With Christmas now fast approaching and, here in England, it being, traditionally, the time for a ghost story, the end of this tale is highly seasonal, which is why, I have delayed posting it until now.
Merry Christmas, one and all.
The Irish Chauffeur
Chapter Six
Kindred Spirits
Rosenberg, Austria, 19th June 1936.
Edith had said it many times before.
That here at Rosenberg, the view from the terrace, towards the Alps, was truly magnificent.
The photographs which she had shown the family on board the Rome Express, back in the summer of '32, bore witness to that. And, even Mary, who was not one who was known to bestow accolades lightly, after the visit which Matthew, she, and the children had paid to Rosenberg in the summer of the following year, had to concede that the black and white photographs did not do justice, either to the house or to the beauty of its setting. As Matthew and Mary both agreed, while standing on the terrace, sipping cocktails, with Friedrich and Edith, watching the sun setting over the distant Alps, superlatives were rendered redundant by the reality of both. Even if at the time, as Mary was also quick to notice, the light of that same setting sun, made the diamonds in Edith's splendid tiara sparkle and shimmer, serving only to accentuated its undeniable magnificence.
As for the rest of the family, along with all their brood,Tom and Sybil were expected here at Rosenberg on an extended visit next summer, if both could be persuaded to make time in their busy lives for the long trip from Dublin, by both boat and by train, all the way across Europe, to Vienna. Much to Tom's disappointment, and that of Danny too, Sybil flatly refused to fly, something which, since but scarce a month ago, had now become a reality.
Even so, she would not, said Sybil, in her latest letter to Edith, risk putting all her chicks in one basket. Given the fact that Aer Lingus, which just this month past had begun flights from Baldonnel Airfield southwest of Dublin, across the Irish Sea, over to Whitchurch Airport on the outskirts of Bristol in England, had but one aircraft, which had a seating capacity of six, the analogy had not been lost on Tom. Nor on Edith either, who, despite her own intrepid nature and her undoubted fearlessness when it came to travelling abroad, had been undeniably and uncharacteristically worried by Friedrich and Max flying over to England.
With Kurt held fast in her arms, hugging the little boy tightly to her, desperate for some kind of reassurance, Edith slowly paced the sun-warmed paving of the stone-flagged terrace; to and fro, to and fro. Darling Tom! What on earth could she possibly do? Send a telegram? There was no time. A telephone call then? That would take longer still. In any case, what could she possibly have said? That she had a vague premonition that something was wrong. Even if his innate good manners would prevent him from saying so,Tom would think she had gone mad. They all would. So the answer to her silent question was pure and simple: nothing. Except wait and pray to God that her feeling of foreboding, of approaching disaster, proved not to be so.
Here, within sight of the mountains, the air was clear and pure, and all manner of sound carried a long way.
Sefton Hotel, Douglas, Isle of Man, that same morning.
With the postponed Senior TT very shortly about to get underway from in front of the grandstand over on Glencrutchery Road on the west side of Douglas, here in the lobby of the Sefton Hotel, where the Bransons, the Crawleys and the Schonborns were now standing, impatiently awaiting the arrival of the last member of their party, Danny Branson yawned and stretched, drawing amused looks from both of his uncles.
"And that's the trouble with these Irishmen, for sure!" laughed Matthew, at the same time tapping the side of his nose and with a merry twinkle in his eye, now turning to Friedrich. "Absolutely no stamina whatsoever!"
"What was that, about the Irish and stamina?" asked a lilting voice from somewhere behind them.
All now turned, to see Tom on whom they had been waiting, making his way spritely down the main staircase of the Sefton Hotel, kitted out in full motorbike leathers, including gauntlets, helmet, and goggles, all of which he had purchased from Lewis Ltd. of Great Portland Street, London, and for which he and Sybil had made a special trip up to town the last time the Bransons were over in England, staying at Downton.
"Well, Tom, old chap, you certainly look the part," observed Matthew with a grin.
At the foot of the hotel staircase, Tom made them all a sweeping mock obeisance.
"Why, thank you, milord! I'll take that as a compliment, Matthew; although I'm not entirely sure if that was how it was meant!" Danny and Robert exchanged amused glances. As had been the case up on the summit of Snaefell a couple of days earlier, both of them found themselves enjoying once again the easy banter and camaraderie that often ensued between their fathers. "And, as to Danny being tired, I'll have you know that while all the rest of you were still fast asleep, early this morning, before breakfast, Danny and myself went back over to the grandstand to see some of riders coming back from taking practice laps around the circuit".
And all of which was true enough.
In fact, the roads necessary to the running of the TT had been closed off at three in the morning for those who wanted to undertake practice sessions around the whole or but part of the circuit; with the Falcon Cliff Hotel here in Douglas even offering very early breakfasts. Nonetheless, these early morning practice runs meant that those resident on the island, as well as visitors to it, and who were staying close to the course, owing to the noise from all the exhausts, were all but guaranteed an abrupt and unwelcome end to their night time slumbers.
