Driven. James Martin

       10 ‘EXTRA-CURRICULAR’: THE WHITE VAUXHALL NOVA

      The first car I had was a white Vauxhall Nova, 950cc, the one with the boot on the back that no one wanted. My dad paid £250 for it. It was a cut’n’shunt job: not two, but three smashed-up cars welded together. Although I’m not sure why they bothered, or why, if they were going to all that trouble, they didn’t pick the more attractive hatchback option for the back end. Or, for that matter, why they didn’t pick a better interior: it had the same horrible brown chocolate-crumb-magnet cloth as my dad’s old Ford Capri Laser 1.6. Still, while it was definitely a complete crock of shit, and probably bloody dangerous, aside from a couple of weeks during which it was in for repairs, it was a loyal and reliable thing. It got me through catering college. I had it all the time I was working in London, too, which was nearly two years. It even survived a car park crash on my first day at Chewton Glen, one of the most prestigious hotels in the UK. Of all the cars I’ve owned, I had that white Nova the longest. It saw me go from young, enthusiastic and unqualified practically all the way through to becoming a head chef. And that’s a lot of action. Though not the most glamorous or exciting of cars, it was an important one.

      For the first month after passing my test I drove the Nova the 40 miles from home to college every day. Eventually my mum said that I really needed to get digs because travelling backwards and forwards was ridiculous, so I found a place with my old school mate David Coates, who was also at Scarborough doing catering, and another bloke called Malcolm. The flat was above, of all places, Henry Marshall’s amusement arcade on Scarborough seafront, the same Henry Marshall’s where I’d seen my first Aston Martin V8 Vantage nine years earlier. But I would still drive back home in the Nova every weekend to work in the kitchens at Castle Howard or to cater for functions for my dad’s friends.

      I was bombing it back from college one Friday night, about midnight, when I almost ran into our local bobby. It was dark, I was driving too fast, and I came tearing round this corner and he was just sat there in his car, glaring headlights, eyes out on stalks, looking like he had myxomatosis, with a sandwich in his gob. I came round this corner sideways, just missed him, straightened up and drove as fast as I could up through the village. I knew he’d know exactly who it was – it was a very small village – but being 17 and not thinking straight I drove home, straight through the gates of the farm, turned the lights off and then drove about a mile and a half up this track, thinking that he’d never follow me up there. I then ran back to the farm and hid in the pig sheds.