SO YOU WANT TO BUY A VINTAGE BENTLEY! A CAUTIONARY TALE
BY ALAN C SMITH
My name is Peter Berque, this is rather an unusual name and many people have asked me what it’s origins are. I have traced my ancestry back to the Norman Conquest, where my ancestor of the same name showed outstanding heroism on the field of battle against the Anglo Saxons, and was awarded the fiefdom of Lower Swinestead, as a reward by William the Conqueror.
Unfortunately he was not as clever in peace as he was in war, and soon drank and gambled away his inheritance and the Berques declined into relative obscurity.You have probably met me on some occasion such as the Bentley Concourse when you found me drooling over your car with the kids putting their sticky finger marks over your immaculate paintwork.I probably asked you “how much is it worth”? and or “how fast does it go”?
I joined the BDC at one of the concourse held near the Albert Memorial in Hyde Park. Barbara Fell proposed me and Jimmy Medcalf seconded my application, and there I was, an instant associate member.I loved to read through the BDC Review and derived boundless pleasure from reading about such stalwart characters as “yobbo” and “the nutter”, spending hours trying to decipher the cockney rhyming slang in Red Daniels’s hilarious articles, learning about rebuilding the vintage Bentley from articles written by heroes such as Cyril Wadsworth, and falling on every word of the description of cross channel activities in Brittany where the fortunate participants had such a wonderful time eating, drinking and going on little trips into the French countryside. The photos showed the party members with ecstatic smiles and I longed to be there with them, especially in the evenings, where a bread fight would normally take place at dinner.
When I compare the past reviews with the “new look” review, I’m struck by how better it is now, with lot’s of nice glossy photos that can be seen without a magnifying glass. I have to say that the content, as far as I’m concerned, is nowadays more about the MK 6, socializing and post war Bentleys than the guts and thunder vintage Bentleys, with a dearth of technical articles to satisfy the minority that that have grease under their fingernails.
My obsession with Vintage Bentleys started around 1950 when I was in my early teens. My father brought home an anodized aluminium tray, on which were depicted six different vintage cars. The one that really caught my fancy, and started me off on a lifelong quest, was the famous photo of WO sitting in experimental no.1 looking like the cat that got the cream.Whenever I read Motor Sport searching for a Bentley in the 1950’s I was always astounded by the number of “impecunious enthusiasts” advertising for a cheap vintage car. The price of a 3 litre Bentley in 1956 was about a Hundred and Twenty pounds and five pounds more for a speed model. At that time my weekly wage as an engineering apprentice was the princely sum of one pound four shillings and sixpence!
Unfortunately he was not as clever in peace as he was in war, and soon drank and gambled away his inheritance and the Berques declined into relative obscurity.You have probably met me on some occasion such as the Bentley Concourse when you found me drooling over your car with the kids putting their sticky finger marks over your immaculate paintwork.I probably asked you “how much is it worth”? and or “how fast does it go”?
I joined the BDC at one of the concourse held near the Albert Memorial in Hyde Park. Barbara Fell proposed me and Jimmy Medcalf seconded my application, and there I was, an instant associate member.I loved to read through the BDC Review and derived boundless pleasure from reading about such stalwart characters as “yobbo” and “the nutter”, spending hours trying to decipher the cockney rhyming slang in Red Daniels’s hilarious articles, learning about rebuilding the vintage Bentley from articles written by heroes such as Cyril Wadsworth, and falling on every word of the description of cross channel activities in Brittany where the fortunate participants had such a wonderful time eating, drinking and going on little trips into the French countryside. The photos showed the party members with ecstatic smiles and I longed to be there with them, especially in the evenings, where a bread fight would normally take place at dinner.
When I compare the past reviews with the “new look” review, I’m struck by how better it is now, with lot’s of nice glossy photos that can be seen without a magnifying glass. I have to say that the content, as far as I’m concerned, is nowadays more about the MK 6, socializing and post war Bentleys than the guts and thunder vintage Bentleys, with a dearth of technical articles to satisfy the minority that that have grease under their fingernails.
My obsession with Vintage Bentleys started around 1950 when I was in my early teens. My father brought home an anodized aluminium tray, on which were depicted six different vintage cars. The one that really caught my fancy, and started me off on a lifelong quest, was the famous photo of WO sitting in experimental no.1 looking like the cat that got the cream.Whenever I read Motor Sport searching for a Bentley in the 1950’s I was always astounded by the number of “impecunious enthusiasts” advertising for a cheap vintage car. The price of a 3 litre Bentley in 1956 was about a Hundred and Twenty pounds and five pounds more for a speed model. At that time my weekly wage as an engineering apprentice was the princely sum of one pound four shillings and sixpence!
One thing that always struck me was that the drivers of these fabulous Bentleys were all white haired and looked rather doddery, the wives usually showed a resigned look on their weather beaten faces. Why didn’t young people like me drive a Bentley?
Somehow the price of a vintage Bentley was always just out of reach. The years passed and I trained to be an accountant. I don’t know why people are so scathing about accountants, for me, delving into the intricacies and miniscule details of the client’s accounts, is a real turn on. I specialized in getting small companies or freelancers out of trouble with the Inland Revenue.
You’d be surprised how many Bentley owners come into that category. It was always the same, every year they would come into my office with the familiar old problem. They`d been creaming off too much of the profits so that the books wouldn’t balance. It was pathetic; they would almost be blubbering into their handkerchiefs begging me to help them. Whilst they were sobbing away I would go to the window and look out onto the street below, more often than not there would be a vintage Bentley parked on the triple yellow lines, and often sitting in the Bentley, there would be a very well built blonde in a mini skirt, crossing and uncrossing her legs, attracting a large crowd and causing many near misses for the passing traffic as the drivers stared at the spectacle.
I don’t suppose it’s surprising that I felt a bit envious of these larger than life characters. Incredibly, on paper, they were earning less than I was and I suspected that a lot of their dealings were done in cash. I liked to make them suffer a bit whilst weeding out those dodgy hand written receipts, and made it seem that I had had magically pulled them out of trouble just at the last moment, it always made them more grateful. They would promise to send me a crate of champagne or take me to lunch at their club. I’m still waiting.
