Bill swore as he lifted the bonnet of his white van. Three times in the past week, the engine refused to start.

“Bloody ex-son-in-law promised to fix the problem,” he muttered into the haze of rain. He shivered under the gloomy layers of grey that hung above him.

And to cap it all, he’d barely made enough money at today’s Car Boot – not enough for his Sunday roast lunch.

He swore again and thought about heading to the local pub. He needed a half-pint of his favourite dark ale. He could worry about the van after that.

Marjorie, his wife died five years before. Without her, he didn’t know what to do with himself or his time.

A planner in the best of ways, Marjorie organised their lives with her constant to-do lists. Days out, adventurous holidays, exotic cooking and baking-and he, the willing taster.

And she loved to dance. Every Friday night after dinner, she would take him in her arms, as they danced around the kitchen to the sound of Elvis Presley.  Her favourite song, ‘Are you, lonesome tonight.’

Well, he felt bloody lonely and he on his own, every night for the last five years.

To add to Bill’s heartache, her spirit ran through the house. He would hear her voice echo through the walls at all times of the day and night. The love of his life. “Where are you now, when I need you most,” he shook his fist at the slate black clouds.

Following her burial and the fuss his family made over her will, he lost interest in life.  

‘Let himself go,’ his long-dead mother would have said.

One morning, standing in the bathroom, in front of the mirror, he took a pair of scissors to his thick curls. Then with a razor, he shaved his hair right off. Prominent pools of dark brown eyes, without a hint of sparkle, stared straight back at him, along with a shiny bald head.

When his daughters bothered to pop in, clean up a bit, make him a watery cup of tea or heat up some nasty oven-ready meal, they shook their heads, shocked by his appearance.

“Dad, have you seen the sight of yourself? You need to get a grip. You can’t go on living like this. We’re far too busy to nurse you as if you’re some doddery old man. For god’s sake dad, you’re only sixty-two. We miss our mum too. She’d not be best pleased with the old baggy jeans, crumpled check shirt and dirty trainers you wear these days.” They spoke in unison.

And she would not be best pleased to see the cheap food you buy me, he thought but decided not to bother mentioning that fact.

One evening, around dinner time, he heard a sharp rap on the windowpane in the living room. Bill remained in his chair and waited. The knock came again only this time – louder.

He walked out to the hall, undid the lock and chain, and opened the front door. His ex-son-in-law stood on the steps armed with a few cans of beer with a devious look about him. But then he always had a look of up to no good, Bill thought. Reluctantly, he let him in.

Wayne with his second-hand car business suggested Bill ought to buy one of his vans. He’d give him a good deal and that way he could clear the house of his wife’s belongings- “Sell them at a local car boot or market stall,” Wayne said.

Bill felt unsure. His wayward daughters probably had put Wayne up to this idea. And he had to ask, could he bare to part with Marjorie’s beloved clothes?

A long silence spread out between Wayne and himself as they continued to sip their beer.

Eventually, Bill spoke. ”No, out of respect for Majorie,  I’ll not be selling her clothes anytime soon.”

He continued to watch the days and nights and the world pass him by. What’s the point of having time without the woman I loved? He asked. Worthless, empty days, he almost drowned in the loneliness. His only company; was the television and the ancient cockatoo. “Majorie, Majorie, where’s Marjorie?” Lucy would squawk.

After a few months, he bought a van from Wayne and following a few false starts, he got the hang of selling and haggling. He looked forward to driving from village to village, showing up at a market or car boot with his van load of stuff. It kept him occupied and he usually made a profit that is, until today.

“A downright washout is what it was,” he spoke aloud.

He got to know a few of the other stallholders, and sometimes a woman by the name of Kate would set up her stall alongside his. “Hi, my name is Kate. You don’t remember me, do you?” she smiled at Bill.

In his opinion, she was a kind soul who often stayed back after the car boot finished, and helped him to pack up and reload his white van.

 She drove a sturdy green jeep with two sheepdogs, who followed her everywhere.

“Does Kate O’Gorman ring a bell?” She asked him one day.

Bill shrugged.

“Surely you remember the little girl with the mousy brown hair and pigtails who sat beside you in primary school?”

When Kate shared a flask of soup or a sandwich with Bill, the story of how they once knew each other unravelled. “You and your friends teased or ignored me. Kate told him. “Then at the age of eleven, my parents took me away. We moved up north.” Kate recounted how moving to that part of the UK had served her well. Still, only slip of a girl, she met and married her husband. “He was an antique dealer and I became one too.”

One day, Bill not one for chat, spoke out. 

“Would you look at me, he said. “My once-held swagger and confidence are long gone. And you with your good looks. Seems you’ve turned into a right elegant swan. Perhaps it’s time to find out who the real Bill Brown is.  But you know what Kate, I believe I’ve forgotten.”

Six months passed since their reunion. On this Sunday, Kate appeared at his side. She saw his face twitch in anger and noticed the rigidness of his body.

“Hey, Bill having a bit of trouble with the van I see.” She pulled out her mobile and pressed a few buttons. 

“Stuart love, is there any chance you could drive across to the market on the green?

My friend here, Bill has a dodgy van that won’t start.” She waited for the reply.

“Ah, you’re the best.” She closed the phone and turned to Bill. “There now, Stuart will be along in a minute.”  She spoke in a soothing fashion. 

“Why don’t you come back to mine for a bit of lunch? I have a meaty casserole simmering since early morning and Stuart, my son, knows where we are,” she offered.

“I can promise good wholesome food, your old school chum’s company. There might even be a pint of the dark stuff on offer too. You see I know what it’s like to have lost a great love, and not know what to do with the silent empty space.”

Bill banged the bonnet of the van down hard.  “Well, it seems that someone is watching out for me after all.”

And with that, he threw his hands up in the air and did a little dance.  The rain gently withdrew and patches of the palest blue sky appeared. “Kate me darling, this is the best offer I‘ve had in five years. Lead on.”

They jumped into Kate’s jeep, laughing all the way back to her house, where a casserole and a pint of the dark stuff awaited him.