1920 MODEL T FORD & 1932 AUSTEN 7 SALOON
DIPSTICK CLIVE BALL
When I turned 17, Grandad gave me a 1920 Model T Ford which he’d had in a shed for 30-odd years.
Characters: Adrian, Tony, Colin and yours truly, all fellow student-apprentices in Welwyn Garden City (just north of London) in the early 1960s. Bear in mind that in those days, the pittance a first-year apprentice received barely covered the cost of his board and lodging.
When I turned 17, Grandad gave me a 1920 Model T Ford which he’d had in a shed for 30-odd years. After some self-taught fettling, advice from Thomas the Garage, and a coat of paint, I drove it up from west Wales (about 250 miles) and used it for a few months as daily transport, much to the disgust of my landlady, who asked me to park it at the end of the road – what would the neighbours think of her with that old thing outside?
The Model T with me on a run with a friend
Thus, I came to meet, and pal up with Adrian, who was running a 1930 Austin 7 Saloon called Josephine. He commuted daily from his home in nearby Broxbourne, and I was very impressed by his little car, which used much less petrol than my Model T, was relatively waterproof, and a lot easier to start. Adrian, Tony and I used to pile into Josephine and drive to the town centre at lunch times; I generally sat in the back and Tony established the left turn hand signal protocol with Adrian – “You twiddle, and I’ll stick."
Josephine was painted bright blue and black and equipped with a push bike’s bulb hooter to warn unwary pedestrians. Most of the interior trim had long since disappeared, apart from a piece of brown leathercloth which served as a roof lining, and which used to detach itself from its tacks and flap if the windows were opened. The C-clip in the gearbox had broken, so the main shaft used to run out and cause the fabric coupling’s nuts to make wonderful sounds as they argued with the handbrake lever. After a while, Adrian put some copper coins of the realm in the cardan housing which cured the symptoms if not the problem.
With the end of summer approaching, I took the Model T back to Wales, as I had nowhere to garage it through the winter. I also changed lodgings and moved in with Bill and Rose Baillie, sharing a room with Colin who came from Swansea. After cycling to work for a few weeks I decided to get another car and, having liked Josephine, looked out for an Austin 7. Colin, with an eye to cheap weekend runs to Wales, said he’d go halves with me.
The Exchange and Mart was a good publication to find second-hand cars. Sure enough, there was one in Hornsey, in north London:
FOR SALE: 1932 Austin Seven Saloon, good runner, suit beatniks or clergy, ₤10.
Colin and I went down by train after work. It was dark and raining when we arrived. The merchandise was parked under a street lamp and glistened tantalizingly in the dim glow. The vendor took us for a test run. The fact that he had to push it to start didn’t put us off, neither did the howl from the rear axle. He pocketed our ₤10 gleefully and we set off home up the A1. On the way, we decided to give the car a Welsh name and called her Blodwen.
Next morning, in the cold light of day, Blodwen didn’t look quite so good. The tyres were almost bald, each wheel had broken or missing spokes, and the front spring was broken. The red and black paintwork, which had sparkled under the street lamp, was a generous crust of household paint apparently applied with a broom, and tufts of grass sprouted from the roof gutters and between the running boards and body. Colin took one look, gulped, and demanded (and got!) his ₤5 share back.
Luckily, there was a wrecker’s yard not far away, run by Arthur Bennett, a Steptoe-like character with cloth cap, greasy scarf, stubbly chin and home-rolled fag permanently glued to his lip. “Arfur Bennett, known the world over,” he announced importantly, then seeing my disbelieving look, corrected himself, “Well, nearly all the world!” I haggled and got a replacement front spring and four wheels for two quid, which solved my immediate needs and emptied my savings account.
Blodwen’s first major outing was to follow the veteran cars from London to Brighton in November 1960. Colin came with me. The run down was uneventful, but the fan belt broke just as we set off home; they were obsolete even then, but a helpful garage man cut a band from an old inner tube, which did the job. In south London the generator gave up; even driving on parking lights didn’t get us very far with the dodgy battery. There was nothing for it but to ring Adrian who brought a spare generator in his dad’s car. On our way again, the axle moan suddenly got louder and nastier and we just made it to Welwyn Garden City, with Colin now totally convinced that he’d been wise to back out of the deal.
