Copyright Oggbashan February 2020
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.
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In the late 1940s very few British people could own or run a car. The few that were around were usually worn out wrecks that should have been scrapped in the 1930s but had survived because they were no new cars. Except for a few essential users, all new cars were exported.
By the mid 1950s families with a good income could buy a new car but it wasn't until the 1960s that car ownership became more common. But a single man in his 20s owning a car, any car, was unusual and even if he did it was likely to be an old wreck from before the war. My first car was slightly better than that, but not by much. It was a 1947 Ford Anglia - a slightly updated car from the original Ford Y 8 hp of 1933.
It was slow and difficult to drive. Its brakes were not very good, the steering very direct, and it wandered all over the road every time it met a bump. Even at 40 mph in daylight I felt unsafe driving it. After dark, the 6 volt headlights didn't show the road. In rain, the wipers barely cleared the screen and if I was climbing a hill, they'd stop. Driving after dark if it was raining? I'd rather not. It didn't have a heater so I was cold in winter.
The Anglia was OK if I restricted myself to a radius of about thirty miles from my parents' house and used it in daylight. Even so, because it was a car and had a roof that kept the rain off, I had a choice of girlfriends who preferred going in my car to riding pillion on a motorbike or sitting cramped in a sidecar. But it was uncomfortable for any distance and unless I remained on well-lit streets of which there weren't many, I couldn't use it on an evening date. It was cheap to run, had been cheap to buy, and as a recently qualified driver, the insurance was reasonable. After a year, when I had a whole year's no claim bonus, I looked around for a better car. My uncle was replacing his family car and had found that if he didn't trade in his old car he could get a better deal for paying cash.
He offered his old car to me for twenty-five pounds. I asked for an insurance quote first before accepting. My insurance, including the no-claims bonus, would be thirty per cent more than for the Anglia. I could just about afford to buy it for twenty five pounds and insure it. He might have been able to sell it privately for fifty pounds or get a trade-in value of forty pounds, but by buying for cash he got an eighty pounds discount.
It wasn't a car I would have chosen for myself. It was a 1951 Morris Oxford MO, looking like an overgrown Morris Minor. It had been criticised when new for being slow, sluggish and underpowered. But it was much safer than the Anglia at a higher speed, even if the Anglia's maximum, which I'd never dare to use, was about the same.
What mattered to me was that it had hydraulic brakes, reasonable steering and road-holding, electric wipers that kept at a constant speed, 12 volt electrics with headlights that actually showed the road ahead, and a heater! It had bench seats and a very spacious backseat offering far more opportunities with a cooperative girlfriend outweighed my friends' objections to such a staid car. I was able to sell the Anglia for seventeen pounds and ten shillings and thought that the difference was well worth the few pounds to buy and the extra insurance cost.
I hadn't consulted my girlfriend Susan, nor had I remembered how we met and why she liked the Anglia, and by extension, me. By her standards I was a boring man in a boring job as a trainee accountant. But she had been on a first date with my friend Alan when his car broke down. She had been standing at the roadside for an hour as Alan vainly tried to fix his car. I saw them and stopped to help. Susan sat in the Anglia for a few minutes while we decided that we couldn't fix his car without parts he had at home. She sat beside me as I towed him back. I took her back to her parents' house and got the goodnight kiss Alan should have had.
She liked the Anglia because it was reliable, never breaking down. That was because I maintained it and getting spares from the local Ford Dealer was easy. Susan would never consider a motorcycle since her brother had been off work, on crutches, for three months after an accident that wasn't his fault. Alan's car breakdown was the third failed date she had had recently and she had been embarrassed arriving back at her parents' house hours after the agreed time having watched a boyfriend fail to sort out his car. But boring Geoff had a reliable car that never broke down. If I said we'd be back at her parents' home by a certain time - we were.
While the Morris was as reliable as the Anglia Susan was embarrassed to be seen in it. Apart from its shape, described by Lord Nuffield as looking like a poached egg (and the Oxford was a very large poached egg!) it was a revolting bilious Morris Green unlike the Anglia which had been glossy black and shiny chrome.
