Harry Humley 1900 - 1975
Harold Humley was born in 1900, son of dairy
farmer Harold Arthur Humley.
Harold Senior’s successful Holmfirth
dairy business had kept the family in full fat cream until the great
milk rout of 1896. Thousands of gallons of milk were poured to waste
amid rumours of contamination and TB transmission.
Around this time, Harold Senior married
Daisy May, daughter of wealthy Huddersfield mill owner, John May.
The dowry provided by Daisy’s father was sufficient to pull Harold
Senior’s business up out of the slurry farm it was quickly becoming,
and back on the road to success.
On New Years Day 1900, Daisy gave birth
to a son, whom they named after his father. Daisy never recovered
from the long and protracted labour and died a few days later.
Harold junior thrived under the care of
his father and a series of very young nannies, often brought from
far eastern countries by Harold senior. Harold junior, who became
known affectionately as Harry, became top of the class, ending his
years at Honley Grammar School with honours and a much coveted scholarship
to Manchester University.
However, the dairy business was yet again
in turmoil, with Harold senior reluctant to modernise, take full advantage
of the industrial revolution or add fruit berries to yoghurt.
With a head for business and engineering,
Harry decided to forgo his Lancastrian higher education sponsorship,
and channel his efforts in to showing how modernisation could help
his fathers ailing business.
Harry introduced modern milking methods,
on-site sterilisation techniques, and a brand new piece of machinery
for cleaning cow udders. But by far his most significant contribution
to the dairy industry was his invention of the cylindrical milk
transporter –- a huge tube, ten feet in diameter and over
twenty feet long, which was attached to a chassis made of toughened
steel. This transporter could be filled with fresh milk from the top,
and then pulled behind a modern wagon along the metalled roads to
other towns and cities often scores of miles away. The ingenuity of
the container meant that milk could be transported at the correct
temperatures in sterile conditions, and arrive fresh, safe and fit
for consumption. In 1939 his efforts was recognised by the MAAF and
awarded the Gold Churn for services to the dairy industry.
By completely revolutionising milk distribution,
Harry’s place on the board of directors was secured.
But during the Second World War, disaster
struck. Harold senior was killed in a freak bomb blast when a German
Heinkel became lost in the night skies above West Yorkshire, and jettisoned
its cargo of incendiaries over Brighouse. Harold senior was found
dead in the arms of two young girls of far eastern promise.
Taken from "Humley: Hester to Porcupine"
by Monty Leukast
#
"I say, I say, I say. What is the secret
of good comedy?"
"I don’t know. What is the secret
of…"
"Timing!"
It’s all about timing, you see. Crack
a joke, sing a song, look at your watch, you can’t escape timing.
Let’s face it, if we didn’t have timing then everything
would happen at once and we’d all be stuffed.
Look at the internal combustion engine,
for example (unless you’re a "green" and heavily
into carbon footprints, in which case you can sod off). Ignition timing
is balance, precision, beauty; free revving, strong to pull, throaty
of sound. Or a bag of knackers, depending on whether you got it right
or not. Or a diesel, but don’t get me started on oil-burners.
In engineering you have tools to get the
timing right: strobe lights, rolling roads, mapping software.
But what do you have in life? Personal Digital
Assistants, GPS synchronised clocks, sell by dates, timetables. So
why the blue blazes do we cock it up so much?
I’ll tell you why: communication. Or
lack of it.
"Got the time on ya, cock?"
"No, it’s on me wrist!"
We’re communicating every second, just
like we’re travelling through time all the time. But if you’ve
never learnt to speak, or to understand how badly damaged you’ll
be if you get run over by a Police Volvo, then communication means
naff all. The thing is, you only get one chance with timing. Cock
it up and the moment’s gone; squashed like a cat under a car.
Timing has never been my strong point. I
fall in love with Mr Wonderful who then buggers off to sea leaving
me alone, empty, confused and wondering if I just dreamt the whole
thing. I decide to go off on a road trip just at the time my family
is dieing and falling to bits around me. I spend my time at a dodgy
back street garage when I should probably be handing in my Design
Technology assignment or mapping out the gastro-intestinal system
of a dead rat.
