Autumn Softly Fell

by Dominic Luke

  ‘I don’t understand how this race works, Henry. What have miles per hour and gallons go to do with it?’

  Henry explained. Each motor, he said, would set off at one minute intervals and do five circuits of the parkland. The winner would be the vehicle which did the best time (or had the highest average speed, which worked out as the same thing, apparently), whilst using the least amount of fuel. This was a competition for ordinary vehicles, he added – motors that you might see out and about on the roads – and to that end there were limits on weight and fuel. Last night, each machine had been weighed, and its tank had been filled with the allocated amount of petroleum and then sealed. Henry’s job – and Mr Giles’s – was to get the Mark IIs around as fast as they could without using up too much fuel.

  ‘If we can pull this out of the bag, Doro, it will be just the ticket! The publicity will work wonders. There’s a man from the Motor News here, and also from the Northampton Chronicle.’

  ‘But none from the London papers,’ said Uncle Albert, coming over. His expansive public smile had faded; his brow was now creased. ‘We could do with some national coverage. That would really give us a boost. Ah well. We have to win first. Come along, child. Let’s go and see the first competitors off. They’re about ready to start, I think.’

  Leaving Henry to his preparations, Dorothea walked with Uncle Albert towards the start/finish line. Mr Simcox accompanied them. A motor was being drawn slowly into place by plodding shire horses.

  ‘So as not to waste fuel,’ Uncle Albert explained. ‘Which vehicle is that, Simcox?’

  ‘The Wiggly Superior. If you remember, they had to resort to a cardboard bonnet to come in under the weight limit.’

  ‘Ah, yes, so they did. I hope for their sake it doesn’t start raining again, eh!’

  The Old-King-Cole-figure of Sir Walter was now mounting the podium by the start/finish line. People were streaming from the marquee area, converging around the wooden arch. Sir Walter raised his hand – then dropped it. There was an eruption of applause and cheering as the Wiggly Superior with its cardboard bonnet jerked forward, its engine coughing, exhaust fumes billowing. Then it was away, negotiating the long straight in front of the house before turning a corner and disappearing into the parkland.

  Uncle Albert blew out his moustache. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘It’s begun.’

  The first of the Vesey-Lanes was next to go, followed by Mr Giles in one of the BFS Mark IIs. Mr Giles had Arnie Carter with him as his travelling mechanic, which was required in the rules.

  ‘Oh, miss, isn’t he handsome!’ said a voice in Dorothea’s ear. It was Nora, wreathed in smiles, rather breathless. She wasn’t talking about Mr Giles, Dorothea surmised. ‘They’re bound to win, miss! I just know they’ll win!’

  But Dorothea wasn’t so sure, and Uncle Albert was looking rather stern. Only Mr Simcox appeared unruffled, consulting his pocket watch and writing figures down in a little notebook. ‘We’ll get some early indication of how things are going when they come round to complete the first lap,’ he said.

  But the first indication came much sooner than that. There were calls for the horses, some sort of emergency. A vehicle had gone in a ditch, it was reported.

  ‘Uncle, do you think—?’

  ‘It won’t be us, child.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘Milton’s got his head screwed on, he won’t be taking any unnecessary risks.’ But his hand gripped her shoulder as the horses came back, dragging a machine behind them.

  It was the Vesey-Lane. Dorothea let out a sigh of relief as she watched it, rather squashed and muddy, being moved back to the competitors’ area. The driver and his mechanic looked shaken but were unharmed.

  The second Vesey-Lane got under way as the first was being ignominiously towed back. After that came a flash-looking vehicle in bold red. It was long and sleek and rather larger than most of the other machines.

  ‘The Speedmobile,’ said Mr Simcox, noting down its time of departure.

  ‘What do we know about it, Simcox?’

  ‘Not much. It’s rather been kept under wraps. Didn’t do a practice run. The rumour is, it has a six-cylinder engine in which case there’s no hope of it completing the course, no matter how speedy it is – not with the allotted fuel.’

  ‘Ah, well, good. One less to worry about.’ Uncle Albert watched through narrowed eyes as the big motor car streaked away, its engine roaring.

  Henry was next to go, with Mr Smith as mechanic. Dorothea waved and hurrahed but Nora obviously did not think either man handsome enough for comment.

