Give Us This Day (21 page)

An enormously fat man in a moleskin waistcoat and a hard hat seemed to be in authority among the wildly excited group of onlookers on the far bank, and George called, “Can you tow me clear on to level ground? I’ll pay a sovereign an hour for the labour and the hire of horses.”

The fat man swallowed twice, licked his heavy underlip, pushed his hat brim an inch higher on his forehead, and said, ignoring the offer, “Christ A’mighty! Whatever iz un?”

“It’s a petrol-driven waggon,” George said, impatiently. “Can you do what I ask? I’ve got to make Leicester by dusk.”

At that the man removed his hat altogether and passed his hand over the full extent of his balding skull, saying, “I thowt at first it were a locomotive running loose from up the line. A horseless carriage, you zay? But that’n iz ten times the size o’ the doctor’s.” At that George’s heart leaped, and he said, eagerly, “The doctor here owns a motor? Will you send for him? He’ll have the toolkit, no doubt. Will you do that? For an extra half-sovereign?”

“Christ A’mighty,” the man said again, “youm pretty free with your coin, maister.” And then, after ruminating a moment, “Arr, I’ll vetch ‘im, for he’d give me the length of his tongue if I didden and he missed this carnival.
Ben!
” and he whirled about and roared aggressively at a gap-toothed boy beside him, who was still surveying the vehicle as if it were a stranded dragon, “Stop gawping and rin an’ vetch Doctor Bowles. Look sharp about it! Seed ‘im go in Fanny Dawkins’, minnits back. Tell ‘em us’ve something in the river he’d like to zee!” His speculative gaze returned to George. “A sovereign an ower, you’re offering?”

“That’s what I’m offering, but every minute counts. If I’m out of here in less than two I’d add to it, sixpence on every minute saved.”

The bribe now seemed to animate the man, who shook himself in a way that caused his gross body to quiver. In less than five minutes, two enormous Percherons were trotted out, yards of plough harness were produced, and with a single, squelching heave Swann-Maxie was dragged out on to dry ground and into the lee of a barn. The horses were unyoked and led away, and George crawled under the vehicle for a close inspection of the complex of tubes and rods assembled there.

No damage was visible but every part dripped water, and he was already removing the feed pipe to the carburetter when a cheerful voice greeted him from the offside, calling, “Hey, there! Come on out, man, and tell me what happened. Maybe I could help, although this is a new one on me. Is it a Daimler?”

George crawled out, leaving one end of the feed pipe uncoupled, to see a man about forty in a neat broadcloth suit that at once distinguished him from the rest of the crowd still gathered about the machine. “Desmond Bowles,” he said, extending his hand. “Anything shaken loose? Or is it a case of stripping down and drying out?”

George shook his hand, and although time pressed on him like a goad, he found the doctor’s smile so engaging and his interest so obvious that he decided the least he could do was to introduce himself and his product.

“My name is Swann,” he said, “and I’m in transport. You’ll know my firm, no doubt, the hauliers, Swann-on-Wheels. I’m making a trial run to our London headquarters and planned to get as far as Leicester tonight. Do you own a motor, doctor?”

“Yes, I do. A Panhard-Levassor,” Bowles said. “I brought her over from the Continent last year, but she’s in dry dock at the moment so I’m back to the buggy, confound it. Do you mind if I crawl under and have a look? I’ve done a lot of tinkering with petrol-engines. It’s a hobby o’ mine. These people think I should be put away, of course, and the same probably applies to you. I’ve never seen anything like that before, however.”

“Nobody has. I only finished work on her this week. She’s purpose-built for commercial work and not designed for joy-riding, as you can see. Have you got a tool-set with that Panhard? A smaller screwdriver is what I need to detach the intake pipe from the carburetter. That’s where the damage is, if any. One drop of water through a joint and I’m stuck unless I can clear it,” but he was addressing no one in particular, for the doctor had slipped out of his jacket and scrambled underneath the rear wheels, where his findings reached George in a series of short, authoritative pronouncements, as though he was diagnosing a patient.

