April 1934,
Oxfordshire
It was a crisp morning, of the sort that only ever seemed to happen in merry old England. The sun was climbing to the highest point of flawless blue sky, burning away the last of the fog which lay so lazily upon rolling fields and gentle slopes. Yet it did little to displace the silvery frost upon autumn leaves nor stop the mist with formed on each breath. The grounds of Banbury Castle were no less beautiful; trees standing guard over manicured emerald lawns while fountains bubbled happily into immaculate ponds and rivers. The air was alive with the singing of birds, the braying of sheep and the jaunty, whistled tune of the British Grenadiers.
The source of that last one was a wooden shed, its doors thrown open to expose the tiny, vivid red Austin Seven whose paintwork gleamed in the pale light. It’s bonnet panel lifted up to expose the well-kept engine within, the word Troytown written in curled golden script along the door. Various mechanical pieces lay strewn haphazardly about the white gravel driveway. Beneath the car, with only a greasy towel between him and the sharp, rough stones, was Conor Fitzpatrick, his piercing whistle competing with the clicking of his socket wrench as he tightened a new screw beneath the car and unconcerned with the grease that dirtied his lightly coloured slacks, nor the drips of oil on his shirt and fine woollen cardigan. Despite this, he worked quickly and efficiently, comfortable with the array of screws, cables, wires, springs, bolts, clasps and panels.
His solitary, lyrical reverie was broken by the sound of crunching footsteps getting louder as they approached. Glancing through the spokes of the wheels he saw a pair of riding boots and approach and sighed, shimmying awkwardly out, careful not to catch himself until he could look into the eyes of his guest.
“I suppose it was too much to ask for a morning of peace?” He squinted in the light, accent a confusing mix of Irish and English heritage.
“Far too much,” The woman’s voice was much like his own but the Gaelic tang was stronger. Her long auburn hair hung to one side while riding breeches clung to her trim form, tall for a girl, jacket hanging over petite shoulders, “I was halfway to Farnborough and thought ‘Oh no, what if Conor needs me for surely, he will be lost without the help of his little sister’ and so I galloped back as fast as Maxime would carry me.”
“Poor Maxine,” He checked his wristwatch, “At the pace you must have done, you could have placed at Epsom. Imagine it; Winner of the 1934 Derby, 19-year-old Aoife Fitzpatrick weighing two stone riding 3-year-old filly Maxine. You’d be in all the papers.”
“Ha ha. Careful you don’t cut yourself on that razor-sharp wit,” Aoife had positioned herself on the wall next to the shed, sitting cross-legged and watching him with sharp blue eyes, “I can imagine what your entry would say; Conor Fitzpatrick, 21 years old, thrown by his horse in the gate because Caesar decided to chance running the race without him.”
He had by now risen to his feet and was wiping his hands on the grimy cloth that doing little but moving the dirt around his palms, pulling a face as he did so, “That horse never liked me.”
“Because you have a touch like an elephant with a headache, brother dear,” She hummed as she peered over his shoulder, examining the engine bay and biting her lip, “Speaking of which, you’ve changed the carburettor.”
“That’s not all!” The Irishman beamed, “Changed the valve timings, put a new bearing to the crank and new piston rings. It’s even got a synchromesh gearbox!”
Aoife’s eyebrow raised, “Where did you get a synchromesh gearbox?”
“You know Christopher Allerton?”
“Of course. What about him?”
“Well, a tree fell on his new Wolseley during that storm last week. A total write off! Luckily, the gearbox was in good nick so he took ten pounds for it and now it’s in Troytown!”
Now both of Aoife’s eyebrows were raised, “You put the gearbox from a Wolseley in Troytown? It must weigh as much as the car itself!”
“I mean, yes, the old girl isn’t as springy as she used to be, but come on! Synchromesh! Four gears! With these, she’ll do at least 90, maybe a hundred if I get a good wind and downhill!”
“How about the brakes?”
“Pardon?”
