THE BENTLEY BOYS

“We are going to build a fast car, a good car…the best in its class.”

-Walter Owen Bentley

1.

Countess Caravan Nursing Home, London, June 2, 1933

A sleek black limousine rolls to a silent stop. It is a Bentley, of course. The engine is left running as the driver’s side door opens and a uniformed chauffeur climbs out. Stepping on to the curb, he takes a moment to straighten his cap and adjust his tie before opening the door to the back seat. An impeccably-dressed man in a three-piece suit quickly emerges.  

   The man neither thanks his driver nor issues instructions. Instead, he steps on to the freshly-cut lawn and proceeds to walk an unswerving line in the direction of the hospital’s front entrance. He bypasses the aged facility’s weather-cracked walkway. He bounds up a wide set of granite steps and goes inside.

   The hurried visitor passes through a crowded waiting room en route to the nurses’ station. The men and women occupying the atrium’s benches and chairs stop thumbing through their outdated periodicals long enough to steal a glimpse of the new arrival. His stylish clothes and expensive shoes raise an eyebrow or two.

   The nurse on duty recognizes him immediately, despite having never met. She has seen his rounded face and slicked back hair in countless newspapers and magazines. Impressed with his well-groomed appearance, and slightly awed by his celebrity status, she acts ill prepared, regardless of the fact that it was she who had summoned him there.   

   “I’m sorry to have bothered such an important man as you, Mr. Bentley, but Dr. Benjafield insisted I call.”

   The man grimaces. He sheepishly glances over his shoulder to see how far her flattering apology may have traveled. The gathering of involuntary eavesdroppers instinctively returns to their magazines and pretend not to have been listening.

   Walter Owen Bentley or ‘W.O.’ is a man of importance. The fame, he so thoroughly detests, is a natural by-product that accompanies his passion – automobile racing. His cars, like his drivers, are world renowned, but W.O. prefers to live his life in complete anonymity. Work is what he knows best; work and the importance of surrounding oneself with talent. Now, W.O. is faced with the apparent likelihood of losing one of the most talented men he has ever known. One thing is for certain; he is in no mood to issue unwarranted forgiveness or exchange pleasantries with a star-struck hospital employee. Instead, he dismisses her apology with a wave of his hand.

   “…of course...of course. Has there been any change in Sir Henry’s condition?”

   W.O. makes a point of using the patient’s more recognizable title. Amongst the privileged set, to which both he and Sir Henry unquestionably belong, he is known simply as “Tim.”

   “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Dr. Benjafield, sir.”

   W.O. can sense that the young woman is itching to say more, but a passing whiff of professionalism temporarily binds her tongue. Luckily for W.O., she is fresh out of nursing school and eager to please her first celebrity acquaintance. Patient confidentiality is no match for W.O.’s distinguished notoriety.

    “I know there’s been a parade of doctors in and out of his room over the past few hours…specialists they say. Rumor has it that a number of them came from as far away as Manchester and Blackpool. One, in particular, traveled all the way from Durham to have a look at Sir Henry.”

   Her disclosure only adds to W.O.’s growing concern. He has heard enough. “I wish to pay Sir Henry a visit.”

   “Of course, Mr. Bentley, I’ll call and ask if visiting hours are in effect.” She swivels and reaches for the phone.

   W.O. refuses to wait and silently slips away. His destination is a pair of stainless steel doors on the opposite side of the room. A straight-arm down the middle and the doors swing wide open. W.O. is smacked in the face by a potent combination of bleach, medicine and x-ray machines. The smell is a conspicuous reminder of his surroundings. Noticeably absent are any signs of human life. The generally bustling corridor and adjoining examination rooms are empty. Fueled by a mounting feeling of dread, W.O. draws his own ominous, yet illogical, conclusion. Perhaps everyone is in Tim’s room. The sudden emergence of an orderly from a nearby linen closet puts W.O.’s theory quickly to rest.

   W.O. continues on to a set of stairs. He climbs the two flights in record time. Silently cursing middle age and his long-standing smoking habit, he forcibly slows his breathing before going any further. At the far end of the corridor stands his longtime friend, Dr. J. Dudley Benjafield (Benjy for short.) The two men make eye contact and rush to greet one another.

   W.O. is startled by Benjy’s haggard appearance. The clothes on his back appear slept in, and his unshaven face is tired and gaunt. He has not left the hospital for days, and it shows. W.O. foregoes the customary greeting between friends and seeks an immediate update.

   “I came as soon as I could. Is everything all right?”

   “I’m afraid not. It’s Tim. He’s…”

   “He’s what?! On Wednesday, you assured me he was on the mend.”

   “I know what I said,” Benjy snaps. He closes his eyes and begins rubbing his temples. The long hours have taken their toll.

   W.O. decides that the time for talking has passed. He steps around his worn out friend and makes his way to the open door of Tim’s room. Reaching the threshold, he stops and slowly inches his head in. The stagnant scene before him resembles a painting - uninspiring, yet morbidly captivating.

   A narrow bed in a windowless room – its frail occupant lying, motionless, beneath a stark, white sheet, mouth open, eyes closed. At the foot of the bed stands a doctor. He is studying the patient’s chart with an undertaker’s expression on his face. Completing the masterpiece of despair is a vault-like air, cold and chilly; a harbinger to the shadow of death darkening the room’s walls and floor. W.O. comes no closer for fear of becoming imprisoned in its menacing silhouette. His mind begins to race.

   Is that really Tim? He’s so white. Will he ever wake up?

