Vile Bodies · Chapter 10 (2/4)

The race was not due to start until noon, but any indecision which they may have felt about the employment of the next few hours was settled for them by the local police, who were engaged in directing all traffic, irrespective of its particular inclinations, on the road to the course. No pains had been spared about this point of organization; several days before, the Chief Constable had issued a little route map which was to be memorized by all constables on point duty, and so well had they learned their lesson that from early that morning until late in the afternoon no vehicle approaching the town from any direction escaped being drawn into that broad circuit marked by the arrows and dotted line A-B which led to the temporary car park behind the Grand Stand. (Many doctors, thus diverted, spent an enjoyable day without apparent prejudice to their patients.)

The advance of the spectators had already assumed the form of a slow and unbroken stream. Some came on foot from the railway station, carrying sandwiches and camp stools; some on tandem bicycles; some in “runabouts” or motor cycle sidecar combinations, but most were in modestly priced motor cars. Their clothes and demeanour proclaimed them as belonging to the middle rank; a few brought portable wireless sets with them and other evidence of gaiety, but the general air of the procession was one of sobriety and purpose. This was no Derby day holiday-making; they had not snatched a day from the office to squander it among gipsies and roundabouts and thimble-and-pea men. They were there for the race. As they crawled along in bottom gear in a fog of exhaust gas, they discussed the technicalities of motor car design and the possibilities of bloodshed, and studied their maps of the course to pick out the most dangerous corners.

The detour planned by the Chief Constable was a long one, lined with bungalows and converted railway carriages. Banners floated over it between the telegraph posts, mostly advertising the Morning Despatch, which was organizing the race and paying for the victor’s trophy⁠—a silver gilt figure of odious design, symbolizing Fame embracing Speed. (This at the moment was under careful guard in the stewards’ room, for the year before it had been stolen on the eve of the race by the official timekeeper, who pawned it for a ridiculously small sum in Manchester, and was subsequently deprived of his position and sent to gaol.) Other advertisements proclaimed the superiorities of various sorts of petrol and sparking plugs, while some said “£100 for Loss of Limb. Insure Today.” There was also an elderly man walking among the motor cars with a blue and white banner inscribed, “Without Shedding of Blood is no Remission of Sin,” while a smartly dressed young man was doing a brisk trade in bogus tickets for the Grand Stand.

Adam sat in the back of the car with Miles, who was clearly put out about his friend’s lack of cordiality. “What I can’t make out,” he said, “is why we came to this beastly place at all. I suppose I ought to be thinking of something to write for the Excess. I know this is just going to be the most dreary day we’ve ever spent.”

Adam felt inclined to agree. Suddenly he became aware that someone was trying to attract his attention.

“There’s an awful man shouting ‘Hi’ at you,” said Miles. “My dear, your friends.”

Adam turned and saw not three yards away, separated from him by a young woman riding a push-bicycle in khaki shorts, her companion, who bore a knapsack on his shoulders, and a small boy selling programmes, the long-sought figure of the drunk Major. He looked sober enough this morning, dressed in a bowler hat and Burberry, and he was waving frantically to Adam from the dicky of a coupé car.

“Hi!” cried the drunk Major. “Hi! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“I’ve been looking for you,” shouted Adam. “I want some money.”

“Can’t hear⁠—what do you want?”

“Money.”

“It’s no good⁠—these infernal things make too much noise. What’s your name? Lottie had forgotten.”

“Adam Symes.”

“Can’t hear.”

The line of traffic, creeping forward yard by yard, had at last reached the point B on the Chief Constable’s map, where the dotted lines diverged. A policeman stood at the crossing directing the cars right and left, some to the parking place behind the Grand Stand, others to the mound above the pits. Archie turned on to the left. The drunk Major’s car accelerated and swept away to the right.

“I must know your name,” he cried. All the drivers seemed to choose this moment to sound their horns; the woman cyclist at Adam’s elbow rang her bell; the male cyclist tooted a little horn like a Paris taxi, and the programme boy yelled in his ear, “Official programme⁠—map of the course⁠—all the drivers.”

“Adam Symes,” he shouted desperately, but the Major threw up his hands in despair and he disappeared in the crowd.

“The way you pick people up⁠ ⁠…” said Miles, startled into admiration.

“The pits” turned out to be a line of booths, built of wood and corrugated iron immediately opposite the Grand Stand. Many of the cars had already arrived and stood at their “pits,” surrounded by a knot of mechanics and spectators; they seemed to be already under repair. Busy officials hurried up and down, making entries in their lists. Over their heads a vast loud speaker was relaying the music of a military band.

