CHAPTER 19
I have very few regrets, and those I have I try not to dwell on. When I reflect on the past, it’s mostly the happy times I remember, and all sorts of weird and wonderful happenings and people come to mind.
Liquorice Allsorts and Winegums were my sweets of choice when I loaded the car before setting off on a rally, as well, of course, as the obligatory glucose tablets. On the marathon rallies I always had a bottle of water attached to the car, with a tube coming out of it so that I didn’t have to take my hands off the wheel when I was thirsty. I wore a crash helmet on special stages but I had a selection of hats too because when I pulled off the helmet it would mess up my hair and that wouldn’t do. I wore the customary, specially designed driving gloves, not only for increased grip, but also for protection against heat and flame. Nowadays I wear soft leather gloves when I am driving. No matter how long a rally was, or how exhausted I became, I always ensured that when I stepped out of the car at the finish I looked the best I possibly could – I was known for it.
It’s funny the questions I get asked when I am going around the country, giving talks, and one of them, usually asked by the women, is how did I manage on the long-distance runs to go to the loo? I tell them, with the greatest of difficulty, but it is just a question of going where you can. You’re not going to find a portaloo at the top of the Khyber Pass or high up in the Alps, so you have to make do. Of course, the difficulty is that a lot of the driving suits have zips from the neck down to hip level and you have to struggle to get out of them. When you are in a rush and out to win, you don’t care if men in their rally cars pass and toot at you, so be it.
I was beating the men in the 1960s, when women were often considered arm candy in motorsports. But I wasn’t stupid enough to think I got the drive on my ability alone: I was the blonde ‘dolly bird’ who grabbed headlines for the motor industry, and some men resented my success. My confidence was continually undermined. ‘What are you doing here?’ they would ask when I turned up for team meetings, and I had to stop myself from apologising for being there at all. It did get to me on occasion and there were times when I thought, maybe they’re right, I shouldn’t be driving with the big boys. But it wasn’t easy. When I did well I would get remarks hurled at me, like, ‘Did everyone else fall out?’ and ‘Aren’t you lucky you won that rally? You must have the best car.’ The truth was that I was rarely given the ‘best car’ because they were kept for the men. That changed somewhat when the competition managers realised that I was beating the men and winning rallies.
My driving days were not confined to racing and rallying. Crowds stood on the edge of the road in the middle of London when the British Minister for Transport waved me off with Alice Watson beside me in September 1970. I had only been married a few weeks, but this opportunity was too exciting to pass up. This is my usual reaction when invited to do something mad or unusual: I jump at it. I had been asked to tow a caravan from London to Sweden, following the Monte Carlo Rally route over the Alps, as a publicity stunt to promote sales. I had never towed a caravan before, or anything else for that matter, and on the day I had only one hour to practise. I was driving an Austin Maxi with ‘Europe by Europa’ emblazoned on the side of it as I towed the four-berth 16’ Europa 390 caravan on the Oslo to Monte Carlo Rally route. The advertisements proclaimed: ‘Buy a Europa caravan and win the Monte.’
We drove up Oxford Street, in rush-hour traffic, before hitting the M1 to Harwich, boarded the ferry to Oslo, and that was where the fun started. The PR manager and the managing director of the caravan company were in a car coming behind us in case of any emergency. Once we were in France, there was no snow as there would normally be on the Monte Carlo Rally, and the only problem was that a lot of people were on holiday and the roads were extremely busy. Trying to pull a caravan around all the twisty roads, with traffic holding us up or coming towards us, was tricky. We could hear the loud bangs, when the contents of the caravan fell around, as we negotiated the bends. I might have been going a little faster than the average driver with a caravan, but we just carried on and hoped for the best.
We slept in the caravan until we eventually arrived in the Metropole Hotel in Monte Carlo, where we were to stay overnight. As it happened, the two men who accompanied us were charming, so we decided to stay in Monte for a few more days; well, the weather was lovely too! The caravan was taken back on a trailer so we were free of it after that. The sun was shining and I knew back home in Ireland it was raining. We accepted the invitation to stay for a few days and we were glad we did. We sunbathed, drank the best of wine, enjoyed the food, the delightful company, and stayed in the best hotels.