   W.O. continues to burn holes in Tim with his eyes, as if the answers to his questions will come crawling out from beneath the crumpled sheets.

   The doctor looks up to find W.O. standing there.

   “He hasn’t responded since last night.”

   W.O. can only nod his head. Fear and uncertainty have rendered him useless.

   Why can’t I go near him? That is my best mate lying there.

   W.O’s paralysis is strange, indeed. The veteran racing team owner had witnessed countless deaths on tracks all over Europe. He had seen men fly through windscreens and impale themselves on fence posts. He had come upon crash scenes where it was difficult to differentiate between shards of metal and human flesh. In most cases, he was well acquainted with the unfortunate victim. What makes this bleak scenario more debilitating than all the rest?

   W.O.’s emotional fracas is the result of mistaken identity – the withered creature lying in the humble three-by-seven bed is not Tim Birkin. The Tim Birkin that W.O. (and the rest of the world) hold dear…is vibrant, daring and lustful. He is not supposed to fade away like some wearisome mortal. No. Tim Birkin is slated to die in a fiery car crash, or at the hands of a jealous husband. Women’s bodies will ache at the news of his passing. Men will weep. To consider anything less melodramatic would be absurd. Evidently, the grim reaper was never handed the script.

   Tim Birkin is suffering from septicemia – a presence of bacteria in the blood, often associated with severe infection. It was Birkin’s stubbornness that landed him at death’s door, not a romanticized skirmish with danger. Worse still…the team of doctors, hovering over him day and night, is claiming that the whole thing could have easily been prevented. Whether that’s true or not, warrants debate. One thing is for certain; Tim’s plight had quite unceremonious beginnings - the location…Tripoli…the event…the 71 kilometer Grand Prix.

   Birkin had donned his traditional racing attire - a dark blue short-sleeve sports shirt, white overall pants, a wide belt and his signature blue and white polka dot scarf. Tucked inside the lining of his racing helmet was a St. Christopher medal that he believed brought him good luck. Many racing enthusiasts scoffed at this superstitious ritual. Yet few denied that on numerous occasions “luck” had been the only thing standing between Tim Birkin and certain death. The Tripoli Grand Prix would undoubtedly test the limits of Sir Henry’s good fortune. 

   On lap 16 of the race, Birkin pulled his 8C 3000 Maserati into the pits. He thought he’d enjoy a quick smoke while his pit crew worked feverishly to replenish the racecar. Tim reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter. The smooth stainless steel lighter slipped from between his sweaty fingers and landed beside the car’s left rear tire. As he bent over to pick it up, his bare forearm came in contact with the Maserati’s red-hot exhaust pipe. It resulted in a serious burn. Birkin ignored the pain and continued the race. He finished third. It was this kind of bravado that endeared Tim to his legion of fans; couple that with his jet black hair, trim physique and smoldering eyes…and it’s easy to see why he was considered England’s most eligible bachelor.

   Birkin bid farewell to Libya and boarded a ship for home. He retired to his lavish London apartment in Grosvenor Square, where he spent the next two weeks nursing the festering wound the best he could. He never once considered seeking medical attention. His was a “silly burn.” Birkin’s macho diagnosis nearly did him in. It was only by coincidence that he managed to escape catastrophe. Benjy had dropped by to pay Tim a quick visit and found him lying on the kitchen floor in a delirious stupor. Benjy scooped him up and carried him to the car. They arrived at the hospital with little time to spare. Tim rallied for a day or two, but things quickly deteriorated. Now…the final act in a senseless tragedy was being played out, and W.O. Bentley had a front row seat.  

   

    The doctor hangs up Tim’s chart and begins to exit the room. W.O. takes a step back to let him through. The doctor acknowledges the gesture with a single head bob then hastily departs. W.O. returns to his threshold perch to discover that Birkin’s countenance has mysteriously changed. The corners of Tim’s mouth are turned upward, ever-so-slightly, and his long, black eyelashes are resting comfortably on the tops of his pallid cheeks. It is the look of a happy man. W.O. sees it as a sign - The checkered flag is in Tim’s sights. W.O. is anxious to share his discovery, and rushes to collect Benjy.

   W.O. finds his weary friend sitting on a bench beneath an enormous picture window that overlooks the street. He is hunched over, head in hands. The pitiful Benjafield keeps repeating the same phrase over and over again like they were lashes from a whip, “I raced bloody cars and drank champagne.”

   W.O. remains perfectly still…silenced by his own guilt. Any sense of urgency or enthusiasm has all but vanished.

   Benjy looks up to see W.O.’s face. He sighs heavily before stating the obvious, “He should have gone to a hospital.”

   “We both know how stubborn Tim can be.”

   “Stubborn and foolhardy…he always lived his life like it was a bloody car race. It didn’t matter if he was in control or not. He never lost sight of the finish line. I don’t know of any other man who placed more trust in his own abilities. Either that…or he just didn’t care.”

   “I wish you’d stop talking like he was already gone.”

   Benjy shakes his head. “I’m scared, W.O....I’m scared this is one race Tim isn’t going to win.”

  

   Both men fall silent. They spend the next few moments contemplating life without one of their dearest companions. W.O. is afraid to make eye contact with Benjy for fear of crying. He shifts his attention to the large picture window. Down below is a young man on a motorcycle. It rambles past the nursing home and turns left down a narrow tree-lined street. W.O.’s mind begins to drift, as he watches the bike knife through the shadows cast by the infinite row of ageless elms.