by Annie Murray
He had thought a new start would make things better after the war, leaving Daimler, going to live in Birmingham. Racing had been part of the attraction there, of course, the races Austin had taken part in before the war. They’d been one of the very few British entrants in the Grand Prix as early as 1908. And he’d struck lucky, been one of the handful of engineers taken on by the Austin works out at Longbridge. Business was still hanging by a thread, of course, with the slump, but Sam knew he couldn’t have gone back to Daimler and taken up his old life as if nothing had happened. It had been bad enough back in ’07, after India, trying to settle back into a life that seemed so shrunken and dull after Ambala and all the travelling he’d done with the captain; after Lily. The thought of her sent a spasm of pain through him, as it always did. After the war there was too much change amid the claustrophobic dullness: too many blokes missing from the neighbourhood, and too much change inside him. No, he’d had to move on or he’d have gone mad. He told Helen, ‘I can’t stay here.’ He never gave her a choice. That was another thing she held against him, uprooting her from her friends, miles from her mother. All his fault, of course and she never let him forget it. She’d never liked Birmingham.
He and Loz managed to shed Jack Pye and cut across quickly towards the track. Along the railings there stood the bookies in top hats taking bets at their stalls. A woman stood close to one of them with a male friend, giggling uncontrollably. Sam saw with distaste that she had bad teeth.
‘You going in for a flutter, Sam?’ Loz asked.
‘No,’ he snapped. No point in wasting money.
‘All right, I only asked,’ Loz said.
The first race was about to begin. It was a small car handicap race and the two of them stood loudly discussing the entrants among the excited crowd, as the expectant roaring of the engines grew louder and louder despite the silencers on the cars. One was a 20 hp Austin, a sports model. God, Sam would have liked to be part of the Austin race team, but he hadn’t managed to wangle it yet. At least there was some hope of that, more than of he and Loz building their own ‘Special’, one of the cars put together privately by amateurs for racing. Loz was forever on about it. Old Loz was a dreamer, pie in the sky.
Sam stood breathing in the scent of exhaust fumes, his eyes fixed on the track. This was the only place where he could almost feel happy. Brooklands was the only track for car racing in the country – the first in the world of its kind. The three and a quarter mile outer track had been built in under nine months and there was a purpose-built test hill for putting the cars through their paces on a steep gradient. All around the grounds were a hive of activity also, sheds divided into workshops where cars were maintained and developed, giving off that engine-oil smell which was the breath of life to Sam. Of course, there were areas fenced off where you could only go if you were an Automobile Racing Club member and he had not reached that hallowed position. Like almost everything else, he couldn’t afford it, in this land fit for heroes. The members had their own separate bridge over the track for viewing, as well as a clubhouse, and Sam’s usual resentment of the upper classes stirred in him when he thought about it. But that was not something he was going to let spoil his day. He looked round and grinned at Loz.
‘We’ll be here,’ Loz shouted to him, his snub-nosed face beaming with enthusiasm. ‘One of these days we’ll be racing our own!’
‘You’re a one,’ Sam shouted back. ‘Not a hope!’
‘Course we will!’ Loz was forever optimistic.
‘What’re we going to use for capital, eh? Potato peelings?’
Sam had met Loz soon after moving to the Austin works, in the machine shop where they started Sam off and where Loz had recently completed his own apprenticeship. The two of them sparked off each other, both mad keen on motors and Loz especially on racing. When Sam was moved out to the works test track which ran round the perimeter of the factory site, the two of them stayed friends. Helen and Loz’s wife Mary also got on well. In fact, Mary had been a saving grace. Helen tended to keep herself to herself and be even more miserable and defeated otherwise. Loz and Mary were both cheerful types and had two young sons. Loz was forever on about building a Special with Sam. But they both knew that just getting hold of an old racing car and trying to rebuild and maintain it was fraught with problems, even for amateurs as skilled as themselves.
‘Go down that road and all you’ve got is something out of date before you know it,’ Sam said. ‘It’d give you nothing but problems.’