But if you thought my timing was bad, wait
until you pick up on my communication skills. Oh I can swear for England,
put people down and stick up for myself no problem. However I don’t
seem to be able to utter the words, "Stop", "Look Out",
or "Mind That Speeding Policeman!"
Would it have made any difference if I had?
Does it matter? That’s all in the past
now, and the past is one aspect of timing that can’t be changed.
Hey, I like that. I should write that one down and hand it to my shrink
every time he tells me to live for the future.
"I am living for the future,
Dr Wanklyn." I often put a microsecond pause between the two
syllables of his name, which is childish, I know, but it almost seems
impolite not to. Besides, I’m sure everybody else does it, which
is why he never bats an eyelid.
"Ah, but what do you have to look forward
to?"
"Oh I don’t know. Lots of things.
Ask me another, Dr Wankylyn." I often put in the extra syllable
too, just to see his bushy brown eyebrows drop.
He’d often ask me about my childhood,
but to a psychiatrist that’s a bread and butter question akin
to: "Has it got petrol in it?" and "You do know your
tyre’s only flat at the bottom, don’t you?"
Sometimes I’d tell him I was abused
as a child, beaten, neglected and ignored. But he could usually tell
when I was lying or winding him up, and he’d press me to give
an example of what I used to look forward to when I was younger.
One time I told him that I used to look
forward to my gran taking me to the Harvest Festival at chapel. I
never liked going to chapel with long boring sermons of complex words,
bum—-numbing benches and Sunday suits of starch. But I went willingly
to Harvest Festival on account of the teas we had upstairs in the
chapel after the sermon. So traditionally English were the sandwiches
of pure white or wholesome brown, sliced into equilateral triangles
of crustless famine relief. Real butter underlaid potted meat, pink
ham, red cheese, egg with cress, boiled beef sliced into wafers. Little
bowls full with discs of cucumber, grated carrot and quartered garden
tomatoes. Hard boiled hens eggs on their own or mashed with mayonnaise.
Pickled onions and beetroot. Five varieties or crisp lettuice. Cold
boiled potatoes with mint. Sprigs of parsley. Cold cuts of turkey,
more hams, chicken sliced so thinly you could see the blue floral
pattern of the plate. Corned beef begging for ketchup, chutney, brown
sauce or ploughman’s pickle. White flakey Cheshires and glowing
orange Leicesters. And then battenburg, malt loaf, or fairy cakes
with icing and wings on top surrounded by pink and white crinkly cases
of paper. Victoria sponge with jam. Maybe a pavlova. All set on top
of lace tablecloths embroided a hundred years ago by the wives of
the men who had built the chapel. And the tea – strong, full
of flavour, proper Yorkshire tea in delicate Hornsea pottery, clinking
as you placed it back on its saucer, politely asking for another cup.
Dr Wanklyn was salivating by the time I’d
finished telling him. But I didn’t stop. I told him that at the
end of many of my walkabouts I’d end up at the chapel. I’d
half expect there to be a tea laid on. But the chapel was empty despite
the open door. The bloke with his white collar was there once and
ask me if I’d come looking for Jesus. I’d asked, somewhat
sarcasticly, if Jesus could put the kettle on and rustle me up a cheese
sandwich and maybe a chunk of date and walnut, to which the reply
was: "Jesus is always in." I’d said that it was a shame
he couldn’t have been sat in the Police car that ran Dave over,
rather than sitting on his fat arse in the chapel not making the tea.
A watched kettle never boils and I played
a waiting game. I waited to see if I’d get better, and I waited
to see if Bertie would contact me again.
Three days later I picked up another private
message via the forum. It was Bertie asking me to go round the next
evening.
There was a biblical light in the garage.
And the carpet had gone.
"Hello?" I called.
Bertie looked up from inside the engine
bay, a frown on his face. A sweatshirt as grey as his hair told me:
Nazereth Carpenter Seeks Joiner. "I just can’t get it started."
