Authors: Robert Ryan
O
NE HUNDRED LAPS.
One hundred and ninety-seven miles. Sixteen cars.
Eve positioned herself near the pits, under the trees, just before the Ste Devote bend, right behind where their two ad hoc mechanics, Bernard and Jacques, hired, cajoled and flattered from the village garage and trained in the art of refuelling and tyre changing in the yard at the Normandy house, had set up shop. A large board in front of each station proclaimed the name and number of the driver. She tried not to dwell on all those hours ahead, hours in which her lover would try to drive as quickly as humanly possible through streets designed for horses and trams.
A lap of honour by Prince Louis, Antony Noghes accompanying, beaming. A year of hard work. Lobbying the International Association of Recognised Automobile Clubs, the Automobile Club de Monaco, the drivers and the manufacturers. Now, a happy man.
Robert and Maurice were positioned further along behind the Dreyfus pit stop, with Ettore and his son Jean Bugatti. Maurice could not fail to notice that, even at the start when the tension mounted as Prince Louis did a lap of honour and the crowd cheered his vision and generosity in allowing the race, Robert’s attention wandered along to where Williams was making frantic adjustments to his car, and Eve looked on, concerned and nervous.
Two laps of warm-up and the cars shuffled their way on to the grid under the watchful eye of Charles Faroux, the hard-bitten race organiser. Engines, gentlemen please.
The mechanics cranked the handles, engines fired, each one emitting its distinctive note, the low thrum of the Mercedes, the haughty cough of the Maserati, the piercing scream of the Alfa in the upper register and the strange tearing-fabric sound of the Bugattis. The drivers raised their hands one by one as the cars caught.
Williams watched Faroux move to the starter’s podium, his sombre face showing none of the excitement he must feel, at least if he had a human bone in his body, which, to be fair, many doubted. Williams tried not to notice the thousands of pairs of eyes raking the field, to concentrate on the clutch, the accelerator, the brake, the gear lever on his right-hand side, on the co-ordination that would be needed to get this car round the first bend. He started to breathe as Rudi suggested, purging the heart-flapping chemicals from his blood, remembering his words. Calm. Clinical.
At the back of the field, thanks to a terrible draw, with a sea of metal in front of him, mostly Alfa red and Bugatti blue, Rudi also began the process of clearing his mind, reducing his world to the immediate vicinity only, stripping away the background like so much scenery in a music hall, flats to be taken away. Everything shrank to the vibrating microcosm of the cockpit and the next straight, bend, gear change, chicane, tunnel, uphill, downhill, round.
The flag raised.
Williams reached up and swivelled his flat tweed cap so the peak pointed towards the rear and pulled down his goggles.
The flag dropped. Away.
Rudi saw the stalled car just in time, yanked the wheel to the left, felt himself clip the bodywork, corrected. He pressed the accelerator and listened to the noise of the car, straining his ears for a sign, a torn cowling, a shredded tyre, a bent drive shaft. Tell me, tell me. It told him. No damage. Fifteen cars. Fourteen ahead of him into the first sharp bend with its deceptive kink at the far side. Lot of work to do, Rudi, he thought. Lot of work.
Eight laps gone.
It was a sight to make Ettore Bugatti’s heart leap. Out of the tunnel towards the chicane they came, four of them, powering majestically down the incline like ships of the line. One, two, three, four. All Bugattis. In the lead, Williams, bringing the pack home, having snatched the vanguard from Lehoux in a daring manoeuvre along the Quai. But even without seeing that distinctive green, Ettore would have known which car it was by the engine note. So he had no trouble pinpointing number twelve, especially as Williams, this unknown Englishman, was adding something to the usual staccato roar of the engine, with gear changes so smooth as to be almost sensual, precise, yet delicate. Even Bugatti had to admit he was making the little car sing.
And then he saw the white shape and the familiar helmet. Rudi. Fifth. Fifth in a car that should have needed first gear and a team of horses to get round the hairpins, and here he was having bullied and pushed and sweated his way through the entire field to be a contender. Ettore watched the white behemoth close on Dreyfus and as they disappeared from view he knew Caracciola wasn’t going to let his Bugattis have it all their own way.
Lap 25.
