Classic In the Clouds

by Amy Myers

  Already the scene looked like one of Giovanni’s paintings from the Glory Boot. Bathed in the sunshine that had replaced the drizzle, and against this dramatic background, it was a petrol-head’s dream come true. Veteran, vintage, Fifties, Sixties, it seemed to be a car show on its own, I thought admiringly, with classics now sorted into an agreed order of departure and ranging from Alvises to Wolseleys. Full marks to Helen for setting up this splendid start to the rally with the powers that be.

  With the castle keep towering in the background and perched on cliffs high above the sea, it was easy to see oneself as part of history. The still standing Roman Pharos had lit the way for Roman ships in the Channel; the forerunner of the present Saxon church of St Mary in Castro had seen the Roman invaders, and if legend was fact also King Arthur. Then the Saxons had come marching in, followed by the Normans, each stamping their own mark on this fortress. The French had laid siege to it in vain, and a procession of Kings of England had galloped up to snatch at history to underline their own importance, albeit often adding contributions of their own. And that was just the buildings overground. A whole world of its own lies underground with passages tunnelled into chalk that had provided defence and protection in two world wars.

  Today, however, Dover was standing in for Peking, another city that in 1907 was guarded by hills, forts and castles. The 1907 rally cars had passed a fortressed castle as their drivers sallied forth for the battle ahead of them. I too might have a battle to fight today. My problem was that I didn’t know who I was fighting or what or why. What I did know was that passions were all too likely to come to the fore in this weekend jaunt. The Morrises had signed up for a start, which was a bad sign. Brenda was beside me and somewhere in the procession was probably Connor Meyton. Add to that Julian and the Mad Major and here were all the ingredients for trouble at this otherwise jolly event. Oh, and Pen must be around too.

  ‘We might be moving soon,’ Brenda said hopefully, and indeed there was an increased movement and noise level around. Time to think De Dion. I’d read the books on the original rally and talked to the De Dion Club and was all too well aware that one had to be ready to deal with the unexpected while driving such veterans. That’s why Len and Zoe were bringing up the rear of the procession in Charlie. We had another plan too; because there had been comparatively little running time I couldn’t be sure how the De Dion was going to take to the hills of Dover and Folkestone. The Mongolian mountain ranges they were not, but nevertheless they might prove formidable for an engine over a hundred years old.

  Behind me Julian was driving the Iso Rivolta – but I wasted no time in envy. For two whole days I had the De Dion. Then came Helen with the Major in his 1930s Bentley drophead. Although I was sure that trouble lay behind me somewhere in this cavalcade, on this sunny day, and absorbed in the collective happy glow of classic car owners who know they have a treat in store for them, I was aware that it would be easy to let my fears recede. I could not afford to let them, however. Two, perhaps even three, people had died because of this car, yet here I was sitting next to the lady who owned it (or thought she did). She was proudly anticipating what might lie ahead. I doubt if it even entered her mind that it might not all be Chinese lanterns and spring rolls, as the decorations and food stalls around us suggested. Here be dragons, I knew, and not all of them red paper ones like those on the gateway arches ahead. Dragons spit fire

  The first dragon to spit was Nick Morris who strolled up to us from his position towards the rear of the procession (I’d agreed that with Helen). Baulked of driving the De Dion, he had brought a Morris Minor, and he didn’t look happy. He looked Brenda up and down. ‘Making a statement, are we?’ he sneered. ‘Dolled up like a spring chicken.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’ she replied with spirit. ‘Everyone else is.’

  That was true. Chinese robes and smocks with a variety of pointy hats were to be seen everywhere from the food stalls to the sightseers and even the occasional journalist had entered into the spirit of the thing. Drivers and passengers had also turned themselves into sporty Edwardian daredevils.

  ‘Why?’ Nick echoed mockingly. ‘You’re riding in my car, that’s why.’

  ‘Your grandmother’s doing, not mine,’ Brenda reminded him gently.

  He reached up, grabbed her wrist and hissed, ‘You’re going to regret this, you old cow.’

  ‘Drop it,’ I yelled at him, jumping down from the car. ‘Fight this out in court, not here, not today.’ When he saw me coming for him, he instantly relaxed his grip.