  The last few competitors set off. Already the crowd was thinning, people drawn back to the marquees, the amusements, the pie stalls and the beer tent. The band struck up a new tune. The smell of cooking began to mingle with that of exhaust fumes and trampled grass.

  ‘Shall we take a look, miss?’ Nora cast her eyes towards the marquees.

  But Dorothea could think of nothing but the race, her heart in her mouth.

  Why should it matter so much, she asked again, and yet it did. Uncle Albert felt the same, she could tell. He gave her a taut little smile, looking rather paler than usual.

  They waited.

  Time passed. The guest of honour arrived. His ornate, resplendent coach created quite a stir. Watching the stooped figure of the earl being helped up the steps to the colonnaded entrance, Dorothea remembered how terrified she’d been meeting him so unexpectedly three years ago.

  A small token. On behalf of my grandson. For your kindness.

  But there would be no more shiny half-sovereigns; there was no one to be kind to now. Did the old earl miss Richard too, she wondered, or was the boy’s death merely an inconvenience, an irritation – like unseasonal weather or his horse coming last in the Derby?

  After luncheon, the earl reappeared along with Sir Walter and the other luminaries – Aunt Eloise, Mrs Somersby and Lady Fitzwilliam amongst them. Chairs had been set out for them at the top of the steps, and an awning erected to protect them from the rain (but somehow, despite the lowering sky, the rain was holding off). There was a large flock of Miltons up there, too. They let out a rousing cheer as Mr Giles came round to complete his penultimate lap. But Mr Giles was beginning to lose ground, Simcox said. He had started brightly, but was now well down the field. At least he was still going, however. News had been filtering back for some time of crashes and engine trouble and vehicles running out of petrol. A third of the field had come to grief one way or another. Was Henry still on course? He was due round any time now.

  Mr Simcox was busy with his calculations. The Vesey-Lane was in the lead so far, he disclosed. The brilliant red Speedmobile was second, just half a minute behind and moving quickly up the rankings but it would never last the course, Mr Simcox was certain. It must be down to its last drops of fuel by now.

  At last Henry reappeared. It had been a long wait, thought Dorothea – or did it just seem that way? Simcox made some jottings in his notebook. The news was good – better than good. Henry was a minute up on the Vesey-Lane. On the latest circuit he had actually taken the lead!

  ‘Are you sure, Simcox?’ said Uncle Albert with a furrowed brow.

  ‘Absolutely sure.’ Simcox tucked his pencil behind his ear, adjusted his cap. He was unflappable. A good, steady right-hand-man. Perhaps that was why Uncle Albert had employed and promoted him all these years. Dorothea would never have believed that Uncle Albert could get the jitters but when it was something that mattered, like today, well….

  A thin drizzle began to fall as people came drifting back from the marquees and attractions, gathering for the end of the race. The band reassembled by the start/finish line and struck up a cheerful number. Dorothea sheltered with Nora under an umbrella. Soon the first competitors came whirring and wheezing over the finish line. Judges bustled forward with clip boards, marking down the times, measuring the fuel.

  Simcox’s notebook was rather soggy by now, but as Henry drove under the wooden arch to complete the course he calculated t
hat the Mark II had averaged 33.4 miles per hour; and when news came that the motor had finished with seven pints of fuel in reserve, there was a sense of elation in the BFS camp.

  ‘That’s a much better result than the Vesey-Lane managed,’ Mr Simcox said, flicking through the pages of his damp notebook. ‘A much better result. I am quietly optimistic. We just have to wait for the last competitors now.’

  Events were moving to a pitch of excitement. Dorothea had butterflies in her stomach, Uncle Albert was pacing restlessly. But a shock awaited. Against all predictions, the Speedmobile had survived to reach the finish line. Soon an astonishing rumour was spreading like lightning amongst the aficionados. The Speedmobile had managed an average of 33.6 miles per hour and had nine pints of fuel left! It was no real surprise that the Speedmobile should be quicker, Mr Simcox said, but the fuel consumption for a six cylinder engine was nothing short of miraculous. Whoever had designed the Speedmobile had broken new ground in efficiency.

  A crowd began to gather around the bright red machine, the man from the Motor News amongst them.

  ‘Pipped to the post!’ said Uncle Albert bitterly.