The Grand Stand was still fairly empty, but the rest of the course was already lined with people. It stretched up and down hill for a circle of thirteen or fourteen miles, and those who were fortunate enough to own cottages or public houses at the more dangerous corners had covered their roofs with unstable wooden forms, and were selling tickets like very expensive hot cakes. A grass-covered hill rose up sharply behind the pits. On this had been erected a hoarding where a troop of Boy Scouts were preparing to score the laps, passing the time contentedly with ginger beer, toffee, and rough-and-tumble fights. Behind the hoarding was a barbed wire fence, and behind that again a crowd of spectators and several refreshment tents. A wooden bridge, advertising the Morning Despatch, had been built on the road. At various points officials might be seen attempting to understand each other over a field telephone. Sometimes the band would stop and a voice would announce, “Will Mr. So-and-So kindly report at once to the timekeeper’s office”; then the band would go on.

Miss Runcible and her party found their way to the pit numbered 13 and sat on the matchboard counter smoking and signing autograph books. An official bore down on them.

“No smoking in the pits, please.”

“My dear, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t know.”

There were six open churns behind Miss Runcible, four containing petrol and two water. She threw her cigarette over her shoulder, and by a beneficent attention of Providence which was quite rare in her career it fell into the water. Had it fallen into the petrol it would probably have been all up with Miss Runcible.

Presently No. 13 appeared. Miles’ friend and his mechanic wearing overalls, crash-helmets, and goggles, jumped out, opened the bonnet and began to reconstruct it again.

“They didn’t ought to have a No. 13 at all,” said the mechanic. “It isn’t fair.”

Miss Runcible lit another cigarette.

“No smoking in the pits, please,” said the official.

“My dear, how awful of me. I quite forgot.”

(This time it fell in the mechanic’s luncheon basket and lay smouldering quietly on a leg of chicken until it had burnt itself out.)

Miles’ friend began filling up his petrol tank with the help of a very large funnel.

“Listen,” he said. “You’re not allowed to hand me anything direct, but if Edwards holds up his left hand as we come past the pits, that means we shall be stopping next lap for petrol. So what you’ve got to do is to fill up a couple of cans and put them on the shelf with the funnel for Edwards to take. If Edwards holds up his right hand⁠ ⁠…” elaborate instructions followed. “You’re in charge of the depot,” he said to Archie. “D’you think you’ve got all the signals clear? The race may depend on them, remember.”

“What does it mean if I wave the blue flag?”

“That you want me to stop.”

“Why should I want you to stop?”

“Well, you might see something wrong⁠—leaking tank or anything like that, or the officials might want the number plate cleaned.”

“I think perhaps I won’t do anything much about the blue flag. It seems rather too bogus for me.”

Miss Runcible lit another cigarette.

“Will you kindly leave the pits if you wish to smoke?” said the official.

“What a damned rude man,” said Miss Runcible. “Let’s go up to that divine tent and get a drink.”

They climbed the hill past the Boy Scouts, found a gate in the wire fence, and eventually reached the refreshment tent. Here an atmosphere of greater geniality prevailed. A profusion of men in plus-fours were having “quick ones” before the start. There was no nonsense about not smoking. There was a middle-aged woman sitting on the grass with a bottle of stout and a baby.

“Home from home,” said Miss Runcible.

Suddenly the military band stopped and a voice said, “Five minutes to twelve. All drivers and mechanics on the other side of the track, please.”

There was a hush all over the course, and the refreshment tent began to empty quickly.

“Darling, we shall miss the start.”

“Still, a drink would be nice.”

So they went into the tent.

“Four whiskies, please,” said Archie Schwert.

“You’ll miss the start,” said the barmaid.

“What a pig that man was,” said Miss Runcible. “Even if we weren’t supposed to smoke, he might at least have asked us politely.”

“My dear, it was only you.”

“Well, I think that made it worse.”

“Lor’, Miss,” said the barmaid. “You surely ain’t going to miss the start?”

“It’s the one thing I want to see more than anything⁠ ⁠… my dear, I believe they’re off already.”

The sudden roar of sixty high-power engines rose from below. “They have started⁠ ⁠… how too shaming.” They went to the door of the tent. Part of the road was visible over the heads of the spectators, and they caught a glimpse of the cars running all jammed together like pigs being driven through a gate; one by one they shook themselves free and disappeared round the bend with a high shriek of acceleration.

“They’ll be round again in quarter of an hour,” said Archie. “Let’s have another drink.”

“Who was ahead?” asked the barmaid anxiously.

“I couldn’t see for certain,” said Miss Runcible, “but I’m fairly sure it was No. 13.”

“My!”

