Time Travelers

by Peter Haining (ed)

  She sighed. ‘I do feel a little dizzy. Maybe you’d better walk me back to the hotel.’

  What Kathy Benedict encountered as she reached the lobby of the Grosse Pointe Hotel was emotionally traumatic and impossible to deny. The truth of her situation was here in three-dimensional reality: the clip-clopping of horse-and-carriage traffic; women in wide feathered hats and pinch-waisted floor-length skirts; men in bowlers with canes and high-button shoes; a gaudy board-fence poster announcing the forthcoming Detroit appearance of Miss Lillian Russell—and the turn-of-the-century hotel itself, with its polished brass spittoons, ornate bevelled mirrors, cut-velvet lobby furniture and massive wall portrait of a toothily grinning, walrus-moustached gentleman identified by a flag-draped plaque as ‘Theodore Roosevelt, President of the United States’.

  She knew this was no movie set, no costume party.

  There was no longer any doubt in her mind: the wave at Lake St Clair had carried her backwards eighty years, through a sea of time, to the beach at Grosse Pointe, 1902.

  People were staring. Her clothes were alien.

  Had she not been wearing her long raincoat she would have been considered downright indecent. As it was, she was definitely a curiosity standing beside Willy McGuire in the lobby of the hotel.

  She touched Willy’s shoulder. ‘I—need to lie down. I’m really very tired.’

  ‘There’s a doctor in the hotel. Are you sure you don’t want me to—’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ she said firmly. ‘But you can do something else for me.’

  ‘Just name it, Miss Benedict.’

  ‘In the water … I lost my purse. I’ve no money, Mr. McGuire. I’d like to borrow some. Until I can … get my bearings.’

  ‘Why, yes, of course. I surely do understand your plight.’ He took out his wallet, hesitated. ‘Uh … how much would be required?’

  ‘Whatever you can spare. I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.’

  Kathy knew that she’d have to find work—but just where did a 1982 female research specialist find a job in 1902?

  Willy handed her a folded bill. ‘Hope this is enough. I’m a mechanic’s helper, so I don’t make a lot—an’ payday’s near a week off.’

  Kathy checked the amount. Ten dollars! How could she possibly do anything with ten dollars? She had to pay for a hotel room, buy new clothes, food … Then she broke into giggles, clapping a hand to her mouth to stop the laughter.

  ‘Did I say something funny?’ Willy looked confused.

  ‘Oh no. No, I was just … thinking about the price of things.’

  He shook his head darkly. ‘Begging your pardon, Miss Benedict, but I don’t see how anybody can laugh at today’s prices. Do you know sirloin steak’s shot up to twenty-four cents a pound? And bacon’s up to twelve and a half! The papers are calling’ em’ “Prices That Stagger Humanity!” ‘

  Kathy nodded, stifling another giggle. ‘I know. It’s absolutely frightful.’

  In preparing the Henry Ford story, she’d thoroughly researched this period in America—and now realised that Willy’s ten dollars would actually go a long way in a year when coffee was a nickel a cup, when a turkey dinner cost twenty cents and a good hotel room could be had for under a dollar a night.

  With relief, she thanked him, adding: ‘And I will pay it back very soon, Mr McGuire!’

  ‘Uh, no hurry. But … now that I’ve done you a favour, I’d like to ask one.’

  ‘Surely.’

  He twisted the straw hat nervously in his hands. ‘I’d mightily appreciate it—if you’d call me Willy.’

  It took her a long while to fall asleep that night. She kept telling herself: Believe it … it’s real … it isn’t a dream … you’re really here … this is 1902 … believe it, believe it, believe it…

  Until she drifted into an exhausted sleep.

  The next morning Kathy went shopping. At a ‘Come in and Get to Know Us’ sale in a new dry-goods store for ladies she purchased an ostrich-feather hat, full skirt, chemise, shoes, shirtwaist, and a corset — all for a total of six dollars and twenty-one cents.

  Back in her hotel room she felt ridiculous (and more than a little breathless) as a hotel maid laced up her corset. But every decent woman wore one, and there was no way she could eliminate the damnable thing!

  Finally, standing in front of the mirror, fully dressed from heels to hat, Kathy began to appreciate the style and feminine grace of this earlier American period. She had coiled her shining brown hair in a bun, pinning it under the wide-brimmed, plumed hat and now she turned to and fro, in a rustle of full skirts, marvelling at her tiny cinched waist and full bosom.