When I was rallying, staying in nice hotels for any length of time just didn’t happen; the accommodation was usually very basic, and that’s why I jumped at the offer on the Tour de France Rally (nothing to do with the cycle race, of course). The Tour de France was a brilliant event that started in 1899, four years before that famous bicycle version, and, as its name implies, was a car rally run over French mountain climbs, where competitors raced at each of the major race circuits.
When we arrived at the circuits, enormous marquees – one for men and one for women – were erected. There was a very well-to-do French girl driving a Ferrari and when she saw me going into the marquee with the other women drivers she came over and, in very good English, asked if I would like to share her tent. I looked over at her ‘tent’, which was like no other I had ever seen; it was dark green with a golden metal trim around it. I had been told that she was a multi-millionaire and she certainly looked the part – beautiful and glamorous.
I took one look at the enormous marquee my colleagues were already entering, and another at her beautiful gazebo. Naturally, I followed the French girl. Inside, there was a separate bathroom with a shower and everything was so plush and luxurious, with beautiful red velvet covers on the beds and a chandelier. Having driven on the hot roads of France for a day and a night, this was heaven.
She told me I could shower first and I came out of that bathroom in my bra and pants, smelling wonderful and so happy with myself. She smiled as she came towards me, took me in her arms and started to kiss me. I wasn’t expecting that and I screamed, pushed her away and rushed out of the tent just as I was, half-naked, grabbing my clothes on the way. As I burst out, there was a group of lads sitting there, laughing their heads off. ‘We wondered how long it would take you to cop on,’ one of them shouted after me. Apparently a male driver had tried it on with Mademoiselle and she had told him where to go. I heard she later married a gay man who owned a vineyard adjacent to her own.
Far from France, I had great fun working with the Lombard & Ulster Bank in Northern Ireland when they were sponsors and R. E. Hamilton supplied the Ford Escorts. The managers of Lombard were clever and knew that, to get publicity, presentation was key. They took us to the Jaeger shop in Belfast and bought outfits for the whole team, men and women, and we looked incredibly smart. I would love to be able to walk into Jaeger now and have anything I put my eye on paid for.
Pauline Gullick and I took part in many rallies for Lombard & Ulster in England and Scotland. The two-day event on the Isle of Mull, which is the fourth largest island in Scotland and renowned for its spectacular scenery, was particularly memorable. In 1968, while on a family holiday at Glengorm Castle near Tobermory, the late Brian Molyneux had the idea of holding a rally on the island. Brian was a Lancashireman and chairman of the Mullard Motor Cycle and Car Club in Blackburn and enlisted his fellow committee members to help in the endeavour. It took a while to persuade the islanders, but eventually the first Tour of Mull took place in October 1969.
The Tour of Mull Rally in 1972 was particularly memorable for two reasons. The first is that I was 4th overall and I believe this has not been achieved since by an all-female crew, and secondly, because of a man. I won’t mention his name, but this gentleman had for some reason got ‘a bit of a thing’ for me. We stayed in the hotel on the jetty, and every time the ferry came from the mainland flowers would arrive – it was like a floating floral display! It was October and those flowers must have cost a small fortune. I gave them all to the hotel and the manager was delighted to be able to display them in every room. As for the admirer, well, it was a long time ago!
More recently, I was honoured to see myself on a postage stamp. To mark the centenary of the Royal Irish Automobile Club in 2001, An Post, the Irish General Post Office, issued a set of four stamps depicting various aspects of Irish motorsport. The stamps showed Paddy Hopkirk in his winning red Mini Cooper on the Monte Carlo Rally in 1964; Damon Hill winning the 1998 Belgium Grand Prix; a 1929 Mercedes SSK in the Irish Grand Prix in Phoenix Park; and me in the Hillman Imp on the Tulip Rally in 1965. That was really great and I have the whole set of stamps framed and sitting in pride of place in my home.