A 1932 Austin 7 Saloon similar to Blodwen, but in rather better condition!
A few weeks went by. I was flat broke and couldn’t fix the car. Then Mum sent me a couple of quid for Christmas. Whoopee; off I went to Arthur Bennett and bought a complete rear axle. Unfortunately, it was off a short chassis car and Blodwen’s was wider. Not to worry! Bill Baillie kindly let me use his garage which was situated in a complex of 50, about half a mile away. It was New Year’s Eve. I set to work to use the best bits of both axles to make a good one. The day wore on; evening came, and Colin and Tony called round to tempt me to come out and celebrate the New Year. No, I was going to get the car mobile. The hours went by; the concrete floor was freezing. Stiff and cramped, I did up the last few bolts around 1am as my dim torch finally died. Now to try it! I wound the crank, got in and selected reverse. Bang! I hit the wall in front. A horrible sick feeling – I engaged first gear and reversed out of the garage, changing gear as I went. Three reverse gears and one forward! Round the complex and back into the garage. I switched off the engine and laughed like a maniac.
With the axle finally sorted and a new battery, it was time to try a weekend run home to Wales. Colin and I set off after work at 6pm and reached Swansea six hours later with no problems. I had a further 40 miles to go; as I approached our village a hole blew through the muffler and livened things up a bit. (“We heard you arriving last night”, said Mrs Davies, Opposite, with a meaningful look.) A piece cut from an old tin can and a couple of large hose clips fixed the muffler and there were no dramas on the way back, except that Colin’s parents wanted to pay his train fare to make sure he arrived!
Blodwen was reasonably reliable now, with problems few and far between. I made small improvements as I could afford them, including fitting a pair of Wipac headlamp units into the Austin shells – these gave a much better light, and dipped properly.
I joined a local drama group, who were staging Dylan Thomas’s Under Milk Wood, and played the Reverend Eli Jenkins. The show ran for a week. Just before the first night, I got a letter from my great-aunt in Wandsworth, south of London, asking if I could come and stay. Uncle was very ill, and she would appreciate having someone there, in case he needed the doctor in the night. I was happy to oblige, but it meant long days: up early, a drive across London to work, the evening’s performance, then the drive back across London again. Blodwen behaved herself all the week and saved her trump card for the last night.
On my way home after the play’s last performance on the Saturday, I toiled up a hill on the A1 just before joining the North Circular Road, when the engine made a horrible clatter and died. It didn’t take long to confirm that the crankshaft had broken. I managed to push the car over the brow of the hill and freewheel down the other side, through the traffic lights which luckily stayed green, turned right on to the North Circular and coasted into a lay-by, where I left Blodwen looking forlorn. It was late and public transport had stopped running. I suddenly realized I still had my stage makeup on – I looked like Dracula! (As the play had a large cast and backstage facilities were very cramped, I’d been cleaning off my makeup when I got back to Aunty’s.) Hastily wiping off what I could with an oily rag, I tried to hitch a lift; eventually someone stopped and took me most of the way. I arrived very late, glad that tomorrow was Sunday!
In the morning a neighbour of Aunty’s kindly towed Blodwen to her house and introduced me to a friend who just happened to have an Austin 7 engine in his shed. It was mine for nothing – he could use the space, he said! By the evening Blodwen was mobile again and I drove to work on Monday morning as if nothing had happened. On Wednesday I came home to find that Uncle had died; after the funeral other relatives took care of Aunty, and I returned to Welwyn Garden City.
I got a bit more ambitious for Blodwen. The old engine block and pistons were still usable so I opened out the inlet ports, relieved the block, flattened the tappets and fitted a Ruby head, side-draught manifold and carburettor (all for ten bob from Arfur). She had noticeably more power now and went faster, but as all the brakes were oily, stopping became an issue and more than once I had to run on to the verge to avoid something that had stopped suddenly in front of me.