Glencrutchery Road, Douglas, earlier that same morning.
Even if it had been a case of having to be up with the lark, while the others were all yet still fast asleep in their beds, Matthew no doubt dreaming of Mary and the delights of a second honeymoon in Scotland, and young Max of piloting the Junckers G. 38 all the way from from Berlin's Tempelhof Airport to Croydon, along with a host of others, both Tom and Danny Branson were to be found in the refreshment tent at the rear of the wooden grandstand on Glencrutchery Road, where mugs of cocoa and coffee, provided by Cadbury's and Dunlop, were on offer.
Both of them long since fascinated by all manner of machines and matters mechanical, for the two Bransons, now standing sipping their piping hot cocoa, this early morning start had been too good an opportunity to miss. Quite what Sybil would have made of it all, was open to question. Probably something along the lines of what she had said to Mrs. Murray, when she met her on Main Street in Blackrock, outside the butcher's, shortly after Tom and Danny had sailed for the Isle of Man: that boys will be boys.
A short while later, invigorated by their cocoa, out in the damp, grey, misty, early morning air, midst a diaphonous haze of cigarette smoke, petrol, oil, and exhaust fumes, Tom and Danny saw that a number of race officials were already out and about too; busying themselves ensuring that all the necessary paperwork for each of the entries in today's event was in order. In particular, that the payment by each competitor for the exemption registration certificate, costing two shillings and sixpence permitting the use of the motorcycle concerned on the island's roads, had been made; Tom already having produced his documents for inspection and paid his dues yesterday. And among the other race officials, there were the motorcycle mounted Travelling Marshalls, the eyes and ears of the Clerk of Course, appointed to provide him with pre- race information on both road and weather conditions as well as to speed to any incidents occurring out on the thirty seven miles of the Mountain Course.
In a very short time, the two Bransons found themselves rubbing shoulders with several of the other entrants for the Senior TT. Not surprisingly, most of them hailed from Great Britain, such as the likes of George Rowley, Harold Daniell, Jimmy Guthrie, and Freddie Frith. But others came from somewhat further afield: Heiner Fleischmann and Oskar Steinbach, both from Nazi Germany, while Johnny Galway had come all the way from the Southern Hemisphere - from the Union of South Africa. Of all of these, the one man Tom was especially pleased to see was his fellow Irishman, Stanley Woods, who had helped smooth matters for him so as to permit Tom to ride in the Senior TT in the first place.
Then there were the motor mechanics; resplendent in dirty blue and grey overalls and worn, seemingly with pride, indeed almost as a badge of honour, prized as much as were their heavily oil-stained fingers, seeing all manner of last minute adjustments and, in particular, ensuring that petrol tanks which, at the insistence of the Isle of Man Steam Packet Company had to be pumped dry for the crossing over the Irish Sea, were primed and fully filled. There were factory managers, and trade representatives too, dapper, smart, and well groomed, sporting stylish suits with razor sharp creases in their trousers, all of them belonging to one or other of the principal motorcycle firms. Once again most of these were British, such as AJS formerly of Wolverhampton, BSA, Norton, and Veloce, all of Birmingham in the English Midlands, while others such as BMW, DKW, and NSU were from Germany.
There were journalists as well.
Not only from here on the island, from both the Examiner and the Isle of Man Times, but from each side of the Irish Sea, some of whom Tom knew personally, representing a swathe of the British press: the Times, the Telegraph, the Express, and the Sketch. And a clutch of Irish papers too: the Independent, naturally, and the Evening Herald, as well as from the north, the Belfast News Letter and the Irish News. All of them putting aside their political and sectarian differences to report on the TT.
And there was also a handful of foreign correspondents; more particularly, one from across the English Channel, over in Nazi Germany, a reporter accredited to the Vőlkischer Beobachter which, with an undisguised expression of disgust registered upon his face, Tom now explained to Danny was the main Nazi daily newspaper. According to Da, the rag, he would not dignify it with the title of a newspaper, was toadying towards the Führer, Herr Hitler, and peddled whatever claptrap and rubbish it was the Reich Minister of Propaganda, Herr Goebbels, wanted it to publish.
However, of rather more immediate concern to Danny, and it must be said to his great disappointment, was the fact that this year there was no film crew present, as there had been twelve months ago when George Formby's motion picture, No Limit, which Danny and Da had been to see earlier this very year, at the Metropole Cinema on O'Connell Street in Dublin, had been filmed on the Isle of Man by Associated Talking Pictures, and which had used the 1935 TT as its backdrop.
