BUILDING A CAR WITH A HEADBOARD
One of the ways we had fun in the fifties was filling in I-Spy books, which were spotters’ guides for kids. Each book covered a different subject, things like cars. Whenever you saw a car (or a tree, or a plane), you ticked it off, then you sent in the book and got a certificate.
Being a car nut, I wanted to “spy” Daimler Conquests, Mercedes, and Admirals. Where were they? Perhaps in the posh areas; like the streets of Newcastle were full of them, because Dunston’s sure weren’t.
It was around this time that people started buying TVs. The job of digging up the streets and installing the cables for the TVs was given to a contractor called Rediffusion. Fleets of red Bedfords drove up and down Britain. As soon as we clapped eyes on these vans, we were determined to get in one. They were so new and fabulous to us.
I’ll never forget it.
My first smell of gasoline was the smell of freedom. When I told Pops about the vans, he knew the only way he was going to have some peace was if he got me driving. He wasn’t a sergeant major for nothing. So off he went to the local garage and asked them if they had an old steering wheel. It could come from any car as long as it wasn’t German. He got one for sixpence (I didn’t get any pocket money that week). He got a large stick, pushed it through our headboard, and piled all the pillows up, like a driving seat.
“Son, there’s your first car,” he said. Four legs, iron castors, no brakes, no gas tank, no tax, no insurance. “Thanks, Pops.” I jumped in and drove forever. It was everything I’d ever wanted. As Pops left the room, I heard him mutter, “Thank Christ for that . . .”