Back to Arfur’s again. “This any good to yer?” he asked, waving a Bowdenex front brake conversion at me, “Two quid!” “One!” “OK, one it is”. With new felt seals in the hubs, and relined brakes, things were much better. Then I saw a brand new SU carburettor for sale in an accessory shop for ₤1. It was for a side-valve Morris Minor and bolted straight on in place of the Zenith, which was badly worn. Blodwen now ran and stopped quite respectably, and I planned another trip to Wales with Colin.
All went well until we ran into a heavy rainstorm on appropriately named Stormy Down, near Port Talbot. I pulled over and stopped as I couldn’t see a thing. When things had calmed a bit, Blodwen flatly refused to start. We had petrol, sparks, but no go. I was about to tear my hair out after half an hour without success when I happened to put my finger in the carburettor’s air intake and found the damper piston jammed shut. It hadn’t occurred to me to oil the new carby! Blodwen behaved herself for the rest of the trip.
1961 wore on and the summer came. “How about a 2-car Austin 7 run down to Wales?” suggested Adrian brightly one day. Great idea: next weekend, we decided. Tony and Colin were in on it too. Off we set, enjoying daylight until after 10 pm, Blodwen and Josephine on their best behaviour. We dropped Colin and Tony off in Swansea, continued on to Mum’s, and had a great weekend.
On the return trip things started going badly wrong. Realising that Adrian wasn’t following me I turned back to look for him and found him looking very glum. A sump bolt had fallen out and he’d lost all the oil. We found a bolt to fit and scraped up enough oil between us to half-fill the sump, but the big ends were knocking ominously. We filled up with oil at the next garage with little improvement. Collecting Colin and Tony, we decided to press on regardless, but it was very slow progress and soon Josephine sounded her death rattle. Adrian produced a tow rope and we trundled along for some distance until Blodwen’s clutch began to slip as we went up a hill…..
We stopped to confer. Clearly, we’d never get back to Hertfordshire like this. The only sensible course was to abandon Josephine. There was a garage a little way ahead and we headed there. The owner gave us permission to put Josephine on some waste land nearby.
We transferred Adrian and Tony into Blodwen, together with their luggage, Josephine’s radiator, battery and sundry other bits and pieces which Adrian insisted on salvaging. (He eventually sold the rest of the car to a local enthusiast.)
Off we set again, rather more slowly than before, with the rear wheel arches rubbing on the tyres on bumps and bends. The hours crept by. Around 1am we reached the outskirts of St Albans, where the generator expired. As I poked about under the bonnet, a police car drew up. Having satisfied himself that we were not stealing the car, the Law decided to make helpful remarks. It was the weekend before MOT annual tests were going to be introduced for cars aged ten years and older, and this was a good topic for conversation. “Off the road next Tuesday, then?” said the Law, more of a statement than a question. “Bullshit!” came a muffled response from the depths of the back seat. The Law looked puzzled and shone his torch into the car where Adrian and Tony were barely visible under the pile of luggage and car parts. “Gawd Awlmighty, Bert, there’s two MORE of ‘em in ‘ere,” he gasped to his mate.” “Well, we’d better be going,” I said, bidding the cops goodnight and driving off.
When we were far enough away, I drove on parking lights wherever possible to save the battery. I dropped Colin and Tony off in Welwyn Garden City and took Adrian home to Broxbourne. He urged me to keep his battery in case mine ran out – a good move, as it did! I finally reached my lodgings about 4.30 am – it was hardly worth going to bed. Boy was I tired the next day!
On Tuesday morning, I got a letter from Mum telling me that Dad’s cousin had left me ₤350 in her will. I decided to forgo the MOT test for Blodwen and advertised her for sale ‘as is’ for ₤10 in the Exchange and Mart. Much to my surprise she sold immediately, to a local farmer for his teenage son to drive around the fields. Soon afterwards, I bought a brand-new Minivan – in those days there was no purchase tax on vans in the UK, which made them considerably cheaper than the equivalent car. The trade-off was that you couldn’t legally exceed 40 miles per hour. Of course, I never did – but it’s amazing how quickly Colin and I used to get down to Wales………