  ‘It’s not going to be yours for long,’ he hurled at her. ‘Going to keep it at Shoulder Mutton Green, are you, Brenda dear?’

  ‘No,’ she replied coolly. ‘I have plans for it.’

  ‘And so, darling Brenda, do we.’ Then he did move away, but it had been an unpleasant episode. And what were all these plans?

  ‘Nick’s not all bad,’ Brenda said. ‘He was a kind little boy and Victoria was devoted to him. But he always did like getting his own way.’

  ‘Most people do,’ I observed. ‘It depends how they go about it, though.’

  A much more welcome visitor was Helen who came to tell us that we were about to move. ‘Two minutes, Jack, and the flag does down.’ She was doing the event proud, clad in a long cream shiny satin coat with a cream hat to match and veil tied under her chin.

  Brenda adjusted her own hat, and I prepared for my moment of glory by handing Len (who had insisted on this job) the crank.

  One, two, three. That welcome sound of the engine catching. The flag was down, dropped by the Governor of the Cinque Ports, and there I was driving the De Dion through the ‘Gate of Triumphant Virtue’, the earlier rally’s exit point from Peking. Here it was the Constable’s Gateway dressed up with red silk flags over the arch, dragons, pagoda-like mock towers. On the far side I could see the press and sightseers lining the way down to the road that would take us on down the hill and through the town of Dover.

  Somewhere Pen would be amongst them, and I was equally sure she would then leap into a car and follow the procession. I hoped there would be no other stories than the rally itself on which she could gorge herself.

  Brenda had attached a small flag to our car as on the original De Dion driven by Georges Cormier, which had led the five contenders out of Peking, only to lose two of the procession immediately. Over a hundred years later, sixty cars were just as eager. Brenda’s flag was fluttering in the breeze, and so was I. Half my fluttering was wondering where Meyton was, the other half was from the sheer exhilaration of driving the De Dion. Was there really a threat from Meyton? I asked myself. Surely he would not be so daft as to make an attempt on the car while it was moving? What would he gain by sabotaging it or stealing it? Any plan of his, I reasoned, would surely be at one of the stops or at the finale. Even then it was doubtful. It was true that he was bent on revenge but not to the extent that he would endanger himself. Revenge served cold, which seemed to be his preferred method of dealing with old scores, brings an objective eye to a situation. Somewhere, somehow, his plans must have gone wrong, and he had fixed the blame on someone whom he reckoned was the guilty party. I had a nasty feeling it might be the lady sitting next to me but I couldn’t reason out any connection.

  ‘My’ De Dion’s first major test was the hill down to Dover town. Len had double-checked the brakes and then checked again, and had declared himself satisfied with them. The car, by agreement with Brenda, with whom Julian seemed to be getting interestingly chummy, had been given a good last-minute check by Parr & Son. Len still wasn’t altogether happy though, which is why he had announced he would be following the rally procession with Charlie. For good measure, Dave Jennings said he thought he’d do that too. No missing this chargeable bonus, I thought, perhaps unfairly.

  The De Dion’s steering seemed a little uncertain on the way down the hill, and I had a sudden nightmare at one point that we might fly into the police guard keeping the crowds back. For crowds there were along the
road to ‘Kalgan’, otherwise known as Town Wall, Snargate Street and the A20 towards Folkestone. As we drove along, heading for the Western Heights, I rethought the situation. Not that the De Dion was giving any trouble now we were on the flat. On the contrary, judging by her purring, she was enjoying the trip as much as we were. Nevertheless I pulled over before we attempted the climb up to the higher road. I justified this by reminding myself that on the 1907 rally, drivers had run into trouble in varying degrees shortly after the start and through no fault of their own. It was the terrain.

  The Dover to Folkestone road couldn’t match the horrors of the bridges over the River Tsing-ho, but, alas, we had no willing bands of peasants arranged to pick up the cars to carry them over the mountains. I’d asked Len and Zoe if they’d be interested in taking part in this, but they weren’t enthusiastic. Len pointed out that we had Charlie for that sort of caper. With Helen’s permission and reluctantly the Mad Major’s, Brenda and I had agreed that periodically the car would be safer on Charlie than attempting all three days without respite. It could do short stretches by itself, including the final drive up the Roman road from Westenhanger to Harford Lee.