The refreshment tent soon began to fill up again. The general opinion seemed to be that it was going to be a close race between No. 13 and No. 28, a red Omega car, driven by Marino, the Italian “ace.”

“Dirtiest driver I ever seen,” said one man with relish.

“Why, over at Belfast ’e was just tipping ’em all into the ditches, just like winking.”

“There’s one thing you can be sure of. They won’t both finish.”

“It’s sheer murder the way that Marino drives⁠—a fair treat to see ’im.”

“He’s a one all right⁠—a real artist and no mistake about it.”

Adam and Miss Runcible and Archie and Miles went back to their pit.

“After all,” said Miss Runcible, “the poor sweet may be wanting all sorts of things and signalling away like mad, and no one there to pay any attention to him⁠—so discouraging.”

By this time the cars were fairly evenly spread out over the course. They flashed by intermittently with dazzling speed and a shriek; one or two drew into their pits and the drivers leapt out, trembling like leaves, to tinker with the works. One had already come to grief⁠—a large German whose tyre had burst⁠—punctured, some said, by a hireling of Marino’s. It had left the road and shot up a tree like a cat chased by a dog. Two little American cars had failed to start; their team worked desperately at them amid derisive comments from the crowd. Suddenly two cars appeared coming down the straight, running abreast within two feet of each other.

“It’s No. 13,” cried Miss Runcible, really excited at last. “And there’s that Italian devil just beside it. Come on, thirteen! Come on!” she cried, dancing in the pit and waving a flag she found at hand. “Come on. Oh! Well done, thirteen.”

The cars were gone in a flash and succeeded by others.

“Agatha, darling, you shouldn’t have waved the blue flag.”

“My dear, how awful. Why not?”

“Well, that means that he’s to stop next lap.”

“Good God. Did I wave a blue flag?”

“My dear, you know you did.”

“How shaming. What am I to say to him?”

“Let’s all go away before he comes back.”

“D’you know, I think we’d better. He might be furious, mightn’t he? Let’s go to the tent and have another drink⁠—don’t you think, or don’t you?”

So No. 13 pit was again deserted.

“What did I say?” said the mechanic. “The moment I heard we’d drawn this blinkin’ number I knew we was in for trouble.”

The first person they saw when they reached the refreshment tent was the drunk Major.

“Your boy friend again,” said Miles.

“Well, there you are,” said the Major. “D’you know I’ve been chasing you all over London. What have you been doing with yourself all this time?”

“I’ve been staying at Lottie’s.”

“Well, she said she’d never heard of you. You see, I don’t mind admitting I’d had a few too many that night, and to tell you the truth I woke up with things all rather a blur. Well then I found a thousand pounds in my pocket, and it all came back to me. There’d been a cove at Lottie’s who gave me a thousand pounds to put on Indian Runner. Well, as far as I knew, Indian Runner was no good. I didn’t want to lose your money for you, but the devil of it was I didn’t know you from Adam.” (“I think that’s a perfect joke,” said Miss Runcible.) “And apparently Lottie didn’t either. You’d have thought it was easy enough to trace the sort of chap who deals out thousands of pounds to total strangers, but I couldn’t find one fingerprint.”

“Do you mean,” said Adam, a sudden delirious hope rising in his heart, “that you’ve still got my thousand?”

“Not so fast,” said the Major. “I’m spinning this yarn. Well, on the day of the race I didn’t know what to do. One half of me said, keep the thousand. The chap’s bound to turn up some time, and it’s his business to do his own punting⁠—the other half said, put it on the favourite for him and give him a run for his money.”

“So you put it on the favourite?” Adam’s heart felt like lead again.

“No, I didn’t. In the end I said, well, the young chap must be frightfully rich. If he likes to throwaway his money, it’s none of my business, so I planked it all on Indian Runner for you.”

“You mean⁠ ⁠…”

“I mean I’ve got the nice little packet of thirty-five thou. waiting until you condescend to call for it.”

“Good heavens⁠ ⁠… look here, have a drink, won’t you?”

“That’s a thing I never refuse.”

“Archie, lend me some money until I get this fortune.”

“How much?”

“Enough to buy five bottles of champagne.”

“Yes, if you can get them.”

The barmaid had a case of champagne at the back of the tent. (“People often feel queer through watching the cars go by so fast⁠—ladies especially,” she explained.) So they took a bottle each and sat on the side of the hill and drank to Adam’s prosperity.

“Hullo, everybody,” said the loud speaker. “Car No. 28, the Italian Omega, driven by Captain Marino, has just completed the course in twelve minutes one second, lapping at an average speed of 78.3 miles per hour. This is the fastest time yet recorded.”

A burst of applause greeted this announcement, but Adam said, “I’ve rather lost interest in this race.”