Second Hand Goods

British English spelling and grammar.

For my American cousins: a car boot sale is described within. Think of a cross between a swap meet and a yard sale. On holiday in Arizona - I experienced both.

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Second hand goods

Early 90s

Chris and I have been friends since secondary school. We've moved on of course, but still live near each other. And our wives have become best friends too. We're employed in different fields but have the same interests in our free time; antiques and second hand furniture. This leads to something we enjoy as a foursome: car boot sales. They're usually held in a field near one of the villages surrounding our town. People take along stuff they don't want any more, and other people buy it. We always arrive early, and have a pub lunch on the way home.

We -- my name is Joe Morgan - browse around the furniture. Our wives, Maggie and Bethan respectively, look for old fashioned clothes and items they hope will come back as retro. Remember lava lamps, with the moving blobs of wax and oil? We have three, and Bethan assures me they'll be worth a lot of money some day. She may be right. There's a boot sale every two or three weekends in summer. And we take both cars and a trailer, in case we buy heavy items.

The girls have a night out every Friday. So that's when we guys get together in the garage of whoever bought the last piece that needs repair. We're getting good at making furniture look new again. I've been going to evening classes to study restoring and French polishing. Recently we've begun to make good money selling things on. We often talk about doing this full time. Chris earns more than me, so I could quit my job and do the heavy work. He could stay employed and work with me in his spare time. East Anglia is a good location for this kind of business, but we lack the start-up capital.

One Saturday, Bethan woke up excited. She'd got home late the night before and I'd already been asleep. She and Maggie had run into a girlfriend outside their usual wine bar, who told them that Woodlands, a local hotel, had started a new venture. They had been getting a live band in on Friday nights. A retro band had proved very popular, and the event had turned into a sixties and seventies night; customers were turning up in their hippy gear.

"It was great! Remember how the audience would wear the costumes for the Rocky Horror Show? It was like that. Me and Maggie felt a bit left out. It'll be better next Friday though. We've got loads of clothes from the sixties."

"You be careful Beth."

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. Remember the Halloween party when I caught that vampire playing with your breasts while he pretended to bite your neck?"

"That was just a bit of drunken groping."

"No, it was a bit more than that. One of your nipples was out and his hand was up your dress."

"Oh come on. I thought we'd got past that; I said sorry."

"And I accepted your apology, and we've moved on. All I'm saying is be careful. What you're suggesting is just like fancy dress. You might get drunk again, and there's sure to be guys there ready to take advantage."

"OK Joe. I'll be careful."

Later, Chris also expressed concerns about Woodlands.

"I overheard one of the guys in my department at Huntleys, talking about this 'Sixties and Seventies' night. He was saying lots of the attendees are getting horny; it's retro music but dirty dancing. You know how people lose their inhibitions once they're in fancy dress. You've said yourself, the anonimity is worth two or three drinks. And this guy reckons the hotel manager is letting out rooms by the hour."

"You think our girls might get involved?"

"You tell me."

"Well, Bethan did come close to straying once, but I hoped we'd put it behind us. That was also dressing up. Their love of that era, clothes that feel like someone else's; I think we'd better keep an eye on them. Do you have any specific concerns about Maggie?"

"Actually, she and I have an ongoing situation. I want to try anal sex but she refuses. She wants to try another man, and I've definitely refused that. She once said she might try anal with me, if I went for a threesome first. I refused that idea too. So if there's kissing and groping going on all around them, I fear she might be tempted."

"You have my sympathies mate. Bethan takes it up her arse all the time. I think she prefers it to normal sex. It's ironic really. You'd think Maggie would try anal - it would give her more flexibility in a threesome. How should we proceed?"

"Well that same lad in my department has a problem with time-keeping. He's already on a verbal warning, and his written warning is coming up soon. Neither of our wives has ever seen him, so I'll persuade him to go along and report back. I could tell him what they'll be wearing, and he could keep an eye on them."

"OK, set that up. Can he be trusted?"

"Yes. He's shitting bricks at the thought of getting fired."

