– or Babies and Engines Don’t Mix

A few months after the birth of our daughter, my wife and I decided it was time to take her to my parents for them to see and admire. At the time we were living in Wokingham, in Berkshire, while my parents lived in Cardiff, about 120 miles away. I should mention at this stage that our daughter had been born 3 months premature and, even then, 5 months after being born and only 2 weeks out of hospital, she weighed no more than an average new born baby would weigh. Also. because her immune system was as yet so undeveloped we were told we had to make sure she was kept away from anyone with an infection.

My car at the time was a rather nice MG Magnette and it was very laden for the journey. Indeed, even though the car was a four-seater, the back two seats were soon piled high with baby essentials. The boot, too, was packed with a multitude of other items deemed necessary for the journey. Because we also needed to take a baby bath with us, it could only be accommodated in the passenger seat foot well so my wife completed the journey with her feet sitting in the bath. 

All went well until we reached the Severn Road Bridge. When we were half way across, suddenly, when none had been audible before, a nasty, rather expensive sounding noise started emanating from the engine. With nowhere to stop, I was forced to continue the crossing until, on the other side, I finally found somewhere to stop. I lifted the bonnet and had a look and listen. To me, it sounded as if one of the big ends was in trouble. For those unfamiliar with car engines but who might have heard of pistons, I should explain that at either end of the piston shaft is a coupling. At the lower end is the crank shaft to which the piston shaft connects; this is the big end coupling, and at the top is the coupling to the piston itself; this is the small end coupling. Repairing such a central part of an engine is a big job and is definitely not one to do at the side of the road. I realized I was risking damaging the entire engine by continuing, but with such a precious cargo on board together with all the essential luggage she needed, I decided to push on.

By the time we reached Cardiff, the noise from the engine was quite horrendous. It sounded worse than a clapped out tank engine. So bad was it, people stopped to stare as we drove passed. But at least we made it. I was a member of the A.A. at the time so I called them from my parents’ house and half an hour later the A.A. man arrived. After discovering I was visiting Cardiff just for the weekend and that I desperately needed my car in good shape to take us all back to Wokingham, he asked me to start the car so that he could assess the extent of the damage from the noise it was making. I explained I had already driven the car for about 30 miles while it was in distress and he gave his considered opinion. ‘Your small end has gone,’ was his diagnosis. I had thought it was a damaged big end, but what the hell, who was I to disagree with an A.A. expert.

The AA man knew a small, back street garage where he thought they might be able to help me and he asked me to follow him to it. I suggested that as the car was sounding so bad, perhaps I should be towed there. ‘By continuing to drive for 30 miles with a damaged small end, the engine is now almost certainly completely knackered,’ he said. So I followed him.

The garage owner was of a similar opinion. He confirmed that my beautiful twin carburetor sports engine was almost certainly completely knackered and had to be replaced. As it happened he had a contact in the scrap car business who might be able to help me out. The engine would not be as nice as mine but it would do the job of getting me home. I was in a cleft stick so I agreed to the exchange. He contacted the scrap yard owner and it was agreed the “new” engine would be delivered the next morning. I had to pay for the replacement engine in advance.

Relieved, I went back home. My father had heard about the scrap dealer and told me he was a well known Cardiff crook and that I was as likely as not to be diddled. My brother-in–law who had come to see the new baby was of a similar frame of mind. He was also knowledgeable on cars and as well as agreeing with me that almost certainly it was the big end and not the small end that had gone, he was of the opinion that a tie connecting both nuts holding the big end in place had probably broken causing one or both nuts to loosen, hence producing the terrible noise. He was also of the opinion that almost certainly the engine had been little damaged. So it looked as though I was indeed about to be diddled. I went to bed that night a very disturbed man.

The next morning different members of my father’s family began dropping in to admire the new baby. I remember a favourite uncle of mine arriving with a streaming cold but insisting on kissing the tiny scrap. As my wife and I protested, my mother kept telling us that “Harry’s all right.’ Next my sister’s mother-in-law arrived. She had conjunctivitis but again insisted on kissing the baby. If I could have, I would have driven off home immediately to avoid anything else being forced on our delicate new child but, of course, I didn’t have a car.

