An opportunity presents itself or striking while the iron is hot but sometimes it isn’t hot enough

The first time I saw her it was slightly embarrassing for me. There I was underneath ‘Bessie’ trying to fix a troublesome exhaust. ‘Bessie’ is my 1959 Morris Minor soft top. The place was at the Goodwood Revival meeting that is held at the Goodwood Motor Racing circuit every September.

I’d driven down earlier that Friday from my home in South London specifically to attend the MMOC (Morris Minor Owners Club) Event and Concours. Bessie would never win ‘best in show’ but my Uncle Sam had started entering the car almost as soon as the event started up. I’d inherited Bessie after his death a few years before. The Goodwood trip was something of a pilgrimage for me to remember him.

Not far after I’d passed through Petworth, Bessie developed an annoying rattle from the exhaust system and it was that I was trying to fix now that I was parked at Goodwood. I’d run the car up on one of the small ramps that I carried in the boot and was lying prone underneath when I felt that someone was close by. I turned my head and saw a very shapely pair of legs standing by my car.

“I’ll be out from under here in a minute,” I called out hoping that the owner of the ‘legs’ would stay around long enough. I didn’t get any answer but the ‘legs’ didn’t move away so I finished tightening up the ‘U’ bolt and this time I made sure that the locking nuts were properly tightened before sliding out from under ‘Bessie’ and into the sunlight.

I stood up and looked across the car to the owner of the ‘legs’. They belonged to a woman in her late 20’s who was dressed very much as if she’d been around and about in the late 1950’s apart from her vivid blue hair. That alone made her stand out in a crowd and get noticed. It offset the deep ruby 1950’s style dress and jacket that she wore. A quick glance told me that her shoes matched the dress. She looked delightful and I thanked whoever it was who’d made her stop by my car rather than any of the dozens and dozens of others on display.

“Hello,” I said.
“Sorry about that, the exhaust needed some running repairs.”

She smiled back as me.

“Hello,” she replied.
“I was just admiring your car. So many here have been restored to death. It is nice to see this one in original trim,” she added.

I grinned back at her. At last someone who understands what my late Uncle Sam was all about.

“Thanks for the compliment. I’m afraid that Bessie’s condition is all down to my Uncle Sam. He left her to me in his will on the condition that she is kept original. Well apart from the bits that wear out, she is just like the day she came out of the factory at Cowley.”

“Let me introduce myself. I’m David Hodges and the current owner of ‘Bessie’ here.”

“I’m Samantha Mason. Pleased to meet you.”

She presented me her white gloved hand.

“I’m a bit dirty at the moment. I don’t want to ruin those gloves. Let me go and get cleaned up, if you can hold on for a few minutes?”

She didn’t answer but smiled back at me.

I headed off to the toilets to wash my hands and get out of the pretty grubby boiler suit I was wearing. No white suit for me. Those were apparently reserved for the Italians, especially the Ferrari mechanics. There were a few dozen of them around the many Ferrari’s at the show especially an immaculate ‘Dino’ and a ‘308’.

Less than 10 minutes later I returned. Samantha was sitting in Bessie with a huge smile on her face.

“Hello again,” I said as I opened the drivers’ door and sat beside her.
“You seem to be enjoying yourself?”

“Oh… Yes, I am. Just recalling days when my grandfather would take my brother and I down to the sea in his Moggie.”

Then she opened her handbag and took out a photo. After glancing at it herself, she gave it to me.

I saw two children and an older man posing for the picture close to a sandy beach.

“That looks like the West Beach at Littlehampton?” I remarked.

“Yes, it is. That’s me and my brother John. Grandad is the one with the Handlebar Moustache.”

Then she fished out another picture and handed it to me.

It was of the same three people in the car all with ice-creams. This time, the picture was taken from a different angle. I got a shock when I saw the number-plate “YOB 955”.

“That’s Bessie?”

“Yes. I came here today specifically to see he. I saw her picture on the MMOC Facebook page.”

I remembered the picture. Bessie had come third in the ‘best unrestored’ class at the Brooklands Reunion.
“Your Grandfather owned Bessie?”

“Yes.”

“Wow. I never expected to meet someone who’d been in her before.”

“Guilty as charged,” she said smiling.
“Look, let me not beat about the bush. I’d like to buy her. Grandad had her from new and she was sold when he was unable to drive. I’d like to get her back in the family so to speak.”

That knocked me sideways, for six and sideways again.

“I’ve never considered selling her. My Uncle Sam bought it here about 10 years ago and left her to me when he died. Selling her has never crossed my mind.”

Samantha looked disappointed.

“I’ll need to think about this. Selling Bessie is a big move for me.”

“Naturally. I’d be a fool to think that an offer to buy her out of the blue like that would be accepted.”

I grinned back at her.