  The rest of the procession drove on while we loaded the De Dion, all the while being whooped and cheered by half of Dover, who were, I hoped, busily throwing donations into the buckets held by volunteers as well as contributing to the revenue of the food stalls selling rice cakes, spring rolls and noodle pots.

  Our decision met the approval of the Morrises at least. ‘Looking after our car for us, are you?’ Tom yelled, as they passed in a Fifties Humber. It could have been theirs, but I suspected it had been borrowed for the occasion.

  Brenda did not reply. Not to them anyway.

  ‘It’s very hurtful, Jack,’ she said. ‘I used to be such friends with Patricia. But the car is mine.’

  ‘Or perhaps the Major’s.’ I had divided loyalties here, so it was best to play for safety.

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ she answered sharply, then rearranged her face in a smile for another group of photographers and journalists. This one included Pen. She was on her own and had stopped to see if there was a story waiting to be invented.

  ‘This is it, eh?’ Pen glanced at Brenda and winning charm took over. ‘So you’re the lucky new owner then,’ she cooed woman to woman. I stood ready to intervene when the going got tough.

  ‘I am, yes,’ Brenda replied.

  ‘I heard there was some dispute over ownership. That must be worrying for you coming on top of Mrs Drake’s death.’ Pen looked so sympathetic I almost believed she had no other object in mind.

  Brenda hastily backed out of being bonded with Pen. ‘A nuisance claim, that’s all.’

  ‘Poor you,’ Pen said. ‘But this rally now? There’s no doubt that this is the car that drove in the original one?’

  ‘We believe it is. It takes time to sort out the provenance, so one can’t be definite about it yet.’ Brenda was doing pretty well at Pen-fencing, I thought, although it might be a mistake to stop smiling.

  Pen decided it was time to take a photograph – of Brenda, not me. I could see why. ‘Owner looks on in distress as her beloved car has to be consigned to a low-loader in disgrace.’

  The Major and Helen had driven on in the rally’s vanguard, but Julian stopped to ensure his new buddy Brenda was looked after. ‘Come on with me, Mrs Carlyle.’

  That was good in one way because Charlie’s cabin would definitely be overcrowded with four of us in it, but all the same I wasn’t too sure about the wisdom of pairing Brenda and Julian. I told myself the worst he could do would be to persuade her to accept an offer for the car, which was none of my business, even if the Major did court martial me afterwards.

  Another visitor pulled up as Charlie was ready to leave. ‘Trouble?’ Dave stuck his head out of his patrol car. ‘Forgot to put petrol in, did you?’ he jeered.

  ‘Not at all. Merely a preventative measure,’ I assured him.

  ‘Against mechanical or man’s assault?’

  ‘Both. We won’t take it round the lanes. We’ll find alternative better roads.’

  ‘Good plan. That’ll fox the Meytons of this world.’

  I doubted that, though it might help. ‘Are you following us or the rally, Dave?’ I enquired.

  The route later today would take to the lanes of Romney Marsh and then Walland Marsh (temporarily known as the ‘Gobi Desert’). On the far side of the desert was ‘Orga’, our first overnight stop, better known as Rye. The lanes might fit a more robust De Dion under her own steam as well as the rest of the rally cars, but weren’t so brilliant for Charlie. Moreover although the main roads are used to hold-ups, they are not of the kind that might stem from the likes of Meyton or the Morrises. On the lanes, however, rally cars would undoubtedly get split up, thus offering more possibilities of trouble from human sources.

  ‘You,’ Dave answered. He seemed unenthusiastic about this choice however. That’s the trouble with rallies. You get into the spirit of the thing all too easily.

  Before the Gobi Desert, however, lay Folkestone, a few miles west of Dover, which had turned out in force to greet us. It had the honour of being designated ‘Nankow’, which in 1907 China was a mere village, but Folkestone was rather different. It too was fortified with not one, but three Martello Towers, built with the intention of keeping Napoleon Bonaparte from laying his hands on Britain. He never did of course, but mothers frightened their children with tales of Old Boney coming to get them for many a year thereafter.

