The British reply to this formidable Continental opposition was provided by the works team of B.R.C.’s, and a host of sprint ‘specials’. The former were smaller than their Continental rivals, but the course suited them and, with the exception of the new section, their drivers had the advantage of knowing the hill intimately.
The ‘specials’ were, as always, an unknown quantity. Some, on their day, were quite capable of matching the performance of the Grand Prix cars over such a short course, while others might merely provide comic relief by emitting remarkably irregular noises and bestrewing the course with intimate parts of their machinery.
There was no doubt about it, the stage was set for a record meeting. No wonder Mr Nelson, the genial little secretary and moving spirit of the M.M.C., had felt excited and pleased with himself that morning when he had watched lorries bearing names famous on all the circuits of Europe come rolling into his paddock.
Brothers Peter and John lost no time in unloading the Bligh Special from its trailer.
‘If you go and rout out the Scrutineer,’ said Peter, as they manhandled the Special into its bay, ‘I’ll go and talk nicely to Nelson and see if I can’t wangle one run before dark.’
John had barely finished unloading from the tonneau of the Vauxhall the cans of dope, the tools and all the other paraphernalia that accompanies the sprint car, when Peter came back at the double.
‘It’s Okay,’ he called. ‘But we shall have to hurry; Nelson’s sending over the Scrutineer. Meantime, we’ve got to go for a walk, blast it! All drivers have got to go over the new section on foot and report to the timing-box that they’ve done so before they’re allowed a run.’ He paused, peering round the paddock. ‘I wonder where those silly asses can have got to? I told them to keep a look-out for us,’ he complained.
‘Maybe they’ve got fed up with’ waiting and gone off to the “Crown”,’ John hazarded.
‘I’ll half break their silly necks if they have,’ Peter swore. ‘No, there they are snooping around the Maturati. Oi!’ he bellowed. ‘Mike! George!’
Two tall, untidy figures detached themselves from the curious group about the Italian car and came towards them at a jog-trot.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ shouted one as soon as he came within earshot. ‘We’d just given you up—thought you must have thrown the trailer away again on the way, so we were just going to make for the local tap-house.’
‘Never mind about that now,’ Peter silenced him. ‘Your thirst will improve with keeping. The great thing at the moment is to get a practice run before dark. John and I have got to walk over the new bit of the course, so if you’d like to make yourself really useful for a change, you can get her ready and warmed up while we’re away. That’s the dope-can, the one with the white top. It’s all ready mixed. The soft plugs are in, but you’d better have a look at them before you try a start. When she’s just about sizzling, put in the R2’s, they’re in that yellow box. Oh, and another thing,’ he added, ‘the Scrutineer is on his way, so none of your rudery or he may take a poor view of John’s idea of independent suspension.’
‘As you say, Chief,’ Mike replied with mock humility, and pulled his forelock. Yet he took his coat off and set to work with a will, ably assisted by the quiet George, while the others set off up the course.
Whereas the old road wound its way up through the wood in a series of zigzag curves, thus gaining height on an easy gradient, the new section left the old at the first of these corners, and cut straight and steeply up the hillside for a distance of 300 yards to a single left-handed turn. This was followed by another straight on a slightly easier gradient, which ran parallel with the flank of the hill until it rejoined the old course, at what had previously been the very slow Creek Hairpin.
Peter and John stood on the apex of the new corner, surveying it with critical and practised eyes.
‘There’s no doubt about it, this is a great improvement,’ John decided. ‘It’ll make the course much faster and more interesting, too. This “swerve” reminds me of the first bend of the “esse” at Shelsley; same gradient up to it, I should think, same curvature and camber, and the same bank on the outside, too, for the unwary to clout.
‘Of course, it’s difficult to judge just how steep that approach is, so that one can’t tell exactly where the cut-off point will be, but I should say it will be just about opposite those stones there.’
He pointed to two great boulders that stood like monoliths, one on each side of the road. Peter nodded.
‘I think you’re right,’ he agreed. ‘It looks straightforward enough and yet—oh, I don’t know—there’s something I don’t like about it, but exactly what it is I couldn’t tell you. Phew!’ he exclaimed and laughed shortly, ‘what a stink! Old socks and rotten eggs aren’t in it. Something must have died here a long time ago I should think.’
‘That’s funny,’ said John, sniffing. ‘I don’t notice it. Anyway, we’d better get down, it seems to be getting dark all of a sudden under these trees, so unless we hurry we shan’t have enough light for a run.’
When they got back to the paddock practically everyone had packed up for the night, but the faithful Mike and his shadow George had the Special ready and only awaiting a push to the line. Peter wriggled his way into the narrow bucket seat in front of the two potent ‘Vee’ twin engines and the others pushed.
Letting in the clutch, he was greeted with the deafening staccato bark of four open exhausts belching blue flame and a reek of dope and castor oil. For a few moments the air about the timing box was filled with an intensity of urgent sound that literally stung the ear-drums to painful protest, while Peter tightened his body-belt, pulled down his goggles and exchanged a last shouted word or two with John.
Then at a nodded signal Mike released the plungers of the two oil-pumps and stepped back, the note of the engines rose even more fiercely, and the next instant the car was snaking out of sight in a series of power slides, leaving in its wake two long, black streaks of pungent burnt rubber from the tyres.
‘A bit too much loud pedal there,’ Mike commented.
Although invisible to him, John could follow Peter’s progress by the noise that now resounded through the wood and echoed about the surrounding hills. Now he had cut-out and changed down for the first corner into the wood—a sharp one that—now he was round and accelerating away for all he was worth up the steep straight to the new corner; he was through to second, now into third—that was a surprise, he had not expected that Peter would get into third. Now he had cut-out for the new corner.
John waited expectantly for a renewed burst of sound, but no sound came. He must have crashed. Then, after what seemed an age of suspense, but must in reality have been but a second or two, he heard the sound of one engine come to life and continue over the top of the hill. John heaved a sigh of relief and walked round to meet the car at the foot of the return road; anyway, Peter and the Special were still in one piece.
Peter came coasting back in a fine fury, consigning with great fluency the M.M.C., the hill, the local inhabitants, and the new corner to a particularly lurid hell. John gave him a few moments in which to simmer down before he dared to enquire what had happened.