I suppose I’ve always been a bit of a lack lustre kind of figure, definitely not a ladies man, not because I didn’t want to be, but women had never shown any interest in me, except for Tracey who was my childhood sweetheart, we had met at the Billericay boy scouts and guides group. I still remember being fascinated by her dark brown eyes incredibly magnified by the bottle bottom lenses in her horn rimmed spectacles. I pulled her pigtail and she swatted me with her rather heavy satchel, that’s how it started. Eventually we got hitched and we have some lovely photos of the girl guides and boy scouts formed up in a guard of honour at the wedding as by then we had by then become Scout and Guide masters.
Soon we had lovely twin children and eventually sent them to a fourth rate public school as we wanted them to have the education that we never had. One downside of this was that they started to speak in a rather posh accent and never brought their school chums home to visit us. They also never liked to be seen alighting from my trusty Morris Minor so I had to drop them off a street away from school
Somehow the price of a vintage Bentley was always just out of reach. The years passed and I trained to be an accountant. I don’t know why people are so scathing about accountants, for me, delving into the intricacies and miniscule details of the client’s accounts, is a real turn on. I specialized in getting small companies or freelancers out of trouble with the Inland Revenue.
You’d be surprised how many Bentley owners come into that category. It was always the same, every year they would come into my office with the familiar old problem. They`d been creaming off too much of the profits so that the books wouldn’t balance. It was pathetic; they would almost be blubbering into their handkerchiefs begging me to help them. Whilst they were sobbing away I would go to the window and look out onto the street below, more often than not there would be a vintage Bentley parked on the triple yellow lines, and often sitting in the Bentley, there would be a very well built blonde in a mini skirt, crossing and uncrossing her legs, attracting a large crowd and causing many near misses for the passing traffic as the drivers stared at the spectacle.
I don’t suppose it’s surprising that I felt a bit envious of these larger than life characters. Incredibly, on paper, they were earning less than I was and I suspected that a lot of their dealings were done in cash. I liked to make them suffer a bit whilst weeding out those dodgy hand written receipts, and made it seem that I had had magically pulled them out of trouble just at the last moment, it always made them more grateful. They would promise to send me a crate of champagne or take me to lunch at their club. I’m still waiting.
I suppose I’ve always been a bit of a lack lustre kind of figure, definitely not a ladies man, not because I didn’t want to be, but women had never shown any interest in me, except for Tracey who was my childhood sweetheart, we had met at the Billericay boy scouts and guides group. I still remember being fascinated by her dark brown eyes incredibly magnified by the bottle bottom lenses in her horn rimmed spectacles. I pulled her pigtail and she swatted me with her rather heavy satchel, that’s how it started. Eventually we got hitched and we have some lovely photos of the girl guides and boy scouts formed up in a guard of honour at the wedding as by then we had by then become Scout and Guide masters.
Soon we had lovely twin children and eventually sent them to a fourth rate public school as we wanted them to have the education that we never had. One downside of this was that they started to speak in a rather posh accent and never brought their school chums home to visit us. They also never liked to be seen alighting from my trusty Morris Minor so I had to drop them off a street away from school
That was in the days before the gigantic 4 x 4’s came onto the market to be snapped up by status conscious mothers for depositing their precious cargo at the school gates. It’s a pity they can never judge the width of the cars so that they have to drive in the middle of the road to avoid hitting the kerb.
Still with all those fees to pay and the ever rising price of Bentleys there was still no chance of buying one.
The children started University and went on to graduate, one in Art and the other in Geography. We were so proud on graduation day with all those mortar boards and everything, but a little disappointed that they had asked us to meet them later after the celebrations.
It’s now the present time, still no Bentley the prices have gone through the roof. With the children off our hands, Tracey started a collection of Royal memorabilia, we spent many happy Sundays at the local boot sale rummaging in cardboard boxes looking for those bargains, and our evenings on the sofa holding hands whilst watching the soaps and “Mastermind”. Then the sequence of events happened that was to change our lives forever.
I had just turned 62 years of age and like a shot out of the blue, one Saturday morning, a letter appeared on the mat. That endowment policy that I had taken out as a young man had come to maturity. I had forgotten all about this and in my excitement dropped a wedge of hot buttered toast down the front of my pyjamas. Rushing upstairs to the bedroom I found Tracey lying on her back, on the bed, gently snoring. I knew that I would be in trouble if I woke her, but I just couldn’t help myself. Shaking her gently, she slowly came to, and it was only the sight of the cheque that saved me from serious injury. Her scowl changed to a look of delight as she pondered on what she could spend the money on. It took all my guile and powers of persuasion to prevent her from paying off the mortgage and giving the rest to the kids.
Still with all those fees to pay and the ever rising price of Bentleys there was still no chance of buying one.
The children started University and went on to graduate, one in Art and the other in Geography. We were so proud on graduation day with all those mortar boards and everything, but a little disappointed that they had asked us to meet them later after the celebrations.
It’s now the present time, still no Bentley the prices have gone through the roof. With the children off our hands, Tracey started a collection of Royal memorabilia, we spent many happy Sundays at the local boot sale rummaging in cardboard boxes looking for those bargains, and our evenings on the sofa holding hands whilst watching the soaps and “Mastermind”. Then the sequence of events happened that was to change our lives forever.
I had just turned 62 years of age and like a shot out of the blue, one Saturday morning, a letter appeared on the mat. That endowment policy that I had taken out as a young man had come to maturity. I had forgotten all about this and in my excitement dropped a wedge of hot buttered toast down the front of my pyjamas. Rushing upstairs to the bedroom I found Tracey lying on her back, on the bed, gently snoring. I knew that I would be in trouble if I woke her, but I just couldn’t help myself. Shaking her gently, she slowly came to, and it was only the sight of the cheque that saved me from serious injury. Her scowl changed to a look of delight as she pondered on what she could spend the money on. It took all my guile and powers of persuasion to prevent her from paying off the mortgage and giving the rest to the kids.
My proposal to use the money to buy a cheap Vintage Bentley so that we could tour Europe like royalty, stay at the best hotels, and shop at those incredibly expensive shops, managed to steer her away from her first intentions, after all, we would soon pay off the mortgage and the children were earning good salaries anyway.
The search for the cheap Vintage Bentley commenced, and as anyone knows, if one wants to buy something second hand, it can never be found, and conversely, when selling there are no buyers to be found.
