On The Beach

A little rain began to fall on them, wetting the track again. Dwight Towers stood a little way apart with Moira. "Get into the car, honey," he said. "You'll get wet."

She did not move. "They can't go on in this rain, can they?" she asked. "Not after all these accidents?"

"I wouldn't know," he said. "I'd say they might. After all, it's the same for everybody. They don't have to go so fast they spin. And if they wait for a dry day this time of year they might wait, well, longer than they've got."

"But it's awful," she objected. "Two people killed in the first race and about seven injured. They can't go on. It's like the Roman gladiators, or something."

He stood in silence for a moment in the rain. "Not quite like that," he said at last. "There isn't any audience. They don't have to do it." He looked around. "Apart from the drivers and their crews, I don't suppose there's five hundred people here. They haven't taken any money at a gate. They're doing it because they like to do it, honey."

"I don't believe they do."

He smiled. "You go up to John Osborne and suggest he scratch his Ferrari and go home." She was silent. "Come on in the car and I'll pour you a brandy and soda."

"A very little one, Dwight," she said. "If I'm going to watch this, I'll watch it sober."

The next two heats produced nine crashed, four ambulance cases, but only one death, the driver of the bottom Austin-Healy in a pile up of four cars at The Safety Pin. The rain had eased to a fine, misty drizzle that did nothing to damp the spirits of the competitors. John Osborne had left his friends before the last race, and he was now in the paddock sitting in the Ferrari and warming it up, his pit crew around him. Presently he was satisfied and got out of the car, and stood talking and smoking with some of the other drivers. Don Harrison, the driver of a Jaguar, had a glass of whisky in his hand and a couple of bottles with more glasses on an upturned box beside him; he offered John a drink, but he refused it.

"I've got nothing to give away on you muggers," he said, grinning. Although he had what was probably the fastest car on the circuit, he had almost the least experience of any of the drivers. He still raced the Ferrari with the three broad bands of tape across the back that indicated a novice driver; he was still very conscious that he did not know by instinct when he was about to spin. A spin always caught him unawares and came as a surprise. If he had known it, all the drivers were alike on these wet roads; none of them had much experience of driving under such conditions and his consciousness of inexperience was perhaps a better protection than their confidence.

When his crew pushed the Ferrari out on to the grid, he found himself placed on the second line, in front of him the Maserati, the two Jaguars, and the Gipsy-Lotus, beside him the Thunderbird. He settled himself into his seat revving his engines to warm up, fastening his safety belt, making his crash helmet and his goggles comfortable upon his head. In his mind was the thought-This is where I get killed. Better than vomiting to death in a sick misery in less than a month's time. Better to drive like hell and go out doing what he wanted to. The big steering wheel was a delight to handle, the crack of the Ferrari's exhaust music to his ears. He turned and grinned at his pit crew in unalloyed pleasure, and then fixed his eyes upon the starter.

When the flag dropped he made a good start and got away well, weaving ahead of the Gipsy-Lotus as he changed up into third and outdistancing the Thunderbird. He went into Lake Bend hard on the heels of the two Jaguars, but driving cautiously on the wet road with seventeen laps to go. Time enough to take chances in the last five laps. He stayed with the Jaguars past Haystack Corner, past The Safety Pin and cautiously put his foot down on the sinuous back straight. Not hard enough, apparently, for with a roar and a crackle the Gipsy-Lotus passed him on the right, showering him with water, Sam Bailey driving like a madman.

He slowed a little, while he wiped his goggles, and followed on behind. The Gipsy-Lotus was wandering all over the road, harnessed only by the immensely quick reaction time of its young driver. John Osborne, watching, sensed disaster round it like an. aura; better follow on at a safe distance for a while and see what happened. He shot a quick glance at the mirror, the Thunderbird was fifty yards behind, with the Maserati overtaking it. There was time to take it easy down The Slide, but after that he must step on it.