Williams felt him before he saw him. As he entered the mouth of the tunnel the scream of the supercharger became a bouncing banshee, smacking off the multifaceted rock face. Then, almost subsonically, came the deeper whump of Caracciola’s Mercedes, the lazy 7.1 litre seeming to fire once every fifty metres, but delivering a magnificent amount of torque.
As number twelve exited the tunnel, the wall receding, Williams could feel the SSK looming behind, could hear the bassy boom of its big bore exhausts boxing his ears. He looked in the dancing mirror, and saw Rudi edge out, starting to probe.
Down the hill they accelerated towards the twitch of the chicane, until Caracciola could almost touch the shapely tail of the Bugatti. Now along the Quai, a glance at the open-mouthed crowds, their cheering unable to penetrate the gruff roar of the engine, instruments blurring as he braked for Tabac, down through the gears for the left hander, then back on the throttle, worrying the feisty little Bugatti all the way to Gasworks. Then he felt the slide, the wheels slither on the road surface, scrabbling for grip, and the back swing wildly. Trouble.
A rattle over the tram lines and up the hill now, and Rudi saw the Bugatti twitch on the oil-slicked surface. Rudi dived to the right, gambling on how the Englishman would correct his line, saw the supercharger of the twelve car vent smoke and flame through the hole in the bonnet, knew he had him, corrected his own back end as a wheel caught the oil slick on the cobbles, and was away powering up towards Ste Devote, in first place.
Lap 35.
Eve covered her eyes as Williams bravely stormed after the German, could feel his despair as the Mercedes rounded the bend first. She hated this, hated it. The next thing she knew Williams was in, grinning, face blackened by oil and smoke, urging Bernard on as the villager tipped fuel into the filler cap behind his head. He raised a hand to Eve, waited for the tap on his shoulder to tell him refuelling was complete, and floored the accelerator.
Eve looked across at Ettore and wondered who was the man next to him, calmly meeting her gaze. Then she had him. Robert Benoist. Looking right at her, those piercing eyes fixing her, a hint of a smile playing about his mouth. Eve had smiled back then turned her attention once more to the track, counting the seconds till Williams reappeared. He did. With Caracciola on his tail this time. She hated it.
Lap 75.
Eve watched as Rudi came rumbling into his designated pit slot and his white overalled mechanics leapt out at him. Rudi was out of the car and pointing furiously. New tyres. He needed new tyres. The strain of those corners had torn through the tread, leaving tendrils of rubber hanging down. The mechanics set about the wheel change while Rudi himself poured fuel into the thirsty monster. He looked up in despair as Williams rocketed by, willing the petrol into the tank, sloshing it carelessly over the bodywork and ground. Finally it was done and Rudi climbed back in and, grim faced, rejoined the battle. Eve looked at her watch. Over four minutes. Too slow, she knew. Far too slow.
Lap 100
.
Close to four hours after the start the chequered flag came down on Williams. He had averaged 49.83 mph, round the 1.97 mile course, and had the fastest lap—2 mins 15 seconds, at 52.69 mph. He came home 1 minute 17.8 seconds ahead of Bouriano’s 35C. An exhausted Rudi came home third, his arms numb from the exertion of handling the Mercedes.
As Williams pulled in after his lap of honour, the crowd surged forward. Antony Noghes struggled through with the cup and managed to thrust it into Williams’ hands, while flashes detonated all around. Williams saw Eve and beckoned her over. He kissed her, leaving a black smudge on her nose, which he made worse by trying to wipe away.
‘How does it feel?’ she asked him.
The grin that threatened to bisect his face said it all. Eve produced the gift with a flourish, holding it above his hand and while Williams snapped at it like a hungry dog, mesmerised by the way the diamonds caught the light. Theatrically he snatched it away and looked at it. A beautiful Carrier. He turned it over, but the steel back was unadorned.
‘Don’t worry, darling,’ she said. ‘We’ll get it engraved. First in the first.’
Then she lost him as everybody else pressed in to claim their piece of the day’s hero.
Robert watched Williams and Rudi pose, the weary combatants of the race. Maurice had been talking to Ettore and scuttled back as fast as his limp would allow.
‘Good gossip, brother. She is, or was, the mistress of Bill Orpen. The painter. He … you will like this … he is the chauffeur. The chauffeur.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes and apparently the money is all hers. He’s a kept man.’
‘Lucky chap.’