  ‘But we came second, Uncle!’

  ‘No one will remember the name of the vehicle that came second. No, child. We have to accept it. We were beaten by a better machine.’ He rubbed his arm, grimacing, as if to accept defeat was like a physical pain.

  ‘Smith will need to pull his finger out,’ said Mr Simcox, ‘if he is to match an engine of that calibre. It’s back to the drawing board for us.’

  ‘The business is likely to go under before that happens,’ said Uncle Albert, still rubbing his arm.

  ‘Are you … all right, Uncle?’ He had gone a bit grey in the face.

  ‘Just a twinge, child. Don’t fuss.’

  ‘All the same,’ said Simcox quietly, ‘it wouldn’t hurt to sit down for a bit.’

  He touched Uncle Albert’s elbow, indicating with a nod of his head some chairs a little way off. Surprisingly, Uncle Albert didn’t argue. Perhaps he really did feel off-colour, or perhaps he had too much respect for Mr Simcox. It was interesting, thought Dorothea, these little glimpses into her uncle’s other life, the Coventry life of the businesses and the factory. But standing under the umbrella with Nora watching Uncle Albert and Simcox walk away through the drizzle, a sense of disappointment swept over her, as grey and heavy as the clouds. She remembered that bright autumn day two and a half years ago when Eve first arrived at Clifton Park. There had been such excitement and optimism – and now it had come to nothing. All their hopes and dreams were being washed away on a dank Whitsun Monday.

  The area in front of the podium was now being cleared ready for the presentation. All the vehicles except the top three were driven, pushed or pulled back to the competitors’ area. Mr Smith came hurrying over. He needed help moving the second BFS, the one that had finished some way down the field. Had Dorothea seen Giles Milton? Where were Simcox and Mr Brannan? ‘I did ask that Carter boy to give me a hand, but he was too busy chatting up the Speedmobile mechanics – and the next thing I knew, they were all off to the beer tent! I expected better of Carter, I have to say. He’ll be jumping ship next, I shouldn’t wonder. Wants a piece of the glory, I daresay.’

  ‘I’ll go and fetch him, sir. I’ll go right away.’ Nora looked stung by Mr Smith’s criticisms of her beloved Arnie Carter but as she turned to go she muttered, ‘I thought Arnie would have known better, miss, than to leave his friends and go off drinking. I’ll have some words to say on the matter, you can be sure!’ Could it be that the paragon Arnie Carter had finally blotted his copy book? Dorothea thought that she wouldn’t like to have been in Arnie’s shoes. Nora had a face like thunder.

  Dorothea now found herself alone on the edge of the crowd. The drizzle had petered out, so she folded the umbrella and took a look around. There seemed to be a hiatus in proceedings. The band had fallen silent but the dignitaries were still missing from the podium. Up by the colonnaded entrance to the house there was a bustle of activity. A knot of people had gathered. Someone was being helped indoors. Had the old earl been taken ill? For some reason she could not put her finger on, Dorothea felt a sense of foreboding. She began to walk towards the steps to find out what was happening but at that moment someone tapped her urgently on the shoulder. Nora she thought, back from the beer tent with news of Arnie. But when she turned round she found herself face-to-face with Arnie himself. There was no sign of Nora.

  ‘Miss Dorothea? It’s a liberty, I know, but could you possibly give me a hand with something?’ He was pink-cheeked, rather flustered, as if he had been drinking but Dorothea knew all about drink and its effects, and there was no smell of beer on Arnie’s breath. ‘I need to have a look at that Speedmobile, miss, a good proper look.’

  ‘But why? I don’t—’

  ‘It’s important, miss, real important. But they’re not letting anyone near.’

  It was true. There was still quite a crowd around the shiny red vehicle and its proud owners were there, strutting up and down like peacocks, keeping admirers at bay.

  ‘Please, miss. Will you come? Will you come now? I don’t have time to explain!’

  He didn’t really give her chance to refuse, taking her arm and guiding her towards the winning motor. Dorothea didn’t know what to think. All she could focus on was the fact that she would never hear the last of it from Nora if she let precious Arnie down in any way.

  ‘Try to cause a diversion, miss! Catch their attention, the lot of them!’

