Car boot sailing

By Maxim Griffin.

High summer – a village playing field – No Dogs / No Traders, the whiff of bacon – you thought you’d get here early but everything is already in full swing – ranks of stalls, tarps and blankets each covered in a variety of artifacts – a temporary migrant community with their wares a kind of exhibition, an archaeology of sorts – you walk with the concentration of a beachcomber.

An older man sells a phalanx of tomato plants – pound each or ten for a fiver – their smell hits you – memories of an elderly neighbour when you were a kid – he grew all kinds of veg and would talk at length about the things he did in the war – Lee Marvin in blue overalls – green beans and knife work – that big, soft voice and a shock of white hair.

Walk on – a selection of ghostwritten celebrity biographies, a plastic box of fluffy toys – baby clothes laid out – Disney films on DVD – next stall – a pile of Beano annuals – a Spanish guitar with nylon strings that play a strange chord as a woman brushes by – some records – you crouch to flick through – middle of the road classic rock and a 10 LP set of Jim Reeves – that’s a lot of Jim Reeves – the wrong kind of twang, too clean – more country – a George Jones, a Slim Whitman – not today.

More toys – action figures 10p each – bashed up cars – 10p each – a sweaty bag of Afrika Korps, 1/32 scale – pound – kiddo spies them and puts in a request – okay – he’ll need some 8th Army to go with them – more tomato plants at similar prices and a hologram of Jesus in a metal frame that turns into Mary as you move along.

Toys and tools
The next three stalls are an identical display of kitchen items – blenders, pans, big spoons – books of Jamie Oliver’s 10-minute weekday suppers – you never see Delia at these things, people hang on to them – more celebrity biographies – Peter Kay, Shane Ritchie, Jordan etc – airport paperbacks with broken spines, Mills & Boon – you pick one up and study the cover – a couple in quasi-Victorian dress almost kissing – you read a sentence – page 98 – blimey – you put the book back with a chuckle.

Children surround the next table, yours included – Lego and plenty of it – a big, newish set of robots still in the box – kiddo asks ever so politely the asking price, is told, responds with an incredulous “HOW MUCH!?!” – fair enough – 50 quid is not car boot prices – there are unwritten rules, an unspoken system – the children disperse, the seller sighs.

A large green tarpaulin with neatly set out tools – billhooks, hammers, spirit levels – the obligatory rusty blowtorch – Toby jugs, a large tin of screws and nails – some lovely old horse brasses that perhaps once hung in a pub – the symbol of the lucky pixie gleaming in the sun – the fella is chirpy – cleared out his dad’s shed – a wooden drawer of coins from other places, Swiss Army knives – you reach for an old-fashioned whistle with an inscription etched on it: QUIS EST ISTE QUI UENIT – best not – kiddo reaches for it – you tell him that some whistles are not to be blown – the chirpy fella smiles – you clock a cardboard box (Walkers Cheese & Onion ) and on it is written ADULT in thick marker pen – pound each on the magazines mate – you’re alright pal – move along.

Everything must go
Kiddo and the others have run off to the swings – you feel the sun on your neck as you bend to inspect another load of records – pound each mate – flick though – Jim Reeves again – pass – Abba, Abba, Abba, Soft Cell, Motörhead’s Bomber, show tunes – eclectic is always promising – a Link Wray compilation from the ’70s is a keeper, Vangelis, Harry Secombe x 3 – oh, hello – KLF’s post-rave ambient classic Chill Out – you give the man his two quid and marvel at your find.

Kiddo runs back over – they’re thirsty – you hand over some pennies and send them looking for refreshments in the village hall and soon enough they are back on the swings with bottles of mysterious blue pop – the car boot is in full swing now – faces from town who nod in recognition – a lady on a mobility scooter haggles for a dreamcatcher – a crying child who wants the thing they can’t have – baby clothes with a note saying they are unworn – war books, royal plates – Charles and Diana, Andrew and Fergie – those ceramic clowns, those odd faced pickle jars – a mirror with Elvis on that reflects the shoes that stroll by – the ‘King’ catches your eye – black leather, ’68 Comeback Special, still got it.

More plants – more tomatoes – the couple sit in camping chairs, sunning themselves behind their display – he’s hooked up to a small oxygen tank – he gestures and says that everything must go and his wife gives him a look and he cackles – you buy a few tomato plants and a couple of tall alliums and hand them over to kiddo who ferries them back to the car – the fella offers a deal on a nest of terracotta pots and a brief but clear history of his health troubles – you buy the pots and wish him good luck – kiddo returns to fetch the pots and the fella gives him a couple of extra tomato plants and a wink – there y’go tiger, everything must go.

People are thinning out – rusty blowtorches are being packed away – a couple wrestle with a tarp while a last-minute haggler is sucking their teeth over a pair of directors’ chairs – ten is offered – they were expecting twenty – meet them in the middle – done – time to head home – it’s Sunday after all and there are roasts to roast and lawns to mow – next car boot is in a fortnight, weather permitting – the exhibits will be different and the same – this is the way – the law of quid, the rule of tomato plants, the inevitable Jim Reeves records, the thrill of the bargain, the ordinary archaeology.

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