The following week, the guy reported back. Bethan and Maggie had turned away all approaches by men on their own. But had been happy to get up and dance when asked by two; typical girls sticking together. He witnessed them dancing in the latter part of the evening, when the songs were slow, and the lights were dimmed. All four got into serious kissing and groping. Chris's wife, Maggie, got her arse squeezed and had her hand on the front of some guy's trousers. My Bethan kept her arms round her man's neck in a kiss that lasted several minutes. He managed to lift her dress and it looked like he got his hand on her panties. But neither of them went to a room, or dallied in the carpark.

"It's only a matter of time." said Chris. "They might both get laid next week."

"I think you're right. But what do we do? Just wait for it to happen, or try and stop it?"

The following day, we were among the first to park in a field adjacent to a boot sale. Chris had hitched up the trailer; as he'd just freed up some space in his garage. We paid the nominal fifty pence per car, headed into the lines of sellers, and immediately made a beeline for a large van. The girls wandered amng the cars. People selling household items usually set up a folding table. But our target had furniture all round his van; he must have paid for two spaces.

"And what are you early birds looking for?" he asked.

"Oh, anything and everything." I said. "We sell on most of the stuff we pick up."

"I'm actually in the second hand business." he said. "I'll give you a big discount if you want to take the whole lot."

"Tempting, but we don't have the space."

"Well I need to get rid of it, so buy whatever you fancy. Meanwhile, take my business card."

We bought a couple of smaller items and a huge writing desk, for very reasonable prices. He put them to one side so we could take them to our cars later. When we caught up with the girls, they were excited. Half a dozen of those sand art frames with bubbles in; the ones you tip upside down and watch the coloured sand drift down through the liquid.

Bethan and I took separate cars to Chris and Maggie's the following day. The girls do the supermarket shop on a Sunday, and they prefer it if we guys don't go. As soon as they'd left, he said: "Come and look at this."

We went in the garage.

"We got that off the dealer yesterday." I said. "Did you call it a secrétaire?"

"I did. But it's older than I thought; antique and genuine French. It's called an escritoire. See all those drawers and cubby holes."

"I'm surprised he didn't know."

"That's exactly what I thought, so I called him this morning. He said he thought it was antique, but couldn't be bothered to research it; he's retiring soon. He has a private income, and a couple of pensions, and has found a place in Spain. He's off to Marbella; to spend the rest of his days playing golf."

"Cool, he didn't look that old." I said.

"Now I could have told you this over the phone. But I wanted you here because I think we should go and see him."

"Why? We can't afford to take over his business."

"We might be able to do just that."

"Go on."

"He may have been willing to let the odd antique go. But he could not have known about this!"

Chris opened a cardboard box with a flourish.

"Jesus!" I said.

"Funnily enough, that's what I said."

"How much is it?"

"Well I counted one bundle and multiplied it up. If they're all the same, It's four hundred thousand pounds!"

"Nearly half a million? Jesus! That's more than our two houses put together!"

"This French escritoire has been in England for years. But the British fifty pound notes are modern. Not new issue, the banks could trace that, but not used much. And I've flicked through them and they have different numbers."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm as sure as I can be, they aren't counterfeit."

"Where were they?"

"Would you believe in a secret drawer?"

"Jesus!"

"And whoever hid them there, can't track us down. We bought this, including contents. And it has no provenance!"

The dealer was called Gareth Banks, and lived in Southwold. East Anglia isn't well served with nightlife, but Southwold is the seaside, and probably the pick of the bunch. On the way we discussed our plan. We'd take the cash to a bank and confirm it was legit. Then see a solicitor and get a sworn affidavit. We'd need that, as banks are wary when they get cash deposits of over ten thousand. It would be a new, joint bank account and, for the time being, would be kept secret from the ladies.

We found Banks' store on a busy street. Nice welcoming frontage and an extensive storage area at the back; the size of a small warehouse, and half full of second-hand furniture and bric-a-brac. A dozen or so people were browsing. When he'd shown us round, we all went to the coffee shop next door. He left one skinny lad in charge on the front desk. There was another bigger man hanging round; obviously the muscle. Over coffee, Gareth came straight to the point.

"You may interested in buying after all?" he asked.

"Yes." I confirmed. "We still need to sort out our finances, but are definitely interested."

"Well I'm going to shoot myself in the foot here, and tell you exactly what's happening. I hope you appreciate I don't usually do business like this."

"Go on."

