this point Robert’s voice becomes oddly metallic, inhuman, as if a speaking weight machine were saying the lines.
‘Ettore appreciates what you have done, Will. Without your breaking the endurance record at Montlhery, he wouldn’t consider this …’
Williams seems to shrink, his voice growing smaller. ‘But?’
‘But France needs a victory. Badly. If you were to win, it would be an English victory …’
‘In a Bugatti? Surely it’s the car, not the driver. At least, that’s what Ettore’s always said to me.’
Robert takes a deep breath. ‘He wants me to drive with Wimille.’
Williams nods, knowing that by championing Wimille he has been the instrument of his own downfall. ‘And the second Tank?’
‘Veyron and Labric.’ Two more Frenchmen.
Williams blinks hard, downs the Pernod and leaves, squeezing Robert on the shoulder as he goes. Robert looks across at Eve and shrugs, unhappiness written across his entire face.
‘How could you do this to your friend?’ Eve screams at him and runs out after her husband, but the wet glistening streets are empty, just a few wraith-like wisps of smoke left hanging in the air.
Eve felt something move lightly through her hair, tickling her scalp and sat up, fearing a mouse. She squealed when the creature ran down the side of her face. Williams stepped back. ‘Sorry. I frightened you. You were asleep.’
Eve looked around, momentarily disoriented. She was at the kitchen table, and had been lying with her head in her arms. The dogs lay in the dark corner, panting, having given up on supper.
‘God. I was dreaming …’
‘What about?’
‘About how you should have raced at Le Mans.’
He shrugged. He was past caring now. The team had won, a French victory when the Germans were taking everything else in sight. Eve shook her head to try to clear the image of that cellar. ‘What time is it?’
‘Ten.’
She stretched, trying to shake off the heavy weariness of sleep. ‘I thought you weren’t back till tomorrow.’
‘We have a customer in England. Interested in an Atlantic. I’m taking one over.’ The Atlantic was Jean’s astonishing sleek coupé, very low, very fast with a strange fin riveted down the back, giving it the air of some super hero’s pursuit vehicle than a road-going motor. ‘Coffee?’
She nodded. ‘Are you going?’
‘We also have an invitation to run a couple of Jean’s 4.7s at Beddington.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Hampshire. Invitation only. They have asked Rudi and Mercedes. Stuck and Auto Union. There’s appearance money. One hundred and fifty pounds a driver. Plus two hundred for the winner. Ettore says he will cover the rest of the costs.’
The last sentence faded and she smiled as she wondered if this was Bugatti’s little consolation prize for depriving her husband of Le Mans glory.
‘What’s funny?’
‘Nothing. Do you want to go?’
‘To race against Rudi again? Maybe Nuvolari? Yes. Would you come?’
Eve could see the fire burning in his eyes once more, the need for the chance to feel adrenaline pump through his veins. The moronic English quarantine laws would mean she couldn’t take even one of her dogs. But she could see this meant a lot to him. She nodded and he kissed her forehead.
‘Beddington it is, then.’
Thirteen
BEDDINGTON, ENGLAND, 1937
T HE SEPTEMBER SUN bounced off the fields of wheat stubble and haystacks, bathing the English countryside in a comforting, golden glow. Eve shifted in her seat as Maurice contemplated his cards and let her eyes wander down the vista the way the designer intended, taking in the lake and its faux-Roman temple and the water gardens beyond, ending at the dark copse before the farmlands began.
Behind her was Beddington House, a grand eighteenth-century Palladian villa, trying hard to keep its dignity with a fan of rude racing cars parked on its lawns—the usual Alfas, ERAS, Rileys, Delahayes, MGs, Talbots, Maseratis and, right next to where she sat at the
‘Ettore appreciates what you have done, Will. Without your breaking the endurance record at Montlhery, he wouldn’t consider this …’
Williams seems to shrink, his voice growing smaller. ‘But?’
‘But France needs a victory. Badly. If you were to win, it would be an English victory …’
‘In a Bugatti? Surely it’s the car, not the driver. At least, that’s what Ettore’s always said to me.’
Robert takes a deep breath. ‘He wants me to drive with Wimille.’
Williams nods, knowing that by championing Wimille he has been the instrument of his own downfall. ‘And the second Tank?’
‘Veyron and Labric.’ Two more Frenchmen.
Williams blinks hard, downs the Pernod and leaves, squeezing Robert on the shoulder as he goes. Robert looks across at Eve and shrugs, unhappiness written across his entire face.
‘How could you do this to your friend?’ Eve screams at him and runs out after her husband, but the wet glistening streets are empty, just a few wraith-like wisps of smoke left hanging in the air.
Eve felt something move lightly through her hair, tickling her scalp and sat up, fearing a mouse. She squealed when the creature ran down the side of her face. Williams stepped back. ‘Sorry. I frightened you. You were asleep.’
Eve looked around, momentarily disoriented. She was at the kitchen table, and had been lying with her head in her arms. The dogs lay in the dark corner, panting, having given up on supper.
‘God. I was dreaming …’
‘What about?’
‘About how you should have raced at Le Mans.’
He shrugged. He was past caring now. The team had won, a French victory when the Germans were taking everything else in sight. Eve shook her head to try to clear the image of that cellar. ‘What time is it?’
‘Ten.’
She stretched, trying to shake off the heavy weariness of sleep. ‘I thought you weren’t back till tomorrow.’
‘We have a customer in England. Interested in an Atlantic. I’m taking one over.’ The Atlantic was Jean’s astonishing sleek coupé, very low, very fast with a strange fin riveted down the back, giving it the air of some super hero’s pursuit vehicle than a road-going motor. ‘Coffee?’
She nodded. ‘Are you going?’
‘We also have an invitation to run a couple of Jean’s 4.7s at Beddington.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Hampshire. Invitation only. They have asked Rudi and Mercedes. Stuck and Auto Union. There’s appearance money. One hundred and fifty pounds a driver. Plus two hundred for the winner. Ettore says he will cover the rest of the costs.’
The last sentence faded and she smiled as she wondered if this was Bugatti’s little consolation prize for depriving her husband of Le Mans glory.
‘What’s funny?’
‘Nothing. Do you want to go?’
‘To race against Rudi again? Maybe Nuvolari? Yes. Would you come?’
Eve could see the fire burning in his eyes once more, the need for the chance to feel adrenaline pump through his veins. The moronic English quarantine laws would mean she couldn’t take even one of her dogs. But she could see this meant a lot to him. She nodded and he kissed her forehead.
‘Beddington it is, then.’
Thirteen
BEDDINGTON, ENGLAND, 1937
T HE SEPTEMBER SUN bounced off the fields of wheat stubble and haystacks, bathing the English countryside in a comforting, golden glow. Eve shifted in her seat as Maurice contemplated his cards and let her eyes wander down the vista the way the designer intended, taking in the lake and its faux-Roman temple and the water gardens beyond, ending at the dark copse before the farmlands began.
Behind her was Beddington House, a grand eighteenth-century Palladian villa, trying hard to keep its dignity with a fan of rude racing cars parked on its lawns—the usual Alfas, ERAS, Rileys, Delahayes, MGs, Talbots, Maseratis and, right next to where she sat at the
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