Nonetheless, of all those milling about the grandstand, impatient for the Senior TT to get underway, and of whom there were a very great many indeed, the majority were overwhelmingly of the general public, a goodly number of which, following on from the excitement of the previous year, had arrived on the Isle of Man, not only from the British mainland but from other countries too, the latter hoping that their own riders such as Geiss, Steinbach, and Tenni would do even better than they had done the year before. Even so, the sight of several of those who had come over from Germany wearing Nazi armbands proved extremely unwelcome.
In fact, if the truth be told, there would have been still more spectators here today too, had it not been for the fact that the re-arranged date for the Senior event meant that many of those who had come over from the north west of England to witness it, with only four telephone lines over to the mainland, finding it impossible to re-book their return passages with the Isle of Man Steam Packet Company, had already had to leave the island and sail for home, unable to stay on to see the race.
Now, as Tom and Danny continued to wander about, there was much to be overheard by way of chin wagging, gossip, and the telling of tall tales, the exchange of names and addresses, as well as heated discussions, most of which concerned the performance, or otherwise, of various motorcycles; including the four-cylinder supercharged AJS models, ridden by the likes of Rowley and Daniell and which, despite their high top speeds, lacked acceleration.
Other problems encountered were also the subject of much debate, along with vociferous opinions being expressed on the alterations and improvements introduced this year by several of the manufacturers; not all of which met with universal approval. In the course of their own conversation, Stanley Woods, who was riding a Velocette, had already told Tom all about the new pivoted-fork rear suspension and the oleomatic units for air springing and oil damping developed by Veloce. It seemed too that Norton, whose own entries for this year's TT, had all been paid for by Castrol Oils, had made improvements to both the bores and strokes of its own machines, as well as increased finning for the engines, and introduced larger diameter brakes. But then altered the rear suspension on the works entries of Jimmie Guthrie, John "Crasher" White, and Freddie Firth.
"And kept its single cylinder racers too," said Tom in a quiet aside to Danny as the two of them walked away from having chatted with the Norton team.
Rosenberg, Austria.
It made no possible sense, for as Edith stood stock still and watched from the terrace, as before, the roar of the approaching motorbike grew ever louder. Yet, strange to relate, once again, on the dusty lane that traversed the meadow beyond the edge of the estate, there was nothing to be seen.
A moment later, and the sound itself had faded away.
Glencrutchery Road, Douglas, Isle of Man.
A short while later, Danny paused beside a wooden trestle table in order so as to take the opportunity to flick through some old copies of The Motorcycle, Motor Cycling, and Motor Sport. As was only to be expected, the articles inside the various issues of the magazines were both many and varied and included club news, details of what had been forthcoming events, along with adverts, and classifieds. There were reports too of past TTs, of the Manx Grand Prix, the Scottish Six Days Trial, and the Ulster Grand Prix. However, fascinating as all of this was to Danny, what was of particular interest to him and which, had Sybil been present to witness what it was her eldest son was looking at, would have horrified her, was singular advice on how to choose, purchase, and license one's first motorbike.
Half turning and seeing Danny so well absorbed, smiling to himself, while yet remaining in clear sight of his son, Tom moved on a short way, thinking of nothing in particular, other than wondering what at this precise moment Sybil herself would be doing. No doubt like themselves, up with the lark, and, in her case, attending to the needs of little Dermot who, now aged all of three, was proving to be just as much of a handful as his brothers and sister had been at that age.
Then, for Tom, there now occurred something, so strange that it defied belief.
About him, the numerous sounds of the TT faded into silence, to be replaced, close at hand, by but one : the unmistakeable throaty roar of a powerful Brougham Superior, the same as he had heard yesterday up on the lonely, windswept mountain road which traversed the high, eastern flank of Snaefell.
"... and, as you can see, very interesting for sure. Da? Are you all right, Da?" Feeling someone grasp his arm, Tom turned to see Danny standing right beside him with a couple of magazines held in his hand. Both abstracted and bemused, Tom continued to look about him, clearly mystified by something which Danny could not comprehend. Nor, for that matter, could Tom.
"Yes, son, for sure. Didn't you hear it?"
"Hear what, Da?"
The sound faded away; normality reasserted itself.
"No matter". Tom nodded towards the magazines. "Interesting?"
"Yes, Da. Like I just said". Danny looked quizzically at his father and then shook his head.
On the whole, there was a far greater degree of camaraderie than rivalry between the soon-to-be competitors and it was this which made what then happened but a short while after all the more unpleasant and inexplicable.
Much taken with one of the motorbikes being serviced by a couple of mechanics, to be more precise a DKW SB 500A built just last year, while Da contented himself chatting to a journalist from the Isle of Man Examiner, Danny wandered over to take a closer look. He was very well aware that the machines produced at the DKW factory at Chemnitz over in Saxony in Germany, enjoyed an excellent reputation, both for their design and engineering. Having spent some time sizing up the magnificent beast before him, with its twin, two-stroke engine, a top speed of just over seventy one miles an hour, girder fork coil spring front suspension and rigid rear suspension, a petrol tank holding nearly three and a half gallons, expanding drum brakes, electric starter, and twin headlights it was truly a wonderful machine.