“Did you upgrade the brakes? Or were you hoping a quick prayer would be enough before you bury yourself in the first solid object you see?”
Conor blinked, looking back at the scarlet motor as if seeing it for the first time, “Well, the drums in a Seven aren’t so bad-“
“-They’re not so bad when you’ve got a normal carburettor, a lighter gearbox and none of the other upgrades you’ve done. There’s no way those dinky little drums are going to stop you!”
“That just adds to the fun!” He flashed a cheeky grin which caused Aoife to throw her hands in the air.
“You are impossible! Did it occur to you to take the brakes from Allerton’s Wolseley by any chance? Or were you too busy drooling over the gearbox to notice?”
“They’d never fit, the axel on that car’s way bigger than little Troytown here.”
“So make a spacer. We’ve got the tools here and you could get the materials from the coach place in the town. That way you might actually be able to stop before you hit the blasted sea. Or would you like me to make it?”
“Alright, alright,” He raised his hands defensively, “I’ll get on to Allerton and see if he still has the parts.” He walked over and perched on the wall beside her, sighing dramatically, “You know you’re going to cost me a fortune?”
“Oh, quit moaning. You can afford it.”
“Yes mother,” They sat together in companionable silence as the birds swooped overhead and landed on the lawn, pecking away at unseen prey before departing with their breakfast.
“So, how’s Oxford?” He was loath to break the peace but the question had been hanging on the end of his tongue, “Has it turned you into a proper lady yet?”
“It’s trying,” She shook her head and looked to the heavens in silent prayer “By god, it’s trying. If I hear the word ‘etiquette’ one more time, I think I might scream.”
“As long as it’s a ladylike scream, I’m sure they won’t object.”
She poked her tongue out, a childish gesture which made him laugh, before leaning back and sighing, “I miss Katong. No expectations, no wagging tongues, no shaking heads, no whispers. Just us, the sea, the jungle, the docks, the city…”
“I think mother might object. We got into some proper scraps back then.”
“You mean you got us into some proper scraps.” She looked up at him pointedly.
“Hey, it wasn’t always me!”
“Okay, how about the smugglers in Changi? Or that time you took us into Bukit Ho Swee? Or that boat we found on the beach and tried to sail to Malaya?”
“Alright, alright,” He laughed, “Mostly it was me. Admit it though, you had fun.”
“So much fun.” Another sigh as she ran her hand through long, auburn hair, “It feels like it was a world away.” There was a pause, “I suppose you haven’t changed your mind about your new career?”
He stiffened a little but quickly hid the gesture behind a theatrical roll of the shoulders, “You’re worse than mother, you know.”
“Can you blame her after what happened to father? She doesn’t need all this again.”
“Father was in the infantry though, I’ll be in the air force.”
“If you need to fly so badly, why can’t you join BOAC or Imperial? Be a civilian flier?”
“Because I have no actual flying experience? There’s plenty of pilots out here. If I want to make to make a name for myself and get good enough to fly civilian, I need to sign-up, do my hours and then try and convince someone. It’s perfectly safe, like a holiday camp.” Another reassuring grin.
“I fail to see how flying several thousand feet in the air at hundreds of miles an hour qualifies as ‘safer’ in any way.”
“We’re not at war this time! Chances are they’ll send me to India or Malta or maybe even back to Singapore! A couple of years flying over the straits or the canal then I’ll be right back here.”
Aoife bit her lip. She only ever bit her lip when she was worried and it always triggered something at the back of his mind, some natural defence instinct, “But what if you’re not?”
“You let me worry about that,” He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, “You worry about getting through Oxford.”
She snuggled up against him, pressed against his form, “If anything ever happened…”
“I know, Rusty, I know.” He squeezed her tight, “It’ll only be a few years, then I’ll be right back here to make sure Oxford hasn’t turned you all proper on me.”
She sniffed, a hand coming up to wipe something from her eye but for the first time, she cracked a smile, “They wouldn’t dare.”
