H. G. Hawker, airman: his life and work

by Muriel Hawker

One Sunday in April, while driving with a school friend through Richmond Park, we came to a sudden standstill half-way between the Kingston and Richmond Gates. Before starting that day I had seen that the boy had placed a spare tin of petrol in the back, and I had put this petrol into the tank before leaving Kingston. My knowledge of cars extended very little beyond the amount it took to get this particular light car along, so any stoppage was the source of much anxiety if it happened to occur far from the reach of assistance.

I commenced to look for the trouble in the carburetter, but this seemed to be getting a proper supply of petrol. I dare not look so far afield as that mystery the magneto, and I began to look upon the person who could locate the cause of a stoppage almost immediately as a kind of wizard; there seemed so many things that might happen. While I turned the starting handle hoping that the car had forgotten its trouble, a Grégoire came by in which were two men, and it was a sign of awkward youth that I resolutely refused their proffered assistance, regretting it as soon as the car was out of sight. Presently I noticed the “petrol,” dropping from the carburetter when I flooded her, instead of quickly disappearing into the ground, had accumulated into a puddle, and then the bright idea at last struck me that the tank had been filled up with nothing but water. I let all the contents of the tank out and resignedly settled down to wait for a passing car whose driver had a tin of petrol to spare. One or two passed, but we were unable to obtain petrol from them.

Then the Grégoire returned, and this time pulled into the kerb. The driver, whom we were soon to know as Harry Hawker, got out and said, “Was it petrol after all?” Rather surprised at this very lucky guess, we enquired as to how he got his knowledge. “If a girl breaks down,” he said, “she will invariably take everything down that is detachable before she looks into the petrol tank”; and although this was not quite fair in our case, it was characteristic of his almost uncanny gift of being able to discern what was wrong with a car almost without seeing it. I explained what had actually happened while Harry was filling our tank from his spare tin. We exchanged cards, or, rather, it would have been an exchange had not Harry, after a lengthy search in many pockets, found he had left his case at home, and so wrote his name on the back of the other man’s. He had a nervous, offhand manner all the time, and although he made one very unconvincing effort at a compliment on my knowledge of motor-cars, he seemed genuinely relieved when I let in the clutch and with many thanks drove away.

But this did not prove to be the end of the episode, for the following Sunday morning brought me a telephone message from the “Police.” Vaguely wondering how I had broken the law, although when one drives a car one gets on quite a familiar footing with the police, I was surprised to hear that it was our rescuer of the previous Sunday, who, with a sort of boyish enthusiasm, said he had bought a 27-80 h.p. Austro-Daimler car during the week and suggested I should come and try it. So we four newly-made friends set out, and this was the first time I drove a real motor-car. It was characteristic of Harry’s good-nature that each car he had—and he had many during his lifetime—he was not only willing to let me, but pleased that I should want to drive it, and those who have a kind of love for their cars will know the effort required to let others handle them.

Every Sunday during the summer we continued these drives without the knowledge of my parents, until these meetings were discovered, as such meetings usually are sooner or later. After a while I managed, by telling stories of his great gallantry, to persuade my mother to ask Harry and his friend Basil, with whom he “digged,” to dinner. After dinner, my father, mother, and an old friend wished to get up a hand of whist, and Harry volunteered to make up the fourth, and sat down as though he enjoyed it. There were some young people there that night, and we all trooped off into another room to indulge in more enlivening pastimes. Whether he thought that to play a quiet game of cards with the older people would make a better impression than playing such childish games as we others were indulging in, is a debatable question; but I am not sure he would not have had more success had he joined us, for, as I afterwards learned, he loathed cards, had played whist only once in his life before, and, needless to say, played a very bad game. However, his simple frankness found favour and we were allowed to continue our Sunday afternoon drives.

