DEATH AND DESTRUCTION
It was summer 1966, and we were driving down the A1 to Dover to go on our first international holiday, to my Italian side of the family’s house in Frascati, near Rome. By “we,” I mean George Beveridge, Robert Conlin, and me. England were beating Germany 4–2 in the World Cup at Wembley. What a day! We gave two fingers to every German car we saw. This was the life: three nineteen-year-old lads in a quite new Renault 9—it was Rob Conlin’s (he was an only child, lucky git). We were going where our fathers had been twenty years earlier, but we weren’t going to get shot at.
We boarded the ferry at Dover, and the cars were just unbelievable: Aston Martin 4s and 5s, Bentley Continentals, Facel Vegas, Ferraris, even a Gullwing Mercedes, all on one ship. We couldn’t believe there were so many rich people in the world.
This was a time when you were really proud to be British. Honest. The Beatles and the Stones ruled the world, Minis were selling everywhere, though in Italy they were made under license and called Innocenti. British bikes still ruled the roost: Norton, Triumph, BSA, Ariel, James.
We were off. The ferry left the port, and for the first time in my life I saw what the White Cliffs of Dover fuss was all about. The drive through France, Switzerland, then Northern Italy, then, on the well-named Autostrada Sud, to Frascati was just wonderful. We had a great time, and suddenly realized that cars were everything to the Italians. The beautiful Alfas, Giuliettas, Lancias. They were a little different.
When we left, after two great weeks, little did we know what was about to happen to us. The family loaded us up with cardboard boxes full of wine and hams and salamis. We were hemmed in pretty good. Off we set, late as usual, and got lost a few times trying to find the road out of Frascati.
After driving through the night, Robert Conlin was pretty tired by about four a.m. He wouldn’t let George or myself help him drive, in case “we broke the gears.” I swear that’s what he said. So we slept as best we could in the car. We were about a third of the way through France, on the dreaded N7 autoroute, notorious in motoring fraternities for death and destruction. We had to get to Calais for the ferry or we’d miss work in Newcastle on Monday. The day was Saturday, and the ferry ticket said four thirty p.m. departure. If we kept going, only stopping for gas, we’d be okay.
Rob didn’t look that good, so we volunteered our driving services, but we were denied yet again. George Beveridge said to me, “Hey, how about a swap, Brian? I’m sick of sitting in the back.” The back did look like a mobile grocer’s, but it was my turn, so we swapped. That was the best swap I ever did in my life.
One hour later, on the N7, there was a family of four having a picnic at the side of the road, by their Peugeot Estate. We had just passed a car full of English nurses, and we’d waved to each other. Rob Conlin fell fast asleep at the wheel doing 70 mph, and before we could do anything, he hit the Peugeot full-on. Everything turned black-and-white; I mysteriously went completely deaf; and it’s true, it was all in slow motion: “HOLY SHIT, is this thing ever gonna stop rolling?” It went over seven times, according to witnesses. The roof of the car was flattened to the door-handle level. There was complete silence.
Then the screaming started. Rob Conlin was the screamer: the steering wheel had collapsed and the ignition key had gone through his rib cage. George had been catapulted out of the front seat into a field. I was trapped. This car was rear-engined. There was no way out. I took deep breaths and checked for blood. “None—that’s not possible. Ooh, you jammy swine,” I thought. The bloody awful French sirens were getting closer. Voices surrounded the car, English voices, girls’ voices, nurses’ voices. I sat and waited to be rescued, but the problem was they didn’t know I was there. They couldn’t see me.
I must admit to a smidgen of panic, because the car was on its side, gas was leaking everywhere, and the engine was hot. I started shouting, but I was told later that everybody was looking after Rob or in the field with George, who had horrendous injuries.
I decided to try to get out through the engine bay, daft bugger. I pulled the seat away—not difficult in sixties’ Renaults—put my hand through and promptly burnt myself. I screamed, “OOYAH!” Just then a pompier saw me and shouted, “Cet git anglais entre l’auto est FUCKAYED!” (I think.)
They got me out and laid me down. Shock was setting in now, and the enormity of the swap I did with George. There was my best pal on a stretcher, lookin’ so dead, being rushed into an ambulance. Oh, George, don’t die . . .
Everybody was looking at me kinda weird, I couldn’t understand it. I’d just survived a major prang and they were looking at me like it was my fault. Then the policeman asked if we’d been drinking, and that’s when I realized I was drenched in Italy’s finest wine. The only reason we weren’t done for that was because I pointed out that all the corks were still in the bottle necks. And that’s when the pain in my chest kicked in. So I hadn’t got away with it; it was an inside job—three broken ribs.
I was put in a village B&B. They were so nice to me. The others were in the hospital, I’ll never forget that night. I was alive, but I didn’t know if George was. Next day, I went to the hospital. The lads were alive. A little battered, but that didn’t matter. We had no money at all, so all we worried about was getting out of there. George had stitches all over his face and was still bleeding. What we did was, I rubbed some of his blood on my face, jumped into bed, and pretended to be George, while George, with Rob’s help, dressed in a cupboard. We then proceeded to the train station to catch the train to Paris, with hospital staff chasing us to pay the bill.
A wonderful guy from the British Embassy had got us tickets to England on the boat train, but it was to London only. We had no money for food and, God, we were hungry. When we got to King’s Cross, after walking through London with our clothes in cardboard boxes, we got three tickets home by promising to pay the people who’d lent us the money back within a month.
Finally, on Sunday afternoon, we arrived in Newcastle. What must we have looked like—George like young Frankenstein, and me with blood all over my pants? That’s when Rob Conlin pulled out his wallet and said he was getting a cab home. The bugger had had money all the time! George and I dragged our sorry asses to Dunston, our home village, about four miles away.
At 7:25 on Monday morning, I clocked on at C. A. Parsons & Co. Ltd., broken ribs and all. George went to the hospital to get more glass out of his face. He still has a piece in his head to this day.