Smiling, glancing briefly about him, the younger of the two mechanics, who spoke a little English beckoned to Danny and asked if he would like to sit on the bike, an offer which, Danny couldn't resist. Of course he had sat astride Da's Triumph many times; had, admittedly under supervision, ridden her up and down the rough track that ran behind Idrone Terrace. Not of course that Ma knew. Or, at least that what was Danny believed to be the case: for so far, Sybil had seen no reason to disabuse her eldest boy of his mistaken belief that she knew nothing of those stolen rides up and down on the Triumph behind the terraced house in Blackrock. Sybil knew all about them. Indeed, there was very little, if anything at all, which her menfolk ever did, that ever escaped Sybil's notice for very long.
"Was zur Hölle ist lo?" demanded a guttural voice from behind. "Das ist mein Bruder Motorrad!"
"What the ... " began Danny as he found himself pulled suddenly and unceremoniously backwards from off the seat SB 500A and thereafter deposited none too gently on the ground behind the motor bike. Looking up Danny saw that his assailants, there were two of them, were standing gazing down at him; two fair haired young men in brown shirts, with black ties, black shorts, knee length white socks and brown shoes, each both sporting a red and white armband bearing the black swastika, emblem of the Nazi Party.
"Please I don't want any trouble," said Danny.
"Ah, ein Engländer! guffawed the eldest of the two and spat derisively on the ground.
"What on earth do you two think you playing at?" demanded Tom now arriving post haste on the scene, having seen what had occurred from where he had been standing but had been too late to prevent it happening.
With Tom's arrival, the two young men quickly made themselves scarce.
"Young thugs in uniforms, that's what they are," said Tom through gritted teeth, at the same time helping Danny to his feet; the whole incident reminding him very much, and painfully so, of something similar which had happened on the platform of the Gare Maritime in Calais back in the summer of 1932 and which, on that occasion, had involved not Danny but darling little Bobby.
"Nazis! Mein Gott!" said the young mechanic almost to himself and at the same time shaking his head in evident disbelief as he helped Danny dust himself down. "Meine Herren, ich entschuldige mich. I ..." He paused, seeking the English word for what it was he wanted to say. "I ... apologise ... for ..." He spread his hands expansively and nodded towards the backs of his fellow countrymen. "Please not to think we Germans are all the same".
"No, of course not," said Tom.
"I ... " The young lad fumbled in the pocket of his overalls and pulled out a crumpled packet of cigarettes. ""Please, to take ..." he said offering one to Danny.
"Thank you," said Danny taking one. The other then struck a match.
While Danny stood and inhaled deeply on the now lighted cigarette, Tom said nothing.
Then, having said their goodbyes, they crossed the road and began walking slowly along the pavement in the direction of Douglas.
"Don't ever let your mother catch you smoking, for sure!" said Tom, once they were out of sight of the young mechanic.
"I only have the odd one Da, for sure".
"Maybe. But you know what your Ma thinks about smoking".
Danny looked suitably chastened. Promptly dropping the cigarette on the pavement, he ground it out with the heel of his shoe.
"And another thing". Tom rested his hands lightly on Danny's shoulders. "Say nothing at all to the others about what happened back there," he said, levelly.
"But Da, shouldn't Uncle Friedrich know that there are ..."
Tom shook his head.
"Especially not to Uncle Friedrich. And not to young Max either, for sure. Understood?"
"Understood, Da".
"Now, I think it's time we were heading back to the hotel. According to Uncle Matthew, they do a very fine breakfast".
A moment later, father and son set off, bound for the Sefton Hotel.
Sefton Hotel, Douglas.
Outside, on the steps on the hotel, and with a feigned show of reluctance on his part, Tom was prevailed upon to pose for a couple of photographs. Taken by Friedrich with his Leica, the first was of Tom alone standing resplendent in his motor bike leathers, and which Matthew, with a wry smile, immediately entitled The Conquering Hero. The second was of Tom with Danny standing beside him, who now Matthew observed matched Tom in height. This photograph, when later she saw it, was duly christened by Sybil, The Branson Boys.
The third and final photograph which Friedrich took that particular morning was, in view of what was to come, perhaps the most poignant of all.
Like the others, it captured a fleeting moment in time; in this case, of Danny, Robert, and Max all standing together. A lasting record of what, so far, had proved, and ever would be, so long as they all lived, a deep and abiding friendship. And in due course, not surprisingly, copies of this photograph held pride of place at Downton, at Idrone Terrace, and at Rosenberg.
