Conspiracy of Secrets. Bobbie Neate
it was at Aintree trackside that we heard him brag to the BRM team, ‘Well, of course, my family is related to the Stanleys of Liverpool. Stanley Park is named after them and the Earl of Derby is a relative.’ The boast seemed very odd. Why had he chosen to tell strangers about his family and not us? So when he was in a good humour I asked, ‘So who were the Stanleys of Liverpool?’ To my utter surprise his mood changed dramatically.
‘You know nothing,’ he snapped, trying to finish the conversation.
‘Yes, but I want to learn – who were the famous Stanleys?’
‘They owned most of Cheshire.’
I felt anxious, as Mum had left the room, but my childish curiosity was too great, and once started I was not going to let go, so I continued with my questioning.
‘And the Earl of Derby, who was he?’
‘He was rich and famous, a politician, owned many racehorses and swathes of land in Liverpool.’
But that was as far as I got because Mum reappeared. I had got him exasperated and he now had a good excuse to send me away with a flea in my ear, telling my mother I deserved a good hiding. As always, I never discussed my questioning with my siblings. We were cultivated not to. But his behaviour did not stop me thinking. Why did he have no relatives other than the two women who lived in our house? If his family were so well known, why didn’t he boast about them? He never stopped crowing about knowing celebrities, so why didn’t he show off about his family? Once, I was taken out of school (he was always trying to persuade Mum to do this because my schooling limited their movements) and I joined them for the famous Aintree steeplechase. On the night before the horse race I had been allowed to stay up to dinner because I was frightened of my drab, dark hotel bedroom, and I sat and watched as Stepfather romantically took Mum off to the dance floor. When I returned to Aintree later that year it intrigued me that I had previously seen the magnificent jumpers go anticlockwise while the racing cars went clockwise on the same piece of land.
An earlier meeting at Aintree motor circuit is etched in my memory because of its ironical nature. On that day Stepfather risked all our lives, but years later he became well-known in his fight to improve motor racing safety.
Mum had dragged Stepfather along and he had bought a couple of Leica cameras with all the accompanying paraphernalia: light meters, holdalls, hundreds of rolls of fast film. He took his shooting-stick on which he precariously perched his huge frame. Over the years the metal frame had became so cluttered with sporting entrance tickets that the seat refused to close. On the first practice day he marched my siblings and myself round the course, where he stopped at various places. He sat for hours on the tiny seat, absorbed with the viewfinder of his Leica, practising moving the camera in synchronisation with the car as it flashed by.
During the afternoon practice session he would want to be at a position near the track, where there were no spectators to disturb the swing of his camera. As the cars started to appear for practice, we walked around the course and based ourselves at the end of the Sefton Straight near the Melling Road. In front of us were some rusting poles, bending in unison, when the brisk wind blew across the undulating land.
I jumped out of my skin when the first car came hurtling towards us. I tried to make my legs run for my life but the shrieking of the tyres and the engine cackling transfixed me. I closed my eyes, as the driver appeared to head straight for me and thrashed with the gearstick. After he had disappeared around the double-twisted turn, I turned to find Mum, equally terrified, pulling at Stepfather’s jacket sleeve.
‘We can’t stop here, we’re right in their path. I have to take the children to safety before another car comes.’
‘You’re my wife. You’re not going anywhere without me.’
‘I think the children are frightened and there’s nothing to stop the cars coming straight into us.’
‘Don’t be wimps,’ he shouted at us, trying to be heard above the noise of the next car approaching. ‘This is an ideal place for photographs of the cars in action.’ The noise abated and he rasped in his usual way: ‘Come on, darling, there’s nothing to fear, they’re just making a lot of noise. You’re not taking the children away. We’re watching expert drivers here. They know what they’re doing.’
Mum made more protestations, but all he said was, ‘There is this protective line of poles in front of us. Come on. You’ll soon get used to it.’ He was clearly enjoying himself. He turned to me and said, ‘This is something to tell your friends about at your primary school.’ How little he knew me! I rarely told any of my friends about my home life.
As the next car stormed towards us, I noticed the driver had difficulty controlling the rear wheels as the back of the car swayed into the chicane. I gripped Mum’s hand tightly– it was cold.
She tried one more time to lift her voice above the scream of the next car: ‘I’m sure this is far too dangerous for us all…’
‘Don’t be silly, dear, this is fine,’ Stepfather replied, not lifting his head from the viewfinder. ‘You’re getting an amazing view from here. You’ll soon get used to the cars coming straight for us.’
In the silences, I listened for the distant rumble of the next car as I searched the horizon for what appeared to be a tiny black fly that climbed the hump, before it came bearing down on us at over one hundred and eighty miles per hour. I grimaced each time, but I no longer closed my eyes, as I was fascinated by the cars, often with one or more of their wheels off the ground.
From a distance all the cars appeared to be the same colour and shape as they sped towards us, and I could only identify individual cars when they were upon us.
Mum and I felt more reassured when we recognised the BRM was out on the circuit with Harry Schell, our charismatic driver, at the wheel. Stepfather continued to concentrate on his photography as we watched our hero find the last possible braking point before drifting through the double bend.
Mum, with stopwatch in hand, predicted when the American would appear over the brow of the hill. It seemed less alarming now we had the BRM to watch. At the allotted time I scanned the horizon for his car. Then, there he was, the uneven surface jostling him from side to side as the car bounced up and down. As he approached, I anticipated the noise of the jangling gears and screaming brakes but I did not expect the gesture: Harry raised his gloved right hand and gave us a big wave!
‘Did you see that?’ I yelled over the screech of the departing brakes.
Mum was as amazed as I was. Stepfather had missed the excitement as his capacious nose was still pressed tight into the sights of his camera.
The lap time of one minute thirty seconds appeared more like one and a half hours as I waited for Schell to reach the top of the small incline again. Finally there he was, bearing down on us, this time I was ready with my hands in the air. As more cars joined the practice session the noise became continuous, so conversation was only possible during brief pauses between cars. The pungent aroma of the shredding tyres hung in the air and I could taste the spent fuel. Finally the session was over and the track was quiet. My legs were like jelly. My mother, obviously relieved, was full of chatter.
‘Oh, Harry Schell is such good fun, isn’t he?’ she chirped. We all agreed. ‘Fancy having the time, on that corner, to give us a wave!’
Back in the paddock, Harry was grinning, happy with his practice times for the day. Mum congratulated him, ‘That time is brilliant for the first day. Fancy having the time to wave at us on the Sefton chicane – the fleas [a term she liked to use for us children] really enjoyed that. You’ve made their day; they can’t stop talking about it.’
‘Oh, that’s all part of the fun,’ he replied, ‘but I was also trying to warn you. That’s a treacherous position to watch; if any of us had lost control, like a car did last year, we would have ploughed straight into you.’
Suddenly Stepfather had slunk away. Mum stuttered, ‘But there’s those iron protective