Down The Hatch (19 page)

The Bodger and Dangerous Dan drove on to the starting ramp at one minute to twelve. As the President’s personal guest, The Bodger was given the honour of starting the race proper. The SanGuana press had already given him a volume of publicity normally reserved for visiting Presidents of the United States and the reception the crowd gave him reduced the radio commentator to weak repetitions of the word “fabulous”.

As the great bell of the Church of the Immaculate Conception across the square tolled noon, amid the “Vivas” of the crowd, and the ominous, predatory growling of the racing engines in the background, The Bodger and Dangerous Dan drove off.

The Targa Mango route lay first through the streets of Cajalcocamara and then out on to the eight-lane motorway which ran beside the sea to the Casino, twenty miles to the south, where the road turned sharply right and up into the mountains.

The motorway had been specially cleared of all other traffic. The lane lines extended to the horizon in a perfect example of perspective. It was not often that the Bodger was given a clear road and urged to drive as fast as he could along it. He pressed the accelerator to the floorboard and watched the speedometer climbing. He had settled in his seat and was beginning to enjoy himself when there was a banshee whine at his elbow, a blast of air and sound, and a low red car hurtled past and dwindled to a blur far ahead, its engine note rising and falling as the driver drew long sonorous chords from the close-ratio gearbox.

The Bodger was so startled that he almost lost control of his car. He had been shocked to discover that fast as he himself was driving he could be passed by another car travelling very much faster.

“He was still changing up, the bastard!” Dangerous Dan yelled in The Bodger’s ear.

“Who was it?”

“Harry Boito! Broke the lap record three times running at the Nurburgring last year! Here comes another one! Don’t bother about the mirror, Bodger! Just concentrate on driving! I’ll tell you when he’s coming. Here he comes now. . .”

There was another roar and a blast of air and another car thunderbolted past them.

“Lew Cherubini! Won the Mille Miglia three years ago at an average of a hundred and five! They had to take his navigator Johnnie Dowland away afterwards!”

“Why?”

“He’s been in a home ever since! “

The Bodger was driving at just over a hundred miles an hour but one by one the red, green, blue and silver cars overhauled him and went ahead to the Casino turn where they flicked out of sight. Dangerous Dan supplied biographical notes.

“. . . Ted Elgar and Gabby Faure! Only people who’ve ever won the Monte Carlo, the Tulip and the Safari in one year. . . .”

“. . . Charlie Gounod! Won the Indianapolis Five Hundred this year at an average of a hundred and forty. . .”

“. . . Ferdy Herold! Just out of hospital! Turned over and caught fire at Monza two months ago. . . .”

Dangerous Dan’s recital of the great names of motor racing lit a fierce fire in The Bodger’s blood. He felt the competitive spirit rising in him. When he was overtaken yet again and forced out of line while approaching the Casino turn by a car which was travelling faster than any previous one, The Bodger swore and trod harder on the accelerator.

“. . . Let him
go
, Bodger! That was Jack Ibert! He’s won this race twice running. . . .”

The other car slowed, drifted sideways, and accelerated out of the bend like a striking snake.

“Bodger,” Dangerous Dan said, in a small voice. “Don’t try and do it like that. . . .”

The mighty car heeled over. A group of SanGuanos standing by the straw bales leaped for their lives. Palm trees flickered across the bonnet. The wheel spun through The Bodger’s hands. The road swung clear in front. The car came upright. Dangerous Dan opened his eyes again. “Well done, Bodger,” he croaked, weakly.

Derek and Wilfred approached the Casino bend with superb confidence. Derek had once built himself a hot-rod special while he was at college and had competed in hill climbs and sprints. He was the only member of Scuderia
Seahorse
who had ever competed in any sort of motor race before and he swept Mr MacLean’s Sunbeam round the bend like a veteran.

“That was neatly done, Derek,” said Wilfred.

“I wonder how far ahead the Boss is?”

“I shouldn’t try and overtake him, if I were you.”

“Why not?”

“That would be the most tactless thing any engineer officer did to his C.O.!”

A mile behind, in the Admiralty Representative’s black Mercedes, Rusty and Dagwood (Scuderia
Seahorse
were driving in Navy List order) approached the bend more circumspectly.