Un pour tous et tous pour un.
"The Three Musketeers".
As always.
And forever.
Thereafter, albeit not without a slight hiatus, they set off on foot for the grandstand on Glencrutchery Road and the start of the Senior TT.
For initially, when Friedrich had let it be known that this morning, after breakfast was over and they had gone upstairs to their room, Max had experienced some slight stiffness in his left knee, straightaway Matthew had proposed that Friedrich and Max should be driven over to the grandstand in their hired motor. However, young Max was having none of it. Whatever it cost him later, he had no intention, whatsoever, of appearing a weakling in front of his cousins.
"Ich bin Schönborn. Nicht eine ungültige!" he hissed to his father, when the suggestion was made to him that, for his sake, they should both take the motor.
"Das habe ich nicht gesagt. Aber du muss darauf achten. Ihre Mutter sorgt. Ich auch". Friedrich ruffled his son's sandy hair.
Max nodded. The mention of his mother now gave him some slight pause for thought. Of course, he was well aware that darling Mama worried but, as he had just said, first and foremost, he was a Schönborn. Not an invalid. He would not be verweichlichte. That being so, he would walk, along with the rest of them. Turning back to his two cousins, Max smiled briefly, first at Danny and then at Robert.
"Worauf warten wir? What are we waiting for?" he asked. At which point, not pausing for a reply, and with a disdain worthy of his aristocratic lineage, ignoring the pain from his knee, Max turned smartly on his heel, and set off at a brisk step along the narrow pavement, not bothering to look behind him to see if the others were following. Which, of course, they were.
As on the previous day, when they had all walked from the Sefton Hotel, northwards along the promenade, towards Derby Castle, the three excited boys preceded their fathers, Matthew and Friedrich on the pavement, while beside them Tom pottered slowly along at the edge of the kerb seated astride his beloved motorcycle.
However, having heard privately, and in some detail, from Friedrich as to just how parlous Max's state of health had been in recent months, with their brother-in-law's agreement, Matthew and Tom had decided that, given the age they were now, it was high time that both Danny and Robert should be made aware of what might very well happen.
Even so, given the fact that only as recently as last night, when they had all met up in the hotel dining room, with the best of intentions on his part, young Max had done his best to conceal how ill he had been, when informed of the reality of the situation in the privacy of Matthew and Robert's bedroom, both Danny and Robert were aghast. Sitting side by side on Robert's bed, the two boys were utterly appalled.
"Do you mean that Max might ... die?" asked Danny. His voice had sunk almost to a hoarse whisper of disbelief.
Matthew nodded.
"But he can't, father! He can't!" exclaimed Robert.
"I'm very much afraid that, just like all of us, he can," said Tom gently.
"But, not today, not tomorrow. Probably not next week, next month, not this year," observed Matthew softly, trying desperately now to find some way to lessen the blow of what Danny and Robert had been told. Then, having crossed the room from where he was standing next to the window looking out over the promenade, he sat down heavily on the bed next to Robert and placed an arm about his son's shoulders, "But, both of you two are now old enough to be told what the realities are of all of this. And to realise that, given what it is that's wrong with Max, no-one can tell when one of his attacks may prove fatal".
"Just ... just how long ... does he have?" asked Danny, his voice trembling with emotion.
"Son, as Uncle Matthew said, no-one really knows, but your Uncle Friedrich and Aunt Edith have been told that twenty, or thereabouts, would be a good age".
"Does Max know?" asked Robert.
"He knows what it is that's wrong with him, yes. But that he is unlikely to live a normal span of life ..." Matthew shook his head.
"And it's something he mustn't ever know," said Tom.
"Max is very brave, isn't he?" asked Danny.
Tom nodded.
"He is that, for sure," he said softly and with tears starting.
There came a knock at the door.
"That'll be your Uncle Friedrich and Max," said Tom, placing a forefinger to his lips.
"And remember now, the two of you, not a word," said Matthew walking to the door.
The two boys nodded.
Matthew opened the door to find Friedrich and Max standing outside on the landing.
Tom smiled.
"Well, if you'll give me a few moments, I'd better go and change. And talking of changing, Max, young man, you look very smart for sure".
Max grinned.
Doing their best to mask the concern they felt, Danny and Robert smiled at their young cousin.
"Max, you look different, for sure", observed Danny, trying to fathom what it was that had changed.
"His first pair of long trousers," explained Uncle Friedrich.
Because of what Matthew and Tom had imparted discretely to Danny and to Robert about the state of Max's health, and also owing to the inordinate crowds of people over here on the island for the TT, now as they all set off for the grandstand on Glencrutchery Road, Danny and Rob took matters into their own hands. For when they had caught up with Max through the press of visitors, they managed to contrive matters unobtrusively so to the effect that as they walked, Max was between them thus lessening the chance of him being jostled, pushed, or even worse. Their attentive, caring, considerate kindness did not go unremarked by Friedrich who, turning quickly to Matthew and to Tom, observed quietly that together their eldest sons had grown into a fine pair of young men.