At about 11 am I decided to go back to the garage to see how they were getting on replacing the engine. When I arrived I could see my engine was already out of the car and was hanging from a winch in the middle of the garage floor ready for collection by the scrap dealer but there was no sign of the replacement engine. I was told they were expecting it at any minute. Depressed, I returned home for lunch.
At about 2 pm I went back to the garage but nothing had changed there. They were still waiting for the replacement engine, they said. While nothing might have changed at the garage, something had changed in me. I was now convinced the garage owner as well as the A.A. man both regarded me as an idiot from whom money could be made. They wanted to force me into a position where I was obliged to leave my car behind when I returned to Wokingham putting them in a very powerful position. In other words, not for the first time, I was being underestimated. The previous three times I had gone to the garage I had been wearing cavalry trill trousers and an expensive hacking jacket and they obviously saw me as a wealthy toff who was easy game. They were wrong on both counts. The next time I arrived it was 4.30 pm and I was wearing dirty overalls and was obviously preparing to do something major. In other words I was someone they had not seen before.

The engine was still hanging from where it had been hanging all day and when the garage owner rather nervously came up to me I asked him why he had not bothered to check to see if my contention that the big end tie had snapped was actually correct. ‘It wouldn’t take a minute to take the sump off to take a look,’ I said.

‘If we did that it would break the sump gasket and we’d have oil all over the place,’ he replied.

‘I’ve taken many sumps off engines,’ I said, surprising him not a little I have no doubt, ‘so I know the sump seal is a great thick rubber gasket. It certainly won’t break unless someone is very clumsy when removing the sump and no oil will leak because I’m going to stop that happening. Now, where’s the spanner?’

Five minutes later the sump had been removed without damage or oil spills. When the big ends were revealed, the garage owner – I can’t remember his name, so let’s call him Bill – Bill reached in and said, ‘I’ll just release this tie.’ He had immediately spotted the broken tie and was trying to suggest he could loosen the nuts with his fingers.

By this time, Joe, one of his workmen had come up to see what was going on.

‘Look at that tie Joe. Have you ever seen anything like that, before?’ said Bill.

‘No, I’ve never seen anything like that before,’ Joe replied.

‘I’m sorry, Bill,’ I said interrupting the fantasy world he was trying to create, ‘but you can’t loosen those nuts with your fingers. You need a spanner for that job. Obviously, they were already loose as I guessed might be the case.’

‘All right, you got me there but that doesn’t alter the fact that the big end shells are bound to be completely shot by now.’
Technical note. The big ends are protected by renewable white metal shells. These shells are easily damaged so Bill was probably saying what he thought was the truth.

‘Well we won’t know until we’ve taken a look, will we?’ I said.
In another minute the shells had been removed from the damaged big end. There was some wear and tear but miraculously, the shells appeared to be undamaged. I reckoned they could have been replaced without causing much harm but Bill thought differently.

‘Those shells definitely need replacing,’ he said.

‘O.K. let’s get some new shells,’ I said.

Where can we get new shells at this time?’ It was Saturday and it was already passed 5 pm.

I have not often had these moments but, honestly, I was a man possessed. ‘I’m sure they’ll have replacements at City Motors just down the road,’ I said. Note. Rootes Group was a car manufacturer that made MGs and City Motors was a Rootes Group Cardiff dealership. Both have long since ceased business.

 

Bill was surprised at my local knowledge but was determined to continue with his “can’t do” attitude. ‘They’ll be closed by now,’ came his triumphant answer.

‘They might be closed to the general public but I bet someone is still working in the stores there.’ As I said, I was like a man possessed.

‘Nahr. I’ve told you, they’re closed,’ he said.’ Then, calling across to his work assistant, he asked, ‘Joe, do you reckon anyone will still be working in City Motors?’

‘Oh yes. Old Fred in the stores will still be there,’ came the innocent reply.
Looking daggers at Joe, who would probably get a good bollocking next day, Bill went off to collect the shells. He was only gone about 20 minutes before he returned with them. ‘I had to buy a complete set,’ he said in triumph.

‘That’s all right. We can replace the lot while we are at it,’ I replied.

Within the hour, all four sets of shells had been replaced, all big ends were back to new and the sump had been refitted. By this time Joe had gone home but Bill stayed behind working with me as we replaced the engine back into the car. That task took another hour. Eventually, I was able to start the engine which burst back into life first time. It sounded beautifully smooth once again.

I paid Bill for all his work as well as for the new big end shells and drove off home, a happy and very relieved man. I still had to get my money back from the scrap yard owner which I did on the Monday morning. I had been prepared for trouble when I arrived at the scrap yard but I believe Bill had already spoken to him to tell him not to underestimate me because I was actually a very determined man, so he returned my cheque without demur. I was a day late returning to work but my time spent as a garage mechanic will long remain in my memory.

Bernard Gallivan
January 2019