Their dream was to try something other enthusiasts were doing since the war – building aero-engines into an old chassis. The thought of all the extra power it gave to the vehicle was heady.
‘We know all there is to know, don’t we?’ Loz had said enthusiastically one evening a couple of months ago when the two of them were ensconced in the corner of a Northfield pub on the Bristol Road, not far from where they both lived. ‘All we need’s a place to get going . . .’
‘And money,’ Sam said gloomily. ‘It’s way beyond us, Loz, on our own, you know it is. It’s not just building the thing – there’s the maintenance and fuel and getting it to the track meetings. It’d cripple us before we’d even got started.’
What was the good of even talking about it? As a qualified engineer he was on a respectable salary, but he was a father of four. It wasn’t the same for Loz, with only two to bring up and a wife who was happy. Sam was only three years older than his pal, but sometimes he felt like a burdened old man in comparison, and his funds seemed to disappear down the drain.
Loz took a long swig of his favourite M&B ale, of which he could drink prodigious amounts without any apparent effect other than an increase in his already chirpy optimism.
‘We’d manage,’ Loz grinned. ‘What’s got into you, Sam? I thought you were all for it. I mean, we’re a good prospect, not like some. We’ve got our own tools – we know what we’re looking for and how to do it, given the chance. Come on, mate – are you for it? I’m game if you are.’
Unfortunately Loz’s sparkling optimism was not always rewarded by events and they were no nearer to doing anything except dreaming. Coming to Brooklands, however, was a great opportunity to see other Specials go through their paces on the racetrack, and find out who was using what engines and which parts, as well as to drink in the excitement of the atmosphere.
The day seemed to fly past as Sam and Loz watched the races from the stands. There were the more serious contests, and others to amuse the spectators, like the Old Crocks race. Nearly all of it was utterly absorbing to them, watching the cars from the various big manufacturing stables like Austin and Vauxhall, but above all the privately built Specials which gave them endless amounts to chew over each time – which chassis, which engine, and all the engineering detail that followed from them.
In the afternoon there was a flurry of added excitement over Count Zborowski’s motor Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, setting out to beat his own lap record, running on a Maybach airship motor which had been used in Zeppelins. At last year’s Easter meeting it had been the star of the show, winning two races and coming second in another. Zborowski had built a second model called Chitty 2 with a Benz aeroplane engine. Loz and Sam took a keen interest in them.
‘They drove it right into the Sahara at the beginning of the year,’ Sam said wistfully. Never, ever, had he forgotten the sense of freedom and adventure of being out on the road in India with Captain Fairford in the Daimler. He still remembered those weeks in India as the most exciting of his life.
As Chitty 1, with her long, pointed nose, roared round the track at dizzying speed, Sam found himself baying with the rest of the crowd massed along the track, shouting himself hoarse for Zborowski’s car to go faster, faster, to exceed what had been possible before. That was the thing about this game, Sam thought, fizzing with excitement. There was always progress, a sense of new possibility. How desperately he needed to feel that when his home life was so stuck, so deadening!
‘She’s really c
utting a hole in the wind!’ Loz yelled at Sam, his fist clenched in the air with excitement.
‘She is – must be a record-breaker!’ Sam could feel himself lit up, as he so seldom was in his life these days. It was only cars and racing that could ever get him truly excited now and give him a sense of adventure. He could feel his pulse racing, his spirits lifting and a delighted grin spreading across his face. Soon it was announced over the tannoy that Chitty Bang Bang 1 had just achieved her fastest ever lap of 113.45 miles per hour.
‘God,’ Sam said, awed. He looked round at Loz and both their faces were suddenly serious.
‘We’ve got to do it!’ Loz said. ‘We’ve got the know-how. We’ve got to put together something as good as that!’
Sam was on fire as well – thank God! At least he could be on fire about something! He knew, suddenly, that that was where all the energy and passion of his life could now be directed.