  ‘Kathy, girl,’ she said, smiling at her mirror image, ‘with all due modesty, you are an elegant young lady!’

  That same afternoon, answering a no-experience-required job ad for office help in down-town Detroit, she found herself in the offices of Dodd, Stitchley, Hanneford and Leach, Attorneys at Law.

  Kathy knew she could not afford to be choosy; right now, any job would do until she could adjust to this new world. Later, given her superior intelligence and natural talents, she could cast about for a suitable profession.

  ‘Are you familiar with our needs, young lady?’ asked the stout, matronly woman at the front desk.

  ‘Not really,’ said Kathy. ‘Your ad specified “Office Help Female”.’

  The woman nodded. ‘We need typewriters.’

  ‘Oh!’ Kathy shrugged. ‘Maybe I copied the wrong address. I don’t sell them.’

  ‘You don’t sell what?’ The woman leaned forward, staring at Kathy through tiny, square glasses.

  ‘Typewriters,’ said Kathy. Suddenly she remembered that in 1902 typists were called ‘lady typewriters’. There was so much to remember about this period!

  ‘Frankly, miss, I do not understand what you are talking about.’ The buxom woman frowned behind her glasses. ‘Can you operate a letter-typing machine or can’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I can,’ nodded Kathy. ‘I really can.’ She smiled warmly. ‘And I want the job!’

  Which is how Kathy Benedict, a 28,000-dollar-a-year research specialist from New York City, became an 8.00-dollars-per-week office worker with the firm of Dodd, Stitchley, Hanneford and Leach in Detroit, Michigan, during October of 1902.

  With her first week’s pay in hand, Kathy marched up the steps of Mrs O’Grady’s rooming house on Elm Street and asked to see Mr William McGuire.

  ‘Why, Miss Benedict!’ Willy seemed shocked to see her there in the hallway outside his room. He stood in the open door, blinking at her. The left half of his face was covered with shaving cream.

  ‘Hello, Willy,’ she said. ‘May I come in?’

  ‘I don’t think that would be proper. Not after dark and all. I mean, you are a single lady and these are bachelor rooms and it just isn’t done!’

  Kathy sighed. Again, she had failed to consider the period’s strict rules of public conduct for unaccompanied females. She didn’t want to cause Willy any embarrassment.

  ‘Then could we meet downstairs … in the lobby?’

  ‘Of course.’ He touched at his lathered cheek. ‘Soon as I finish shaving. I do it twice a day. Heavy beard if I don’t.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘See you down there.’

  Waiting for Willy McGuire in the lobby of the Elm Street rooming house, Kathy reviewed the week in her mind. A sense of peace had entered her life; she felt cool and tranquil in this new existence. No television. No rock concerts. No disco. Life had the flavour of vintage wine. The panic and confusion of the first day here had given away to calm acceptance. She was taking this quaint, charming period on its own terms.

  Willy joined her and they sat down on a high-backed red velvet couch. Willy looked fresh-scrubbed and glad to see her.

  ‘Here’s the first half of what I owe you,’ she told him, handing over the money. ‘I’ll have the rest next week.’

  ‘I didn’t expect any of it back this soon,’ he said.

 
‘It was very kind of you to trust a stranger the way you did,’ Kathy smiled.

  ‘I’d surely like to know you better, Miss Benedict. I hope we can be friends.’

  ‘Not if you keep calling me Miss Benedict.’

  ‘All right, then …’ He grinned. ‘Kate.’

  ‘Kate!’

  ‘Aye,’ said Willy. ‘Or would you prefer Katherine?’

  ‘Nope. Kate will do fine. It’s just that—nobody’s called me that since I was six. Hmmmmm …’ She nodded. ‘Willy and Kate. Has a certain ring to it!’

  And, at that precise moment, looking at the handsome, red-haired young Irishman seated beside her, she realised that she had met a totally decent human being, full of warmth and honesty and manly virtue.

  She decided to investigate the possibility of falling in love with him.

  They rode in Willy’s carriage through the quiet suburbs of Detroit that Sunday, savouring the briskness of the autumn air and the fire-coloured woods. Sunlight rippled along the dark flanks of their slow-trotting horse and the faint sounds of a tinkling piano reached them from a passing farmhouse.

