Harry said he would go over to see it, hung up the phone and decided to do no such thing.
"She's yours for £40," the man had said, "and a nice little runner, too." That was the part Harry did not like. He saw himself encased in a tumultuous box, a'blur with vibration, scuttering along a perpetual gauntlet of derision.
So, he got rid of the man with an empty promise. Who did he think wanted a nice little runner? He wanted a motor car. That was what he told Ernie, the head mechanic.
"Keep your eyes open, Ernie," he had said. "If you hear of anything good, give me the tip."
And a week later Ernie put his head round the door. "Real snip," he said. "Only forty quid."
"Down?" Harry asked.
"No, forty quid cash."
"What is it," jeered Harry. "A Mors?"
"It's an Austin Seven. 1932. Forty quid."
Harry snickered and Ernie looked pained. "What's the matter with an Austin Seven?" he asked.
"What isn't the matter. Soap box on wheels."
Ernie came in and shut the door. "Have you ever had one?" he asked.
So, Harry rang the man up, as we have told you, and hung up as we have told you. Nobody was going to steer him into a proposition like that. Forty quid Austin Sevens.
But of course, he did go. Well, it wasn't very far and Ernie would have sulked and he had promised the man, hadn't he?
The man was frantically slapping a lot of furniture polish on it when Harry arrived. That made him look a bit silly and gave Harry a start of several lengths.
"Just giving her a bit of a birthday," he explained. "The paintwork's good but it just needs a bit of a rub over, like."
“You’re telling me." said Harry coldly. The man progressed to the engine. He swung smartly, there was a noise as of a shipyard in the middle distance and he darted to the driving seat. "Valves need a touch up," he screamed. "Nothing wrong with her, really. Want a run?"
There was nothing to lose but his life, so Harry huddled in beside him and recalled comparable days at the tillers of a Mark 1 Churchill. Off they went clatteringly, grindingly, tremblingly, rattlingly, smokily.
The man clapped on the brakes and they coasted to an unhurried stop. He switched off the engine and the silence was absolute, save for the hissing of steam.
Why Harry bought it he didn't know. Easy come, easy go, he supposed. It hadn’t taken him long to accumulate the money. Not more than a lifetime. But he got the thing at his price. £39 10s.
The man started it for him, stood back and didn't even smirk when the nice little runner leapt a foot in the air and plunged off. Harry wasn't then used to Austin Seven clutches.
Harry got it home and showed it to the family through the front room curtains. Hysteria and beatings of backs. Then they saw that Harry wasn't laughing. “You don't seriously suggest we go out in that?" they asked
"Certainly." asserted Harry. More, intensified hysteria and back-beating. Harry noticed that curtains were twitching across the road and decided to get the thing out of sight before hysteria became a suburban epidemic.
The battery was flat. He swung until paralysis set in and ended by pushing the thing into the garage. Nice little runner.
In due course, Ernie and he ripped the entrails out. The main bearings had been revolving on the crankshaft, the pistons had been revolving in the bores, the valves had no guides, faces or springs worth mentioning, the starter ring had no teeth, the clutch had no lining and there was no gauze in the sump.
The header tank leaked, the radiator cap was a hand-carved chunk of wood, one headlamp lacked a reflector, all the tyres lacked tread, the front spring lacked life. The sunshine roof was sealed with plasticine and the windscreen was sealed up with surgical tape. There were 18 inches of play at the top of the gear lever.
But the clock in the dashboard worked, the roof light worked and the horn uttered its obscene gurk. There was air in the cushions, there were four good plugs, the coil yielded a spark and there was nothing wrong with the radiator that replacement couldn't rectify.
“That's what I mean about Austin Sevens," enthused Ernie. "Anything else in this state would have packed up long ago."
A man Ernie knew worked wonders on the crankshaft with electric welding and reference to the Black Arts. That cost Harry a large packet of Players. And Conrad, who had a lathe, a generous disposition and a beautiful nature, turned it to size for no more payment that undying gratiutude and a skinful.
They gave the thing new main bearings, new pistons and four nice, shiny bores to fit, new valves, seats, guides and springs. All that should be done to make 'Odge fit for a second childhood was done.
‘Odge?’ Index letters were OJ. All clever stuff.
Harry replaced the decrepit headlamps with a couple of ostentatious chromium spotlights. “’Odge's lanterns!" declared his small son. Harry began to explain the chronological difference between headlamps and lanterns but saw his son's point half-way through. '"Odge's lanterns," he agreed.
Harry and family chose a moment for the first run when all the Rileys and Jags and Mayflowers were away from the Avenue. No point in looking for trouble. They swept grandly down the drive and off to faraway places with strange-sounding names like Irthlingborough and Easton Maudit. Exaggerated coughing and paroxysms of swooning developed among the crew. "It' s the paraffin," Harry snapped. "It’ll wear off.” And so it did, a few weeks later.
After half-an-hour they came upon a Friesian 'Odge with a black body and white wheels. Their Ayreshire drew up behind. Then Harry looked in the mirror. "No," he groaned. "It can’t be."
But it was. A third 'Odge ... a sort of cross-breed with a black body and rusty wheels. It tacked on behind. That made the whole affair a little too like a Vintage Car Club run without any of the advantages, so Harry pulled over and waved it on. All four occupants gave them conspiratorial grins as they passed and the two in the back beamed and waved and pointed until they were out of sight.
The family surrendered. 'This is fun," they exclaimed and from that moment it was. From that moment was born a loyalty to 'Odge that grew into a fervour strong enough to survive the sight, in Newcastle's Science Museum, of what was to all intents and purposes 'Odge's chassis in all its primevality.
With 'Odge they buzzed their way, complete with elephantine hound and all the luggage from the Grampians to Dover and points east and west and the only outward sign of their travels was the dent in the radiator left by the affectionate pats of all the garage attendants who had quenched 'Odge's thirst.
They were untroubled by under-steer or over-steer because 'Odge hadn't heard of either. They had a heating plant just in front of the pedals which also provided motive power. They had no fuel-pump trouble because the petrol got to the float chamber by arrangement with Dr. Newton and his well-known law. There was no solenoid trouble because 'Odge had none and there was never any difficulty with the direction indicators except for slight attacks of rheumatism in the elbow.
They got 50-odd to the gallon and once lapped Silverstone at 35 m.p.h dead, by courtesy of the then Mayor-elect of Brackley who happened to be in charge of the track when they turned up one December morning and gave them the run of the place because he, too, loved 'Odges.
The last time they had been there, Dr. Farina had bent the lap record at 90-something, but they bet he didn't have as much fun doing it as they did, particularly as there were a couple of times when they very nearly got lost because of the snow.
They learnt how to snuggle up together to achieve some sort of comfort. They learnt not to attempt conversation in second gear and they no longer tried to keep up with lorries. They kept out of the way of everyone and everything except, maybe, ice-cream trikes.
The pinnacle of 'Odge's career came when Harry took him into the Army with him to the Supplementary Reserve camp and signed him up as depot transport. He turned out to be the squadron's only piece of wheeled mobility.
It was a splendid moment for the morale of all ranks when the CO rolled up for his first ceremonial parade in 'Odge with the 2 i/c at the wheel. The serried ranks of soldiery, Harry thought, rippled just momentarily, but no more.
The sad time came when 'Odge had to be replaced. Another Austin Seven, of course. Another snip. Thirty quid this time and only 15 years old. Side-by-side they stood in the garage, and a most curious thing happened. 'Odge was crying big, dripping tears.
Someone tried to tell Harry that the old header tank leak had opened up again, but that didn't fool him.
His poor old 'Odge was crying.
Wasn't it a shame?
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