Car Boot
Derek John
It was a dull Sunday morning and after finishing the papers I was at a loose end. I looked out the kitchen window at the grey and shadowy skies
which threatened an imminent downpour and decided to get into my car and go for one of those leisurely and aimless Sunday drives which usually passed the time until lunch.
I hesitated as I drove past the turnoff for the Wandlebury Camp nature reserve. Only the most foolhardy dog-walkers would be out in a day like this I thought. A small hand-painted sign was jammed into the road verge with a shaky arrow pointing towards the carpark.
Car boot sale here today 9:30-12
I swung the steering wheel hard at the last second and turned into the gateway. There were ten or so cars parked in a line on either side with their wares displayed on rickety camping tables. The boot sale was deserted of patrons except for myself and another man in a dark coat and hat who was in the middle of an animated discussion with one of the sellers.
The first table I approached was full of old china. A young couple were sitting in front of the open boot of their car.
“Been having a clear-out?” I said jauntily. They looked at me silently with red-rimmed eyes as if they had just finished some tearful marital row.
On closer inspection the china was not old. In fact, it was mostly modern department-store rejects. But each and every dinner service was cracked and chipped beyond repair. The teacups all lacked handles and the fragmented plates and soup bowls seemed more suitable for committing HariKiri than eating with. A forlorn and lidless teapot with a jagged spout satin the midst of the jumble. I looked at the price label underneath which read ‘25 pounds’, and wondered what sort of fantasy-land these people were living in.
The next table had a collection of old books and records. The proprietor sat on a deck chair, his chin pressed into his chest as if he was
fast asleep, and his bald, spotted, and unhealthy-looking head nodding gently at me as I browsed. I rummaged through the dismal collection of Mills and Boon and Readers Digest condensed books when my heart suddenly skipped a beat.
It was a copy of ‘We Do Not Die’ by Desmond Shaw, an obscure book on Edwardian spiritualism of which I had given up hope of ever finding a copy. I opened it and the sharp reek of mildew hit me. It was disgusting even to hold it for too long and anyway it looked like the ending had been clumsily ripped out. The rest of the stall was similarly poor pickings: crossword compendiums with all the puzzles completed, several copies of ‘The Microwave Cookery
Book’and innumerable scratched and unplayable LPs of long-forgotten crooners.
A few framed engravings were stacked in a pile at the side of the table. Tide-marks of damp had infiltrated the frames and fouled the pictures. They were mostly faded and uninspiring Victorian melodrama’s with titles such as: ‘When Did You Last See Your Father?’, ‘Too Late For Repentance’, or‘The Last of England’.
His neighbour’s table was laden with children’s toys. But closer inspection showed that the board games were all missing crucial pieces. A tatty shoebox was filled to the brim with figurines of Star Wars characters. I had aquick rummage knowing that some of the early ones were now worth quite a bit of money on the internet, but I quickly gave up on my efforts. The figures were missing most of their limbs, and their heads were chewed into an unrecognisable pulp, some even showed signs of burning as if they had been the playthings of a particularly wilful and nasty child.
Another box held an array of old Action Man toys, but again, all were either decapitated or multiple amputees, casualties from a ruthless playtime massacre. I saw a moth-eaten commando figure which I remembered from my childhood and out of nostalgia picked it up for a closer look. As I held thefigure in my hand a single tear welled out of its eye like some miraculous statue of a saint.
It must have been doused in a previous downpour I thought, trying to rationalise the odd event. Yes, the rainwater must have infiltrated through the little opening at the back where you could waggle his eyes.
On her lap the stallholder was stroking the hair of a nude and bedraggled baby doll; it was remarkably lifelike, almost like a real child. She smiled at me and her eyes gleamed with a mad intensity. I replaced the figure in the box and moved on briskly.
The sellers’ cars seemed as ancient and clapped-out as the rest of the items on sale. An old Vauxhall Cavalier, cancerous with rust was parked next to a rotting Morris Traveller which seemed to be held together by sheerwillpower and nothing else. I wondered at the detritus of life that people held on to and why they thought it could be worth anything at all.
I paused in front of a table which bowed under an assortment of obsolete computers, game consoles and black-and-white television sets. I looked closely, but I couldn’t see any power leads or plugs attached.
“Do any of these things work?” I asked the man in charge.
“Caveat emptor,” he replied.
He beckoned me closer and whispered, “All the wires are cut my friend.”
At the end of the row an old man was sat alone amidst a collection of empty cardboard boxes. Resting on an upturned box in front of him was a single apostle teaspoon.
“You must have had a good morning then?” I said.
“It’s all I have left,” he replied in a small pathetic voice.
“Is it silver?” I asked.
“Perhaps.”
Out of pity I gave him a pound for it. He left the money on the box and sat staring at it as if it was some unknown foreign currency.
A few random drops began to ping off my face which soon turned into a steady drizzle. The rain gradually rose in intensity until it was torrential. I ran to my car past the full length of the tables. The sellers sat motionless in the downpour, making no effort to cover themselves or their wares, and the rain streamed down their sallow faces as they turned to watch me rush past.
The man in the dark coat and hat was standing under a tree for shelter.
“Nice weather for ducks Mr Cunningham!” he said, tipping his brim in mock salute.
I couldn’t see his face, but I assumed he must be one of my neighbours from Selsingham. I gave a half-hearted wave in passing and dived into my car. As I pulled out I could barely see through the windscreen even with the wipers going full-pelt.
I drove past Wandlebury on several occasions afterwards, but the car-boot sale never returned, and no wonder, if that was the best they could do.
I often look at the spoon that I bought, because in hindsight it is such a curious thing. The figure of the apostle has been rubbed away by years of erosion so that it seems unnaturally twisted, his mouth eaten away by verdigris almost into the semblance of a scream.