  ‘I love horses,’ said Kathy. ‘I used to ride them all the time in Missouri.’

  ‘They’re too slow for my taste,’ Willy declared. ‘I like to work with machines … Cycles, for instance. That’s how I got started in this business. Bought me a motor-tandem last year. Filed down the cylinder, raised the compression, then piped the exhaust around the carburettor. She went like Billy Blue Blazes!’

  ‘I don’t much care for motor-cycles. People get hurt on them.’

  ‘You can fall off a horse, too! Heck, I admit I’ve had me some spills on the two-wheelers, but nothin’ serious. Hey—how’d you like to see where I work?’

  ‘Love to,’ she said.

  ‘Giddy-up, Teddy!’ Willy ordered, snapping the reins. He grinned over at Kathy. ‘He’s named after the President!’

  Willy stopped the carriage in front of a small shop at 81 Park Place— where she was introduced to a gaunt, solemn-faced man named Ed ‘Spider’ Huff.

  ‘Spider’s our chief mechanic, and I’m his assistant,’ Willy explained. ‘We work together here in the shop.’

  ‘On cycles?’

  ‘Not hardly, ma’am,’ said Huff in a rasping, humourless voice. ‘This here is the age of the horseless carriage. Do you know we’ve already got almost two hundred miles of paved road in this country? In New York State alone, they got darn near a thousand automobiles registered.’

  ‘I assume, then, that you are working on automobiles?’

  ‘We sure are,’ Huff replied. ‘But the plain truth of it is there ain’t no other automobile anywhere on this whole round globe to match what we got inside—a real thoroughbred racing machine!’

  ‘Spider’s right for dang sure!’ nodded Willy.

  She was suddenly very curious. ‘Could I see it?’

  Huff canted his head, squinting at her. He rubbed a gaunt hand slowly along his chin. ‘Wimminfolk don’t cotton to racing automobilies. Too much noise. Smoke. Get grease on your dress.’

  ‘Truly, I’d like to see it.’

  Willy clapped Huff in the shoulder. ‘C’mon, Spider—she’s a real good sport. Let’s show her.’

  ‘All rightie,’ nodded Huff, ‘but I’ll wager she won’t favour it none.’

  They led Kathy through the office to the shop’s inner garage. A long bulked shape dominated the floor area, draped in an oil-spattered blanket.

  ‘We keep her tucked in like a sweet babe when we ain’t workin’ on her,’ Huff declared.

  ‘So I see,’ nodded Kathy.

  ‘Well, dang it, Willy!’ growled Huff. ‘If you’re gonna show her, then show her!’

  Willy peeled off the blanket. ‘There she is!’ he said, with obvious pride in his tone.

  Kathy stared at the big, square, red-painted racing machine, with its front-mounted radiator, nakedly exposed engine, and high, wire-spoked wheels. In place of a steering wheel an iron tiller bar with raised hand-grips was installed for control—and the driver sat in an open bucket seat. There was no windscreen or body panelling.

  ‘It’s 999!’ Kathy murmured.

  The two men blinked in shock.

  ‘How’d you know we call her that?’ Huff demanded.

  ‘Uh … rumour’s going around town that there’s a racing car here in Detroit named after the New York Central’s locomotive. Some of the typewriters were talking about it at work.’

  ‘Good thing she’s about ready to race,’ declared Willy. ‘Guess when you got a rig this fast word just leaks out.’

  ‘Anyway, it’s a wonderful name for her. Who’s the owner?’

  ‘Our boss, Tom Cooper,’ said Huff. ‘Had a lot of troubles with 999

  out at the track on the test runs an’ old Hank got fed up and sold out to Tom. They came into this as partners—but Hank’s out now.’

  ‘Hank?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Willy. ‘Hank Ford. Him an’ Tom designed her together.’

  ‘And not an extra pound of weight anywhere on ‘er,’ said Huff. ‘That’s why the engine’s mounted on a stripped chassis. She’s got special cast-iron cylinder walls, giving a seven-inch bore and stroke. And that, ma’am, is power!’

  ‘Yep,’ nodded Willy. ‘She’s the biggest four-cylinder rig in the States. Separate exhaust pipes for each cylinder. We can squeeze upward of seventy horse out of her! That means, with the throttle wide open, on a watered-down track, she’ll do close to a mile a minute—better’n fifty miles an hour!’