Christmas drew near, and mother, on finding that Harry and Basil would be alone in “diggings” for the festive season, invited them to come and spend Christmas with us. “Now, don’t be late,” she admonished them as they said good-bye on the Sunday before. “We have dinner at four o’clock on Christmas Day.” They certainly were not late, since they arrived at four o’clock on Christmas Eve, twenty-four hours before they were expected! Dad was the only one at home, and I arrived home at six o’clock to hear his recital of their brief call. I guessed at once they had made a mistake in the day, but Dad refused to agree with me. The incident was never mentioned to Harry until after we were married and about to spend Christmas in my old home. Then I said to Harry, as we were packing: “We will not make a mistake in the day this time!” “Good gracious!” exclaimed Harry, “do you mean to say my wonderful display of tact failed on that other occasion? As soon as we arrived, and I saw we were not expected, I guessed we were a day too soon.” He went on to tell me that he got out of a difficult situation by convincing Dad it was a time-worn custom in Australia to make a call upon people the day before you went to stay with them. Then he thought of the tell-tale bags in the back of the car. He fixed Basil with his eye, and in a meaning voice directed him to go out and turn off the petrol as the joint leaked—and Basil took the tip. When Dad went out a little later to speed his two guests, the bags were hidden beneath a large fur rug. Now, Basil felt the cold intensely in England, but Harry not at all. So it must have been a study in expressions when, in answer to a suggestion from Dad that they should throw the rug over their knees, Harry assured him it was not necessary as neither of them felt the cold in the least!

In those days of war, when Harry was very busy seven days a week testing new machines, sometimes at the rate of ten a day, and working half the nights on designs for new ones, it was brought home to me, on Harry’s enquiry as to how I filled in my time, how little work I did to justify my existence. “I bet you I will get some work within a fortnight,” I told him, and, after arranging the nature of the bet, he took me on.

Then followed a hunt for the elusive work. I had not the slightest idea where to begin, as I had no special qualifications. However, I applied at a Labour Exchange, an experience uncongenial in the extreme. I was asked to fill in some forms stating my qualifications and experiences. This did not take me long! I was then asked to fill in some more, and, after this, was told to go home and await their communication.

In a few days I had a letter asking me to call on the Monday at the offices of the National Health Insurance Commission, Buckingham Gate. There were only three days more before the expiration of my bet with Harry, so I was only too glad to keep this appointment. I could have laughed aloud when Mr. Alfred Woodgate, afterwards affectionately known as the ‘Archangel,’ turned to his colleague, Mr. Bailey, under whom I afterwards worked, and observed: “Let me see, Bailey, you are wanting someone at once, aren’t you?” and I was told to consider myself engaged as from the morrow. I wondered whether I ought to say “Thank you, Mr. Woodgate,” or “Thank you, sir.” Eventually I just said “Thank you,” and departed very elevated. Perhaps the greatest joys and sorrows of my life hung upon the words, “Consider yourself engaged from to-morrow,” for that same evening Harry and I became provisionally engaged to be married. I say provisionally, because at that time, being still in my teens, and taking into consideration the uncertainties of war, I did not want to be tied completely.

The Sunday rides were continued, generally to Brooklands, where there was always something for Harry to do. The Austro-Daimler had been well “hotted up” and was now capable of 80 miles per hour, and we spent many an exciting time “strafing” anything willing and able on the road. I often wonder what manner of curses we drew on our heads from nervous pedestrians who seem to enjoy ignoring the footpath and walking with their backs to traffic, or those twenty-mile-an-hour motorists who love the very centre of the road and hate to move. I remember in particular an elderly gentleman walking slowly along the road by the side of which was a perfectly good and empty footpath, who, dropping his hat and stick, remained firmly planted on both feet and stared at us in open-mouthed amazement and disapproval as we whizzed by. Certainly for his especial safety it would have been better had we indulged in our turn of speed on the footpath. But I am sure Harry was less of a danger on the road driving at 70 miles an hour than those, who cursed us most, were driving at 20 or sauntering about in the middle of the fairway. These little trips did not cease, and I well remember the very last Sunday Harry was with me he said: “Let’s go out alone like we used to do and not take anyone with us.” We did so, but then we met some friends at tea-time!