"I had a buyer for this place lined up, so I transferred his deposit to the Marbella villa. Then he dropped dead on me; heart attack apparently. His deposit is not returnable, and his family aren't disputing it. But I'm supposed to be closing the deal in Spain and, at present, there's no-one else interested in this place. If I don't get a buyer soon, I'm going to lose my retirement villa. So I'll let it go for two hundred and fifty thousand. It's worth more than three."

"What do we get?" Chris asked.

"All that you just saw, my big van, plus a three bed flat over the store. I'll show it to you if you're genuinely interested. It's spacious, but I'll be honest, this is not a residential area. You'll be close to all the nightlife, but neighbours are few and far between. And one thing I must insist on. You keep Tom and Jerry on - don't laugh. They're not the sharpest tools in the box, but have been with me for years. Tom watches the shop; he'd come in seven days a week if I let him. And Jerry helps with house clearances."

On the way back, we agreed to go to book the following Tuesday off work. And we would stop worrying about what to do about cheating wives. If they behaved themselves, we'd forgive them. But if we discovered they'd gone too far, we'd disappear to Southwold, and start anew.

"Where have you been? I thought the pubs closed at two on Sundays!" said Bethan, hands on hips. Though we could see it was only mock anger. If you're going to tell a lie, have it contain as much truth as possible.

"We went over to Southwold." said Chris. "The car boot guy said he'd hunt out some paperwork on that French writing desk. We never even went near a pub."

"How did you contact him?"

"He's a dealer. He gave us his card."

"Well, if there's room for another dealer in Southwold, count us in!" said Maggie. "I'd move there like a shot."

On Tuesday, the solicitor drew up and signed the affidavit, and said there'd be no charge if we used his services for our purchase of the business. We agreed and hinted there might be two house sales coming up. The cash went into the bank - exactly four hundred thousand pounds, as Chris estimated. The bank manager phoned Gareth's bank and transferred the whole purchase price. Then we just had to sit back and wait for all the paperwork to go through.

Saturday morning, Chris needed to see me urgently; emergency meeting.

"So, what did our spy have to report?" I asked.

"He says it was similar to last time, except they were both braless. Perhaps they're slipping their undies into their handbags in the taxi. They went straight onto the dancefloor with the first two guys that asked; not the same two as last week. They seem determined not to get split up, not while they were downstairs anyway. But they didn't appear to be fussy, as long as they were approached by two blokes."

"Did they get a room?"

"Two rooms. A few slow groping dances, a couple of glasses of wine, and they were off. Separate rooms and back on the dancefloor before ten. They stuck with the same two guys till they left, but the dancing was less erotic."

"I'm not surprised. All four of them had probably cum!"

"Probably." said Chris. "And one more thing."

"What?"

"My spy overheard the guys chatting to them as they left. One said to Bethan: 'That's the best fuck I've had this year! Will you be here next week?' She replied: 'You got damn good value for a few drinks. Let someone else have a turn lads!' Sounds like a recipe for what they used to call VD."

"True." I said. "We haven't mentioned the actual word divorce.But that's the way it's heading for me."

Absolutely." said Chris. "It's time to kick them into touch. Good pickings in Southwold. And with the business we've got lined up, we don't need to bother with evidence. Just go for a quick divorce, and give them half of everything. They need never know about our new business."

"It'd be nice to confront them with something though."

"What have you got in mind?" he asked.

I told him about a recent discovery in our garage. A year ago, Bethan had bought some costumes and make-up, from an amateur dramatic group that was closing down. Among them was a large box of wigs. She'd pulled it out into the open and told me what she'd found. Right on the top was a classic strawberry blonde bob with an outrageous flick up. She already had a short skirt and boots - both in white pvc. She intended going as pop idol, Lulu.

"That'll make her easy to spot." said Chris.

"Yes." I agreed. "But she hasn't been through all the other stuff in the box. And every wig is in its own plastic bag so she has no idea what's there. But I have."

It was Friday evening and everything had clicked into place. I'd told Bethan that Chris and I were going to be hours working in our garage, and suggested she should get ready at Maggie's house. She jumped at the chance; they could have a giggle getting into their sixties clothes. I also said they should both get a taxi back to ours, as Chris would still be here, so he could run Maggie home. Meanwhile, Gareth had been delighted to get the whole amount, and said we could use his spare rooms any time.