  Kathy was excited; her assignment to research a race eighty years in the past had become a present-day reality. ‘And you’ve entered her against Alex Winton for the Manufacturers’ Challenge Cup at Grosse Pointe on October 25!’

  They both stared at her.

  ‘But how—’ Willy began.

  ‘Rumour,’ she added quickly. ‘That’s the rumour I heard.’

  ‘Well, you heard right,’ declared Huff. ‘Ole Alex Winton thinks that Bullet of his can’t be beat. Him with his big money and his fancy reputation. He’s got a surprise comin’ right enough!’

  Kathy smiled. ‘Indeed he has, Mr Huff. Indeed he has.’

  Each afternoon after work Kathy began dropping by the shop on Park Place to watch the preparations on 999. She was introduced to the car’s owner, Tom Cooper—and to a brash, dark-haired young man from Ohio named Barney, an ex-bicycle racer who had been hired to tame the big red racing machine.

  Of course she recognised him instantly, since he was destined to become as legendary as 999 itself. His full name was Berna Eli ‘Barney’ Oldfield, the barnstorming daredevil whose racing escapades on the dirt tracks of America would earn him more fame and glory than any driver of his era. In March of 1910, at Daytona Beach, he would become the official ‘Speed King of the World’ by driving a ‘Lightning’ Benz for a new land speed record of 131 miles per hour. But here, in this moment in time, he was just a raw-looking twenty-four-year-old youth on the verge of his first automobile race.

  Kathy asked him if he smoked cigars.

  ‘No, ma’am, I don’t,’ said Oldfield.

  And the next day she brought him one. He looked confused; ladies didn’t offer cigars to gentlemen.

  ‘Barney,’ she said. ‘I want you to have this for the race. It’s important.’

  ‘But I told you, ma’am, I don’t smoke cheroots!’

  ‘You don’t have to smoke it, just use it.’

  ‘You’ve lost me, ma’am.’

  ‘Horse tracks are bumpy, full of ruts and potholes. A cigar between your teeth will act to cushion the road shocks. Just do me a personal favour … try it!’

  Oldfield slipped the fat, five-cent cigar into his coverall pocket. ‘I’ll try it, Miss Benedict, because when a pretty lady asks me a favour I don’t say no.’

  Kathy felt a current of excitement shiver along her body. When she’d been researching Oldfield, as part of her 999 assignment, she had difficulty in tracing the
origin of Barney’s cigar, his famed trademark during the course of his racing career. Finally, she’d uncovered an interview with Oldfield, given a month before his death in 1946, in which a reporter had asked: ‘Just where did you get your first cigar?’

  And Barney had replied: ‘From a lady I met just prior to my first race. But I’ll tell you the truth, son—I don’t recall her name.’

  Kathy now realised that she was the woman whose name Barney had long since forgotten. The unique image of Barney Oldfield, hunched over a racing wheel, a cigar clenched between his teeth, began with Kathy Benedict.

  They arrived at the Grosse Pointe track on Friday, October 24, a full day before the race, for test runs: Willy, Spider Huff, Cooper and Oldfield. Kathy had taken sick leave from the office to be with them.

  ‘We’ll need all the practice time we can get,’ Willy told her. ‘Still some bugs to get out.’

  ‘McGuire!’ yelled Tom Cooper. ‘You gonna stand there all day gab-bin’ your fool head off—or are you gonna crank her up? Now, jump!’

  And Willy jumped.

  Cooper was a square-bodied, gruff-looking man wearing a fleece-lined jacket over a plaid cowboy shirt—and he had made it clear that he didn’t think women belonged around racing cars. Privately, Cooper had told Willy that he felt Kate Benedict would bring them bad luck in the race, but that he’d let her hang around so long as she ‘kept her place’ and stayed out of their way.

  Tom Cooper had always had strong ideas about what a ‘good woman’ should be: ‘She ought to be a first-rate cook, be able to sing and play the piano, know how to raise kids and take care of a house, mind her manners, dress cleanly, be able to milk cows, feed chickens, tend the garden—know how to shop, be able to sew and knit, churn butter, make cheese, pickle cucumbers and drive cattle.’

  He had ended this incredible list with a question: ‘And just how many of these talents do you possess, Miss Benedict?’

  She lifted her chin, looking him squarely in the eye. ‘The only thing I’m really good at, Mr Cooper, is independent thinking.’