CHAPTER 8
Being a woman had its advantages when publicity was required in various parts of the globe. I didn’t hesitate when Chrysler asked me to help promote its cars in Australia, and that’s where I met Peter Janson in Melbourne, in 1967. He was one of the most extraordinary men I have ever met. Peter had thick eyebrows, naughty eyes and a jet-black beard, which he said he grew after his jaw was smashed in a racing accident. He was a socialite who had friends in England, India and Northern Ireland and was obviously a man of means, although where he got his money from was a mystery. When asked his occupation, he would say he was a gentleman. I believe his father was the British Ambassador in Mexico or somewhere but he was deliberately vague about his background. He was about the same age as myself when we met, but it was obvious he had seen much more of life than I had.
I was in Melbourne to help David Brown of the Chrysler Motor Company promote cars and Peter Janson was organising publicity. A dinner was arranged for twenty people with Peter acting as mine host and he invited me to sit beside him. The wine, cocktails and champagne flowed during that four-course meal, which included caviar, lobster and oysters. When the dinner was over, Peter clicked his fingers and called for the bill. As I was sitting close to him, I noticed that he took a matchbox from his pocket and very discreetly opened it and put something on the side of his plate under a lettuce leaf. When he got the bill, he pushed the lettuce to one side and lo and behold, there was a slug on his plate. Peter acted surprised and the waiter was horrified. The Maître D’ apologised profusely and assured Peter there was no charge for our extravagant dinner.
But the evening wasn’t over. Peter invited some of us to go back to his place for yet another drink. We drove off and I was quite taken aback when we got out of the car to find that he lived in a tower. It was a tower that had belonged to the Federal Hotel (now demolished) and had been built initially just for decoration. Peter had seen its potential and had transformed it into an incredible and most bizarre two-storey home.
As we entered the tiny entrance hall, an enormous peach-coloured mirror faced us and then we began the climb up the rosewood staircase. The carpets were all rich gold and red and the porthole windows hung with deep wine-coloured velvet curtains. Each side of the staircase and all along the corridor was filled with photographs of famous women, and Peter assured us he knew them all personally.
The main living room was enormous, with velvet sofas, bric-à-brac of all shapes and sizes, books and lifelike stuffed animals. Drinks were handed around, and as we sipped our drinks the lights became dimmer and a creaking noise came from the side of the room. Along the wall were headstones that started to move, and coffins were opening. It was most macabre. Peter explained that when he was entertaining ladies, hearing the noise and seeing the lids of the coffins move, they would get frightened and jump into his arms!
Up a few steps, like a kind of mezzanine, was the bedroom, under the dome of the tower. There, in the middle of the room, was a huge bed and steps up to it. I politely declined his offer to try it out and he said, ‘Look what’s on the other side.’ When I walked around the bed, I saw a blue tiled sunken bath. It looked most out of place but Peter said he liked to be able to roll out of bed to bathe after – well, you know what. Peter Janson moved out of his tower long ago, but is still alive and entertaining friends in his five-storey mansion, Rutherglen House in Melbourne, and I would love to meet him again.
Meeting Peter was one of the last adventures I had with the Rootes/Chrysler Group. I was on the Rootes’ team when I won the Tulip Rally in 1965, and during my time with the company I drove the Rapier, Alpine, Tiger and Imp, and won many Coupe des Dames, class wins and overall placings in over 30 major international events. Norman Garrad retired in 1965, and maybe it was because I was his protégée that I was no longer the flavour of the month. For whatever reason, in 1968 it was decided my services were no longer required.
From then on, away from Chrysler and Rootes, I was freelance, and there was no shortage of offers. Fritz Huschke von Hanstein, Porsche’s public relations manager and chief of their racing department, gave me a Porsche 911 to drive in the 1968 Geneva Rally – mainly, I think, because he fancied me. That rally didn’t end so well, although at one stage I thought that I was going to make history.
I loved that Porsche; it was a two-door sports car with the engine in the rear, and it was fast. I was driving with Ginette de Rolland, a French girl and a very good navigator. We were lying second overall, catching Pauli Toivonen, also in a Porsche, for the lead, when it happened. It was 3 a.m. and I was doing about 80 mph when Ginette said, ‘Slow down, slow down.’ She was calling out the pace notes on a special stage and told me that we were coming to a very sharp right-hand bend. I pressed the foot brake and it went straight down to the floor. Once again my father’s words came to me: ‘If you can’t stop with your brakes, drop down through the gears.’ Ginette was screaming in my ear, ‘Stop, stop!’ as I tried to slow the car, but there was nothing I could do. The road was very narrow and on one side there was no wall, just a sheer drop going down into the ravine. We were still going fast and as we approached a sharp right-hand bend I knew we weren’t going to stop with no brakes, so I dropped down very quickly through the gears until I got first gear, the car slowed and then I yanked the handbrake and dived the nose of the car into the cliff face.
Ginette wasn’t moving and I thought she had been badly hurt. I went around to her side of the car and saw she was vomiting. We waited for the next car to come and they managed to pull the tail of the car into the side of the road so that the oncoming drivers could pass us. I didn’t know then that two of Ginette’s friends had been killed in an accident at that very spot the year before. We were lucky to get away uninjured.
Porsche learned a lot from that accident because when they examined the car they found that the rear shock absorber had broken and the engine had dropped, severing the brake pipes. I was lucky to be alive, but even so it was a shame really because I thought I could have won and beaten Pauli (nice thought!) and all the other male drivers. It was yet another big disappointment in my career. They picked us up and brought us to Geneva and Ginette’s husband came and collected her.
I stayed at the hotel, where I spent a few days in the company of a very handsome Swedish man, who cheered me up no end. I can’t remember his name but that doesn’t matter, he was gorgeous!
I was enjoying the freedom of being freelance, especially as it meant I could accept Ford’s offer to drive in the 1968 London to Sydney Rally. I was off again!