“No need to remove the intake pipe. Not yet anyway. We’ll try blowing bubbles first. Been stuck here myself, but in far worse trouble. Your chassis is much higher and your casing took the brunt of it. Damned good idea, that casing. Bellows might help.” His head emerged, and he bellowed at Ben, the boy who had summoned him, “Slip across to the forge, Ben. My compliments to Vosper and tell him I need his hand-bellows again!” The boy darted off as Bowles said, “Dry the externals with the bellows. Done it myself and it works sometimes. You’re right about the intake, though. She’s blocked. Grit washed in, I wouldn’t wonder. That or an airlock. It can happen crossing a puddle sometimes. Come on under, Mr. Swann.”

George joined him and found him supporting the loosened end of the intake, holding it between finger and thumb of his gloved hand. “A steady blow,” he said, “can’t use the bellows on here. Careful, she’s piping hot. Use your handkerchief,” and George, fascinated by his air of knowing precisely what he was about, found his handkerchief, wrapped it round the detached end of the intake, and blew gently and unavailingly for a moment until, with a faint plopping sound, the blockage cleared. He said, excitedly, “I can dismantle the carburetter with the tools I’ve got already, Doctor Bowles. Then dry ‘em out piece-meal. Will you give her an overall dusting?”

“The moment Ben gets back with the hand bellows. My stars, but she’s a powerful brute! How far have you come today?”

“From Macclesfield. I’ve planned a two-day haul to our London H.Q. If I can make it, I’ll be building a fleet to replace our four-horse vans.” The Doctor sat up so abruptly that he dinged his hat on the crank casing. “
Build!
You built this yourself? It’s not patented?”

“Parts of it are. It’s my third prototype, based on an Austrian model built by a man called Körner. He was quite unknown, but I happen to be related to him. She’s been running sweet as a nut up to here. You can blame this on my damn foolishness, taking that hill too fast.”

“Here, I’m teaching my grandmother to suck eggs,” Bowles said. “I took you for an engineer. Swann, you said. You’re
the
Swann’s son?”

“I’m more than that. I’m his managing director,” George said, smiling, “and I’m extremely grateful for your help in spotting the trouble at a glance. I should have wasted an hour eliminating various factors. Here’s your bellows, Doctor,” as a breathless Ben joined them, carrying a brass-nozzled bellows of the kind found in every forge in the country.

“Pity you can’t stop over,” Bowles said, methodically setting to work with his bellows on every exposed section of the engine. “Between us I daresay we’d have my Panhard on the road again in a jiffy. You’re sure you can reconnect that intake with tools you’ve got?”

“I’m already doing it,” George said, gaily, congratulating himself on his luck, and they worked on in silence for ten minutes or so, drying out and dusting off every section of the engine with the bellows and clean pieces of sacking supplied by the obliging Ben.

“That’ll do, I’d say,” Bowles said, squirming out into the open. “Crank her up and see if she turns over,” and George followed him out, reaching into the driver’s cabin for the heavy crank lever and noting, as he slotted it in and prepared to swing, that the crowd, now grown to about a hundred, edged away, leaving himself and Doctor Bowles alone in the clearing.

He brought all his concentration to the first swing, remembering to cock his thumb inside on account of the powerful back-kick the engine produced on several occasions, once putting Scottie in hospital for close on a week. The initial cough was one of the sweetest sounds he had ever heard, and then, using the full strength of his arm, he swung furiously and the engine burst into a stuttering roar, gloriously sustained and magnificently full-throated, proclaiming that Swann-Maxie was no worse for her ducking.

“Are you going to risk stopping her?” roared the doctor, above the beat of the engine.

And George shouted back, “No, by God! I’m off, while I’ve got the chance! Where’s that fat chap in the moleskin jacket? I owe him a sovereign.”

“I’ll give it to him,” Bowles shouted through cupped hands. “Up with you and the best of luck.” But the fat man, seeing George on the point of climbing aboard, overcame his caution and waddled forward, pointing to his watch that showed the delay had cost George fifty minutes from the moment he plunged into the stream. He threw the doctor a coin and engaged low gear, heaving at the steering column and regaining the flint road at about four miles an hour. Bowles waved his dinged hat, the crowd edged forward, and a ragged cheer sped him on his way over the level stretch to a fork in the road where a signpost indicated the ways to Derby and Lichfield. He bore off to the right and slowly built up his speed to around twenty miles an hour, presently seeing the triple spires of Lichfield Cathedral away to the southwest and calculating (he had his father’s trick of memorising routes, mileages, and local products) that he was now within a hundred and twenty miles of London Stone and reflecting that Swann’s waggons had been hauling beer and market produce from this area for forty years.