  But how? Arnie nudged her forward, his pale eyes needling her. She couldn’t think of anything. Her mind was a blank. But at that moment, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sir Walter and the earl making their way at last down the steps from the house. Without stopping to think, she began jumping up and down, pointing, shrieking at the top of her voice. ‘Look, look! It’s Sir Walter and his lordship! They’re going to present the prizes! Isn’t it exciting! Isn’t it exciting!’

  She felt ridiculous, like a silly little girl having hysterics and making a spectacle of herself. But after the first few terrible moments when everyone turned to stare at her, it wasn’t so bad. Attention shifted to Sir Walter and the earl. People began clapping and cheering, lining the route to the podium. Sir Walter was smiling and waving, stopping to exchange pleasantries with every second person. The Speedmobile’s two owners stood watching, exchanging self-satisfied looks. They obviously couldn’t wait to get their hands on the prize.

  ‘Now, Arnie, now!’ Dorothea turned, urging him on – but Arnie Carter had vanished!

  Even as she stood there looking all round in bewilderment, she heard a scrabbling sound at her feet and Arnie came wiggling out like a ferret from under the Speedmobile. He jumped to his feet, his overalls wet from the grass. His face was grim as he took his cap out of his pocket and jammed it on his head.

  ‘It’s just as I thought, miss. The Speedmobile didn’t win fair and square at all. They’re cheats, miss: cheats!’

  Everything happened in a whirl. Dorothea found herself pushing through the crowd in Arnie’s wake. She could see in the distance – half-hidden by bobbing heads, the tops of hats – Sir Walter and the old earl ascending the podium. The band had struck up again, people were clapping and cheering. She thought she could hear Arnie, some way off now, shouting. ‘Stop! Wait!’ But she’d lost track of him, was caught in the crush, couldn’t go forwards, couldn’t go backwards.

  The music stopped abruptly. There was a buzz in the crowd. Dorothea was pushed this way and that as people surged forward, eager to find out what was happening. The buzz grew louder. Dorothea began to panic. She couldn’t breathe, was trapped, bodies pressing round her, crushing her. Twisting round, she fought desperately to escape, to retrace her steps, barely aware of wild rumour chasing wild rumour through the crowd.

  All at once a know-it-all voice nearby rose above the hubbub. ‘It’s that winning motor, the Speedster or whatever it’s called. That’s what all th
e fuss is about.’

  Despite her anxiety Dorothea paused, listening. People were turning towards the know-all, flinging eager questions at him. What was happening now? Why the delay? What did it all mean?

  ‘They’ve tried to swindle us, that’s what’s happened!’ cried the know-all. ‘Their fuel tank has a false bottom! They had a secret supply of fuel!’

  So that was it, thought Dorothea as she began to push her way through the crowd again but at a more sedate pace now, her panic subsiding. That was what Arnie Carter had been looking for. Mr Simcox had said that it was nothing short of miraculous the way the Speedmobile had managed to get round the course. Arnie must have guessed or discovered somehow that there was a more sinister explanation to the so-called miracle. Perhaps it had something to do with him hobnobbing with the Speedmobile mechanics, going with them to the beer tent. Perhaps they’d let something slip, aroused Arnie’s suspicions. Mr Smith had been annoyed, Nora had been disappointed – but Arnie had been doing the right thing all along!

  With a big sigh of relief, Dorothea eased her way out from the back of the crush, gulped in air. The crowd had broken into applause again, people were cheering. Making her way to the steps of the house, Dorothea climbed up so she could see. On the podium, Sir Walter was making a speech. Snatches of it drifted through the damp air across the heads of the crowd. ‘…a wonderful day … marvellous spectacle … outstanding success … the forefront of engineering on display … the right result – in the end … and now, it gives me great pleasure … his grace, the Earl of Denecote!’

  There was a little table on the podium with a large trophy and a bottle of champagne. The earl stepped forward, leaning on his stick. And then, mounting the podium, their hats in their hands, bashful smiles on their faces, was Henry, with Mr Smith in tow. Wild applause and cheering. Henry held the trophy above his head. But where was Uncle Albert? This was his triumph as much as anyone’s. Who else would have taken a chance on a stranger met so casually on a train? Who else would have seen the potential? He should be there on the podium at this moment of triumph!