"Max thinks the world of those two, and with very good reason," said Friedrich nodding in the direction of both Danny and Robert. For a moment, both Matthew and Tom were lost for words.
"So, have you decided how you are going to spend all of that lovely prize money!" asked Matthew turning to Tom. Having yet to lower his goggles, Tom grinned.
"It's not a king's ransom you know - one hundred and twenty pounds if I win, eighty if I come second, and seventy for third place. Anyway, aren't you forgetting what it was Edith said, about taking part? I'll settle for that".
"Well, what are you waiting for?" asked Matthew, nodding towards where the other riders were now lining up seated astride their machines, in front of whom there stood several boy scouts holding aloft the flags of all the competing nations, among them, as was only to be expected, the Union Jack.
Contriving a scowl, Tom grumbled good naturedly about having to sit beneath what he saw as the oppressive flag of a foreign power, with Matthew equally good naturedly reminding his Irish brother-in-law of the fact that the Isle of Man was a dependency of the British Crown and not to forget the silk scarf knotted round his throat and which Sybil had sent him, in the colours of Erin.
"Good luck, Da!" This from Danny. "Good luck Uncle Tom!" chorused Robert and Max, as with Matthew and Friedrich the three boys set off to take their own places on the tiered seating of the grandstand.
"Thanks, boys!"
"The very best of luck, old chap!" chuckled Matthew.
"And watch out for the rabbits!" laughed Friedrich.
A moment later, while he manoeuvred the Triumph into position, Tom frowned. There it was again; despite all the noise hereabouts, the same deep, throaty roar as before.
The Senior TT, Isle of Man, 19th June 1936.
And then, at last, and in glorious sunshine, they were off!
Cheered on by all the others from the wooden seating of the grandstand, Danny, Rob, and Max in their youthful exuberance rising to their feet and yelling at the top of their voices, Come on Da!, Come on Uncle Tom!, along with his fellow competitors, off went Tom like the proverbial rocket, accelerating away from the Start Line along with the very best of them. Not, of course, that he was under any illusions as to his chances. All he wanted to do was to make the most of the opportunity afforded him, acquit himself well, and to his own satisfaction.
Around him, the noise from all the 'bikes was deafening; the fumes noisome. Overtaken almost immediately by Jimmie Guthrie on his Norton, no doubt seeking to avenge his earlier disqualification in the Junior event, Tom hunched over the handlebars and sped on out of Douglas. Down Bray Hill, braking heavily through the S bend at Braddan Bridge, first left and then right, over the river and the railway line, past knots of cheering spectators, men, women, and children, many of them craning forward so as to better glimpse all those taking part.
On through Union Mills, and Crosby, the cottages, houses, trees, walls, fences, lamps, along with road and sign posts, telegraph poles, and advertising hoardings on either side of the route, all soon merging into an extended blur. Heading westwards, Tom soon got into his stride and opened up the throttle, racing ever onwards, bound for Ballacraine Corner, nearly eight miles from the Start. Here, hard by the hotel of the same name, along with all the rest, Tom turned right, heading north, through open countryside and wooded glens, for Ramsey.
Snaefell.
The discrete enquiries which Fergal had put in train of certain contacts he had among those who had come over from Germany to watch and to take part in the TT had given him the information he required as to the motorbike Branson was riding and under what number. Not that he had any intention of hitting Branson himself; a punctured tyre should achieve the desired result and it was not as if fatalities on the course were unknown; two riders had been killed just last year.
Up here on the barren, rocky slopes of the mountain overlooking the course of the TT, the mist of early morning had cleared and it had every promise of being a beautiful day.
All he had to do now was wait. He had played this game once before and this time he had no intention of being thwarted.
Ramsey.
Northwards, along the Castletown to Ramsey road, Tom had made excellent time.
After the hump backed bridge at Ballaugh, here at Barregarrow, he sped past a stone built chapel and a red telephone box and roared down the hill, on through a succession of bends, including Ballacrye Corner, almost eighteen miles from where he had started. On along the Sulby Straight, the fastest part of the whole course, over Sulby Bridge, past the Ginger Hall Hotel, climbing up hill. Then, on through the countryside, following a series of bends, along Lezayre Road, and so, at last, into Parliament Square in Ramsey where, the ornate lamp standard in front of the gabled Town Hall, was sandbagged around its base on the side which faced the racing circuit, so as to afford some degree of protection to any rider unfortunate enough to be in collision with it.
And so, out of Ramsey, along Queen's Pier Road, before Tom and the others began the long, twisting climb with several severe very tight bends, including the Ramsey Hairpin and Gooseneck, all the way up to up summit of the course, close to Brandywell, high on the mountain road.
