Marginal MG Motoring

I remember my first car as clearly as though it were parked in my garage today, I was in my first year of college in London. The car was an M Type MG two years my senior, having first explored the leafy lanes, highways and busy cities of England in the year nineteen hundred and thirty one. I purchased it for Ten Quid from a fellow student who had passed his exams and decided that he now deserved a kinder and more gentle means of transport. The current student value was a few bucks less but as this model had the all metal body rather than fabric I decided to go for broke. A familiar situation in those days! Prior to this acquisition my general mode of transport was a WW2 Norton motor cycle, that required its rider to have one leg longer and stronger than the other just to start the thing. It also had a tendency to kick back without warning which did little to impress the female passenger balancing precariously on a chair pillion tied to the back mudguard with several feet of string.

I considered myself to be something of a entrepreneur when I sold the motor bike for Eight Pounds and purchased my “rag top sports” for just two more. Surely a sign that as and when I completed my higher education the world would certainly have another Rockerfeller to contend with, Owning this car and enduring the love-hate relationship was akin to living with a leeching relative. As a college student I was constantly strapped by tight finances but this car taught me patience, discipline and the ability to operate under stress. I could afford those repairs that managed to keep the engine running. Everything else including the ability to stop at short notice, took a back seat, in consequence I did meet several fellow motorists from time to time by introducing myself and my car to the rear end of their vehicle. In 1931 this car was considered a touring version of the popular Morris Minor. This really meant that they saved a few bob by not fitting a real top, a sliding roof or proper side windows. Furthermore the doors were only half size which must have contributed to saving a few more pennies. Not only were they half size they also had no real door locks. At any moment whilst taking a corner at break neck speed, (about twenty MPH providing the road was not wet) the door on the near side would simply pop open leaving the passenger hanging on to anything that would serve as a anchor. Sometimes, especially after a few beers in the local watering hole, the door would fly open and one of the three passengers residing in, on or under the single passenger seat would simply fade away into the night. Often no one even noticed until the next day when the individual turned up for class with his or her arm in a sling or on crutches. Another little quirk was the sticking pedal that was, over a period of time, to become a chronic condition that eventually required serious attention in the form of a four quid repair, more than I ever spent on the engine throughout our three year relationship. Often whilst waiting at a stop light I would lean under the dashboard to try to free the thing. This could lead to some interesting situations when the lights changed and I was still trying my karate chop on the offending unit. On one occasion I did manage to get the thing free with the heel of my shoe but in the process must have knocked the gear shift into reverse. As I took my other foot off the slipping clutch, (we never seemed to achieve a smooth take off no matter what I did), the car jumped back at least four feet and landed on the front bumper of a very new, shining automobile being driven by a now terrified senior citizen. Thank God his car had good brakes so that my reverse projection was halted before I did any serious damage…to my car! After I had excepted his profound apologies for hitting my rear end, it would seem that at the moment of impact he had just moved into first gear thereby concluding that he had hit me. A brief exchange of names and addresses followed by two crisp five pound notes pressed into my hand resolved the matter. That was when I decided to make the capital expenditure on my sticking pedal before my guardian gave up on me and went off to protect a more worthy camdidare. During that period, when the car and I were still on friendly terms, I decided to improve the appearance with a paint job. After all having spent 85% of my new found wealth on a pedal rehabilitation I thought a further fifteen on cosmetics was not an extravagant proposition. In Dome magazine that I believe addressed the then new craze of DIY I noticed article that suggested that the best way to get a durable yet brilliant paint finish was to utilise a large female powder puff, the sort of thing that twelve year old girls just love as a present on their thirteenth birthday.

All I had to do was dab the PP into any chosen paint and then brush it on to the required surface. The end result was virtually guaranteed to give amazing results. (At least that part was right!)

My first problem was the instant destruction of several PPs when dipped into the paint and applied to the car. After the fourth or perhaps fifth loss of a PP one could not help but notice that a percentage of “Puff” remained on the car, giving the appearance of a mini shag carpet rather than a gleaming automobile.

The colour I had chosen was a deep Burgundy, purchased that very morning from the nearest Woolworth store. The tin was clearly marked “Ideal for outside use” so I knew that I had the right paint. It must be the cheap PPs I was using, also purchased from Woolworth.