Merely a mutter, or a holler for help?
Tempting though it was to ask him if he’d
parted any seas lately, I said nothing but walked round to the front
of the car. He’d taken off the coil, the distributor cap, the
fuel pump and the washer bottle (what was it with him and the washer
bottle?).
"Where’s your carpet gone?"
I asked.
"Oh -– had to get rid of it. Stank
of petrol. Mrs Wearing said it was killing her Lillys in the kitchen."
I nodded understandingly. "So, what
are you going to do?"
"What about?"
"About anything? About The Four
Corners? You’ve entered the event. Put down a deposit?"
He nodded. "Paid the lot. The whole
entrance fee."
I nodded. "All nine hundred and ninety
five pounds?"
He tapped his lips. "For both drivers."
I rubbed my chin. "Non refundable?"
He pulled his ear. "Not at this late
stage."
I scratched my nose. "So you’re
down nearly two grand?"
He sat in a floral--patterned deckchair
beside his workbench. "It’s not the money. That doesn’t
matter. It’s the shame of it. I’ll be a laughing stock.
Paid nearly two thousand pounds, and couldn’t even get to the
starting line. I mean, it gets worse than that. What I’m trying
to say is that everybody thinks I’m a fool trying to run a Humley
through The Four Corners. It’s never been done. They say
it just can’t be done. The most unreliable car in post war British
motoring history against the most gruelling British classic car rally.
Can you imagine it? What they’ll be saying on the forum? Down
at the Pelican and Biscuit at the monthly Herbewey cum Quickly
classic car meet? And how will I be able to show my face at the Humley
Owners Club AGM? I’m the secretary, you know?"
I shook my head, and jumped up to sit on
the workbench. "I didn’t know that."
"I’ll be asked to resign; bringing
the Club into disrepute, tarnishing the good name of Humley."
"Don’t be silly. They wouldn’t
ask you to resign over something like that."
Bertie didn’t answer, but walked up
to the bench and took out a carefully folded letter from one of the
red draws and handed it to me. It was from the Chairman of the Humley
Owners Club on heavy headed notepaper baring the Club’s formal
royal blue logo.
"Dear Bertram," I read the letter
aloud. "With reference to our continuing discussions and correspondence
regarding your entry into the classic car event known as The Four
Corners of the Apocalypse, and following three meetings with the
full committee.
"I am pleased that your confidence
in your abilities to complete this event remains at an all time optimistic
high. As you know, some members of the committee have grave concerns
and are worried that an official from the club who enters the event
and who does not complete the course, may be running the risk of bringing
the club and the name of Humley in to disrepute. I am sure you can
understand, being a long-serving committee member, that the good name
of Humley and the H.O.C., has been something we have battled to raise
throughout the past twenty years.
"Of course, I needn’t mention
the discussions that we have had, and that I know you have had with
other committee and club members, and I do not have to enclose the
minutes of the committee meetings where you were asked to reconsider
your position.
"I also understand from two separate,
yet highly reliable sources, that your entry fee to the event has
been paid, your entry form has been accepted, the vehicle (your own)
has been nominated, and that a co-driver (an unknown person but who
is not a member of the H.O.C.) has also been appointed.
"On behalf of the H.O.C. I would like
to wish you the very best of luck with the event called The Four
Corners of the Apocalypse, and hope that your success is guaranteed
like your continued success on the committee of the Humley Owners
Club."
The letter ended "Yours Faithfully,
Thornton Watless, Chairman, H.O.C.".
"What does, ‘hope that your success
is guaranteed like your continued success on the committee of the
Humley Owners Club’ mean?" I asked.
"It means that if I don’t complete
the course then they will accept my resignation."
"Well don’t offer it."
"It’s not as simple as that. My
position would be unattainable. I would have to resign or else face
a vote of no confidence, my membership of the Club would be in jeopardy,
my reputation in ruins."
"Bloody hell. That sounds dead serious."
"It is. And please mind your language."
"Sorry. But you can still go, Bertie.