Tamworth, Atherstone, and Hinckley—he skirted them all, adding a dozen or more miles to his journey to avoid the risk of getting caught up in a traffic jam in busy streets, and around five o’clock, after one brief halt for a cool-off at Polesworth, he was heading almost directly eastward towards Market Harborough, sixteen miles south of Leicester, and eighty-one from London.

There was still an hour or more of good daylight, but it seemed like pressing his luck to push on, taking pot-luck when he stopped for the night, and, in any case, his head was aching and his eyes were sore with dust. He pulled on to the broad grass verge short of the little village of Sibbertoft, ate two of Gisela’s pasties, and spent an hour carefully rechecking tomorrow’s route sheets. He had a yearning for a pint of country-brewed ale, but he dared not leave the vehicle unattended and nobody came by whom he could tip to go to the nearest tavern, so that he was about to make do with water when he remembered Gisela had put tea, sugar, and condensed milk into his knapsack. “Just in case,” she had said, when he told her he wouldn’t have time for a picnic. “You may find yourself stranded miles from anywhere and be glad of some tea while waiting about for spare parts to arrive.”

In a few minutes he had a roadside camp fire going downwind of Swann-Maxie and brewed his tea in a billy-can he kept among the tools. He was grateful for Gisela’s forethought then, for never had tea tasted so good, easing the ache from his brow and washing the dust from his throat.

It was dusk by then and to stretch his legs he walked along the country road as far as a stone monument, pausing to read its inscription and learning that he was camping on the field of the battle of Naseby. He thought, grinning,
Old Giles will laugh at that and see something symbolic in it—“The old order changeth, giving place to new.” He’d remember the Johnny who wrote that, too, but I’m hanged if I do.
He lit his pipe and leaned against the memorial, inhaling the freshness of the evening breeze and the scent of the hedgerows, for it seemed he could never free his palate of dust motes and fumes of Swann-Maxie’s exhaust.

His progress, despite the mishap, had been remarkable. By the route he had come he estimated he had travelled over a hundred miles in ten hours. With ordinary luck he should now fetch up at The George Inn, Southwark, about tea-time tomorrow. No other experience could have taught him so much in such a brief span of time, and he reviewed the lessons learned one by one. Somehow the steering would have to be lightened and some means would have to be found of extending the range of gears, for gradients far in excess of one in twelve would have to be faced when the vehicle went into mass production. The vibration, although greatly reduced by the new springing system, was still a source of anxiety, and that plunge into the river had set him thinking hard about the hazards of descending hills as well as climbing them. Shoe-brakes were adequate to check the progress of the vehicle itself, but when one added on the thrust of a load it was asking for trouble to tackle gradients commonplace in many areas of the country. There were aspects, however, that encouraged him. Transmission problems seemed to have been overcome, and over-heating, although a factor that had to be watched, was not the ever-present menace it had been on the two earlier models. He knocked out his pipe and went back to the machine, draping it for the night in a tarpaulin, then crawling inside and making a nest for himself on a palliasse wedged between fuel drums and rice sacks. In a few minutes he was asleep.

* * *

He made a dawn start in the morning. Before the chill was off the air he had brewed himself tea, breakfasted on chocolate and apples, and refuelled with the help of a watering-can fitted with a funnel. To do this, in the stiffish breeze that was blowing, he had to make a windshield out of the tarpaulin, for a gust was sufficient to spray the spirit in all directions, and he could not discount the high risk of a fire caused by a spark from a roadside fire. This set him thinking about the positioning of the fuel tank, so that he mused,
The devil of it is you can only go so far in a workshop… The real solution to every problem is out here on the open road, where theory and practice merge. I could improve on this model in a dozen ways right now, and I suppose that will be the way of it from here on… a slow climb towards perfection, if it’s ever possible to perfect a wayward brute like this. Well, now for the physical jerks!
He took the starting handle and swung and swung until he was scarlet in the face and sweating freely, despite the nip in the air. On the twenty-eighth swing, when his arm felt as if it had been stretched on the rack, she started with the now familiar stuttering roar, and he tuned the engine and moved off, taking the road to Dunstable.