Fifteen minutes after she'd left, Chris and I were nearly ready. He'd found a tattered sheepskin coat and torn the sleeves off. I was wearing that over a denim shirt and jeans. He had a leather waistcoat I'd found among the box of props, and a pair of hairy boots. Last time I'd seen anything like them was early Sonny and Cher. We were putting the finishing touches to our wigs - I'd chosen a blond wavy one. The Roger Daltry look in the early days of The Who. I'd shaved off my moustache and put skin cream on to make me look blonder and more fresh faced. Chris, who was fairer than me, had gone for dark Bob Dylan curls. I was darkening his eyebrows with theatrical make-up.

"Do you think this will work?" he asked.

"Possibly not with our own wives, but each other's? Sure. Clothes are a distraction; hair and eyebrows define the face. Once you've got the tinted John Lennon glasses on, you'll be a different person. And if they think we're wearing wigs, so what? I'm sure we won't be the only ones. Have you been practising your French accent?"

"Mais oui, ma'amselle."

"That's fine. You're shy and I'm the confident one in sunglasses, so I'll do most of the chatting."

"How's your London accent coming along?" he asked.

At university, I'd played the part of Artful Dodger in our production of Oliver Twist. I'd worked hard on that Cockney accent, and Bethan had never heard it. Not that I'd be talking to her much. Our deal was - my target was Maggie, and vice versa. Hence Chris's Frenchman; Bethan's vampire that fateful Halloween had been French.

"Aw right Maggie? Fancy anuvver van plonk?" I said.

"What's van plonk?"

"It's a Londoner being posh, and referring to white wine. You should know that; vin blanc is French!"

We parked nearby and were among the first to arrive. The band was still warming up when we went to the bar. I prefer traditional bitter beer, but tonight went for lager. Chris is a Guinness man, but red wine seemed more in character. I paid for the drinks with a ten pound note.

"Have you got a five?" asked the barman. "I've no change in the till yet."

"Hang onto that for now, and do us a favour would you?"

"OK."

"You remember Lulu?"

"Of course. She did 'Shout' and 'The Boat that I Row.' She's Marie McDonald McLaughlin Lawrie - to give her her Sunday name!"

Chris grinned at me.

"Well, when she and her friend come in, pay for whatever they order with that. If you can direct them to our table, you can keep the change."

"Cheers mate!"

They came in half an hour later. We watched them at the bar. They were delighted when told to put their money away, and approached us. I had to admit Bethan made a great Lulu. Maggie was sporting a short, pleated, tartan skirt. Neither of them had a bra on. We stood up.

"Thanks for the drinks, guys. You look like you were expecting us!" said Bethan.

I slid into my London accent.

"Yeah, we seen you here last week, but my mate was too shy to speak. I'm 'Arry and this is Francois."

I shook hands with her and Chris moved in and kissed her on both cheeks.

"Wow!" said Bethan. "You don't seem shy at all!"

"Mon plaisir ma'amselle Lulu."

"It's just the French way, innit?" I explained.

They both smelled of wine already.

"Well I'm Lulu tonight, and this is my friend Sharon."

Chris shook hands with her, and quickly ushered Bethan to the seat next to his. I shook hands too, and said: "You look Scotch Sharon."

"It's 'Scottish' actually." she corrected me. "But I'm not."

"Sorry. Hope I haven't spoiled me chances."

"Chances of what?" she asked.

Her smile told me she knew very well what.

"Chances of a dance later!"

"Oh, I think we'll be up for that, Harry."

"Good. Nice kilt."

"Not really - it's a skirt. A kilt wraps right round you; a skirt has a little zip at the back."

"Shouldn't think there's enough room for a zip, but I'll believe you for now. Later, I may have to check. I could always wrap myself round you!"

She laughed. Good start.

They were fine with the pairing off, and the conversations split into twosomes. We knew they weren't particularly picky, as long as guys were in pairs and bought the drinks. My Lulu was captivated by Francois' halting English, and soon had her hand on his thigh. Her white skirt had already ridden up so high, her matching thong was visible. I'd seen it all before of course but, under these circumstances, it was sexier. And Maggie, Sharon for tonight, was showing plenty too.