BRIT FINK by Harley Richards

If the Finkley-Smythes were the black sheep of British aristocracy (and they were) then the Right Honourable Julian “Batty” Finkley-Smythe was the black sheep of that particular family. 

Expelled from Rugby, sent down from Oxford, cashiered out of the Life Guards, black-balled by every club in London and finally physically chased out of Lloyds by irate (and somewhat poorer) investors, he was “confined to quarters” for his own safety by his parents. 

In practice this meant he was free to roam the family estate, which may have been a harmless enough activity had he not discovered the Carriage House. His parents’ initial delight that he had at last found a time-consuming hobby soon turned to deep suspicion when a “Keep Out” notice was nailed to the doors and the sounds of hammering and grinding rang out at all hours across the grounds....

Finally, one evening as the moon shone down over Finkley-Smythe Hall the unmistakable and ominous sound of the Carriage House doors being thrown open could be heard. There was a moment’s silence before an ear-splitting mechanical howl ripped through the still air. Anyone catching sight of young Batty as he and his insane creation burst out into the world would at least have had the satisfaction of finally knowing what had happened to Grandfather Rupert’s Roller and cousin Pongo’s E type Jag. 

But Batty clearly had no plans for hanging around long enough to allow his workmanship to be admired as, pausing only to utter the war cry of the Finkley-Smythes:

 “ILLEGITIMA NON CARBORUNDUM!”*

 and execute a couple of swift doughnuts across the croquet lawn, he floored the throttle and disappeared into the rolling English countryside, never to be seen again.

 (Rumours that Batty soon afterwards ended up in California and befriended a young car painter by the name of Ed Roth are strenuously denied to this day by the family.)

 *Don’t let the b*st*rds grind you down.