I have met many famous people in my career. Clement Freud was someone who crossed my path in the 1970s. He asked to meet me on one of his visits to Ireland, when he was staying in the Gresham Hotel, one of the best hotels in Dublin at the time. Horse racing was a passion of his and he once lost 30 pounds in weight, so that he could become a jockey. That was a short-lived career and by the time I met him he was the portly gentleman, who achieved fame by cooking, talking and being in an advertisement for Chunky dog food with a bloodhound called Henry. They say that owners of dogs end up looking like their pets and he certainly did have the look of a hound.
I was honoured to see myself on a postage stamp (Eire post office)
He was with Hugh Hefner in the Gresham on the day I met him. Freud was involved in the London Playboy Club and had met Hugh in Chicago, when he was writing for Woman magazine and following the story of six British girls who had gone out there to be ‘bunny girls’. I had nothing in common with either Hugh Hefner or Clement Freud, but Clement took a fancy to me and brought me on a number of lecture tours in England. I don’t know if he liked me or if he thought that my lack of education might benefit from his superior intellect! I was glad I didn’t get too involved, considering what was revealed about him after his death.
When I gave up rallying full-time, I was invited to become an honorary president of many motorsport clubs, at home and abroad. It was an honour to be asked to go to New Zealand, where the people are so friendly and the scenery is amazing. You could drive for miles and miles and see no one, just beautiful green fields, mountains, lakes and sheep. We were travelling one day on a classic rally and we stopped for tea. We were the only car for miles and suddenly a little Morris Minor went by, and the woman, who was putting the teapot down on the table, said, ‘It’s rush hour in Piopio.’ There are only 400 people living in that town and I suppose two cars passing in an hour constituted heavy traffic!
I don’t travel now as much as I used to and find myself fully occupied at home in Ireland. I have many acquaintances and a handful of very good friends, who I see all the time. They are of all ages and I find the age gap doesn’t matter any more, thank goodness for that! The young people at the driving school call me Rosie and I think it’s great – I grew up in a time when you couldn’t speak like that to your elders.
Young people today are full of confidence, and in the 19 years I have been running the school I have seen that grow and develop. When I ask them what they want to be when they leave school, they are full of ambition, with dreams of becoming vets, doctors, pop stars, scientists and writers. Most of them will go on to college and I envy them because I never had any formal education (my fault entirely). I know what’s going on in the world because I keep myself well informed, but I also know that I have missed out. I have to admit that my lack of a proper education is a regret.
I have every admiration for young women today as they embrace the many opportunities open to them. Those opportunities were denied me when I was young, not that I ever let that stop me. I operated in a male-dominated industry and had to prove myself every step of the way. From 1933 in Ireland, there was a ban on women working once they were married, and this ruling was in place for 40 years. If you worked for the local authorities, health boards or civil service, your employment was automatically terminated once you married. Women were supposed to stay at home and look after their husbands and children. These days many men stay at home to be stay-at-home dads, while their wives or partners go out to work, and they are happy to do so. When I was young, there were very few women working in science or engineering, and that is changing now to some extent. In politics, women are beginning to take their rightful place too. We have had two women presidents here in Ireland: Mary Robinson and Mary McAleese, who were both very successful. Currently, there are women leaders of political parties worldwide: Chancellor Angela Merkel in Germany, Prime Minister Theresa May in the UK, Governor-General Dame Patsy Reddy in New Zealand, President Kersti Kaljulai in Estonia. These women all hold positions that in the old days would have been occupied exclusively by men. The only area absolutely closed to women is full participation in the Catholic Church, but with its current attitude that’s no loss!
Young women today can make up their minds what they want to be and follow their dreams. They shouldn’t let anything or anybody stop them and if it doesn’t work out then they can go on to something else. When a young person fails the driving test and they are upset, I always tell them not to be disheartened and not to say they have failed. They haven’t failed, just not passed this time, and they have gained more experience for their next attempt.
