Topless In A Tickford
Images: Deepanjan Sarkar & others
Paul Duchene passed away a last year. We are reprinting this story written by him as a tribute. Rest in peace Paul - ED
In February 1968, I had been a newspaper reporter for about six months, at a long-extinct weekly tabloid, the Kingston Borough News in Southwest London. I made enough money to live on my own—10 guineas a week (£8 16s 8d net)—and spent £3.10 shillings on my own ‘little brown room’, as City Editor Dermot Fitzpatrick put it, in the attic of a six-storey Victorian house on Surbiton Hill.
![Vauxhall DX14_Automobiles_01](https://magazine.derivaz-ives.com/content/images/2022/03/2-A-1935-Vauxhall-DX14-tourer.jpg)
I had been writing Kiplingesque letters to newspapers in romantic cities worldwide, seeking gainful employment, having had enough of English weather and dire poverty. So far, the letters had produced a collection of exotic stamps, but I was moving on anyway, after my landlady encountered my friend Jill on the stairs and announced that ‘such behavior will not be tolerated’.
Fortunately, the paper had hired John Feltham, a cheerful cockney police reporter, who was a natural Australian as he would find out later. John rented a room over a Greek restaurant that was too bad to eat at, but within spitting distance of the newspaper. We agreed to share it, if I could come up with half of the rent.
![Vauxhall DX14_Automobiles_02](https://magazine.derivaz-ives.com/content/images/2022/03/3-A-1936-Vauxhall-DX14-Drophead-coupe-b.jpg)
I was busy looking for a car, nearly freezing to death on my BSA Bantam, after locking myself out during a snowstorm. Luckily I sold it to my brother, and down by the river I found a stylishly dilapidated 1935 Vauxhall DX 14 Tickford convertible with a three-position top.
I couldn’t pay my half of the rent until I got paid the next week. No problem. I would sleep in the car, clean up at the newspaper, and go home to Mum’s to take a bath. The first night was endless. A river fog turned to a hard frost and by about 3 am, I couldn’t feel my feet. To make matters worse, the driver’s window in the car wasn’t down—it was missing.
![Vauxhall DX14_Automobiles_03](https://magazine.derivaz-ives.com/content/images/2022/03/4-The-typical-flute-on-the-edges-of-the-bonnet-marks-this-Vauxhall-DX14-from-1936.jpg)
I stumbled into town and noticed the railway station waiting room had a big wood stove. I could stay warm until daylight, then go to work. I dozed off, to be woken by a gentle shake. “Young man, is this your train?” It was a quarter to five. Commuter trains came through regularly, and nice people worried about me missing them.
Finally I gave up and went to the office. I crawled under my desk, wrapped up in my eiderdown, until Mrs. Robson, the cleaning lady, arrived. I was woken by her screech of alarm. “Why didn’t you just tell me?” she said. “I’ll put the kettle on.” I lurked under my desk for the next five nights, until I could share John’s ghastly pink room.
![Vauxhall DX14_Automobiles_04](https://magazine.derivaz-ives.com/content/images/2022/03/5-A-1936-DX14-Vauxhall-participating-at-the-Statesman-Rally-in-Kolkata.jpg)
When the weather improved, I took Jill out to a country pub. The Vauxhall had a 2-liter, 6-cylinder engine and a good turn of speed, but the brakes were a dismal cable affair. The blue leather interior complemented the two-tone grey paint, and the back seat was downright cozy, with a rear window the size of a letter box. The license was out of date, but as usual, I had written ‘License Applied For’ in bold, honest-looking print. Somewhere near Box Hill in Surrey, the car stopped, with a flat battery. At that moment a police car arrived, but they were charmed by Jill’s Harlequin rugby shirt-cum-dress. We wrapped a fuse in tinfoil and continued.
![Vauxhall DX14_Automobiles_05](https://magazine.derivaz-ives.com/content/images/2022/03/6-The-Chennai-based-Vauxhall-DX14-which-we-featured-recently.jpeg)
It was getting late so we cruised by Hampton Court Palace at about 70 mph; suddenly the car filled with steam. I stopped Jill from opening the rear-hinged door, which would have pulled her out, and we coasted to a halt. The rear freeze plug had popped out of the engine block, but amazingly, it was stuck in the dirt on top of the clutch. I was able to lever it back into place with a big screwdriver, and luckily there was a ditch nearby. Jill gamely sacrificed a rather nice hat.
![Vauxhall DX14_Automobiles_06](https://magazine.derivaz-ives.com/content/images/2022/03/7-The-same-Vauxhall-DX14.jpeg)
Big old convertibles attract attention, especially if they are parked on Epsom Race Course, as the sun is coming up in June. Purely by chance, I happened to glance out the tiny back window, to see two of Epsom’s finest approaching. The younger one asked what we were doing there; his partner rolled his eyes. Junior persevered: “But if you both work in Surbiton, why are you here?” The answer was so blindingly obvious there was nothing I could say, but eventually they left.
![Vauxhall DX14_Automobiles_07](https://magazine.derivaz-ives.com/content/images/2022/03/8-The-dashboard-of-the-Vauxhall-DX14.jpeg)
The Vauxhall survived for about six months, carrying passengers with the top down. The rear muffler fell off, and turned out to be made of copper, which was worth a week’s wages. I never did get a window made, and the paint resisted all efforts to polish it. I decided to paint it if I was going to sell it, so I got a can of black Valspar enamel and did what I thought was a really good job.
The car looked handsome, but the brakes were beyond help. I heard about a garage about 15 miles away that liked old cars so I drove it over there cautiously. The garage owner took it for a spin. “It’s got no brakes!” he said white-faced, on his return, but he bought it.
![Vauxhall DX14_Automobiles_08](https://magazine.derivaz-ives.com/content/images/2022/03/9-The-DX14-was-known-for-being-spacious.jpeg)
Armed with £7.10 shillings I headed for my local wrecking yard, where I found a 1953 Triumph Mayflower, with an entirely different set of problems. Perhaps if I had been older, or the Vauxhall had been younger, we might have made a go of it.
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