Henry's Car

Part 7

By now the whole racing scene was curious about this strange and over-sized driver who had a penchant for 16th Century royal fancy-dress. It was getting hard to keep the lid on his true identity. Dave and I brought the interview date forward to the Monday night.

Henry looked calmed and relaxed under the studio lights as the photographer worked his magic but I could hardly stop myself from laughing. I had bought Henry a nice pair of Ray-bans but somebody, probably Anna, had lent him another pair. The ludicrous pair of white framed plastic 80’s shades looked quite bizarre and hilariously funny on a man dressed in 16th Century Costume. Henry must have thought them cool though, studying his copy of Henry Miller’s Collected Plays Volume II, a choice that Jasmine and I had thought cool and slightly ironic. When the photographs were all taken, Donald showed Henry to a pair of plush leather chairs where the interview was to take place.

“So Mr Tudor, I believe that’s how I am to refer to you? Mr Tudor, thank you for this interview. We have been led to believe you are a time-traveler from the 16th Century. It is a truly fascinating proposition but why on Earth should anyone believe you?”

“You impertinent...” I clucked noisily and Henry fell into line. “Because it is true!” he said defiantly.

There followed a barrage of questions about life in the 16th century which Henry answered, impatiently but with the authority a top historian could not hope to equal. At all times his accent was impeccable and Donald could not find a crack in Henry’s persona. His research had been thorough and he looked almost convinced of Henry’s true identity. Then he smiled slyly as he prepared the final question.

“So Henry, now I would like to ask you what every man will want to know in our century: what was Anne like in bed?”

Looking every inch the Renaissance Man, Henry took off the shades with his left hand and studied the fat fingers of his right hand. “Verily, she is as like as any other woman: warm as a summer’s day when she’s a-pleased with ‘ee but dark as a storm if ye has crossed her. And mark ‘ee, if the first, it lasteth as long as the sun peepeth from behind clouds.” I thought he’d laid on the accent pretty thickly but Donald looked pleased. I could almost see the Time Magazine cover already. Henry was a consummate self-publicist and well able to manipulate his own image, what else would one expect of a king?

The article in Men Today magazine was a raging success: My mobile was ringing non-stop and Henry was inundated with requests for appearances. Historians everywhere were falling over to get an interview. Scientists who studied time were also starting to take an interest.

Once it became public knowledge that Henry was a keen car-racer, Recaro offered to build him a custom seat for free. Eighteen stone drivers were not common but they weren’t put off by his size. The next race Henry finished in fifth place and he really was finding his feet in the sport now, not difficult to do since Nike had given him some handmade size-14 trainers with specially strengthened soles. Jasmine was close to fixing the Time Magazine deal when he finally came third in his race, with me now as co-driver. He just didn’t like changing gear; it was beneath him he said.

“That was beautiful Raymond!” he said, slapping me on the shoulders as we stood side-by-side on the podium. Only Henry, with his celebrity status had been allowed a co-driver. It was a concession to his ‘century’ and a sign that people were starting to take him seriously.

“It was great Henry. A win has to be just around the corner!”

“Oh, a jest. Very good!”

“Here Henry. I don’t think you will have come across this before but it’s very good. It’s called champagne. Try some. That’s it, straight from the bottle.”

“Oh yes! I like this. Who invented it?”

“Err some monks in France I believe.” I shouted over the roar of the crowds as Henry upended the bottle of Bollinger.

“Ah the French. And monks! It suprizeth me not. They are wanton creatures and the first to cry for a pot of ale!”

 

Now there was just one week left until his time in the 21st century was due to end, according to him anyway. Dave and I were nervous. There was a race on Saturday, a possible interview with Time Magazine on Sunday and according to our calculations, Henry would disappear some-time around 10.30pm on Tuesday night, exactly six weeks since he had arrived. Of course if he did disappear he would instantly become more famous but then he would be gone. For us this was a distinct advantage, as Dave had pointed out to me but I couldn’t help feeling sad.