The two of them strolled across the grass in a frenzy, talking non-stop amid the milling crowds. Sam was oblivious to them for a time, lost in his vision of what he and Loz might create with their skill and sense of adventure. Hang the money! They’d do it somehow. They had to! He gave an actual groan when he saw Jack Pye hoving into view again, his fat face pink with excitement.
‘Did you see her go! What a thing! I bet the count’s pleased as punch!’
Sam and Loz were looking for a spot to sit down and open their flask of tea and it seemed inevitable that they were now stuck with Jack Pye again. They walked on together, Sam keeping his distance a little, and it was when he at last glanced ahead that he saw the young man, just a few yards away from them. He often thought later, with a chill, that had he not just looked up then, none of what happened next might have happened.
But he did look up, and saw a very tall, startlingly handsome young man walking towards him with blue eyes, which seemed to hold a defiant arrogance, and a head of wavy, very thick blond hair. He cut such a figure that it would have been difficult not to stare: he was so obviously moneyed, and conscious of his own wealth and good breeding. He exuded confidence and superiority. And Sam recognized him, somehow, yet he was sure he had never seen him before. He was walking just ahead of a couple who were strolling along in a leisurely fashion, the woman holding the hand of a little ginger-haired boy. The young man seemed impatient as if they were all holding him up.
Sam took in the couple: a tall, thin man in his forties dressed in a beautifully tailored navy coat and holding a rolled umbrella, although the day had turned out so fine. Apart from his clothing he was not very distinctive. He had brown wavy hair, was gentle-featured and, Sam sensed, shy. Resting her arm in the crook of his, was a strikingly beautiful woman. At first all he noticed was the bold flair of her clothing, the crimson velvet skirt, an impression of dark, flowing material at the top, almost as if she were an exotic bird with her feathers moving behind her, and a crimson cloche hat, with a dark band and a black feather tucked in jauntily at one side. The women Sam encountered usually had neither the wealth nor the daring to dress with this kind of panache. Certainly Helen didn’t. He was captivated by the sight. And then in those few seconds, beneath the brim of the hat he saw the face, the dark, flashing eyes, and he knew her immediately, with a physical shock, and he was rooted to the spot. He knew it was her, with his whole being, and while he stood, stunned, beside him the tedious Jack continued his endless commentary to Loz.
‘Now there’s a bit of all right – classy, eh? That’s Piers Larstonbury, carrying her on his arm, the lucky bloke! You don’t know who Piers Larstonbury is? The architect – oh, he’s got a name for himself in London all right – worth a pretty penny! And that’s Cosmo Fair-ford walking ahead there – another family with a pile of loot stashed away – up our way, Warwickshire, although he’s a bit of a waster, by all accounts. Any road, Piers Larstonbury . . .’ He repeated the name almost as if it was holy, then lowered his voice portentously. ‘That’s his boy, but that dame he’s with certainly isn’t his wife!’
‘Come on, Sam,’ Loz said impatiently. ‘What’s up with you?’ They had been walking along towards the paddock surrounding the clubhouse, which was where the society types mingled.
Sam had to remind himself to move his feet. He could not begin to explain what was up with him. Jack might not have known the woman’s name, but he knew all right. He had thought all that was over, that he had burned her out of him and that he could even have met her again and not felt anything. But even after all this time, in only a second he had known that that beautiful, mysterious woman was Lily Waters, the woman with whom he had spent the happiest, most intense days ever in his life, who had betrayed him so badly that he had thought at one time that he might never recover. And there she was, moving further and further away, taking with her the answer to the question, Why, Lily, why did you do that to me?
He knew in that split second that whatever happened, however much of a fool he might be about to make of himself, he must speak to her, submit, if necessary, to her scorn and rejection, to set himself free of her. And if he didn’t hurry they’d be in the paddock where only BARC members were allowed, and he would be shut out.
‘I’ll just be a minute,’ he said to Loz distractedly. ‘You and Jack go ahead . . . There’s just something . . .’
Leaving a baffled Loz staring and calling after him, he turned back and tore towards the racetrack.
Chapter Forty-Nine
For a moment he thought he had lost them.
