Henry's Car

 

Copyright © 2010 by Lazlo Ferran

All Rights Reserved.

 

“God’s body man, giveth me the 4th gear! Now!”

“Fucking press the damned clutch you madman!” I shouted back over the reverberating din of the V8 Chevy block, attempting some humility and knowing ‘damned’ was the only swear-word King Henry VIII would actually acknowledge.

The large pallid face broke into a toothy grin. “Raymond. You are an impertinent – what is the modern phrase – jackass, but I like you!” His big foot, somewhat incongruously contained in a size 14 Nike trainer, pressed clumsily down on the accelerator and I slammed the gearstick into 4th. A moment later the King, hunched over the royal Sparco steering wheel, turned the car to the left, and as, dirt spurting from the drifting rear wheels, we emerged from the turn, I realised we were actually going to finish in third place. Not yet a win, but for a man new, not only to the sport, but to the century, it was not a bad effort. Henry roared his approval as we crossed the line.

***

Ah, the memory of it is a delight to me even now. It all seemed like a dream until I saw the article in the The Richmond and Twickenham Times: Archeologists in Richmond dig unearth mysterious ‘fuel can’.

At once I was engrossed and read on.

Archeologists digging up a 16th Century hunting lodge are mystified by a fuel-can buried in the mud below the remains of the floorboards. Barry Deancliff had the following to say to reporters last night:

“It is most reminiscent of refueling cans used in stock car racing in the 20th century. Moreover it has been carbon-dated and appears to be 400 years old – give or take. I am completely mystified!”

I checked the paper every day after that for months but there was never another mention of the mysterious refueling-can. A letter to the British museum elicited the following curt reply: “Professor Barry Deancliff’s team will be spending many years analyzing the finds from the dig and as yet, he has no further comment to make about this particular item.” Eventually it seemed to have been buried: an awkward item that simply did not fit the picture the esteemed museum was looking for.

Racing has always been in my blood, my father being an engineer on Grand Prix cars in the 1990s, before children made him settle for a more mundane job. The thrill of it never left him though and we would often stand in the rain for hours at Silverstone watching the Formula 1 cars screaming past. Now I raced cars for a hobby in the Muscle-car Stock class all around England at weekends.

This particular New Year’s day, it really seemed as if nothing could possibly happen to me. Most of my friends were visiting parents, an obligation I had already fulfilled on Christmas day, or they were slumped, lifeless in front of their 3-d screen. I despondently checked the listings for anything that might interest me. My mobile vibrated on the table.

“Hi Dave. Good to hear from somebody. Fancy a drink?”

“Listen Ray. I forgot I have two tickets to the banger racing at Wimbledon Stadium. I didn’t think I would be going but now my sister’s ill and so Don thinks it’s better if I leave it a few days. So I am going. You wanna come?”

“Banger racing! Ha! Ha! It’s not really my thing, but what the hell! It’s better than brain-death in front of the 3-D. Okay. You pick me up?”

“Sure.”

The banger racing was a hoot! We both chose cars, based on their form in the two-page guide we bought on the styles.

“I won again! That’s it Dave. That was the last race and I have the most points. Your round I believe?”

“Ha! Ha! Okay. Let’s go. It’s getting pretty parky anyway.”

We drove to a pub Dave knew nearby with Sport TV on a big screen and watched whatever came on out of the corners of our eyes, while getting steadily more and more inebriated.

“Been a good year Ray.”

“Speak for yourself mate!”

“Cheer up! You’re always one to moan but you ain’t got it too bad. Good job, nice flat and a jag outside.

One more drink and its home to the wife! Ah married life.”

Although I didn’t need a pee when we left the pub, according to that inextricable law of nature that rules all bladders, I was desperate after the second roundabout.

“Stop here!” I shouted as Dave swerved either side of the broken yellow line in the middle of a road next to Wimbledon Common. His swerving wasn’t helping my bladder at all!

“No way man! You can last till we get home.”

“Dave! I am warning you! If you don’t stop before the end of this road, I will unzip my flies and do it here!”

“Nah! You wouldn’t.”

