3

Lana

Eighteen-year-old Lana Lloyd looked good on the back of Gareth Metcalf’s Honda 500. And she knew it. Frequently described as a ‘surfing chick’ – even though she’d never been near a surfboard in her life – she was tall and willowy, with blonde, layered hair, painstakingly crimped in homage to Stevie Nicks. She had hazy, hazel eyes, a dazzling smile and was perfectly at home in her own skin.

The two of them had gone for one final spin before she left for the airport, taking their favourite route, over the Heads of the Valleys Road. She’d clung on to him tight, thrilled as ever by the speed and power of the bike as it navigated the winding road that offered breathtaking views of the Welsh valleys. It was one of the best feelings in the world.

Lana and Gareth had met almost a year ago when she’d taken her new old banger of a Fiesta out for its second run. She’d saved and saved for this car, scraping together every penny she’d earned from her Saturday job at the sweetshop and Sunday-waitressing at the pub. It was more than her pride and joy – it was her ticket to freedom, and it – no, she – was called Diana, because she was such a princess. Having learned from an early age to be independent, and not wanting to bother her poor dad, who was always up to his eyes either in nappies or shift work, Lana decided it’d be a good idea to learn some basic car maintenance. Because she didn’t want to rely upon anyone should Diana ever break down.

So she’d headed over to Whitley’s Garage on the little industrial estate just outside town. Pulling into the workshop area at the back, she was greeted by the sight of three mechanics of varying ages, beavering away, either bent over, lying under or sat inside three different vehicles. Radio 1 was blasting forth in the background, and Simon Bates was telling the woeful tale of a tragic couple on his Our Tune slot.

She slammed the door for attention and shouted a little too loudly, ‘Boys, may I introduce you to Diana? She’s getting on a bit and needs a good seeing-to!’

The guy underneath the white van quickly rolled out on his mechanic’s creeper and whispered, ‘Be with you in a minute, it’s nearly finished.’ Then rolled back under the van.

Lana stood there, confused, as Simon Bates drew his story to a melodramatic finale. ‘The crematorium curtains slowly closed …’ he declared over the opening bars of ‘Against All Odds’ by Phil Collins, ‘and Jessie knew she had finally lost him for good. It was time to say one … last … heart-breaking … farewell!’ The music got louder and the lyrics kicked in:

How can I just let you walk away?

Just let you leave without a trace?

The mechanic fixing the Maestro cassette player whooped, cheered and applauded, and the older mechanic bending over a blue Cavalier lifted his head and wiped tears from his eyes. ‘Oh, that was a good one! Fair play!’ And finally the guy under the van reappeared on his trolley. ‘Yep, got to give it to him, never a bad story with Bates!’ Then he rolled off, leapt to his feet, wiped his oily hands with a rag and smiled at Lana. ‘Sorry ’bout that, only we listen to it every day.’