“Watch it, Rusty,” Dagwood cautioned. “Don’t let all this go to your head. This looks like a nasty one.”

“Don’t worry, I always do cadence braking.”

“What’s that for God’s sake?”

“You put the brakes on and off until you get the front of the car bouncing. You pick up the natural frequency of the suspension and force the tyres harder on to the road. Derek told me about it.”

“All right, but just watch it.”

As it happened, Rusty was given the opportunity for only one cadence. At the first pressure of the brake pedal the front wheels entered an oil slick. Where Rusty should have swung right, the car slid onwards. Rusty cadence-braked off the track, through the spectators who scattered right and left, down in an elegant cadenza over a flight of steps and on to the Casino lawn where the car pivoted round and dived into a dense bank of hydrangeas. Dagwood’s door flew open and he fell out in a praying position amongst the hydrangeas.

“All good things around us,” he sang in a hysterical voice, “are sent from heaven above. . . .”

Rusty felt himself all over, got out of the car, walked back to the track and was just in time to see the Chief E.R.A. and the Outside Wrecker negotiating the Casino bend in the Gieves’ Representative’s red M.G. The Chief E.R.A. was hunched over the wheel, his brows knotted with concentration under his beige crash helmet. The Outside Wrecker, however, had lost his crash helmet and was leaning over the side of the car, retching. Recognizing Rusty, he managed a despairing half-salute before he was whirled away.

Back at the starting ramp, the Coxswain and the Radio Electrician, two sombre individuals, were giving the race starters a deal of trouble. They had been lent the Chief of Police’s cerise and daffodil-coloured Cadillac hard-top and although the car was fitted with servo-assisted brakes, power-assisted steering and automatic two-pedal drive, the Coxswain was having difficulty in driving it up the ramp. At the third attempt the engine stalled.

The Coxswain pressed what he imagined was the starter button, whereupon the car underwent an extraordinary transformation. The wheels locked. Steel shutters rattled down over the windows. Steel blinds rose up to cover the doors. A red light blinked on the roof and a siren wailed on the front bumper. Inside the car, which was now an immobile steel box, articulated arms clamped steel helmets on the heads of the Coxswain and the Radio Electrician. Shutters on the dashboard slid back and revealed a brace of automatic pistols. In the opinion of the knowledgeable SanGuana crowd, it was even better than Gotobed.

There was a delay of several minutes before the Chief of Police’s confidential locksmith was fetched from the crowd to free the wheels. The next two competitors, Connie Kreutzer and Leo Janacek, joint holders of the world land speed record for cars up to 1 1/2 litres, waited while the Coxswain and the Radio Electrician, still encased in their steel tomb, were wheeled away. Then, with a derisive exhaust blare and a shake of the fist, they were off.

Seahorse
’s next entrant was Gavin driving a plum-coloured Maserati, the property of Mr MacDonald, the principal of SanGuana University. He had as co-driver Miss MacDonald who was wearing a very chic pair of white overalls and a white crash helmet with an hibiscus blossom tucked under the rim. It looked as though Gavin was destined for an enjoyable Targa Mango and the crowd cheered him out of sight.

Gavin’s place was taken by the Steward, sitting in a British racing green Jaguar lent by the manager of the Casino, a wealthy Levantine. The Casino manager had also lent his daughter, a striking ash-blonde who had been runner-up for the title of Miss SanGuana the previous year (the title being won by the daughter of the Chief of Police).

At this point the B.B.C. commentator lost his voice and was thankful to be relieved by the shipping forecast.

After some fiddling with the radio, Dangerous Dan found a programme of opera excerpts. They reached the mountains and the Te Deum which ended Act One of
Tosca
together.

“Te aeternum Patreus omino terra veneratur!” Dangerous Dan chanted as The Bodger pulled the big car from side to side across the twisting road.

“How’re we doing, Dan?”

Dangerous Dan looked at his watch. “I make it we’re averaging about fifty miles an hour. That’s not nearly good enough for a win, of course, but it’s not too bad.”

The Bodger’s attention was caught by the driving mirror.

“Get back, you peasant,” he said.

Dangerous Dan glanced backwards. He had an impression of an infuriated steel animal with glass eyes surmounted by a pair of goggles, breathing down his neck.