I can get the car going for you, and then we can be off. No probs."
"It’s no good. I know you mean
well. But I can’t just turn up with…with a, well, no offence,
with a girl! I know, I know what you think." He held up his hand.
"But like it or not it is a man’s world. The Four Corners
of the Apocalypse is the roughest, toughest test of man and machine."
"What about woman and machine?"
"Temperatures can reach below zero
and you can’t just stop at the nearest café for a cup
of hot cocoa and a nose--powder. Oh no. You’ve got to keep going
through fog, rain, sleet, blizzard or monsoon."
"Monsoon?"
"Your fingers become blocks of ice
frozen to the steering wheel. Your eyes are raw onions staring through
the night. Yet every nerve and muscle has to stay toned and alert
twenty--four seven. You can’t afford a moments lapse in concentration,
otherwise you could be down a ditch or…or up a gum tree. No,
sir. It’s just no place for a girl."
"Well I disagree…"
"I know you do, and if it were my choice…well,
it wouldn’t make any difference. But it’s the others. What
would the others say?"
"Probably be fine about it."
"Oh no, no, no they wouldn’t.
They’re a very conservative bunch, you know. Very traditional.
Not a girl amongst them."
"Sound like a bunch of sexist pigs."
He stared at me for a second, eyes flicking
down and to the right. "Yes. Total bunch of sexist pigs. But
that’s just the way it is. That’s the way it always has
been with them. I suppose you could say that they’re stuck in
the past like that. But, as I say, that’s just the way it is.
Oh there have been those who tried –- who were those racing lassies
–- the twins from Barnsley who drove the rally cars? Anyway,
the were shunned, not accepted, black-balled."
"Black balled? Eh? Sounds bloody weird
to me."
"Comes with driving fifties and sixties
cars all the time, I expect. You see, you get stuck in the timeline.
It’s not just fifties and sixties cars, but its fifties and sixties
music, and food, and clothes and attitudes."
"But I thought the sixties was a time
of revolution, women’s lib, burning the bra etcetera. And besides,
most other car clubs aren’t full of sexist pigs. I went to the
Triumph Sports Six Owners Club meeting a few months ago and there
were loads of women there. One lady called Rose knows more about fixing
cars than all the blokes put together. In fact she was helping one
chap with the crank case breather on his Herald."
He thought about that one for a moment,
and then shrugged. "Maybe so, maybe so. But you see, it’s
just not possible. Not possible at all, not with The Four Corners
boys anyway."
We stared at each other for a few seconds.
And then I had an idea.
"But if I were a boy?"
Bertie took a pace back as if I’d just
called him a fish. I jumped off the bench and walked up to him. I
had to stand on my tiptoes to pluck off his cap. I turned round, put
my hair up inside the cap and pulled it firmly on to my head. It was
a bit too big for me, and I probably looked a total smeg head, but
for the purpose of the demonstration I didn’t really care.
Sticking my glasses in my pocket, I swaggered
up to the Humley and gave the tyre a kick a couple of times. I pulled
out a ciggy and lit it with my new silver Zippo lighter with a Union
Flag on the side (a Christmas pressie from Mark). "Pile a shite
really, innit?" I grabbed my crotch and pretended to scratch
it really hard.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You ‘eard, granddad." I
wiped my nose on the side of my sleeve. "Fuckin’ old rust
bucket. Load of bollocks this old car crap." My ciggy did a James
Dean out the corner of my mouth.
"Now just a second, look here, there’s
no need for that kind of language."
I grabbed the scruff of his collar and twisted.
"Just you shut your gob, granddad. Otherwise I’ll shove
my fist so far down your throat you’ll be eating tonsils for
breakfast, savvy?"
"I beg your…"
"Shut it! Do you like hospital food?"
"Hospital food? What on earth are you
talking about?"
"If you’re not careful, you’ll
be late."
"Late? Late for what?"
"Err…late for your own funeral?