Well I read all the monthlies, scoured the BDC Advertiser and the VSCC Bulletin with no result. Went onto all those websites including that one with the revolving wheel spinners which made me feel a bit seasick, you know the one, still with no luck.
I phoned Tim Houlding and was lulled into a semi comatose state by his dulcet tones, awaking abruptly when he kindly informed me that he had no Bentleys available at my budget level. I then phoned that loveable character George Dodds who once regaled me with stories of driving his first Bentley on the road in chassis form and refusing to pull over for the traffic police. The result was the same, no Bentley in my price range.
I was now becoming despondent, not sleeping well, and worst of all unable to do justice to my Friday night favourite, egg and chips, lovingly prepared by Tracey.
A few weeks later this situation changed, we were doing our weekly shopping trip to Tesco’s, and as usual, Tracey had to go to the loo. Which meant that I had to hang around for ages, and out of boredom looked at the adverts on the advert board. Incredible as it may seem, there was an advert for a 1927 Bentley for sale. Hurriedly, after checking that nobody was looking, I took the advert from the board and slipped it into my pocket.
My hands were trembling as I dialed the number on the advert, after what seemed an eternity, someone answered the phone. The lady answered my question and said that the car was still available and putting her hand over the mouthpiece yelled to somebody that there was someone asking after the Bentley. The phone went dead for a while and then a tired voice spoke, we chatted for a while and then I asked when I could see the car. He hesitated for a moment and then answered that as they were moving house shortly the sooner the better. Not wanting to seem too eager I made an appointment to view the car in two days time
The search for the cheap Vintage Bentley commenced, and as anyone knows, if one wants to buy something second hand, it can never be found, and conversely, when selling there are no buyers to be found.
Well I read all the monthlies, scoured the BDC Advertiser and the VSCC Bulletin with no result. Went onto all those websites including that one with the revolving wheel spinners which made me feel a bit seasick, you know the one, still with no luck.
I phoned Tim Houlding and was lulled into a semi comatose state by his dulcet tones, awaking abruptly when he kindly informed me that he had no Bentleys available at my budget level. I then phoned that loveable character George Dodds who once regaled me with stories of driving his first Bentley on the road in chassis form and refusing to pull over for the traffic police. The result was the same, no Bentley in my price range.
I was now becoming despondent, not sleeping well, and worst of all unable to do justice to my Friday night favourite, egg and chips, lovingly prepared by Tracey.
A few weeks later this situation changed, we were doing our weekly shopping trip to Tesco’s, and as usual, Tracey had to go to the loo. Which meant that I had to hang around for ages, and out of boredom looked at the adverts on the advert board. Incredible as it may seem, there was an advert for a 1927 Bentley for sale. Hurriedly, after checking that nobody was looking, I took the advert from the board and slipped it into my pocket.
My hands were trembling as I dialed the number on the advert, after what seemed an eternity, someone answered the phone. The lady answered my question and said that the car was still available and putting her hand over the mouthpiece yelled to somebody that there was someone asking after the Bentley. The phone went dead for a while and then a tired voice spoke, we chatted for a while and then I asked when I could see the car. He hesitated for a moment and then answered that as they were moving house shortly the sooner the better. Not wanting to seem too eager I made an appointment to view the car in two days time
Waiting two days seemed like an eternity, at work my kindly secretary Mrs. Mangle seemed worried about me, thinking that I was going down with something, and insisted on giving me a Beechams powder. A remedy, as she told me, had always worked for her and her family.
At last it was time to view the Bentley, I drove there in my faithful Morris Minor, The car that WO said was the best car that he ever had. I arrived at the address somewhere in Milton Keynes, a pleasant looking mock Tudor house, in the driveway stood what seemed to be a Vintage Bentley. As I walked up the drive to the house I noticed a for sale notice which had been driven into the immaculate lawn. Over the notice was pasted a “Sold” sticker. Outside the front door of the house there were stacked a pile of cases as though someone was imminently going on a world cruise, as I paused outside the open front door, I could hear raised voices from within, the female voice concluding the exchange with the comment “I’ll be sending round a van for the rest of my things”.
I felt rather awkward as I banged on the door and a tearful lady came to answer. I explained that I had come to see the Bentley and she turned round and yelled into the interior of the house “there’s a man to see the car” and then turned abruptly and left me standing there. A little while later a man came to the door shook my hand and said “Sorry were in a bit of a turmoil, I’m afraid I can’t offer you a cup of tea at the moment, but let’s go and look at the Bentley”. When we got to the Bentley his demeanor changed from tired harassment to a doting lover as he ran his fingers over the bodywork.
He explained to me that the car was reputed to be one of the spare cars for the 1927 Le Mans race, and had been fitted with a 4 ½ engine later. He showed me a wad of bills thicker than your wrist. I asked him the price, and was amazed at how reasonable it was, his only demand was thatthe money was to be paid half in cash and the rest by cheque, and that the sale document was to reflect the amount paid by cheque.
At last it was time to view the Bentley, I drove there in my faithful Morris Minor, The car that WO said was the best car that he ever had. I arrived at the address somewhere in Milton Keynes, a pleasant looking mock Tudor house, in the driveway stood what seemed to be a Vintage Bentley. As I walked up the drive to the house I noticed a for sale notice which had been driven into the immaculate lawn. Over the notice was pasted a “Sold” sticker. Outside the front door of the house there were stacked a pile of cases as though someone was imminently going on a world cruise, as I paused outside the open front door, I could hear raised voices from within, the female voice concluding the exchange with the comment “I’ll be sending round a van for the rest of my things”.
I felt rather awkward as I banged on the door and a tearful lady came to answer. I explained that I had come to see the Bentley and she turned round and yelled into the interior of the house “there’s a man to see the car” and then turned abruptly and left me standing there. A little while later a man came to the door shook my hand and said “Sorry were in a bit of a turmoil, I’m afraid I can’t offer you a cup of tea at the moment, but let’s go and look at the Bentley”. When we got to the Bentley his demeanor changed from tired harassment to a doting lover as he ran his fingers over the bodywork.
He explained to me that the car was reputed to be one of the spare cars for the 1927 Le Mans race, and had been fitted with a 4 ½ engine later. He showed me a wad of bills thicker than your wrist. I asked him the price, and was amazed at how reasonable it was, his only demand was thatthe money was to be paid half in cash and the rest by cheque, and that the sale document was to reflect the amount paid by cheque.