It was a dull Sunday morning and after finishing the papers I was at a loose end. I looked out the kitchen window at the grey and shadowy skies
which threatened an imminent downpour and decided to get into my car and go for one of those leisurely and aimless Sunday drives which usually passed the time until lunch.
I hesitated as I drove past the turnoff for the Wandlebury Camp nature reserve. Only the most foolhardy dog-walkers would be out in a day like this I thought. A small hand-painted sign was jammed into the road verge with a shaky arrow pointing towards the carpark.
Car boot sale here today 9:30-12
I swung the steering wheel hard at the last second and turned into the gateway. There were ten or so cars parked in a line on either side with their wares displayed on rickety camping tables. The boot sale was deserted of patrons except for myself and another man in a dark coat and hat who was in the middle of an animated discussion with one of the sellers.
The first table I approached was full of old china. A young couple were sitting in front of the open boot of their car.
“Been having a clear-out?” I said jauntily. They looked at me silently with red-rimmed eyes as if they had just finished some tearful marital row.
On closer inspection the china was not old. In fact, it was mostly modern department-store rejects. But each and every dinner service was cracked and chipped beyond repair. The teacups all lacked handles and the fragmented plates and soup bowls seemed more suitable for committing HariKiri than eating with. A forlorn and lidless teapot with a jagged spout satin the midst of the jumble. I looked at the price label underneath which read ‘25 pounds’, and wondered what sort of fantasy-land these people were living in.
The next table had a collection of old books and records. The proprietor sat on a deck chair, his chin pressed into his chest as if he was
fast asleep, and his bald, spotted, and unhealthy-looking head nodding gently at me as I browsed. I rummaged through the dismal collection of Mills and Boon and Readers Digest condensed books when my heart suddenly skipped a beat.
It was a copy of ‘We Do Not Die’ by Desmond Shaw, an obscure book on Edwardian spiritualism of which I had given up hope of ever finding a copy. I opened it and the sharp reek of mildew hit me. It was disgusting even to hold it for too long and anyway it looked like the ending had been clumsily ripped out. The rest of the stall was similarly poor pickings: crossword compendiums with all the puzzles completed, several copies of ‘The Microwave Cookery
Book’and innumerable scratched and unplayable LPs of long-forgotten crooners.
A few framed engravings were stacked in a pile at the side of the table. Tide-marks of damp had infiltrated the frames and fouled the pictures. They were mostly faded and uninspiring Victorian melodrama’s with titles such as: ‘When Did You Last See Your Father?’, ‘Too Late For Repentance’, or‘The Last of England’.
His neighbour’s table was laden with children’s toys. But closer inspection showed that the board games were all missing crucial pieces. A tatty shoebox was filled to the brim with figurines of Star Wars characters. I had aquick rummage knowing that some of the early ones were now worth quite a bit of money on the internet, but I quickly gave up on my efforts. The figures were missing most of their limbs, and their heads were chewed into an unrecognisable pulp, some even showed signs of burning as if they had been the playthings of a particularly wilful and nasty child.
Another box held an array of old Action Man toys, but again, all were either decapitated or multiple amputees, casualties from a ruthless playtime massacre. I saw a moth-eaten commando figure which I remembered from my childhood and out of nostalgia picked it up for a closer look. As I held thefigure in my hand a single tear welled out of its eye like some miraculous statue of a saint.
It must have been doused in a previous downpour I thought, trying to rationalise the odd event. Yes, the rainwater must have infiltrated through the little opening at the back where you could waggle his eyes.
On her lap the stallholder was stroking the hair of a nude and bedraggled baby doll; it was remarkably lifelike, almost like a real child. She smiled at me and her eyes gleamed with a mad intensity. I replaced the figure in the box and moved on briskly.
The sellers’ cars seemed as ancient and clapped-out as the rest of the items on sale. An old Vauxhall Cavalier, cancerous with rust was parked next to a rotting Morris Traveller which seemed to be held together by sheerwillpower and nothing else. I wondered at the detritus of life that people held on to and why they thought it could be worth anything at all.
I paused in front of a table which bowed under an assortment of obsolete computers, game consoles and black-and-white television sets. I looked closely, but I couldn’t see any power leads or plugs attached.
“Do any of these things work?” I asked the man in charge.
“Caveat emptor,” he replied.
He beckoned me closer and whispered, “All the wires are cut my friend.”
At the end of the row an old man was sat alone amidst a collection of empty cardboard boxes. Resting on an upturned box in front of him was a single apostle teaspoon.
“You must have had a good morning then?” I said.
“It’s all I have left,” he replied in a small pathetic voice.
“Is it silver?” I asked.
“Perhaps.”
Out of pity I gave him a pound for it. He left the money on the box and sat staring at it as if it was some unknown foreign currency.
A few random drops began to ping off my face which soon turned into a steady drizzle. The rain gradually rose in intensity until it was torrential. I ran to my car past the full length of the tables. The sellers sat motionless in the downpour, making no effort to cover themselves or their wares, and the rain streamed down their sallow faces as they turned to watch me rush past.
The man in the dark coat and hat was standing under a tree for shelter.
“Nice weather for ducks Mr Cunningham!” he said, tipping his brim in mock salute.
I couldn’t see his face, but I assumed he must be one of my neighbours from Selsingham. I gave a half-hearted wave in passing and dived into my car. As I pulled out I could barely see through the windscreen even with the wipers going full-pelt.
I drove past Wandlebury on several occasions afterwards, but the car-boot sale never returned, and no wonder, if that was the best they could do.
I often look at the spoon that I bought, because in hindsight it is such a curious thing. The figure of the apostle has been rubbed away by years of erosion so that it seems unnaturally twisted, his mouth eaten away by verdigris almost into the semblance of a scream.