I was helped and encouraged in my career by my father. He was a gentle man and all my memories of him are good ones. If not for my father’s encouragement when times were hard, I might have given up. He was my champion and I wanted him to be proud of me. He had driven in the Phoenix Park races as a young man and the idea that his beloved ‘Bub’ (that’s what he called me) had the opportunity to succeed in the sport was for him a dream come true.
My relationship with my mother was so different. Jane Kavanagh was a complicated woman, talented in so many ways, yet never content. She didn’t hide the fact that my brother Roger was her favourite. Why wouldn’t he be? He had such a lovely disposition. I am sure my mother loved me, but you would never know it from the way she sometimes behaved when we were together. No matter what I said or did, she would make something of it. Why do you wear your hair like that? That dress does nothing for you … On and on she went, with her negativity eating into me until I would walk away in despair. In company, she would answer questions addressed to me, as if I wasn’t clever enough to answer for myself. If she was here today, I know she would be giving me instructions as to how to write this book! It must have been something about me that brought out the worst in my mother because I know my cousins thought she was wonderful and my father adored her. I got on splendidly with my dad and he and I could spend hours together with never a cross word; he was my rock and I worshipped him.
I have been thinking a lot about my mother and it occurs to me that her discontent might be due to her upbringing. My grandmother died at the age of 28, when my mother, her sister Lily and their three brothers were very young. My grandfather remarried very quickly and had four more children with his new wife. Although my mother and her siblings were not exactly neglected, they were put to one side. Their stepmother was more concerned with her own children than with them, and the nurturing my mother must have craved was missing. She worked in her father’s company, but after marrying the only time she worked outside the home was when she and I ran the dressmaking business. Into her old age she would justify this by saying women didn’t go back to work after marriage in her day, but I believe her affair with my father’s friend had more to do with it.
Towards the end of my mother’s life, when my sister was in America, my brother Roger, my father and her second husband were all dead, all she had left was me. She lived about two miles from my house, and every single day she telephoned to ask where I was going and what I was doing. When I brought her out to lunch with my man friend, she started a row over something and tried to get him on her side against me.
I never took her outbursts lying down, but tried to stand up to her, and it all came to a head one Sunday. We were out on a drive in Wicklow and she began her usual string of cutting insults and criticised my driving. I got angry with her and she accused me of having no sense of humour. I can hear her now, talking and wittering on until something came over me. I shouted at her to stop, but she just kept on and on, so I pulled over on to the side of the road at Rathdrum and I told her to get out of the car. She must have thought I was joking at first because she sat there for a moment until I screamed at her: ‘Get out! I can’t stand it any more and I might kill you if you don’t go.’ With that, she picked up her gloves and bag and calmly got out of the car.
I drove home at top speed, not pausing to think about what I had done to my mother. Once inside my front door it hit me, and I started to imagine all the terrible things that might happen to her. What was I thinking of? What had I done? I got in the car and drove back down to where I had left her, but she was nowhere to be seen. I drove backwards and forwards and I knew she couldn’t have gone far.
There was a little café by the side of the road and I went inside to ask, had they seen an elderly woman with white curly hair? ‘Yes, she was here and they all had tea together,’ the woman told me. ‘Who were they, do you know?’ I asked. ‘I don’t know,’ came the reply, ‘but they seemed to know her and they said they were giving her a lift home.’ I went home and didn’t expect to hear from her again in a hurry, but next day she telephoned as if nothing had happened. It was all lovey-dovey: How are you darling? Will we go for lunch today? I would have preferred it if she had called me a thundering bitch for what I had done. My mother had minded me through my miscarriages and bad times, and we should have, could have, been the best of friends, but it wasn’t to be.
My mother had a brain haemorrhage in 1986 and was admitted to St Vincent’s Hospital, where the doctor told me bluntly that it would be better if she died as she would be a vegetable if she survived. I stayed by her bedside into the early hours, until the nurse said I should go home and get some sleep. Two hours later, the telephone rang and I was told she had died. I should never have left her to die alone; she would never have abandoned me, I know that, and I have regretted it ever since.