“Especially when no price has been mentioned.”

I put up my hand to stop her.

“If I consider selling Bessie then we can talk money. Let us not sour the atmosphere by talking money too soon. Ok?”

“Yes. If you don’t want to sell then money is not a factor.”

Then she added,
“We called her Sadie by the way.”

“At the very least, I can I offer to buy you Lunch?”

The smile on her face told me that it would be acceptable.

We headed for the dining tent with her arm in mine. I had to stop myself from grinning from ear to ear. She was frankly gorgeous. To have someone as beautiful as her on my arm was… well it has never happened before. Samantha turned more than a few heads in the tent as we were shown to a table. My 1950’s ‘demob suit’ was shabby by comparison but it was all I had with me so it would have to do.

Lunch proved very enjoyable. The proper catering for events at Goodwood is always good. Yes, it is expensive and you are eating in a huge tent but the cooking is great and the ingredients are usually sourced locally. The owner of the estate, the Duke of Richmond, likes to beat his own drum with the food on the menu.

The less fortunate have to make do with the inevitable burger and chips or similar fast food. I was determined to make an impression on Samantha because a plan was starting to form in my mind. A plan that could be beneficial to both of us.

We spent the rest of the day together. I’d not had so much fun since I found a bottle of rum in the boot of Uncle Charlies’ Mk 1 Ford Prefect and had drunk a good deal of it before the grownups found me pissed out of my mind and almost passed out with a huge grin on my face. Well, I was thirteen (just).

Samantha was wonderful company. It didn’t take long to realise that she knew her 1950’s British made cars and especially the Morris Minor. Her eyes gleamed when she talked about Bessie. It was this that made my mind up.

“Can I and Bessie take you home? It the least that I could do after all the fun you have given me today.”

“Why kind Sir are you proposing to me?”

I laughed.

“No, my blue haired damsel, I am merely offering my carriage to convey you home.”

“In that case I accept even though you do not know where I live.”

“It matters not my fair lady,” I replied smiling.

Two and a bit hours later, we arrived at her home in the western suburbs of Brighton. She got rather annoyed when I said ‘Hove’.
“It is all one place now.”

I stopped the car outside the apartment block where she said that she lived. There was a silence between us. I broke it by saying,

“I’ve been thinking over what you said about wanting Bessie. As I see it, I have four or five options.”

“The first is that I could say no, no way and never.”

Her face dropped.

“The second is that I could quote some silly price and you could even say yes but it is a risk I don’t want to take.”

“The third is that you could marry me and then get Bessie in the divorce. I have to admit I fell in love with you the moment I saw your legs from underneath my car.”

She laughed.

“The fourth is that you could help me achieve something I have been working towards for a long time. At the end of that then Bessie will be yours.

“Or finally you can marry me and also help me achieve my goals? That way we get to share the car.”

Then I carried on.
“With the first one, I never get to see you again and I really don’t want that. With the second, I’m quite attached to the ‘old girl’ so any price I quoted would have to be really, really silly. That leaves the other three options.”

Samantha laughed until it hurt.

“You don’t beat about the bush, do you?”

“I find that it generally pays to be direct.”

Then I got out of the car and went around to her side where, I opened the door for her to get out.

“I didn’t expect that,” she said as I took her gloved hand in mine.

“What didn’t you expect?”

“Everything and especially having my door opened like that.”

I smiled.

“One problem with Bessie is that the passenger door does stick from time to time.”

“I haven’t given you my answer yet?”

“Then sleep on it,” I replied as I fished out a business card from my wallet.

“My number is on here. Let me know what it is when you make up your mind.”

“But what is this thing I am to help you with?”

“That’s on a need to know basis at the moment. Nothing illegal or perverted I can assure you.”

That seemed to satisfy her.

I kissed her goodnight on the hand after escorting her to the front door of her Apartment block.

I managed to drive around the corner before I stopped the car and sat in the seat shaking like a leaf.
It was then I realised that I’d been a complete and utter plonker. Just being with her had made me slightly crazy. I’d done and said things in the last half hour that I’d never have done in a million years but I’d done it and would more than likely never hear from her again.

I never did hear from her again. I did spend quite a bit of time in the area of Brighton where I’d dropped her off but to no avail. It was as if she had disappeared off the face of the planet.

In the end, I put the day down as one of the most enjoyable of my life but passing ships do just that, pass in the night. After all, why would such a beautiful woman be interested in a sad loser like me who spent his spare time tinkering with a clapped out fifty-five-year-old car who also likes to wear women’s clothes. It was truly a ‘Minor’ Romance.

[The End]

MMOC = Morris Minor Owners Club.
Morris Minor = A car that was produced for many years at the same factory that now builds the BMW Owned ‘Mini’. Affectionately called a ‘Moggie’.