Snaefell Mountain Road, a short while later.
One moment the weather had been bright and sunny; now, once more, and completely without warning the fog had descended, blotting out the view of the road below. Still no matter. Glancing briefly at his watch, Fergal saw that the race would only just have begun. Plenty of time for the weather to clear. And, sure enough, a short while later, the fog lifted and the sun came out again.
Now, from somewhere, away to the north east, there came the roar of an approaching motorbike. It was far too early for it to be one of the competitors, so it was probably an official with the TT, making some last minute inspection of the course. Of course, over in Germany, such things were far better organised; nothing was left to chance.
Even so, Fergal picked up his binoculars and scanned the ribbon of road. A moment later and he frowned. It was singularly odd. The sound was unmistakeable and yet, the road below him was completely empty. No doubt it was a trick of the wind and what he had heard was the sound of one of the 'bikes beginning its ascent from Ramsey.
With the race now well under way and at regular intervals with the riders streaming southwards along the road below him in brilliant sunshine, Fergal lay in dense cover and bided his time. The fact that there were but two dozen or so entrants in the Senior TT, made his task infinitely easier and significantly reduced there being a witness to what he had planned.
And, if he was not very much mistaken, here at last was his elusive quarry.
But it was now, with the road below him empty save for Branson that, as Fergal took aim and gently squeezed the trigger of his rifle, suddenly, and seemingly from out of nowhere there came another motorbike and its rider, keeping abreast of Branson and preventing Fergal from having a clear shot at his target.
Fergal grimaced.
So be it.
It was merely a case of waiting.
Up here, beneath the brooding mass of Snaefell, on this isolated stretch of road, there were far fewer spectators to be seen, and in some places none at all. It was the damnedest thing but, just beyond Brandywell and the summit of the course, reached only after the long climb up from The Bungalow, where the Snaefell Mountain Railway crossed the road, between the thirty second and thirty third mileposts, as he approached Windy Corner, it was now that Tom sensed that there was another motorbike, close behind, just out of his line of vision, and probably intending to overtake.
But strange to relate, it never did. And, when he turned his head and glanced about him, there was nothing to be seen. Both ahead and behind him, the road was completely empty. Yet the feeling persisted until Tom was well past Windy Corner and on the descent, heading at speed back towards Douglas.
What was even more odd, was that of the five further laps of the course that Tom managed to complete before, much to his chagrin, an oil leak forced him to retire, at precisely the very same point as before, on the approach to Windy Corner, exactly the same thing happened: the feeling that there was another motorbike, close at hand, keeping pace with him, seemingly about to overtake, although it never did.
And, each time when Tom looked about him, whether to the front or behind, the road itself was completely empty, and there was nothing to be seen.
Rosenberg, Austria, that same day.
Here, out on the terrace, it was as if a great load had been lifted from her shoulders. Suddenly, and for no accountable reason, Edith knew that everything would be all right. So, when a few hours later she received Friedrich's telegram, informing her that both Max and he were fine, as indeed was everyone else, that Tom who, while having had to retire from the race, was equally well, it was merely confirmation of something which Edith herself already knew to be the case,
King Edward VII Pier, Douglas, Isle of Man, 20th June 1936.
With the TT now over for yet another year, this morning, after breakfast, and to which, once again, Tom more than did justice, with their luggage having been taken on ahead by taxicab, the Bransons, the Crawleys, and the Schönborns, all walked the short distance from the Sefton Hotel down to the Isle of Man Steam Packet pier.
The Triumph having been loaded earlier on board the steamer that was to take both Tom and Danny home to Ireland, with all of their luggage now safely stowed, here on the crowded quayside, thronging with passengers, there came the inevitable parting of the ways, with Matthew and Robert, along with Friedrich and Max, all sailing for Liverpool. And, on the part of the three boys, the farewells which ensued were not without their share of tears.
From Liverpool the Crawleys were to head east, across the Pennines, to Downton, and the Schönborns, south to London and so on to Croydon for the return flight to Berlin, and thence by train, home to Austria, where they were expected in three days time.
But, for his part, while accepting all of their heartfelt congratulations for having done his very best and for a race well run, Tom said nothing to any of them about his odd experiences up there on the barren, bleak side of Snaefell; nor even to Sybil, when both he and Danny had returned home to Blackrock.
Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, July 1936.
"Darlin', I can't say why. I just know that it's something I have to do, for sure".
Given what he had just told her, Sybil regarded him thoughtfully for a moment; then nodded her head.
"Very well then. How long will you be gone?"
"A couple of days; no more".
"And you're taking Danny with you?"
Tom nodded.
"Yes".
"Does he know the reason?"
Tom shook his head.
