It was on the White Elephant stall at the church summer fair. I don't go to church any more because I don't like the Sunday School teacher. She was always telling me off for leaving the tops off the felt tips and not wearing my 'I had fun at Sunday School' badge. Still, a slip came through the door and it was a nice day so Sarah, my best friend, and I decided to go down to the village field where the fair was being held and have a poke about. I had £2 saved and Mum gave me 50p for the entrance, but children got in free.

I spotted the trinket box straight away - brown hessian with pink embroidered flowers decorating the top and sides and a £2 sticker right in the middle. I edged closer and picked it up - a little squashed at the sides so the lid was awkward. It was scratchy too, like the sacks at sports day. Two pounds spent on that would only leave 50p for the bran tub and guess how many sweets in the jar and the tombola.

I glanced at the Vicar's wife guarding the stall, then, when she was serving someone else, I raised it to my nose. It smelt musty, like the inside of Gran's wardrobe. I worked the lid off and the ripping sound of hessian against hessian brought the old busybody bustling back down the stall.

"I'm just looking," my voice sounded very small and pink and my cheeks were ruby. "Well, be careful dear," she said, stuffy old toad. It was her that used to be my Sunday School teacher. She has podgy hands with too many rings squeezed onto the fingers and a great big gold cross round her neck, as if she's got to prove how religious she is.

I felt a little thrill when the open box revealed its smaller twin nesting inside. Quite a good price then - £2 for two trinket boxes, matching - a set. I pictured them on my dressing table next to my brush and comb set. They'd go really well because pink is the main colour in my bedroom.

Mrs Vicar folded her arms: "Well, do you want it or not dear, because other people are trying to look?" "I'll think about it." I replaced it on the table and when she'd gone away again, I hid it behind a blue glass vase.

Sarah said there was homemade fudge and toffee popcorn next to the balloon man. I opened my purse and searched its corners for hidden coins I knew weren't there.

It took ages to go round all the stalls. I glanced back a couple of times but there was so much to do - the steady hand game, throwing wet sponges at the too jolly verger in his Eric Morecambe shorts and then Sarah wanted another bag of fudge.

The Vicar was starting to look flustered. His bald patch was getting really shiny and he didn't seem to have enough hands as he had to keep taking his specs on and off when he announced the raffle winners through a bullhorn, then shake hands with them and give them their prizes. A fat boy with greasy hair who sang in the choir won the jar of sweets. I wished I hadn't wasted my money on that now, so I could have got that trinket box. All the stalls were packing up. Sarah had no money left and I only had Mum's 50p. It was time to go.

On our way out we passed the White Elephant stall again, which still had a few hideous objects left, now marked down to bargain prices. The Vicar's wife must have spotted me because she called me over, nice as pie this time.

"Do you still want that trinket box, dear? It would be lovely for your bits of jewellery and hair slides you girls have. Shall we say 50p?"

I took a deep breath and looked her in the eye: "I'll give you 40 for it." She gave a sickly smile, held out her chubby hand and I dropped the money into it.

At home I made a space on my dressing table and put the two boxes in their places. I filled the bigger one with my special letter from Gran, soft at the folds from all the times I'd read it, a photo of Sarah and me at the school disco and my other secret photo. In the smaller box I placed a scrap of blue satin, folded around my six baby teeth that I'd found last year in Mum's knicker drawer.

I sorted through my jewellery collection, but I certainly didn't put any of it in the trinket boxes. I was looking for my Sunday School badge to throw in the bin.

UP IS LIKE DOWN

Up is like down when you turn a cartwheel. You throw yourself over and over, around and around, hands landing on damp, spring grass. The trick is to keep your body rigid - back straight, arms stiff and legs pointing to the sky.

We practised on the back lawn at home, my sister and I. She was older and cleverer and prettier than me but I was better at cartwheels. I realise this only now when the lawn is long gone and my hands are threaded with blue veins, weak at the wrist.

PORTRAIT OF ANDRE

A bunch of us were on holiday in Crete. It was high summer so we had lazed the day away and were walking now up the hill to George's place, the restaurant we had discovered the previous week.

I was ahead and, as I rounded a corner, I saw him sitting, as casual as you like, on the stone wall that separated the road from the fields. His skin was Mediterranean smooth and brown, shown off to its best by denim shorts and a plain white tee-shirt, with a gold Rolex on one wrist, beaded bracelet on the other and a shark's tooth hanging from a slim leather thong, slung around his neck. A pair of sunglasses nestled with effortless chic among his loose brown hair, which curled lazily around his head, dropping into impeccable waves at his shoulders, in a casual ruffled elegance that only Frenchmen can pull off. His legs were drawn up almost to a crouching position, brown sandalled feet flat to the stone for balance.

He was throwing a small rubber ball into the air and catching it - I had heard, without realising what it was, the rhythmical slapping sound as he cupped the ball in his palm each time it returned from the air. Now I saw the action, I matched it to the sound.

"Andre! Hi!"

He waved his hand in greeting and slid from the wall and into our group in one fluid movement, like a good single malt, slowly poured.

"We're going to George's for dinner."

He eased into the middle of the group and we upped our pace to match his tall strides. He turned to me, slipped the designer sunglasses from his head to his nose and then back again, for no purpose other than for me to note and admire their effect on his face.

"Yeah, okay, I'll come with you."

A car passed by, tooting its horn. Andre pivoted to look and waved in recognition.

"Those guys, huh?"

He pulled a cigarette packet from his pocket, shook one out and paused, turning slightly to one side to light it. We all stopped to wait for him. I watched the slight pucker of concentration on his brow as he waited for the flame to transfer from lighter to tobacco. He was on the move again, waving the packet around in front of us. We shook our heads, "No thanks."

"Huh, you British guys." He blew out a shaft of smoke and, glancing over a field to a bougainvillea clad house, he called out to a figure standing at the porch. A female voice answered him and waved but he was already moving across in front of us to point out a gravestone in the local cemetery.

"That's my grandmother's grave, you know," he indicated with his cigarette. We stood for a few moments looking down at the hillside graveyard, illuminated in the evening sun, until Andre was ready to move on.

As we got close to the restaurant his mobile rang and he flipped it open. Again, he paused, turning slightly away from us and spoke very fast in French.

"Yeah, I have to go, sorry guys." He stood in front of us, a leader addressing the crowd, spread his arms wide and shrugged. A gold drop top pulled up and he hopped in, pulling his sunglasses into position. The engine revved and he lounged his arm over the side of the car door.

"Ciaou guys. Tell George I'm sorry, huh?"

The car lurched forward and I saw him punching buttons on the CD player as it roared away up the road, the chrome catching the last of the day's sunlight.

Judy Walker

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