  Charlie was still following the rally procession at this point but I was glad we had decided to transport the De Dion on him, for the A20 road runs high along the cliffs here. Sorry, I mean of course the mountain ranges leading to Kalgan, which for us was Hythe, which we would reach shortly after Folkestone. In China these mountains are between Nankow and Kalgan, but our route had to use a little licence as the A20 has different ideas. Perhaps I had been somewhat over anxious though. However fragile the De Dion might look it had sturdily survived the vicissitudes of Peking to Paris, despite its mere ten h.p. against the Itala’s forty h.p. The roads of south-east England should be a cinch.

  From Folkestone to Hythe was easy going for all of us, however hard it had been from Nankow to Kalgan in 1907. Kalgan had been the first overnight stop. In theory the rally participants had agreed a mutual support pact before leaving Peking, but it didn’t take long for that to break down and I wondered whether that was going to happen here too. In 1907 Kalgan was the intended end of a railway line that had not yet been built, but Hythe fares better. It has its own, claiming to be the world’s smallest public railway. It’s a little short on the pagodas and temples for which Kalgan was noted but otherwise it did us proud. It has a canal – also part of the defences against Napoleon – and this was standing in for the river Hun Ho – even if the Hythe natives did seem a bit reluctant to push our cars over it.

  Hythe is a long stretched-out town, with the road running along the seashore for part of it and hiding its centre. Our progress was slower travelling through it, giving the good folk of Hythe plenty of time to toss cash into buckets, cheer us on and appreciate the spring rolls, Chinese lanterns, crafts and decorations. There even seemed to be some Chinese wrestling going on in one corner.

  I regretted for a moment that I wasn’t in the De Dion and reflected that Brenda must be cross at missing the crowd’s adulation. The Major must be enjoying it, however, as he was now leading the cavalcade. On a brief halt I saw him push back the roof of his drophead and wave at the crowds. The question of ownership of the De Dion didn’t seem to be troubling him unduly. The Morrises had overtaken Julian and Brenda which must have given them some satisfaction.

  Our first scheduled coffee stop was at a large hotel on ‘Kalgan’s’ seafront, but it was a brief one owing to the fact that not everyone in the hotel was devoted to classic cars and had other pursuits to follow. Even so, Charlie and his precious load were surrounded by admirers and I found myself g
iving autographs for no apparent reason. One little boy seemed to think I had driven in the 1907 rally and kept asking me questions about Mongolia, which threw me somewhat. Luckily I remembered my school history lessons about Genghis Khan and gave the lad information a mere thousand years out of date. At least, remembering Genghis’s antics, I hoped it was.

  I saw the Major and Brenda giving a joint press interview, so perhaps Julian was no longer her best buddy and she had reverted to Stanley. The hotel was decorated in true Chinese-cum-Mongolian style, and tea with rather stalwart Chinese costumed maidens was doing the rounds with rice biscuits. I opted for the more interesting looking food stalls, and felt very regal as I sampled little bits of preserved fruits, peeled lychees, and strawberries. I could see the Morrises greedily eyeing the De Dion but then my gaze was distracted by Helen. I was about to join her, when reality struck in the form of Connor Meyton. He came gently, like the mythical breezes at the end of March, sipping tea and munching a prawn toast.

  ‘Good morning, Jack. Should we bow to each other?’

  ‘By all means,’ I replied courteously. We did so. ‘How’s the Alpine going?’ I asked in true rally style. I’d seen it in the procession, and a fine classic it was.

  ‘A purring tiger. And the De Dion? I saw that it broke down.’

  ‘No. It was a safety measure. All precautions taken.’

  He looked at me thoughtfully. ‘I had understood it would be driven the whole way.’

  ‘So it will be, partly on the low-loader, though. Maybe on the same route, maybe not. Any problem with that? Run up against any plans you might have?’

  ‘My only plan is to see Carter’s museum does well out of this. Excellent cause,’ he added approvingly. ‘So good to see such a turnout of those interested in De Dions.’

  ‘Even the police,’ I agreed.