“You’d better let them past, Bodger, or they’ll burst something.”

“All right, but he’ll have to wait until we reach a straight bit. I’m not going to stop on these bends. God, what a heavenly view! “

The trees had been cut back from each bend in the road and as the car turned they could see the coastline of SanGuana laid out below. Far away in the blue distance they could pick out the tiny buildings of the city and, on the seaward side, the dockyard and its toy ships.

“Here’s a straight bit.”

“. . . That was Hank Litolff and Jud Meyerbeer! They’re the last of the big boys. Did you notice the new rear suspension?”

“Not particularly.”

Higher in the mountains, Gotobed and the Chef were still leading the race by a considerable distance, being cheered through every village as they bowled along. They became so used to applause that they were surprised to reach one remote village where there was no cheering. The population was gathered round the only petrol pump in the village, silent, gloomy, as though they had gathered for the announcement of a catastrophe. A catastrophe had indeed occurred. The petrol pump was not working. It was the village’s main industry; almost everybody made their livelihood, directly or indirectly, from the trade it brought. A mishap to the petrol pump was as great a disaster to them as the closing of the pit in a mining town. The village elders were congregated round the pump in solemn session. Now and then one of them tried the pump handle, with no success.

Gotobed stopped the Land Rover.

“Bliddy pomp’s lost wackum,” he said.

The crowd parted to let him through. He examined the pump closely and then, taking up a large stone, began to batter the pump body with it. A rumble of anger passed among the villagers. Gotobed ignored them. He unscrewed a small cap on top of the pump and, placing his lips to the hole, blew.

There was a subterranean rumbling and a heavy odour of petrol. Gotobed replaced the cap and jerked the pump handle. With each jerk a jet of petrol spurted out into the road.

The villagers gasped as though they had been parties to a miracle and gave Gotobed a spontaneous round of applause. The elders took him in their arms and embraced him. The girls threw hibiscus blooms from their hair into the back of the Land Rover.

Blushing like a peony, Gotobed had his tank filled and drove off in a haze of petrol, hibiscus and good wishes.

Just outside the village, the road forked. The Targa Mango took the right-hand road, while the left-hand road led to the wildernesses of the interior, petering out in swamps and jungles. The village elders put their heads together. One good turn deserved another. An adjustment was made to the road barriers.

The elders had just stepped back from the track when the first of Gotobed’s pursuers appeared at the bottom of the village street, followed by the rest of the pack in full cry.

One after the other the shining, magnificent cars, the carriers of the flying horse, the three-pronged star and the raised trident, the bearers of the illustrious insignia and the famous initials, swept round to the left. Only Pete Mascagni and Karl Nicolai, fresh from their triumph at Le Mans and experienced Targa Mango drivers, attempted to bear right. The village elders imperiously waved them left.

When the procession of cars seemed to have stopped, the barriers were readjusted. The elders had hardly reached their places again when The Bodger appeared.

“Which way now, Dan?”

“Right.”

“Right.”

The next car was Gavin, who had been working steadily up through the field, bent on catching The Bodger. He had been driving above his skill and had already forced Leading Seaman Gorbles and the Signalman, in a pea-green Volkswagen provided by Mr MacGregor, the sporting editor of
The SanGuana
, into a ditch.

“In the old days,” Leading Seaman Gorbles remarked to the Signalman, as the sound of Gavin’s engine died away, “all the bastards were made dukes. Now all the bastards are made naval officers! “

But Gavin’s retribution was near. Just as he caught sight of The Bodger, he misjudged the line of a bend and plunged off the road.

The car dropped bodily through some small trees, coasted down a slope and came to rest in a clearing between two bamboo clumps. A cloud of brilliant red butterflies rose into the air.

The trees rustled as they came upright again. An occasional engine droned along the road overhead, its sound filtered by the trees. The clearing looked out over the side of the mountain to the blue Pacific. The spot might have been chosen for a picnic, tête-à-tête.

Gavin turned and looked into the brown eyes, wide and startled as a fawn’s. He kissed one shell-like ear under the hibiscus blossom.

“Darling,” he whispered. “We’ve run out of road. . . .”