Oxfordshire
It was a crisp morning, of the sort that only ever seemed to happen in merry old England. The sun was climbing to the highest point of flawless blue sky, burning away the last of the fog which lay so lazily upon rolling fields and gentle slopes. Yet it did little to displace the silvery frost upon autumn leaves nor stop the mist with formed on each breath. The grounds of Banbury Castle were no less beautiful; trees standing guard over manicured emerald lawns while fountains bubbled happily into immaculate ponds and rivers. The air was alive with the singing of birds, the braying of sheep and the jaunty, whistled tune of the British Grenadiers.
The source of that last one was a wooden shed, its doors thrown open to expose the tiny, vivid red Austin Seven whose paintwork gleamed in the pale light. It’s bonnet panel lifted up to expose the well-kept engine within, the word Troytown written in curled golden script along the door. Various mechanical pieces lay strewn haphazardly about the white gravel driveway. Beneath the car, with only a greasy towel between him and the sharp, rough stones, was Conor Fitzpatrick, his piercing whistle competing with the clicking of his socket wrench as he tightened a new screw beneath the car and unconcerned with the grease that dirtied his lightly coloured slacks, nor the drips of oil on his shirt and fine woollen cardigan. Despite this, he worked quickly and efficiently, comfortable with the array of screws, cables, wires, springs, bolts, clasps and panels.
His solitary, lyrical reverie was broken by the sound of crunching footsteps getting louder as they approached. Glancing through the spokes of the wheels he saw a pair of riding boots and approach and sighed, shimmying awkwardly out, careful not to catch himself until he could look into the eyes of his guest.
“I suppose it was too much to ask for a morning of peace?” He squinted in the light, accent a confusing mix of Irish and English heritage.
“Far too much,” The woman’s voice was much like his own but the Gaelic tang was stronger. Her long auburn hair hung to one side while riding breeches clung to her trim form, tall for a girl, jacket hanging over petite shoulders, “I was halfway to Farnborough and thought ‘Oh no, what if Conor needs me for surely, he will be lost without the help of his little sister’ and so I galloped back as fast as Maxime would carry me.”
“Poor Maxine,” He checked his wristwatch, “At the pace you must have done, you could have placed at Epsom. Imagine it; Winner of the 1934 Derby, 19-year-old Aoife Fitzpatrick weighing two stone riding 3-year-old filly Maxine. You’d be in all the papers.”
“Ha ha. Careful you don’t cut yourself on that razor-sharp wit,” Aoife had positioned herself on the wall next to the shed, sitting cross-legged and watching him with sharp blue eyes, “I can imagine what your entry would say; Conor Fitzpatrick, 21 years old, thrown by his horse in the gate because Caesar decided to chance running the race without him.”
He had by now risen to his feet and was wiping his hands on the grimy cloth that doing little but moving the dirt around his palms, pulling a face as he did so, “That horse never liked me.”
“Because you have a touch like an elephant with a headache, brother dear,” She hummed as she peered over his shoulder, examining the engine bay and biting her lip, “Speaking of which, you’ve changed the carburettor.”
“That’s not all!” The Irishman beamed, “Changed the valve timings, put a new bearing to the crank and new piston rings. It’s even got a synchromesh gearbox!”
Aoife’s eyebrow raised, “Where did you get a synchromesh gearbox?”
“You know Christopher Allerton?”
“Of course. What about him?”
“Well, a tree fell on his new Wolseley during that storm last week. A total write off! Luckily, the gearbox was in good nick so he took ten pounds for it and now it’s in Troytown!”
Now both of Aoife’s eyebrows were raised, “You put the gearbox from a Wolseley in Troytown? It must weigh as much as the car itself!”
“I mean, yes, the old girl isn’t as springy as she used to be, but come on! Synchromesh! Four gears! With these, she’ll do at least 90, maybe a hundred if I get a good wind and downhill!”
“How about the brakes?”
“Pardon?”