As I was studying the car, out of the corner of my eye I had a closer look at the vendor. His appearance was somewhat baffling, His face was as weather beaten as a retired North Sea fisherman, yet he wasn’t that old. His deeply lined forehead, I had noticed earlier, had the imprint of the letter “W” which according to an article I had read in the News Of The World meant that this person was incredibly stressed. His left leg looked rather skinny under the faded brown trousers, yet his right leg was over developed like a weight lifter’s. His upper torso was sized out of proportion to the rest of his body looking like that toy action man grafted onto a matchstick man.
He said “let’s go for a drive”. So we got into the car and he fired her up, I was amazed by the change in him, he seemed to grow in stature and snicking the car into first we almost did a wheelie as we hurtled down the drive towards the main road. I thought that he would slow down, but no, we swerved into the road at speed forcing all the traffic to brake suddenly to avoid a collision, instead of following the traffic in front. He drove at unabated speed in the opposite lane the exhaust bellowing and when a car came towards us he would suddenly nip into a gap in the traffic at the last possible moment. We drove towards a large roundabout which seemed gridlocked, he reached under the dash and flicked on a switch. Suddenly I was deafened by a police siren which emanated from under the Bentley’s bonnet, the traffic parted as if by magic and we sped into the roundabout, too fast it seemed, but at the last moment he changed into third and braked at the same time. The back end slid a bit but we were through, the rest of the drive I can’t remember, as I had my eyes tightly closed. After it seemed a long long time the Bentley came to a standstill and cautiously opening one eye I saw that we were back at the house. It took several minutes before I could regain my composure, and after spitting out a mouthful of flies, I was able to talk again.
What I didn’t realize at the time was that this was normal Bentley driving practice, and also the reason for wearing brown trousers. The owner said “Pity the traffic was a bit heavy, I couldn’t really get up to any speed”. We talked a little and the outcome was that we shook on the deal and I wrote out a cheque and gave it to him arranging that I would bring the cash and collect the car next week.
Once I got home I immediately rang Fortescue my Bank Manager asking him to have the cash ready for collection in a few days. We had been friends for many years and pushed business in each others direction. He asked if Tracey had been kidnapped and this was the ransom for her release? “Not likely” I said, rising to his jest, “She isn’t worth that much”. I explained the situation and Fortescue came back with the comment “It must be a divorce”.
Time seemed to stand still and a week seemed like a year. Then it was the time to pick up the Bentley, I took the train to Milton Keynes and was met by the Bentley and the owner at the station. We carried out all the formalities and at last the Bentley was mine. The owner explained the controls to me and I became rather apprehensive when he pointed out that the accelerator was located between the clutch and brake pedals.
Then I was on my own, the ex owner having taken a taxi home, and for the first time I sat in the drivers seat of the Bentley. Starting the beast was easy enough. When I pushed the starter button with the mixture at rich, the engine burst into life and I let it tick over for a while as I figured out my next move. Pushing the clutch pedal to the floor I engaged first gear. Letting in the clutch, the Bentley bounded forward like an enraged kangaroo and pushing on the clutch pedal again I tried to change into second gear. The result was a terrible grating sound and then a jerk as the gears engaged, it was nail biting stuff and my stress levels seemed to go off the chart.
It was embarrassment squared as I painfully made my way towards the M1 motorway, the other motorists looking on pitifully as I fluffed almost every gear change. The other thing that I noticed was the extraordinary amount of effort that I had to apply to the steering wheel to change direction, no wonder the previous owner had such over developed arms.
Once I got home I immediately rang Fortescue my Bank Manager asking him to have the cash ready for collection in a few days. We had been friends for many years and pushed business in each others direction. He asked if Tracey had been kidnapped and this was the ransom for her release? “Not likely” I said, rising to his jest, “She isn’t worth that much”. I explained the situation and Fortescue came back with the comment “It must be a divorce”.
Time seemed to stand still and a week seemed like a year. Then it was the time to pick up the Bentley, I took the train to Milton Keynes and was met by the Bentley and the owner at the station. We carried out all the formalities and at last the Bentley was mine. The owner explained the controls to me and I became rather apprehensive when he pointed out that the accelerator was located between the clutch and brake pedals.
Then I was on my own, the ex owner having taken a taxi home, and for the first time I sat in the drivers seat of the Bentley. Starting the beast was easy enough. When I pushed the starter button with the mixture at rich, the engine burst into life and I let it tick over for a while as I figured out my next move. Pushing the clutch pedal to the floor I engaged first gear. Letting in the clutch, the Bentley bounded forward like an enraged kangaroo and pushing on the clutch pedal again I tried to change into second gear. The result was a terrible grating sound and then a jerk as the gears engaged, it was nail biting stuff and my stress levels seemed to go off the chart.
It was embarrassment squared as I painfully made my way towards the M1 motorway, the other motorists looking on pitifully as I fluffed almost every gear change. The other thing that I noticed was the extraordinary amount of effort that I had to apply to the steering wheel to change direction, no wonder the previous owner had such over developed arms.
Once on the motorway things went better, it was easy to keep up with the traffic, people were waving to me from the other cars and I began to relax, until a little while later a rather down at heel looking Golf GTI drew abreast. I glanced towards the car which had seemed to stay beside me for rather a long time, Five uncouth looking teenagers sporting baseball caps were making some rather rude gestures in my direction. Something came over me that had never happened before. I seemed to be looking through red glasses and my personality became overwhelmed by feelings of anger and revenge.
Jamming my foot on the throttle I charged after the Golf which accelerated away with three faces in the rear window mouthing obscenities at me. I noticed a pall of black smoke coming from it’s exhaust and thought that the engine wasn’t in too good shape, so if I pushed them a little the engine might blow up.
The speed went up and up and my speedo was showing the magic ton and as I looked up from the speedo I saw all the braking lights on the vehicles in front were lit, I pushed on the brake pedal but nothing happened, I pushed harder and harder but the cars in front were still losing speed faster than I was. I wrenched the wheel and managed to slip into a gap in the fast lane and overtaking the Golf at the same time.