He ran faster, not caring what anyone thought, colliding at one point with a man in a loud checked sports jacket.
‘Sorry!’ Sam shouted to the man’s curses.
Had it not been for the crimson of Lily’s skirt and the child’s bright ginger hair he might have had more difficulty in keeping sight of them. He realized that the four of them were almost at the paddock railings and he hurtled towards them. Only as he came really close did he question his sanity. What in heaven’s name was he going to say? Suddenly it all felt like a crazed dream. And he could not just let her pass out of his life again, not without speaking to her.
Cosmo was now lagging, apparently sulkily, behind the others and Sam caught up with him first.
‘Excuse me!’ He blundered into speech before he could lose his nerve.
Cosmo Fairford’s penetrating blue gaze was turned on Sam. He must be nineteen years old by now and what an immensely striking fellow he was, with that god-like combination of looks and breeding! Sam felt all his usual class resentments surfacing again, made worse by the fact that the expression in Cosmo Fair-ford’s eyes was cold and supercilious.
‘Yes?’ The tone was clipped, as if words cost him dearly.
‘Are you Cosmo Fairford?’
Cosmo stopped, with an air of dealing with a tiresome tradesman who it would be easier to humour and get shot of quickly.
‘I am.’
Sam was not going to defer to him. He held out his hand.
‘Samuel Ironside. You won’t remember me, but we met when you were a young ’un. I sold your father a car – stayed with you in Ambala.’
The handshake was instinctively, but languidly, returned. ‘I see,’ Cosmo said. ‘I’m afraid I don’t—’
‘No, well of course you wouldn’t,’ Sam interrupted him hurriedly. The tiny boy with blond curls who bounced up and down on the seat of the Daimler back then would not have the faintest idea who he was. That child who Sam had first seen cradled in Lily’s arms . . . This man he had grown into, Sam thought, was more cold and superior than even his mother had been.
He saw then, in the corner of his eye, that the rest of the party had turned to look for Cosmo and were walking towards them: Piers Larstonbury with Lily on his arm. Sam turned to them, marvelling that he could achieve such cool composure when he was burning, trembling inside.
‘Good afternoon.’ Piers Larstonbury’s tone was enquiring, his voice quiet. It was plummy, of course, but not with that hectoring bellow adopted by many of his class.
‘Good afternoon.’ Sam decided to speak out with confidence. ‘I just stopped to speak to Mr Fairford. I once delivered a car to his father in India.’
‘How splendid!’ Piers Larstonbury said. Sam felt himself relax a fraction. He could tell he was in the presence of a true gentleman, one who would treat everyone with courtesy no matter what their walk of life. ‘And by which company are you employed, if I may ask?’
‘Well, at the time I was with Daimler,’ Sam said. ‘This was a good while ago – before the war. I’m one of the Austin’s engineers now, at Longbridge.’
He had the man’s attention: he was genuinely interested, Sam could see.
‘And your name is?’
‘Samuel Ironside.’ He spoke very clearly and only then, he looked at Lily.
There was no pretence. In that moment, he felt strangely proud of her. She was not one of these upper-class misses with their feelings buried under deep layers of social propriety, the sort who might now stare icily at him, or turn away, affecting indifference. She was a real woman, that was how he remembered her. His woman, he thought, and now he saw that her gaze was fixed on him, utterly, deeply as if there was nothing else to be seen. He remembered with a terrible pang those dark eyes fixed on him with longing and devotion, where now he could see questioning and pain and, not far below the quiet surface, a quivering restraint of emotions.
‘A pleasure to meet you,’ Piers Larstonbury was saying. ‘I must say, Daimler have made some fine motors, very fine. I have yet to experience driving an Austin. But I’m sure I should like to.’
‘The Twenty and Twelve have been highly successful,’ Sam said. He did feel a personal pride in the models the company had developed since the war. ‘What do you drive?’ Piers Larstonbury somehow indicated that he should walk with them and he found himself drawn along in front of Cosmo, Lily and the boy.