‘But Ettore reckons that was one of the best drives he has seen. Says the man has star quality. He’s invited him to Molsheim. Going to offer him a team drive.’
‘Is he now?’
‘He thinks he could go all the way. Champion.’
Robert watched as Eve appeared at Williams’ side, now clutching a small dog in her arms, and posed for more photographs, then he turned and slipped away into the crowd.
Sir William Orpen had, of course, heard of Robert Benoist, all of France had, but he had never met the driver before. So he was rather taken aback when Robert came visiting him at his studio and asked to see some of his work with a view to purchasing one. However, as he was crating up to ship back to England, he would be more than pleased to offload a few canvases.
Orpen waited as Robert flicked through the stacks in the studio until he had found what he was looking for. As he suspected. ‘Beautiful, isn’t she?’ declared Robert, redundantly.
‘Hhmm.’
‘How much is this one?’
‘It’s not for sale, alas.’
Robert lifted it out, tried to imagine what it would be like in a frame rather than on the primitive stretcher, admired the graceful curve of the reclining nude, the playful smile on the face. ‘Why not?’
‘I’m rather fond of it. It was my last portrait of her.’
‘Two hundred and fifty thousand?’
Orpen coughed. ‘Two-fifty? Done.’
Robert smiled and they shook on the deal. ‘I’ll have it picked up tomorrow if that is convenient with you.’
‘Absolutely. Just get your man to call in advance. I’ll have it properly packed. To protect her.’
Robert stepped back and admired his purchase, ‘What’s it called?’
Orpen, already regretting his hasty decision, murmured quietly: ‘Early One Morning’.
FRANCE, JUNE 1929
W
ILLIAMS DROVE ONE
more race at Montlhery after Monaco—a spirited second place in an all-Bugatti field, with fellow Englishman Lord Howe winning—before the journey to Molsheim. He and Eve decided to drive in their new Peugeot, heading north west from Paris, stopping at Rheims, Verdun, site of the most famous battle of the Great War, at least in France, Metz and arriving in Molsheim, to the west of Strasbourg, early on the fourth day.
Eve couldn’t help but notice how relaxed and happy Williams was, as if a great weight had been lifted from him. Having proved he could actually race and win, some inner calm had finally taken over. Although she now knew him well enough to suspect that, like a slow drip, the need for excitement would build up again gradually. For the moment he had nothing to prove. He was up there with the elite.
They were astonished to find Molsheim was less a works than a grand estate. Even the factory seemed like an extension of the house, spotlessly clean, with a relaxed, friendly workforce building cars—including a mock-up of the fabulous and gargantuan Royale, rumoured to be one of the most expensive vehicles ever produced—boats and the prototype railcars that Bugatti had designed using petrol engines and pneumatic tyres. Eve and Williams put up at the small hotel that had been built for customers who wished to stay over, and were then invited to join in the shoot.
‘What’s in season?’ asked Williams.
‘Pigeons,’ said Ettore.
In the large pasture behind the factory twenty or so people had gathered to take turns at what the Americans called skeet shooting. Bugatti had installed a system that could hurl ten clays up at a time if required, to try to duplicate the mass explosion of birds from the undergrowth. Of course, when all ten were used it made sorting out who had hit what rather difficult.
Ettore pointed out some of the other guests. ‘Bradley. English motoring journalist. Philippe de Rothschild. Banker, of course. Fine driver, too. Next to him, my son Jean. I’ll show you some of his designs later. Very good. Robert Benoist I believe you know. No? I’ll introduce you. Next to him, his brother Maurice.’
Bugatti was interrupted by a mass discharge of guns as the discs came arcing through the air, all but one exploding into tiny shards.
‘Holtschaub. Customer. Dumas from the Ministry of Transport—here about the railcars, naturally—Meo Constantini, my race manager—’ A second detonation of shotguns, more innocent clays pulverised in mid air. ‘Would you like a try?’
Williams nodded and was found a place and a gun. He discovered the whole process oddly satisfying. No living creature suffered, there was an element of skill—although the line of flight was more predictable in the clay than with avian flesh and blood targets—and he found he was really rather good. Except when Eve decided to tickle him or surreptitiously slid her hand across the front of his trousers.
Robert broke his gun and watched. Maurice sneered, ‘I told you she was a slut.’