With the heavy traffic I was able to keep ahead of the Golf, but suddenly, there was a terrific bang and a cloud of smoke emanated from under the bonnet. Luckily I was able to negotiate from the fast lane to the hard shoulder without too much of a problem, but I don’t think that I will ever forget the humiliation I felt, as the Golf passed me, and the joy and the obscene gestures of the passengers. I sat rather morosely on the left side running board watching the smoke pour out of the bonnet, but within a few minutes a tow vehicle miraculously appeared and pulled into the hard shoulder in front of me. The sympathetic crew after looking under the bonnet, said ”We`re afraid that something serious has happened with the engine that cannot be remedied here”. Suggesting that the Bentley be towed to a specialist quite near, that would be able to sort it out for me
Jamming my foot on the throttle I charged after the Golf which accelerated away with three faces in the rear window mouthing obscenities at me. I noticed a pall of black smoke coming from it’s exhaust and thought that the engine wasn’t in too good shape, so if I pushed them a little the engine might blow up.
The speed went up and up and my speedo was showing the magic ton and as I looked up from the speedo I saw all the braking lights on the vehicles in front were lit, I pushed on the brake pedal but nothing happened, I pushed harder and harder but the cars in front were still losing speed faster than I was. I wrenched the wheel and managed to slip into a gap in the fast lane and overtaking the Golf at the same time.
With the heavy traffic I was able to keep ahead of the Golf, but suddenly, there was a terrific bang and a cloud of smoke emanated from under the bonnet. Luckily I was able to negotiate from the fast lane to the hard shoulder without too much of a problem, but I don’t think that I will ever forget the humiliation I felt, as the Golf passed me, and the joy and the obscene gestures of the passengers. I sat rather morosely on the left side running board watching the smoke pour out of the bonnet, but within a few minutes a tow vehicle miraculously appeared and pulled into the hard shoulder in front of me. The sympathetic crew after looking under the bonnet, said ”We`re afraid that something serious has happened with the engine that cannot be remedied here”. Suggesting that the Bentley be towed to a specialist quite near, that would be able to sort it out for me
After the Bentley was secured on the recovery vehicle, I sat in the cab with the crew and was regaled with stories of the fatal crashes that they had attended and with graphic descriptions of the body parts that they had gathered up for the ambulance crews. I was gagging on their stories and luckily we arrived at our destination before I had to lean out of the window.
We had arrived at a garage that looked like an RAF wartime hangar unit, and I glanced at the rather faded sign which proclaimed this establishment as “Bentley Sportscar Emporium”. After unloading the Bentley, and me settling the bill, the tow truck crew went into the building and after a few moments I saw someone walking towards me together with the crew. When he saw the Bentley he stopped, and putting his hand in his pocket, withdrew a wad of cash and slipped off a few notes and gave them to the crew. Who then waved goodbye and walked towards their truck. As the gentleman continued to walk towards me I could make out a pair of twinkling eyes under bushy eyebrows, he stopped at the car and said “Had a bit of trouble then”? I explained the situation to him and he suggested that I leave the Bentley there overnight so that his team of experts could determine exactly what the problem was and be able to give me a diagnosis.
The next day the garage proprietor phoned me at work. His name, he told me was Ronald Wurstman and that he had bad news for me. He suggested that I come to the garage as quickly as I could as there were things that he had to explain to me that would take too long over the phone. I left as soon as I could and arrived at the garage in a rather apprehensive frame of mind. I was met by Mr.Wurstman, or Ronnie as he asked me to call him after the usual formalities. We sat down in his comfortable office in those plush leather armchairs, and Ronnie started his tale of woe. “I have bad news or should I say very bad news” with an emphasis on “very”, “Firstly your engine will have to be rebuilt as the pistons are holed, the big end and main bearings are very worn due to lack of oil in the sump".
"There is also another problem as the engine is a 4 ½ litre when it should be a 3 litre, this has a serious impact on the originality of the car, also the chassis is one of those constructed in the very thin steel the same as the one in the winning Bentley car at Le Mans which as you remember broke at the end of the race. Now after all those years your chassis has become paper thin in some places, and could cause a serious accident, let’s go and have a look at it”.
We went into the workshop where the engine of my car had been partially stripped down and lay on the floor. Ronnie looked around for a mechanic and eventually found all of them sitting on empty oil drums playing cards on a greasy old workbench. Ronnie turned and said to me. “Would you please wait for me beside your car Mr. Berque”. The mechanics suddenly erupted into laughter, I thought this strange as I hadn’t heard anyone telling a joke. I went to the car and waited and found a “girlie” calender hanging on the wall nearby, of a type only found in car workshops, and to cap it all it was several years old. Miss September looked incredibly tasty and the mechanics had paid homage to her pulchritude by highlighting certain parts of her anatomy with greasy finger marks.
I turned to look at the mechanics being given a serious talking to by Ronnie and was struck by their demeanor, they were not the normal type of mechanic easily frightened by authority, but had a kind of swagger about them and were dressed not in greasy overalls, but tee shirts and trousers, as if they were just going down to the pub. Another thing I noticed was that they all had pony tails, in fact they looked like unemployed film extras working on Bentleys as a sideline. I was later to find out that these were typical of the Bentley breed of mechanic.
We went into the workshop where the engine of my car had been partially stripped down and lay on the floor. Ronnie looked around for a mechanic and eventually found all of them sitting on empty oil drums playing cards on a greasy old workbench. Ronnie turned and said to me. “Would you please wait for me beside your car Mr. Berque”. The mechanics suddenly erupted into laughter, I thought this strange as I hadn’t heard anyone telling a joke. I went to the car and waited and found a “girlie” calender hanging on the wall nearby, of a type only found in car workshops, and to cap it all it was several years old. Miss September looked incredibly tasty and the mechanics had paid homage to her pulchritude by highlighting certain parts of her anatomy with greasy finger marks.
I turned to look at the mechanics being given a serious talking to by Ronnie and was struck by their demeanor, they were not the normal type of mechanic easily frightened by authority, but had a kind of swagger about them and were dressed not in greasy overalls, but tee shirts and trousers, as if they were just going down to the pub. Another thing I noticed was that they all had pony tails, in fact they looked like unemployed film extras working on Bentleys as a sideline. I was later to find out that these were typical of the Bentley breed of mechanic.