“Did you upgrade the brakes? Or were you hoping a quick prayer would be enough before you bury yourself in the first solid object you see?”
Conor blinked, looking back at the scarlet motor as if seeing it for the first time, “Well, the drums in a Seven aren’t so bad-“
“-They’re not so bad when you’ve got a normal carburettor, a lighter gearbox and none of the other upgrades you’ve done. There’s no way those dinky little drums are going to stop you!”
“That just adds to the fun!” He flashed a cheeky grin which caused Aoife to throw her hands in the air.
“You are impossible! Did it occur to you to take the brakes from Allerton’s Wolseley by any chance? Or were you too busy drooling over the gearbox to notice?”
“They’d never fit, the axel on that car’s way bigger than little Troytown here.”
“So make a spacer. We’ve got the tools here and you could get the materials from the coach place in the town. That way you might actually be able to stop before you hit the blasted sea. Or would you like me to make it?”
“Alright, alright,” He raised his hands defensively, “I’ll get on to Allerton and see if he still has the parts.” He walked over and perched on the wall beside her, sighing dramatically, “You know you’re going to cost me a fortune?”
“Oh, quit moaning. You can afford it.”
“Yes mother,” They sat together in companionable silence as the birds swooped overhead and landed on the lawn, pecking away at unseen prey before departing with their breakfast.
“So, how’s Oxford?” He was loath to break the peace but the question had been hanging on the end of his tongue, “Has it turned you into a proper lady yet?”
“It’s trying,” She shook her head and looked to the heavens in silent prayer “By god, it’s trying. If I hear the word ‘etiquette’ one more time, I think I might scream.”
“As long as it’s a ladylike scream, I’m sure they won’t object.”
She poked her tongue out, a childish gesture which made him laugh, before leaning back and sighing, “I miss Katong. No expectations, no wagging tongues, no shaking heads, no whispers. Just us, the sea, the jungle, the docks, the city…”
“I think mother might object. We got into some proper scraps back then.”
“You mean you got us into some proper scraps.” She looked up at him pointedly.
“Hey, it wasn’t always me!”
“Okay, how about the smugglers in Changi? Or that time you took us into Bukit Ho Swee? Or that boat we found on the beach and tried to sail to Malaya?”
“Alright, alright,” He laughed, “Mostly it was me. Admit it though, you had fun.”
“So much fun.” Another sigh as she ran her hand through long, auburn hair, “It feels like it was a world away.” There was a pause, “I suppose you haven’t changed your mind about your new career?”
He stiffened a little but quickly hid the gesture behind a theatrical roll of the shoulders, “You’re worse than mother, you know.”
“Can you blame her after what happened to father? She doesn’t need all this again.”
“Father was in the infantry though, I’ll be in the air force.”
“If you need to fly so badly, why can’t you join BOAC or Imperial? Be a civilian flier?”
“Because I have no actual flying experience? There’s plenty of pilots out here. If I want to make to make a name for myself and get good enough to fly civilian, I need to sign-up, do my hours and then try and convince someone. It’s perfectly safe, like a holiday camp.” Another reassuring grin.
“I fail to see how flying several thousand feet in the air at hundreds of miles an hour qualifies as ‘safer’ in any way.”
“We’re not at war this time! Chances are they’ll send me to India or Malta or maybe even back to Singapore! A couple of years flying over the straits or the canal then I’ll be right back here.”
Aoife bit her lip. She only ever bit her lip when she was worried and it always triggered something at the back of his mind, some natural defence instinct, “But what if you’re not?”
“You let me worry about that,” He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, “You worry about getting through Oxford.”
She snuggled up against him, pressed against his form, “If anything ever happened…”
“I know, Rusty, I know.” He squeezed her tight, “It’ll only be a few years, then I’ll be right back here to make sure Oxford hasn’t turned you all proper on me.”
She sniffed, a hand coming up to wipe something from her eye but for the first time, she cracked a smile, “They wouldn’t dare.”
