When I was younger my parents used to regale me with stories of Dad’s first car, a Flying Standard Twelve saloon. It was from the late 30s, so I would guess it was 15 years old or so by the time Dad bought it. Here is the car in pre-marriage days, Dad sitting in the driver’s seat (the “suicide door” open) with Dad’s best friend Derrick Hill leaning on the front mudguard. I think they were off on a camping trip to Wales somewhere.
Dad must have been around 19 or 20 when this was taken. From this remove, I must say that Dad is certainly rockin’ the beret, but that particular fashion statement didn’t last long.
They kept it for a while, at least until after I was born, because there’s this story of a family trip in it, with me sitting in my Mum’s lap in the front (that’s right, kids, there were no child seats, let alone seat belts, in those days – do not try this at home!). Dad was crossing a dual carriageway and had to stop halfway because of the traffic. The engine suddenly died, a relatively abnormal occurrence , it must be said, leaving Mum and Dad and me stranded in the car in between the two traffic-laden carriageways. Dad was all ready to jump out, lift up the bonnet and check the engine when he realized that baby Julian had reached out and flipped the ignition switch off on the dash in front of him.
It was, to be mild, a bit of a lemon, but, then again, it was a 15 to 20 year old British car, made in Canley, Coventry. Dad learned how to take the engine apart, how to tune it, how to get it going again, mechanical talents that certainly were not inherited in any shape or form by his son. As proof of this: here’s Dad fixing something during that same trip to Wales – no, not the aftermath of a horrible accident.
The Flying Standard Twelve was so called because the engine produced 12 horsepower. It was a pretty spacious car I suppose: four doors, all hinged on the B-pillar, making the forward doors open out “the wrong way” (hence the appellation of “suicide doors”). “Flying” because of the new streamlined shape: the radiator grille and windscreen were more sloped than before and the back curved down rather than being vertical like in the older Standard Twelve.
I’m not sure what car Dad got after this one, but eventually he had a Ford Zephyr and replaced that one with our first new car, a Ford Corsair.
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#1 Derrick Hill said...
13-Feb-14 9:27 PMJulian,
Yes, that is me.
We took two camping trips in that car, one in Wales and one in Somerset/Devon. When Alan bought it, it had a 'big end knock', ie. main engine bearing, which he fixed himself. Going down steep hills, like the one in Porlock (1 in 4, with hairpin bends) I would hang on to the gear lever to prevent it jumping out while Alan grimly steered.
On the Lleyn Peninsula, N Wales, we slept in the car on an old WWII aerodrome. It was a foggy night and next morning the car refused to start. We hiked to the nearest garage and the owner came out and put his acetylene blowtorch into the engine to dry it out. It didn't catch fire, and off we went.
My own first car was a 1935 Standard Fying Nine which had cable brakes and steered like a tea trolley. It had been laid up during the war and flakes of rust would come through from the gas tank and plug the carburetter. Always inconveniently. They could, however, be blown back into the gas tank using the foot pump, and the journey could be continued (for a while).
We both learned our car maintenance engineering in this way -- from practical experience.
Happy days.
Derrick Hill.
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