by Chris Cowland –
It was love at first sight. As soon as I saw her, I knew I had to have her. She was a few years older than me, but time had been gentle with her. Her curves were exquisite, and she had an outstanding pair of headlights.
It was the best £500 I ever spent.
I’m talking, of course, about my 1948 MG TC, one of 10,001 built in Abingdon, England, soon after the war. These were the cars that many U.S. and Canadian troops imported on their return home from war-torn Europe. With their sporty lines, rear-hinged “suicide doors” and genuine coach-built bodywork hand crafted around an ash frame, they certainly stood out against their North American cousins.
Their 1250 cc motors with twin carbs would give around 55 horsepower, but with the aerodynamics of a barn door, they could only reach around 78 miles an hour. But what fun getting there!
Back to my story. I was living in Putney, working for Price Waterhouse in the late 1970s. My daily driver was a 1957 MGA coupe, and it attracted the attention of a stockbroker I had met in a pub. John told me about an MG he had owned since his student days. Fifteen years previously, he had naively begun a full restoration but soon realized he had no mechanical skills whatsoever, and the car had ended up in around 20 boxes stored in his garage.
We closed the deal the following weekend, but I requested the use of his garage for a few weeks so I could start the reassembly. Parts for the car were (and still are) readily available, and a couple of screwdrivers and a socket set were all the special tools required. I will never forget the look on John’s face when the engine burst into life four weeks later, and I drove the car down his driveway under its own power.
As an impecunious accounting student, funds for the restoration project were severely limited. Enter my friend Wullie, a 300-pound chain-smoking one-eyed Glaswegian bouncer who owned a compressor and spray gun which he had once used to paint his house. Wullie would do pretty much anything on earth for a crate of lager.
We spent about two days rubbing down the paintwork, and then laid out the body panels on top of my dustbin in the back yard. Not a great choice of spray booth, but one tip we soon learned was that it is easier to remove dead flies when the paint has fully dried.
The results looked good the further back you stood. Some bits were iffy, but Wullie, in the manner of Lord Nelson, would raise his hand over his one good eye and affirm that “it looks grrrreat to me.” You don’t argue with a 300-pound bouncer.
I have had some unforgettable experiences with this scruffy little car. One day about 40 years ago I picked up a new date at a train station, and instead of slamming the suicide door closed, she clicked it shut firmly but carefully. Nobody had ever closed that door so lovingly. Once again, it was love at first sight! We just celebrated our 37th anniversary last week. Maybe it’s time for another lick of paint for the old girl? The car, I mean.