Ronnie came back to the car saying to me “Sorry about that Mr. Berque, those boys are the best in the business but sometimes get a little out of hand”. He called the mechanics over to the car, they sauntered over and stood facing us displaying aggressive body language, frankly I felt rather intimidated by them. Ronnie said “Nigel, will you show Mr. Berque the damage to the engine”. Sniggering Nigel stepped forward and pointed to something deep within the crankcase, I bent over to look in, and because I had never seen the inside of an engine, I didn’t have a clue what I was looking for, all I could see was a lot of oil and lumps of metal. I just nodded and looked towards Ronnie who then said to another mechanic “Cuthbert will you get a clean sheet of cardboard so that Mr. Berque can crawl under the car and see the chassis from underneath”. I didn’t relish getting my pinstripe suit oily, that would never do, quickly I told Ronnie that it wasn’t necessary, and that I would take his word for it. We walked back to the office and when seated in those leather armchairs again, Ronnie offered me a cup of coffee, I hesitated, and then he smiled and pulled a pristine cup out of a drawer. “Unlike other Bentley workshops, we don’t offer our clients those awful unwashed mugs that should carry a public health warning”, he said.
Whilst Ronnie was away making the coffee, I looked around the office as one does, with the oak desk and the well patinated club armchairs and the wooden partitioning, it looked like a debriefing room in a Battle of Britain aerodrome. On the walls hung those familiar Bentley lithographs depicting famous events in Bentley history. On the wall next to the desk there was an enlargement of a photo of Ronnie in a Santa Clause outfit seated in a Vintage Bentley tourer together with two rather well developed elves.
Ronnie came back with the coffees and placed one in front of me, sat down and took a long draught of his coffee closing his eyes in pleasure. After a few seconds he emerged from his reverie and looking at me with a kind fatherly expression on his face, he said. “I’ve been thinking about your predicament, and if we rebuild your engine, put in a new chassis and rebuild the body, which has been damaged over the years as it was the only thing that was keeping the chassis together, and with new trim, I estimate that the final bill will be in the region of 120 grand and take about a year to finish”.
I jerked up as I heard the total, but Ronnie smiled and said. “There is another solution to this problem, we have been rebuilding a genuine 3 litre red label for somebody, and the guy has runout of financial steam and wants us to sell the car for him".
Whilst Ronnie was away making the coffee, I looked around the office as one does, with the oak desk and the well patinated club armchairs and the wooden partitioning, it looked like a debriefing room in a Battle of Britain aerodrome. On the walls hung those familiar Bentley lithographs depicting famous events in Bentley history. On the wall next to the desk there was an enlargement of a photo of Ronnie in a Santa Clause outfit seated in a Vintage Bentley tourer together with two rather well developed elves.
Ronnie came back with the coffees and placed one in front of me, sat down and took a long draught of his coffee closing his eyes in pleasure. After a few seconds he emerged from his reverie and looking at me with a kind fatherly expression on his face, he said. “I’ve been thinking about your predicament, and if we rebuild your engine, put in a new chassis and rebuild the body, which has been damaged over the years as it was the only thing that was keeping the chassis together, and with new trim, I estimate that the final bill will be in the region of 120 grand and take about a year to finish”.
I jerked up as I heard the total, but Ronnie smiled and said. “There is another solution to this problem, we have been rebuilding a genuine 3 litre red label for somebody, and the guy has runout of financial steam and wants us to sell the car for him".
This sounded interesting, as a 3 litre red label was my original first choice for a Bentley. I asked what the financial terms would be for the deal for the red label, Ronnie answered. “We can have the car ready for the BDC concourse and all you would have to do is sell us your car for 50 grand, as it’s only good for dismantling, and we would sell you the red label for 70 grand which is the price of the red label less the 50 grand for your car”. I answered that I would have to think it over for a day or two.
It didn’t take much thinking over, before I got back to the office I had already decided to go for the deal, being able to go to the concours in my own Bentley was the real clincher. I made a quick telephone call to Ronnie, to confirm that the deal was on, and then a call to Fortescue, to arrange a meeting in the pub to discuss the financing.
We met in the Red Lion, not that noisy wine bar full of business men competing hopefully for the attention of the bored looking business ladies. The Red Lion had escaped the ravages of a theme pub group takeover as it was too small, it was typical of a prewar pub, made over in the sixties and now rather down at heel. The interior was rather comforting in a way, all fake oak, the clientel was made up of ancient males sitting at the bar, either looking into their beer or at the smoke stained paintwork. In a corner a fire crackled away, it was June, occasionally a few words were spoken but the sound normally heard was the ticking and the chiming of the clock behind the bar. I bought a couple of halves of bitter and we made our way to a table as far as possible from the bar and sat down on the rather threadbare seats.
It was all done very quickly, Fortescue had brought all the relevant forms with him, the upshot of it all was that I would increase our mortgage by the 70 grand I needed and increase the term by another 10 years. After a pleasant chat we shook hands and went our respective ways.
It was Friday night and I looked forward to Tracey’s signature dish, egg and chips, as I drove home from the pub. During the meal I explained about the exchange of Bentleys and being able to go to the BDC concours in our very own car, she was delighted, naturally I did not mention the part exchange payment or the increased borrowing on the house, as this would have had a rather a different effect on her mood.
It didn’t take much thinking over, before I got back to the office I had already decided to go for the deal, being able to go to the concours in my own Bentley was the real clincher. I made a quick telephone call to Ronnie, to confirm that the deal was on, and then a call to Fortescue, to arrange a meeting in the pub to discuss the financing.
We met in the Red Lion, not that noisy wine bar full of business men competing hopefully for the attention of the bored looking business ladies. The Red Lion had escaped the ravages of a theme pub group takeover as it was too small, it was typical of a prewar pub, made over in the sixties and now rather down at heel. The interior was rather comforting in a way, all fake oak, the clientel was made up of ancient males sitting at the bar, either looking into their beer or at the smoke stained paintwork. In a corner a fire crackled away, it was June, occasionally a few words were spoken but the sound normally heard was the ticking and the chiming of the clock behind the bar. I bought a couple of halves of bitter and we made our way to a table as far as possible from the bar and sat down on the rather threadbare seats.