I reached for my flies

“Okay man! Cool it! I am stopping”

I was out of the car before it had stopped and nearly slid under the wheels. I ran into the night looking for any tree but could only find a newly planted sapling about eighteen inches tall. I stood dutifully astride it and smiled modestly as a woman walking her poodle glared at me, and the stream of hot liquid watering the new sapling.

I went back to the car but Dave had gone.

“Dave! Dave, where are you!”

I stumbled around on the common in the twilight of a half-moon looking for my friend.

“Good evening Sir!” A large hand gripped my shoulder from behind. “Arretez! Parlez-vous français?” The voice was loud, gruff and unfamiliar.

“What?” I said spinning round, trying to focus.

“Ah! Verily an Englishe gentleman.” Now the voice was overly solicitous, but relishing its own sound.”

“Yes. Can I help you?” I said, rudely.

I was beginning to make out a large grin in a very big face, with a strange hat and what looked like a very large fur coat.

“Ah! Yes. Where are we France or Englande! Only some things are very unfamiliar here.”

“England mate. Wimbledon in fact. Do you need a lift anywhere?”

“Lift? Ah no. You see I don’t have a horse.”

“What mate? You mean you had one?” My drunkenness was taking away my will to think properly and take part fully in the conversation.”

“Yes. Yes, I had one,” he said uncertainly.

“Jeez. I know who you are! You are, or at least you look like Henry VIII! Ha! Ha!”

“Yes! Yes I am your King. Don’t laugh at me!”

“Aaah! Sorry. It was just so funny. Come on. We better give you a lift. Dave!”

King Henry followed me dutifully while I found Dave, who was vomiting cheerfully into a clump of grass next to some bushes not far from the car.

“Dave. I found a straggler. Looks a bit worse for wear but dig the fancy-dress!”

“Cool! I feel better now. All in!”

We climbed into Dave’s battered Vauxhall Astra MkXIV and saw Henry staring wide-eyed at the car.

“Come on mate! It’s not that bad. It goes!” shouted Dave.

“God’s body. What is it?” said the furry-coated one.

“2031 Vauxhall Astra mate!” shouted Dave proudly.

“Is there a horse in there? Or perhaps large dogs or something?”

“Yep! 285 horses in old money but it’s electric really. Measured it myself on a dyno.”

“Dyno? 285 horses! I don’t believe it! This is some kind of joke?”

Dave turned the ignition and gunned the engine. Henry jumped back.

“Come on Henry! Jump in,” shouted Dave.

For a moment Henry seemed deeply torn between his pride as a king and his wariness of the roaring beast-machine. He looked from the car to Dave and back to the car again and then finally he mastered himself. Walking up to the car he addressed Dave curtly. “Subjects, however brave do not address me by my Christ-given name unless I have given permission.”

“Right,” said Dave watching Henry sliding his bulky form into the back seat, so that he could press the button to close the door. The smell of cheap perfume was overpowering.

“By God’s mother, this chariot is most fast!” offered Henry, pressing his face against the glass as lamp-posts flew past.

“He’s a character!” said Dave out of the corner of his mouth. “Where do I drop him?”

I asked Henry and this led to an argument which still wasn’t resolved by the time Dave dropped me at my door in Kew.

“Well he can’t come home with me!” Dave glared at me, looking much the worse for wear now and I gave in to a feeling of guilt.

“Time to disembark Henry!” I said.

“You mean dismount, erm... What is your name Sir?”

“Ray. Raymond. But most people call me Ray.”

“Good day Sir!” he said to Dave, and then there we were, standing on the pavement outside my front-door.

Henry seemed thoughtful for a moment as cars sped by, looked up and down the street for a moment and declared in a loud voice, “It worketh! It worketh truly! What year is this?”

For a moment I thought about telling him he couldn’t come in but I was too drunk to care. “2035. Why?” I unlocked the front door and Henry followed me into my semi-detached. He barely squeezed through the door.

“Travel in time – travel through the ages. Just as Paracelsus said!”

“What? You are mad, man. Stop blabbering. I will make you a strong black coffee and then I am going to bed. You can have the sofa.”

“Is it worth something?”

“Oh God! Just watch the 3-D and let me make the coffee.” I used the...