No, that’s not it. Ah, I remember -– late as in the late
Bertram Wearing." I giggled to myself, knowing that he wouldn’t
have been able to quote Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. "It’s
a threat, Bertie. I’m trying to show you that I can act like
a bloke."
"Well stop it. It’s not very ladylike."
He pulled the cigarette out of my mouth and looked around for somewhere
to put it, finding his mug of tea.
"That’s the whole point, Bertie.
Look, I can walk like a boy and talk like a boy. And sure as XX isn’t
XY I dress like a boy half the time."
"Your point being?"
"Just say I’m a boy. Call me Eric.
Call me a cab if you like."
"I put ‘Eric A’ on the entry
form as my co-driver."
"Exactly. So nobody will know."
"I’ll know."
"But you aren’t going to tell
anybody, are you?"
"No, but it would be dishonest."
"No it wouldn’t. Look, when you
completed the entry form you thought I was male, didn’t you?"
"Yes, but…"
"But nothing. You thought I was a boy
so you wrote on the form what you thought to be the truth at the time
of writing."
"Your point being?"
"My point being that you completed
the entry form to the best of your knowledge. You can’t help
it if your co-driver changes sex after you’ve posted the entry
form, can you? Once we get to the start, all the forms get signed,
then it doesn’t matter if I’m a boy, a girl, or a duck-billed
platypus. Besides, it’ll be a bit of fun."
"But what if they find out?"
"Who cares? What’s the worst that
can happen? We’ll be halfway to Land’s End before anybody
finds out, if they ever find out. I can be pretty devious, you know,
and I love a bit of subterfuge. Besides, it’ll be good to put
one over on those cocky, sexist bast…I mean, devils!"
Bertie shook his head and retrieved his
cap from my head. "Even if I could understand and accept your
logic, it still doesn’t fix the car."
"Ok," I said, with hands on hips.
"I’ll make you a deal; I’ll fix your car and you take
me with you on The Four Corners."
He smiled and chuckled a low chuckle, brushing
imaginary dust off the top of his cap. "Can you put all that
lot back together?" He glanced at the parts strewn on the bench.
"Piece of pi…I mean, cake. Can
you make tea?"
His mouth opened and closed a few times
like you do when you’re trying to equalise the pressures in your
inner ear when descending from altitude. "Mrs Wearing usually
does that."
I rolled my eyes. "All right, then
how about this; I’ll bet you that I can put all these parts back
together and have the engine running before you can make me
a cup of tea and calculate the exact square root of two. If
I win, then you’ll take me on The Four Corners. And if
I loose, then I’ll go home and you’ll never hear from me
again."
"Yes, well, I wouldn’t put things
quite so drastically. I mean, I don’t mind you coming round here
as such…"
"So it’s a bet then?" I held
out my hand.
"Oh very well." He shook it. His
skin was warm and clammy, his shake firm and sincere as if he was
used to doing deals like this. "But I should warn you –
we have a fast-boiling kettle!"
He returned ten minutes later and beamed
at me as I leant against the workbench. He handed me hot tea in a
Practically Sports Cars mug. "Given up before you started?"
"No. Finished." I took a slurp
of tea whilst trying to sound superior – it wasn’t difficult.
He stared at me then at the bench, then
at the car, then back at the bench. When he finally figured out that
the parts weren’t on the bench he dashed over and peered into
the engine bay.
"Well I never. Well I never."
He looked at me as I sipped from his mug. "Well I never. But
does it start?"
"Oh no. Absolutely not."
"Ha ha, so you haven’t put it
all back together?"
"Oh yes. I’ve replaced all the
parts you took off. But the starting problem still isn’t fixed."
"So," he gave a big smug smile.
"You have lost the bet!"
"Oh no. You still haven’t calculated
the exact square root of two."
"How do you know?"
"I just know. If you have calculated
the exact square root of two, then tell me what it is."
"All right." He put his tea on
the bench and opened one of the little red draws, pulling out a calculator
with large buttons - one of those they give to eight year olds or
partially sighted people; one of those without any scientific functions
on. "One point four one four two one three five." He held
up the calculator triumphantly. "The car still isn’t started
so, I believe, you loose the bet."