Throwing caution to the wind I lashed out a further two bob and purchased a “Super Deluxe Lambs Wool” PP convinced that this would solve the problem. Needless to say I was wrong, and for the remaining period of my ownership “Nellie” as she was affectionately known, had one fluffy fender. The rest of the car was painted with a conventional brush and turned out reasonably well. In fact my two quid paint job had every appearance of costing at least twice that figure apart from the near side fender. Considering the age of the car I got reasonable fuel mileage, about thirty something to the gallon, almost equal to the oil consumption. In fact oil became a more serious expense than petrol as it seemed to cost more. I would stop and put in two gallons of fuel at around six shillings, give or take a penny. The oil however cost close to a full seven and six and that was the cheap stuff. Nellie always needed two/three large quarts to get her circulation back to that expensive line on the dip stick. In the end I resolved the problem by purchasing “recycled material”, my local garage would sell me a full gallon of nearly new oil recently taken from a customers car during some expensive operation called on oil change. I never needed to waste money on such refinements, my car changed its own oil every hundred miles. The battery was another source of trouble, it never seemed to take in enough electricity to start the engine. Thank goodness I had a starting handle and as the compression was at best modest, it was not difficult to swing the thing half a dozen times. Any one who has seen black and white movies of our gallant flyers in the First World War will be able to visualise the situation. Me, the gallant hero, sitting at the controls, She, my date for the evening, up front clasping the starting handle with both hands. “Contact”, she swings the engine nothing happens, “Again” one more swing and a slight rumble greets our ears. “Think it will fire this time”, two more swings. a loud bang followed by a equally large cloud of grey smoke at the rear. “Here we go! Once more and we are on our way!”. By this time my companion has discarded her purse and one or two items of superfluous clothing. One more swing and Bingo we are off. Sometimes this last attempt did result in a damaged nylon stocking, but who cares, we are off to travel the highways and byways of life, or something like that!

There was one serious problem that I could never totally resolve, I had extreme difficulty seeing where I was going at night. “Nellie” did have a wonderful pair of almost sensual headlights , large, cone shaped and firm. However her six volt system was not the brightest star on the road and if I put on her main lights for more than a few minutes the battery ran down. In consequence most of my nocturnal driving was done via the two minuscule side lights that were reminiscent of gentle glow worms in a summer garden.

The final end to our relationship came almost unexpectedly as such things often do. I had decided to change one of the tyres, the one with the least amount of tread and a slight shake at speeds over ten miles an hour. The process of changing the wheel required three bricks and a block of wood. I carried these items with me to supplement the mechanical jack that came with the car but would not hold any weight for more than thirty seconds. On reflection I recall that I could jack up the car, assemble the blocks and release the lift in fifteen to twenty seconds, providing it is not raining.

Anyway, back to changing the wheel on that memorable day when “Nellie” and I bid a fond farewell to each other. I had just taken off the wheel and was busy trying to glue back one or two spokes that had parted company with the rim, when a voice from behind said, “Is this car yours?” Looking round I expected to see the usual Policeman standing on the pavement about to tell me that I could not do repairs on the Queen’s Highway. Instead it was a rather well dressed man who seemed to be interested in my endeavours. “Yes, it’s my baby” I replied. “Who painted the thing, and what’s all that fluff stuff, on the front fender?” Indignation swelled up in me. “For your information this is the original paint except for that nearside fender which I am about to strengthen with fibreglass”. I know this may seem hard to believe but it must have sounded good as he nodded his head indicating that he understood the merits of that new wonder material called Fiberglass. I had seen the term in a local newspaper and concluded that it would like the “Fluffy Fender” on the nearside of “Nellie” “Would you consider selling the car?”

“Depends on how much I could get for this beauty, I’ve spent a lot of time restoring her to the condition she is in now” (That was no lie).

“Had one of these when they were all the rage some twenty years ago, Don’t see many around these days” (I could understand that).

“Would you consider fifty pounds.” “Think it’s worth at least twice that amount” I heard myself say as my mind went into a state of shock at refusing such an offer. “Split the difference, lets say seventy five, in cash, now!” A few minutes later I pushed seventy five big ones into my back pocket, helped the owner refit the wheel with the glued spokes, handed over the registration and watched “Nellie” disappear out of my life in a cloud of grey smoke.

Thank goodness we never met again and I never got that expected phone call from her new owner asking for his money back.

I often wonder if she is now resting in someone’s garage completely restored and the pride and joy of her owner winning prizes at classic car shows and being admired by everyone who sees her.

If I had kept her that’s what she would have been today. But at twenty two with no prospects except a blind hope that you will get through exams, seventy five big one’s is a Kings Ransom, especially in 1956. If you are wondering what mode of transport followed “Nellie”, I purchased another motor cycle, with a rear seat, for twenty pounds and eventually sold it for fifteen. It would seem that with the passing of “Nellie” my ability to turn a fast buck ended. I guess that’s why I never became a reincarnation of Rockefeller.

Geoff Wheatley

New England T Register USA.