The last straw for her had been the effect on my finances. When I had to Anglia we wouldn't go far and I could afford to buy her coffee, a snack and sometimes a meal. With the Oxford we could go much further but the increased fuel consumption and the greater distances meant I was perpetually broke and couldn't pay for as much when we were out together. Boring Geoff was tolerable with a reliable car. Boring Geoff, perpetually broke, in a car she was embarrassed by - I was soon an ex-boyfriend. What Susan had wanted was not a boyfriend with a car, but a boyfriend who could take her to places that she could enjoy. I had a car but now couldn't afford the places she wanted to go to.
Susan became Alan's girlfriend again shortly after he had an inheritance from his grandfather that meant he could buy a 1955 shiny red MG TF sports car. I admit it. She looked spectacular in the passenger seat of Alan's car. I had always not really understood why I had been acceptable as a partner for Susan. I wished her well. Alan is a good bloke. But I am single again.
Two months' later and my finances were in better shape. Unlike when I had been with Susan I was only using the Oxford at weekends. My accountancy studies, which had been fitted around evenings with Susan, were back on track and my recent examination results had been much better. In a year's time I would be fully qualified.
Don't get me wrong. Susan was not a gold-digger. She, like me, wanted to get out of the overcrowded family home for a break, and a boyfriend with a car made that possible. Both of us were saving for somewhere to set up on our own, a small flat with a mortgage, and spare cash was short. The increased cost of the Morris Oxford had made the difference between having some money for drinks and meals, and not having it. Even Alan was not much better off than us. He had a bit more capital but his income was similar. But he could afford to buy Susan a few meals out that I couldn't.
When I could afford the petrol I enjoyed the Morris Oxford. It was a magic carpet that could take me away from our London suburb to the seaside or out into the country. Because its headlights actually showed the road I could drive it after dark. Even if it rained or was frosty I was warm and dry. It took me wherever I wanted to go - when I could afford it. I would have liked to go out with a girlfriend beside me but since Susan had moved on there was no one.
I had a holiday period in June. Those in my office who were married with children had the first choice of holidays when the schools were shut. I didn't object to June. The evenings were long, not that mattered so much now I had a car that was acceptable to drive after dark, and places would be less crowded.
The Friday before my two week break I took my car to work and paid for a car park about two hundred yards from the office. I was owed some time in lieu for overtime so I could leave at three in the afternoon. I had packed the car for a fortnight of youth hostelling. I hoped I might meet some unattached women while hostelling who might appreciate a comfortable car even if its looks and colour were against it. I left and drove to a modern youth hostel in the country South West of London. I had to park the car a distance away and take an overnight bag into the hostel because we weren't supposed to arrive by car. I had booked an evening meal and breakfast but once I had found my bed in the men's dormitory I went to the members' kitchen to make myself some tea.
I was surprised at the state of the kitchen. Normally it would be spotless but there was obvious evidence of this morning's fried breakfast. The hob and pans were grease-spotted. While my tea brewed I set to work to clean everything. I had nearly finished when the warden walked in.
"Geoff? I'm glad I found you. The others want their evening meal early, in half an hour. Is that OK with you?"
"Yes. I should have finished here in about ten minutes."
"You didn't need to clean here. I had a school party last night. Normally they would have cleaned up - they have before - but they had an early train to catch. There was no one booked in who wasn't having one of my meals so I thought I could ask the next people to use the kitchen, tomorrow night, to clean up. But you have done a great job. Thank you."
"That's OK. I usually use the members' kitchen but I don't want to carry food for tonight. The hostel seems very quiet."
"It is, Geoff, unusually quiet. It will be nearly full tomorrow night but now, only six of you. There are two married couples touring by tandems and a French girl, Angelique. She was with a friend but her friend has had to go back to France as her grandmother is ill. How's your French, Geoff?"
"Better than usual for a Brit - I work for a French company in London. I had a school qualification that got me the post but they sent me to Paris for a year to improve."
"That would be useful, Geoff. Angelique's English is not good. I think she is worried to be on her own."
