Grandad nudged him. “Take notes. Hands like Johnny’s—golden. We’ll fetch your bride in this car too, one day.”
Alfie laughed. “Not yet! Army first. Then mechanics.”
“Don’t leave it too long,” Grandad teased.
“You’ll live forever,” Alfie said, hugging him before joining the photo by the Mini—now surrounded by grinning guests.