"No I don’t, because that’s
not the right answer, not the exact answer. That’s only
rounded up to seven decimal places. You can work out the answer but
it’ll take you some time. I should know ‘cause I’m
top of my Maths A-level class." I watched him tapping away furiously
at the calculator keys. "But I’m willing to bet that long
before you figure out what the answer is, curiosity will get the better
of you and you’ll be just itching to know what it is that’s
stopping your Humley from starting."
Tap tap tap tap went the calculator.
I slurped more tea and waited.
Tap tap tap.
It began snowing, and for a while I watched
the snowflakes drift down to settle on the driveway. But the gravel
just ate the flakes like my dad devours cornflakes. It was cold enough,
so they’d settle soon. The forecast wasn’t too bad, but
I guessed there’d be a light covering by morning.
Tap tap.
"Very well." A resigned and defeated
sigh. "Tell me, what is wrong with the car?"
I smiled and put down my empty mug. I took
him by the arm and lead him over to the side of the engine bay. "Do
you see anything wrong?"
"No. No I don’t see anything wrong."
"What about the air filter box?"
Taking his time he peered at the filter
box from different angles. He shone a small LED torch on it, even
though the work lamp already gave brilliant illumination. "No.
Still can’t see anything wrong."
"Sure it’s not on upside down?"
Smiling, he pocketed the torch and rested
both hands on the wing. "Ah well you see, although it is possible
to put the air box on upside down, it doesn’t really matter.
You see the air box has an symmetrical design, which means that whichever
way you mount it, air will still get in to the carburettors."
"Wrong."
It hit him like a jolt from a spark plug.
Well, not literally – there was no blue flash or grey hair standing
on end, and he wasn’t lying flat on his back. But I could have
knocked him down with a fan belt.
I handed him a quarter inch socket. He took
it and fixed it to a ratchet. A minute later the air box was off and
he was staring inside as though he was half expecting a magic pixie
to be sat chuckling to itself.
"It looks the same all round,"
he said.
"I know. But it’s not. If you
look here," I said, taking the air box and pointing to the aperture
that mated to the choke, "there’s a tiny cutaway about five
mil deep. You see?"
"Yes. Yes I see."
"Now, if that’s not placed at
the top, then the air pressure isn’t great enough to make the
piston of the Strombex carburettor rise. And if that happens, no mixture
gets to the engine." A blank look was all I received. "You
can tell if that cutaway is at the top, ‘cause the air entry
pipe is at the bottom. Your air entry pipe was at the top, so I knew
your air box was on the wrong way round. Just replaced the air filters
recently, did you?"
Poor Bertie. He nodded like a dumb animal.
"Just fix it back on then," I
instructed. "Off you go. Make sure the air pipe goes on the bottom
- that’s it."
I watched him fix the air box back in place
and then neatly put away his socket and ratchet. I signalled him to
climb into the driver’s seat. Closing his eyes tightly he turned
the key.
The six cylinder engine of the Humley Major
delivers a deep, rich, burbling like custard boiling in a glass pan
(well, it’s the only analogy I can think of when I’m cold
and hungry).
I lent in through the driver’s window,
raising my voice above the engine. "Of course, they haven’t
actually worked out what the square root of two is yet. I think some
boffins have calculated it to ten million places or something, but
if you ask me that’s just a waste of time. They must be a sad
lot of sickos sat there at home all night with computers working that
one out," I sniggered. "But you could just have said "Pythagoras’
Constant" or the "diagonal across a square" and I’d
have given it to you. My Maths teacher says two’s square root
is a female number ‘cause it’s irrational and nobody’s
worked it out yet." I giggled again. "Anyway, I win the
bet!"
#
Address http://www.bigendbearing.com/forum/index.php
Forum: Old Car Drivers Never Die –
They Just Smell That Way
Topic Chosen: Four Corners of the Apocalypse
Bert W: Well that’s done and dusted.
I’m all ready for the big push. How about everybody else?
