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Sweet Sixteen

In his 17th year, My Friend Harry


□ Took afternoon tea with Jack Hobbs

□ Saw his first motor race

□ Had his first article published

□ Learnt a thing or two from Beryl


First things first. When he was 16, the London Star newspaper used to award weekly prizes for the best batting and bowling performances by schoolboys in the Greater London area. The prizes were cricket bats signed by the legendary Jack Hobbs, of Surrey and England.


When Harry took all ten wickets for 42 runs in a match between his school, Gillingham Grammar, and Southend High School, the sports master sent a recommendation to the Star. Three days later, there it was in print: He’d won the week’s bowling prize.


The letter of confirmation from the editor said he could either call at Jack Hobbs’ shop in Fleet Street to collect the bat, or they would send it by post. There was no way Harry was going to accept postal delivery!


His Dad phoned the shop and a date was agreed. Off they went on the appointed day by train to London, half-an-hour away. And when they arrived at the shop, who was there to greet them? None other than The Master, John Berry Hobbs himself.


He was charm and courtesy personified as he selected a bat perfectly suited to a boy of Harry’s age and size, and he signed it on the back of the shoulder with care. He glanced at his watch. “Would you have time fora cup of tea?" he asked. Would they!


He sent out to a cafe a few doors away in Fleet Street and a few minutes later in came a tray laden with tea, milk, sugar, cups and saucers and plates -- and sandwiches and cakes. Jack Hobbs cleared a space on the counter, pulled up some chairs and they settled down to a most delightful chat as they disposed of the tea and the food.


Harry could have sat there for hours, but his Old Man, though a cricket fanatic, did not intend to be so graceless as to outstay their welcome. He thanked The Master most warmly for his hospitality and off they went, Harry walking two feet off the ground.


Back at home, Harry first varnished the signature which Jack Hobbs had written on the shoulder, to preserve it. Then he wrote a letter of thanks to the great man-and shortly afterwards received a cheery reply in his own handwriting.


He vowed to keep that bat for ever. Alas, playing in an ’away’ game some time later, it vanished from the pavilion while his side were fielding.



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In August, Harry went to Brooklands to see his very first motor race -- the RAC Grand Prix -- to begin a life-long association with the sport. There was no accounting for Harry’s youthful interest in motor racing. The family had no car. Nobody they knew had a car. The family was military on both sides. Nobody had any interest in things mechanical.


Nevertheless, his fascination with the sport, derived from magazines, was so compulsive that he set off by push-bike to ride to Brooklands, 90 miles away, to see the Grand Prix. Not only that, he set off at night, his way being lit by a Lucas King of the Road oil lamp. And he had no road map. All he had was a page torn from an atlas to give him some idea where Sevenoaks, Reigate, Dorking and Leatherhead were.


Why by night? Because the expedition was a secret. It had to be, or his Dad would have put the kybosh on it right away. He left on the mantlepiece a note saying: “Gone to Brooklands. Harry.” He crept downstairs, made some sandwiches, took a couple of apples, pushed the bike down the garden path and pedalled off into the unknown.


It was easy going to Rochester and Strood. Then came the hard part. In those days, signposting was rudimentary and, in towns, non-existent. Harry couldn’t remember how many times he got lost in the darkness, but he did know that he was determined to get to Weybridge in the end.


And get there, he did. He got there so early in the morning that the gateman at the Vickers entrance to Brooklands track was only just unlocking the gate. When he was told that the lad had just ridden through the night from Gillingham, he re-locked his gate and took Harry up the road to his little house. After a good wash in the scullery, Harry was given a whacking breakfast by his wife, clucking over him like a hen.


Back at the track entrance, the kindly gateman let Harry in free and gave him a free programme - still in Harry’s possession. Then he entered Paradise - the Brooklands track he never in his wildest dreams thought he would one day see.


He stood by the railings right at the trackside. No thought of danger to the public entered anyone’s heads in those innocent days. The sight, sound and smell of those astonishing Delage, Talbot and Bugatti double-supercharged Grand Prix cars has not faded from Harry’s memory to this day.


He did not ride his bike back to Gillingham. He remembered that he had an uncle in the police based at Chertsey and rang him on the phone in Weybridge police station. He was collected, taken to his uncle’s cottage at Lyne, fed, fussed over, bedded for the night and put on a train the next day with half-a-crown spending money. And he didn’t get a rollicking from his Day, either. He found he’d become something of a family celebrity.



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Harry’s first published article? It appeared in the Meccano Magazine under a by-line and Harry had visions of wealth descending from Binns Road, Liverpool. Blissful days were spent wondering what he would spend the money on, and most of his spare time was used up watching for the arrival of the postman.

Wealth? They paid him half-a-crown!



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What did he learn from Beryl? You mind your own business!

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