I hate getting old. Actually, it’s not the ageing which bothers me so much as the things that go with it. When I was young it never occurred to me how often I put myself in dangerous situations. I remember walking across a dark field at midnight to look for the bracelet I had dropped earlier, on the way to the country pub. It wasn’t until my friends had all said goodnight and gone their separate ways I realised it was missing, so there wasn’t even anyone else around to help me search. Despite it being pitch black I did find it -perhaps that’s why it was called my lucky charm bracelet.

 

I was wearing it the night the guy I knew vaguely tried making sexual advances to me and came unstuck. He had offered me a lift home one dark, damp November evening, saying he was going in my direction, but what I didn’t realise was he had already phoned his friend to meet up with him so there would be two against one. This was in the days before everyone had a mobile phone stuck to their face, but my suspicions were aroused when he pulled over to the telephone box at the side off the road to make a call. There was little point if he was supposedly on his own way home.

 

Perhaps it’s unusual to have a knife as a bracelet charm, but it had been bought as a birthday present joke, knowing I always had a problem getting the top off things.

 

‘There you go,’ Jenny had said, ‘just make sure you keep it folded in, as the guy in the shop told me it’s actually very sharp.’

 

It was. When I had queried the route Pete was taking as he seemed to be going away from town, rather than towards where I lived, he had smirked and said it would be more fun with the three of us. What a creep.

 

He refused to stop the car when I asked, but after a while pulled into a lay-by next to a bus stop, before lunging at me. As I put my arm up to knock him away the knife on the bracelet sprang open, and he ended up with a nasty gash along his arm. Serves him right. At that moment I saw lights behind me, jumped out of the car and onto the approaching bus, which pulled away before Pete had a chance to move. The driver probably assumed someone was waiting with me for the bus to arrive, but I don’t think he noticed I had time to slash one of Pete’s tyres before we headed off, leaving him stranded. Serves him right.

 

Looking back, I’m never sure if the world was actually a safer place when I was growing up, or if we believed it was because we were young and confident.

 

The next time the bracelet came to my rescue was when I was on holiday with some friends on our first trip to a foreign county. This was the early 70s when tourism wasn’t as common as it is now, and it was a big adventure for a group of girls to head off to the sunshine, and meet the dark, swarthy lads who loved the English senoritas.

 

Safety in numbers or so we thought, but somehow a few of the others paired off, and it left three of us tottering along on our high heels trying to find the way back to the hotel. We were all Londoners where the streets were lit 24/7 and if the worst came to the worst, we would pool our resources and get a taxi home if we missed the last train or bus.

 

Here was like being in the depth of the country. Presumably there were houses around but perhaps they went to bed as soon as it got dark as there was not a speck of light anywhere. We weren’t even certain we were heading in the right direction, or anywhere near civilisation. It was pitch black until suddenly the darkness was broken by headlights from a car which revealed a road just to our left, and a few feet above us. Waving frantically to attract attention we were relieved to see the car stop, and we rushed towards it, hoping the occupants weren’t murderers or rapists, and could at least give us directions.

 

It was an encouraging sign when we saw a young couple leaning over the edge, and offering a hand to help pull us up onto the road.

 

‘Engleesh?’ asked the female who was probably not that much older than us. ‘ow you say? Missing?’

 

‘Yes, we’re lost,’ I replied. ‘Thank you so much for stopping. I’m surprised you saw us down there.’

 

‘This,’ said the girl pointing to my bracelet,’ Like fireworks, catch light, so we stop. Your hotel- name?’

 

The man with her presumably didn’t speak any English, but nodded when we said where we were staying and gestured for us to get in the car. Within ten minutes he drew up outside what we recognised as our hotel. We pointed to the engine and tried to offer them some petrol money, but they refused, and with smiles and thanks we went up to our rooms, safe and sound.

 

Years later, through social media, I was browsing the area we first visited, and unbelievably came across a Spanish lady telling the story of how they rescued three English girls all those years ago. Obviously, I contacted her and we became friends, even visiting each other when I took a trip back to Spain, and she came over to England.

 

She had married the young man, Jose who had been with her that fateful night. They had children and grandchildren, and she often told the story of how if it hadn’t been for the light reflecting on my bracelet, they would have driven straight past without knowing we were there.

 

Her granddaughter is getting married in a few weeks’ time, I’ve been invited to the ceremony, and was thinking about a wedding gift. Although we are miles apart in age, and from different cultures, over the years I have got to know her so well, and I’m sure my gift will have a special place in her heart.

 

The local jeweller is adding a Good Luck wedding charm, and I know she will treasure it as I have over the years. My story is told, but hers is just beginning.

 

© Val Portelli October 2023.

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