The Very White of Love: the heartbreaking love story that everyone is talking about!. S Worrall C

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      The motor trial site is on an escarpment of the Chilterns, near the village of Crowell. Seeing the ranks of gleaming Alvis, MGs and Talbots, Martin rather wishes he had entered himself.

      ‘Martin!’

      Martin turns to see his friend, Hugh Saunders, striding along the hillside. He’s in the year above Martin at Oxford: a tall, broad-shouldered twenty-one-year-old, with an angular face, cropped brown hair and narrow-set eyes. Next to him is a short, almost painfully skinny girl in a flimsy coat. ‘Hugh! Are you taking part?’

      ‘No. Strictly spectator.’ They shake hands, then Hugh makes the introductions. ‘Martin Preston, Sacha Richardson.’

      Martin shakes her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

      ‘Likewise.’ The girl’s eyes narrow as she smiles. ‘Hugh was telling me about you the other day.’

      ‘Oh dear.’ Martin winces. ‘Hope some of it was good.’

      ‘Nearly all of it, actually.’ The girl shivers. ‘Hughie, darling, can we go and find a hot toddy somewhere?’

      ‘Of course.’ Hugh turns to Martin. ‘Fancy joining us?’

      Martin shakes his head. ‘You go on. I have to go and sign in.’

      ‘Good luck, then!’ Hugh calls over his shoulder.

      Martin heads for the stewards’ tent. The race will start in half an hour and a large crowd has already gathered. Some students, some local farmers in wellingtons and Barbour jackets; and a few townspeople from High Wycombe or Cowley. Whatever clouds may be gathering in Europe, no one is going to let it spoil their enjoyment and Martin listens happily to the animated discussions going on all around him about new kinds of supercharged fuel; the competitive strengths of the Bugatti versus the Alvis; and the secret of tyre pressures.

      ‘First time is it?’ an elderly man with a white, walrus moustache asks.

      ‘Yes.’ Martin grins. ‘Friend roped me in. Anything I need to know?’

      ‘It’s simple. You are basically there to see that the cars don’t cut any corners.’ The official smiles. ‘Literally.’ He hands Martin a flag and a clipboard. ‘If the car fails to properly complete your section of the course, you raise the flag. And scribble down the details. All clear?’

      Martin’s position is on a gently sloping track between a copse of fir trees and an escarpment. Here, the cars will be travelling downhill after climbing one of the course’s many hills. Though it is sunny today, there has been a fair bit of rain recently and Martin guesses that the track will soon be churned up into a quagmire.

      The first car down is an Austin Seven sports car, the driver muffled up in a heavy scarf and goggles. As it passes Martin, its tyres start to slide and only a deft series of tugs on the steering wheel keeps it from crashing into the woods. Next up is a V8 Allard, a car that Martin particularly loves with its boxy lines, bug-eyed headlamps, and monster engine. This one is white – or was, it’s now spattered with mud – and as it roars up over the hill, its front tyres leave the ground and, for a moment, the car is airborne. The driver, a thick-set man wrapped in a black overcoat, with a flat cap perched on his head, smiles and gives Martin the thumbs-up.

      As the race goes on, the field thins out as more and more cars break down or crash out. In the increasingly long gaps in between, Martin sits or even lies on the bank behind him, staring up into the blue, winter sky. The sun is warm on his face. The bracken is soft, like a mattress. If only she were here, but she promised her mother to go shopping. But just the thought of her makes him feel full of life. And optimism. And love.