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A Member's Story (Part 1)
Or - How on earth did you come to buy this one?
by Arthur McComb
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| The Armstrong Siddeley owned by the writer in Melbourne, 1957 | AMcC changing a wheel in the Scottish highlands above Glen Coe, watched by another cold Australian, 1960. Note the discs covering the spokes of the wheels. |
I
was brought up in Melbourne, where my brother Ray, two years my senior, became
an apprentice fitter and turner and owned a succession of cars beginning with
a Fiat 501 from the early 1920s, then a 1937 Riley Falcon with a Wilson pre-selector
gearbox, and a 1940s Vauxhall. The cars were often in pieces, and i imbibed experience
in looking after them. And among the cars of friends and acquaintances there was
a Vauxhall 30/98, Riley 9 and Imp, 1930s Sunbeam and 1927 Lancia Lambda.
Once I had a driver's licence I purchased a 1927 Armstrong Siddeley 4/14, a rather challenging car, hard to start and difficult to drive because of the sloppy steering, specially along Melbourne streets with tram tracks. But once the massive flywheel was turning the car sailed happily up hill and down dale in the top gear of its 3 speed crash gearbox, and took me, as a botany student, to many parts of Victoria. It also taught me a lot about cars, as I had to spend many a weekend fixing it up so that I could use it the following week.
My only contact with a Rolls-Royce occurred when I had a Saturday morning job elling petrol at a garage in East Melbourne, and most weeks there would sweep up a massive deep-green vintage Rolls with a glittering gold radiator. (We will meet this car again later.)
I graduated from Melbourne University with a masters degree for research on plant hormones, was awarded an overseas Scholarship by the Royal Commission for the Exhibition of 1851, sold the Armstrong Siddeley, and in 1959 set off in the old P&O liner Strathmore to do a Ph.D. in Cambridge, where I wouold spend 3-4 years doing research, enrolled through St John's College, in which I would live for the first year.
I would have to buy a car, and as my scholarship would be paid two quarters in advance, I had some initial working capital.
I reasoned I would be able to purchase a car which would keep going reliably during my PhD without depreciating much. Everything pointed to an over-engineered vehicle, sufficiently old to be past an initial period of rapid depreciation. Scrutiny of advertisements in Motor Sport showed that an older Rolls-Royce would be within reach, and after a month or so in Cambridge I took the train to London to find out.
I
reasoned I should go to the largest Rolls-Royce dealership in London to seek advice.
So picture this duffle-coated 23-year-old Australian stepping through the deep-pile
carpet of Jack Barclay's in Berkeley Square, and approaching a braided concierge
standing behind what appeared to be a lectern.
I explained I was looking for a pre-war Rolls Royce, and wondered if his company might have such a car traded in. He asked how much sir contemplated investing, and when I replied about £400, and he said "Ah, that would be a pre-war car". He said that Mr Barclay was standing "just over there", and he would ask his advice. Jack Barclay looked across, nodded, and wrote on a card, which was passed to me. It said "Paddon Bros, Cheval Place, Knightsbridge".
Back under London by tube, to a station in easy walking distance of Paddon Bros, which was in what had been a mews associated with several shops. I explained my interest, and that Jack Barclay had suggested I call ("How very kind of him sir.)" I was taken to look at a range of delectable cars for service or sale, and was particularly attracted to a 1935 20/25 Rolls Royce. It had only 65,000 miles on the odometer, had been first owned in London but had spent most of its time in Scotland (on blocks during the war years), and tuned so lean that the exhaust valves had burned out. The head was off, so I could thoughtfully run my finger over pristine- seeming cylinder walls. It was calculated that after the car was together I could have it for £375, and a week or so later I wrote to confirm that I would like to buy it. Christmas was approaching, and I registered for a "course" in the Lake District arranged by the British Council for overseas students wanting to experience an English Christmas. So I hatched the idea of taking the train to London, visiting Paddon Brothers to arrange the paperwork, staying overnight, collecting the car next morning, and driving to the Lake District.
At Paddon Brothers I was shown how to change a wheel and not overfill the radiator, and was driven by the company representative in what was now my car, to be dropped off at a hotel. It was peak hour, and there were walls of bright red, snorting buses in a matrix of darting, knocking taxis. As we drove beside Hyde Park, the rep horrified me by pulling over and saying, "Now there’s no earthly reason why you shouldn’t drive this vehicle". I could think of several, but I clambered behind the wheel and set off. The experience worked out very well and I even double-de-clutched into second gear, which from what I discovered later was some sort of miracle. That evening I read the handbook and revised the route I would to take next day. I could see that England is roughly the size of Victoria, and as I could easily drive over much of Victoria in a day, driving from London to the Lake District in a day would be no problem.
What ill-informed optimism! In this pre-motorway era I headed north on the old Al, and some distance north of London, having plenty of time (!), I decided to turn west on a B-road to see a small town I had picked out on the map. I wove through medieval streets and I found myself in a busy market square, feeding the Rolls between market barrows and pedestrians before seeing a sign for the B-road and heading off with relief to return to the A1, only to realise after some time that I had been disorientated the market place and was heading in the wrong direction. When I had regained the A1 I did not leave it until I reached Scotch corner, and swung west across the hiigh country above the Yorkshire Dales to drop down over the divide to the Lake District.
By now it was a very dark, and as I wound into the hills I encountered small patches of fog, then sleet. Villages of grey stone cottages loomed out of the night, mostly unlit, and I mastered the car heater, the headlights and the spotlight. Keeping track of my route was quite a challenge, but at last I was welcomed to the guesthouse in Keswick, where I had a very late supper and met new friends. We had a wonderful introduction to an English Christmas, with a midnight carol service in the local medieval church, a display of hand bell ringing, a beagling meet, a visit to Wordsworth’s cottage, and fine Christmas fare. The Rolls started beautifully each morning, even when roofs and trees were glistening with hoarfrost, and I took other participants for outings into the stunning countryside, aiming the Rolls along narrow roads between stone walls and hedges. By the end of the visit I was thoroughly familiar with the car and could effortlessly change gears, even down to second and first.
Back in Cambridge I resumed life in college and laboratory, and set about finding somewhere to garage the car and, as a student, (albeit a graduate student), obtaining formal permission from the University to own a motor vehicle. So I donned the long black academic gown, which I had to wear in the town after dark, and kept an appointment with the "Proctor for Motor Vehicles". As we worked through the form I had filled in, I explained why I needed a car as an overseas student with a wish to see the UK and continent, and outlined to him, rather defensively, why I had chosen a Rolls Royce 20/2S. Signing the paperwork, he said, "I think you have made a very good choice I own a Rolls Royce 25/30 a few years younger than yours, and it certainly is a very reliable vehicle". Bemused, I walked back to college.
I found a place to keep the car at the top of Castle Hill, a 20- minute walk from college, where I serviced the car using the comprehensive set of tools I discovered secreted in various places about the vehicle. The winter closed in and snow fell converting the streets and old buildings into a fairyland; for a newly arrived Australian the experience was quite breath taking. I t was not good weather for driving, but fine for working long hours in the laboratory, where I was making a plant hormone radioactive so that I could follow it in plants. Slowly the day length increased and the temperature rose, the 'backs' behind the colleges blazed with crocuses, and I could fetch the car and begin exploring the countryside.