"No. And, perhaps it's best I keep it that way, for sure".
Clouds Hill, Dorset, July 1936.
Seeing two boys on their bicycles, weaving back and forth across the lane, instinctively, Tom braked and slowed. A moment or two later, he brought the rented motor to a stand beside a small cottage.
"But why on earth here?" asked seventeen year old Danny, clearly mystified, as his father proceeded to climb out of the car.
"Do yous know where we are?" asked Tom.
Danny shrugged.
"Dorset, yous said".
Tom nodded.
"For sure. But what I meant was, where are we exactly?"
"Search me, Da".
"Come, I'll show yous".
"All right". Danny did as his father suggested and, having opened the door, slipped lithely out of the motor.
"Here. Perhaps this will help yous". So saying, Tom took from the inside pocket of his jacket a photograph and handed it to Danny who recognised it instantly as the same one that hung on the wall of Da's workshop back in Blackrock.
Tom tapped the photograph.
"See the cottage?"
Danny nodded. He looked up at the small building beside which they were now standing.
"So, this ... this is where it was taken?"
Tom nodded.
"Yes. And this is where he lived. Not that we ever met but I had a great deal of time for him, for sure. I still do, although there are those who would seek to denigrate his memory".
"Denigrate?"
"Insult, question what it was that he did. He wrote several letters to the Indy - that was how we first became acquainted - and owned seven ... or was it eight ... Brough Superiors. And he knew a very great deal about motorbikes in general. A gifted writer too. There's a copy of his book, The Revolt in the Desert, in the study at home. I suppose you could say that we were kindred spirits. He was on his way back here, from the military camp down the road, where he was based, when the accident happened. Just over a year ago".
"How did it happen? The accident I mean?"
"No-one's quite sure. He was on his motorbike - the one in the photograph, and apparently, he swerved to miss two boys, skylarking about on their bicycles". Tom glanced up the road, towards where, in the distance, the two boys who had passed them but a few moments earlier could still be seen, cycling in the direction of Wareham. "Would yous mind waiting here? There's something I have to do. And on my own".
"For sure, Da, if that's what yous want".
Tom nodded.
"It is, son, for sure".
A short distance down the road from the cottage, beside a small cairn of stones, Tom stopped and bowed his head. As he did so, from the direction of Bovington Camp, borne on the still, clear morning air, there came faintly to his ears, or so he thought, the familiar roar of a Brough Superior motorbike.
A moment later, and the sound faded away as if it had never been.
So, perhaps, it had been nothing more than his imagination.
Either way, Tom never heard it again.
Author's Note:
For Mary's envy of Edith's tiara, see The Rome Express.
Shortly after it began its service to England, Aer Lingus did manage to acquire another aircraft which was able to seat all of ... fourteen passengers.
verweichlichte - mollycoddled.
For the 1936 Senior TT there were in all but twenty four entrants.
Filmed on location on the Isle of Man in June 1935, and released later that same year, No Limit is a British musical comedy starring George Formby and Florence Desmond. It concerns the exploits of George Shuttleworth (played by Formby) a chimney sweep from Wigan, who harbours dreams of winning the Isle of Man TT. Although British made, in true Hollywood style, at the end of the film, George not only wins the TT, but also the hand of the girl he loves!
Opened in 1922 on the site of the Metropole Hotel, which had been destroyed during the Easter Rising in 1916, the Metropole Cinema in Dublin closed in 1972.
Of the magazines which Danny finds so absorbing, today only Motor Sport is still in publication.
For the incident Tom recalls happening at the Gare Maritime in Calais, see Chapter Eight of The Rome Express.
That the Nazis sought to use sporting events such as the 1936 Olympics, let alone the Isle of Man TT as a showcase for their regime is perfectly true. Later on, during the 1939 TT, the last to be held before the outbreak of the Second World War, there were even greater overt displays of Nazi loyalty by the German riders. However, it is fair to say that describing this as the "Nazi TT" with the German riders "dismissed as nothing more than dirty rotten Nazis who spoiled the TT for everyone" is a gross exaggeration, influenced by subsequent events.
Jimmy Guthrie would go on to win the 1936 Senior TT. Sadly, he was killed the following year, in August 1937, while competing in the German motorcycle Grand Prix at Sachsenring.
The Revolt in the Desert is the abridged version of T. E. Lawrence's The Seven Pillars of Wisdom which tells the same story but in far greater detail.
He did own eight Brough Superiors - the last was still being built when he was killed.
The circumstances surrounding the accident, which cost him his life on a quiet country road in Dorset, in May 1935, are still a matter for speculation. Since then, there have been reports, both of his ghost being seen entering the cottage at Clouds Hill as well as the sound of a motorbike being heard which ceases abruptly before anything is seen, in the vicinity of the spot where he met his death. The most recent of these dates from July 2016.