It was all done very quickly, Fortescue had brought all the relevant forms with him, the upshot of it all was that I would increase our mortgage by the 70 grand I needed and increase the term by another 10 years. After a pleasant chat we shook hands and went our respective ways.
It was Friday night and I looked forward to Tracey’s signature dish, egg and chips, as I drove home from the pub. During the meal I explained about the exchange of Bentleys and being able to go to the BDC concours in our very own car, she was delighted, naturally I did not mention the part exchange payment or the increased borrowing on the house, as this would have had a rather a different effect on her mood.
Our mood was very upbeat as we prepared for the BDC concourse, we asked my sister and her husband to be passengers in the Bentley, they were thrilled and suggested that they wore their pearly king and queen outfits, as they were the pearly king and queen of Romford. I hesitated as I didn’t think fancy dress would be appropriate for the occasion, but then I remembered that for a couple of years there had been a spate of blazers and boaters at the concourse bought from the Burbury tent. I would have loved to have bought a striped blazer, but I remembered that as I approached the Burbury tent I caught a glimpse of the salesman, a person of incredibly haughty demenour, as our eyes connected I thought that the message I saw in them said “Don’t come in here, this establishment is for gentlemen only”. I veered away from the tent pretending to be heading for the toilets.
Now that I had my own Bentley, things would be different, people would treat me with the respect that I deserved, after all Stanley Sedgewick had been an accountant, and a very important person in the club.
The day of the BDC concours arrived, we started out early and didn’t take any sandwiches as normally there is a refreshment tent there. As we drove along the deserted roads I was surprised to see a little smoke coming from the exhaust but put this down to the piston rings not having bedded in yet. During the journey I was fantasizing about our reception at the concourse, I imagined that once we had parked the car we would be besieged by a crowd of shining eyed, square jawed, vintage Bentley owners, frog marched to the beer tent, and forced to down at least ten pints of foaming wallop before being allowed to have a look round.
The reality was that nobody paid any attention to us as we drove into the parking area. I soon realised that 3 litre cars were close to the bottom of the pecking order and that I would`ve had to have come in a blower to raise any eyebrows.
Now that I had my own Bentley, things would be different, people would treat me with the respect that I deserved, after all Stanley Sedgewick had been an accountant, and a very important person in the club.
The day of the BDC concours arrived, we started out early and didn’t take any sandwiches as normally there is a refreshment tent there. As we drove along the deserted roads I was surprised to see a little smoke coming from the exhaust but put this down to the piston rings not having bedded in yet. During the journey I was fantasizing about our reception at the concourse, I imagined that once we had parked the car we would be besieged by a crowd of shining eyed, square jawed, vintage Bentley owners, frog marched to the beer tent, and forced to down at least ten pints of foaming wallop before being allowed to have a look round.
The reality was that nobody paid any attention to us as we drove into the parking area. I soon realised that 3 litre cars were close to the bottom of the pecking order and that I would`ve had to have come in a blower to raise any eyebrows.
The whole day went by in a sort of blur, those wonderful but rather ponderous 6.5 and 8 litre cars all shining like new pins, a visit to the clubhouse where the staff seemed to be so kind and helpful and had a sort of glow about them. The top brass of the club standing around looking very patrician and unapproachable, I would have loved to have had a chat with them but they were always engaged in animated discussions with the well dressed wealthier members of the club.
then we had a look at a row of Bentley Blowers with those polished aluminium superchargers thrusting out from their radiators like King Henry the Eight`s codpiece. I did notice that several of the owners of these beasts looked rather worried as the concourse judges were examining their cars.
Whilst we were in the refreshment tent scoffing a piece of fruit cake and sipping a cup of rosie, I overheard some members discussing a car for sale at the Bentley Sportscar Emporium. apparently this was the reserve car for the 1927 Le Mans race and was priced at a couple of million pounds! Then my blood ran cold as I realised that the car being discussed was none other than the one that I`d part exchanged for the 3 litre. With gritted teeth and clenched fists I managed to get through the rest of the day and as we burbled home in the 3 litre I vowed to myself that I would have it out with with Ronnie early the next morning.
then we had a look at a row of Bentley Blowers with those polished aluminium superchargers thrusting out from their radiators like King Henry the Eight`s codpiece. I did notice that several of the owners of these beasts looked rather worried as the concourse judges were examining their cars.
Whilst we were in the refreshment tent scoffing a piece of fruit cake and sipping a cup of rosie, I overheard some members discussing a car for sale at the Bentley Sportscar Emporium. apparently this was the reserve car for the 1927 Le Mans race and was priced at a couple of million pounds! Then my blood ran cold as I realised that the car being discussed was none other than the one that I`d part exchanged for the 3 litre. With gritted teeth and clenched fists I managed to get through the rest of the day and as we burbled home in the 3 litre I vowed to myself that I would have it out with with Ronnie early the next morning.
After a listless nights sleep I made my way to the Bentley Sportscar Emporium in the faithful Morris Minor rehearsing in my mind what I was going to say to Ronnie as I weaved my way through the rush hour traffic. My blood was up and I`d decided to chin him if he gave me any lip, but when I arrived at the Emporium there were police cars everywhere and I had to park far away from the building.
I tried to enter the office but was stopped by a policeman who told me that the office was closed until further notice. I mentioned to him that I had a fraud perpetrated by Mr. Wurstman to report and he called over a plain clothes officer that had a Fraud Squad ID pinned to his jacket. After I`d explained what had happened, Officer Neatley thought over what I had reported and told me that there was nothing that they could do for me as the part exchange of the cars had been done quite legally.
I tried to enter the office but was stopped by a policeman who told me that the office was closed until further notice. I mentioned to him that I had a fraud perpetrated by Mr. Wurstman to report and he called over a plain clothes officer that had a Fraud Squad ID pinned to his jacket. After I`d explained what had happened, Officer Neatley thought over what I had reported and told me that there was nothing that they could do for me as the part exchange of the cars had been done quite legally.
Just at that moment, Ronnie wes led out of the office in handcuffs and as he passed, gave me a wry smile, shrugging his shoulders at the same time. I watched as he was helped into a patrol car and driven away.
Officer Neatley seeing the deflated look on my face, told me that Ronnie`s real name was Briggs and that he was a lifelong con artist famous in the branch. I detected a note of grudging respect in Neatly`s voice who continued saying that Ronnie was usually given a stiff custodial sentence for his cheeky crimes but always seemed got remission for good behaviour.
