Conspiracy of Secrets. Bobbie Neate
fall like a pack of cards. That’s not any protection for cars, that’s for the horses. They wouldn’t stop a Hillman Minx at ten miles an hour.’
Two further stories concerning Aintree race track show Stepfather’s persuasive powers in the city he had loved as a little boy. There had been a last minute disaster (BRM was good at late night dramas) and the mechanics who had already worked through one night, were facing the prospect of doing so the following night. Mum felt sorry for them so asked Stepfather to do something to help. He was in home territory and was on good form so he found the local beat policeman. Then he cajoled this neighbourhood ‘Bobby’ to unceremoniously knock up the local publican and demand he provide beers for the BRM mechanics at two in the morning!
The other story was on the morning of the British Grand Prix. Unusually Stepfather had gone out on his own, visiting some of his old haunts. He was late returning and Mum fretted wondering how they were going to get to the track in time. He walked out of the Adelphi Hotel and to my mother’s utter dismay ‘hailed’ a police car. He presumptuously told the local traffic cops that he was urgently needed at the circuit. Needless to say the local coppers agreed to give my mother’s car a police escort. The persuasive powers of this most extraordinary man had worked once again.
After our experience at the end of the Melling Straight we never watched from unprotected corners again but motor racing in those days was lethal. In those days drivers died. It was a common experience for those you knew to die or be injured so horrifically they never raced again.
Wolfgang Von Trips died before Stepfather became involved in safety – he helped fight the track authorities to make circuits safer and organised with others the provision of the first fully equipped mobile hospital for drivers – and his death made a big impact on me. This German was one of my favourite characters, because, alongside his dashing good looks, he made a point of talking with me when I was only very young. He never drove for BRM but wanted to keep his options open.
In 1961 he demonstrated that he was a top-flight driver and was leading in the championship points table. All he had to do was to win the Italian Grand Prix and he would be named as world champion. It was lucky for me that I did not attend, because disaster struck. At full stretch his sizzling red Ferrari was hit by another car. The momentum of the crash shoved his Ferrari up a steep bank and into a group of spectators. Fourteen of them were killed along with von Trips, known as the ‘uncrowned world champion’. His death was poignant for us all.
From then on my mother lost more nervous energy every time BRM raced. And, whether we had won or lost, she would exclaim, ‘Well, thank goodness the race is finally over.’ We all knew what she meant and after each new death her comment took on a new poignancy.
Years later, after I had left home, my mother experienced two traumatic deaths in one year. First there was Pedro Rodriguez, an attractive Mexican who had proved a wonderful tonic for BRM, driving superbly at a time when team morale was low. But disaster struck in 1971, when he was injured in a sports-car race in France. All contracts in the late sixties included a clause that forbade drivers to compete in races other than Formula One unless they sought permission. When we first heard of his accident we discussed why Rodriguez had risked driving in such a minor meeting without seeking authorisation, while Stepfather started to compose Pedro’s ticking-off. But a few hours later we learned he had died. From that moment my mother began to emotionally pull out of the sport. It was not just the grief but also the huge disappointment. After a lean time things had been looking up and now her hopes were dashed. She also had a difficult diplomatic time, as Pedro had a wife in one continent and a mistress in another.
My mother’s greatest fear had always been that a driver should die in a BRM. It was not long after Pedro’s death that the inevitable happened. Later that year, Jo Siffert, the moustached Swiss driver, hit a bank in a minor race at Brands Hatch. He suffered only a broken leg but his car burst into flames, demonstrating the inadequacies of the safety systems of the times. My mother was emotionally devastated and resolved to ease out of her involvement with BRM.
Stepfather was not heartless but he dealt with the deaths on the track in a very different way. He must have been affected. Talking about a death made him stern, but I never saw any sign of emotion. He was an enigma.
My mother’s role in Formula One was an odd one. Stranger still in the 1960s, she was in the macho world of motor racing. She chose to be the ambassador for her family company. In the early years, when we were all young, she was a passionate supporter of her team. She advised but she had no official role. However, as my uncle got busier and more races were held on Sundays, she and my stepfather took more control. When it was clear that Uncle Alfred would not be able to retake the reins of the company after he suffered a debilitating stroke in 1969 my cousins agreed that, as my mother knew so much about the Grand Prix circuit, she should take on the running of the team. But what were they to do with Louis Stanley? He had been causing trouble for the company for many years, so much so that my uncles employed a gatekeeper to confine his bizarre ideas for development to paper. Not only that, but he had taunted my uncle by writing libellous articles about him. However, the family took his antics on the chin. A compromise was made and it was here that my cousins made my mother and him joint managing directors of BRM. At least that way they could keep their ‘uncle’ off their backs while they dealt with the parent company.
I return to the day I first drove to Cambridge after hearing my mother had suffered a stroke. Stepfather’s short message reported she had suffered only a mild stroke, but my legs felt weak as my body responded to my brain’s commands to get out of the car. What was I going to find? It was a nasty feeling that would return, time after time, over the next two years.
The bell still jangled merrily over the blue gate but as soon as I entered the courtyard things felt different. It was gloomy. There were no powerful kitchen lamps lighting the way to the back door. There was no Mum at the butler’s sink looking out through the netted kitchen window for me. Nobody came to the back door, so I had to ring the bell. The back door was actually the front door now but it had kept its wrong nomenclature since the increased traffic made it uncomfortable to sit under the veranda and the front gate was boarded up for lack of use. This left the blue gate the only entrance to the yard and, beyond that, the house.
Inside, there was no noise and the air was cold. The four forceful gas hobs that were always burning in the kitchen were turned off. The radio was silent and there were no remnant smells of cooking.
Mum was lying on her double bed, awkwardly placed on her back. How had she got there? Why was she not in hospital? She was unable to move but her glazed eyes gave me slight hope, as there was some semblance of recognition. Suddenly I realised I knew nothing about the care of stroke victims but it seemed odd that she was lying on her own bed with no medical attendance.
Stepfather kept repeating, ‘Everything will be back to normal in a few days’ time.’
His face held a grim expression and was serious but he was friendly enough.
‘What can I do to help?’ I asked.
‘Thank you, but no thank you,’ he replied. I had heard him say that many times before.
My siblings had all turned up and there was general murmuring as to the when and why of my mother’s health. It appeared she had been getting ready for bed the night before when she suffered her stroke. The faithful weekly cleaner had said she had been unusually stressed. We whispered together as to why Louis had waited until eight the following morning to call the GP. It was all very peculiar. But I told Stepfather that I would stay the night and went to bed in the narrow bedroom next to theirs. As I tossed and turned, I could hear mumbled voices through the wall. I willed myself to believe that my mother’s speech was a sign of her early recovery. But it was not long before the quiet footsteps of Louis came to rest outside my door. I wanted to pull the covers over my head. The door handle turned. I heard him ask if I could help.
The sound of his approach had reminded me of the terrifying nights of my childhood…
When Mum came into my bedroom to say goodnight I demanded to be tucked in tightly. She saw it as a game. Sometimes, when she