After the rush of adrenaline through my body I went on a downer and slowly made my way back to the car.which now sported a parking ticket attached to the windscreen
Officer Neatley seeing the deflated look on my face, told me that Ronnie`s real name was Briggs and that he was a lifelong con artist famous in the branch. I detected a note of grudging respect in Neatly`s voice who continued saying that Ronnie was usually given a stiff custodial sentence for his cheeky crimes but always seemed got remission for good behaviour.
After the rush of adrenaline through my body I went on a downer and slowly made my way back to the car.which now sported a parking ticket attached to the windscreen
Whilst driving to work, my mind went over the happenings of the last few hours and tried to put some kind of positive spin on the events. Well we still had the 3 litre car so that wasn`t so bad but I dreaded having to tell Tracey the truth about what I`d done with the finances. The traffic was fairly light so it didn`t take so long to get there. On arrival at the office I was confronted by virtually the same scene that I had encountered at Ronnie`s place! There were policemen and plain clothes officers carrying boxes of files out of the premises and again I wasn`t allowed to go into the building!
Somebody tapped me on the shoulder and I turned round to see Bill Diffing`s gaunt figure sporting his usual solemn visage, Bill was the Chief Tax Inspector for the Billericay area and got his kicks by hounding newly qualified accountants on the manor. I`d had more than my fair share of his attention in the past but once he got to know you he was OK. It was June and he was still wearing his standard Civil Service gabardine raincoat
I asked Bill what was going on, and tapping the side of his nose he almost whispered that my boss had cleared out the client`s accounts and had run off with that rather pushy temporary typist that everyone disliked.
Somebody tapped me on the shoulder and I turned round to see Bill Diffing`s gaunt figure sporting his usual solemn visage, Bill was the Chief Tax Inspector for the Billericay area and got his kicks by hounding newly qualified accountants on the manor. I`d had more than my fair share of his attention in the past but once he got to know you he was OK. It was June and he was still wearing his standard Civil Service gabardine raincoat
I asked Bill what was going on, and tapping the side of his nose he almost whispered that my boss had cleared out the client`s accounts and had run off with that rather pushy temporary typist that everyone disliked.
He told me that there was no point in hanging around as the office was closed pending an investigation and that we would be able to collect our personal effects after the search of the office had been carried out. I went for a long drive into the pretty Essex countryside my mind in a turmoil and arrived back at our modest semi detached house around the normal coming home time. Tracey saw the look on my face and asked me what was the matter, I sank down into the lounge sofa and blurted out what had happenned at work.
The days and weeks passed, things looked bleak and it looked as I would not get any back pay or compensation from my company as it was bankrupt. I tried looking for another job but when I told the companies where I`d been working I got an immediate refusal, they were sympathetic but explained that they could not employ anybody that was in any way tainted with the scandal that had occurred at my previous company.
The days and weeks passed, things looked bleak and it looked as I would not get any back pay or compensation from my company as it was bankrupt. I tried looking for another job but when I told the companies where I`d been working I got an immediate refusal, they were sympathetic but explained that they could not employ anybody that was in any way tainted with the scandal that had occurred at my previous company.
Then another disaster happened, we were just settling down to Sunday lunch when there was a loud banging on the front door The callers were bailiffs that had a warrant to repossess the 3 litre as it was still owned by a finance company. As the car was being loaded onto a trailer Tracey shouted into my ear something about why I had not checked this out before going through with the deal. I was beyond answering and went to the drinks cabinet and took out a bottle of scotch and poured a stiff measure for us both. I hit the bottle with a vengeance and let slip the details of the re financing that I did in order to do the deal for the 3 litre.. it was like lighting the fuse on a stick of dynamite, a sort of fizzing and then the explosion!
The downward trend steepened as the mortgage provider wanted to be paid and we were months behind with the payments, Tracey started divorce proceedings, we didn`t even talk anymore.
When the dust had settled there was just enough money left to buy a one bedroom flat which Tracey occupied, I had nowhere to live. The children sided with Tracy and cut me dead. I was unemployable, had no money and every time that I went to the Red Lion the landlord pointed to the notice "no credit given" as I came through the door.
Life could not get worse, I thought to myself,whilst nursing a half pint of bitter and following the antics of the flies on the nicotine stained wallpaper behind the bar..
Then I had s small break, I rented a small caravan situated in a field at Lower Swinestead and the kind farmer asked me to keep an eye on the cows that grazed the field and in return gave me fruit and vegetables and the occasional bottle of beer.
So that`s the story.
If you`re ever in the area, don`t be shy, come along and see me, there`s always fresh milk for the tea or coffee and you can even stay the night, there`s an old blanket that I can hang up for privacy, The gentle movement of the caravan as the cows rub against it will quickly lull you to sleep. Don`t forget your wellies as it can get rather mucky around the caravan, I look forward to seeing you.
As usual, trying to put a positive spin on events, there are millions of enthusiasts that dream of owning a Vintage Bentley but never do! At least I`m able to say "eat your hearts out I did it".
When the dust had settled there was just enough money left to buy a one bedroom flat which Tracey occupied, I had nowhere to live. The children sided with Tracy and cut me dead. I was unemployable, had no money and every time that I went to the Red Lion the landlord pointed to the notice "no credit given" as I came through the door.
Life could not get worse, I thought to myself,whilst nursing a half pint of bitter and following the antics of the flies on the nicotine stained wallpaper behind the bar..
Then I had s small break, I rented a small caravan situated in a field at Lower Swinestead and the kind farmer asked me to keep an eye on the cows that grazed the field and in return gave me fruit and vegetables and the occasional bottle of beer.
So that`s the story.
If you`re ever in the area, don`t be shy, come along and see me, there`s always fresh milk for the tea or coffee and you can even stay the night, there`s an old blanket that I can hang up for privacy, The gentle movement of the caravan as the cows rub against it will quickly lull you to sleep. Don`t forget your wellies as it can get rather mucky around the caravan, I look forward to seeing you.
As usual, trying to put a positive spin on events, there are millions of enthusiasts that dream of owning a Vintage Bentley but never do! At least I`m able to say "eat your hearts out I did it".