A Love Affair

Warwick Carter

The picture was on the front of a classic car magazine. An immaculate two tone dark green and grey Mark V Jaguar.

It was love at first site, as I felt this was the most beautiful car I had ever seen (if you don't know what I am talking about, now is the time to pull out that illustrated history of Jaguar that every one of you should have, and check it out!). That magazine, and many more afterwards that had any reference to classic Jaguars, were purchased and collected.

At that stage my daily driver was a Range Rover, but soon afterwards I took the plunge and purchased my first classic (a 1970 MGB Mark 2). I had always loved and owned British cars, and two years ago purchased my first Jaguar, a new XJ6-X300. A stunning car to view and drive, that was in its element on a long winding road, and we have lots of those on the east coast of Australia.

The interest in Mark V Jaguars continued. Only two or three were offered for sale in Australia each year (only just over 7000 were ever made), and I began to learn the prices and market forces, but they were still too expensive for me to justify as a second classic.

I had not even seen one in the flesh until I went to a classic car day to which all car clubs had been invited. I am not a member of any club, but drove to the display in my less than perfect (but still very good) MGB. For some reason the local MG Club had boycotted the day, and so as I tried to drive into the public car park, a marshal directed me down a side road, and before I knew it I was part of the display, the only MGB there.

Jaguars were present in force, and then I saw it. Parked at the end of a long row of Mark II Jaguars was the first Mark V I had ever seen in the flesh. Burgundy in colour, and in reasonable (but not good) condition, it was already attracting numerous admirers. I joined them, and then unsuccessfully sought the owner. In the end I sat on a bank fifty metres away and watched. Eventually a man opened the boot and displayed the complete tool kit to another person. This must be the owner, and I introduced myself.

No, he was not interested in selling, and never would be. He had owned the car for 23 years, and his eldest daughter had been conceived in the back seat (or so the story went!). It was part of the family. Never the less, I gave him my name and phone number, and he just happened to keep it.

In October 1996 my wife and I travelled from Brisbane to Perth on business, and by coincidence came across the launch of the XK8 in Australia in Kings Park, which is a huge green area in the centre of the city. A dozen or more XK8s were on display (I think they look superb, but totally impractical at the Australian price of A$208,000), and they were supported by the local Jaguar club with an almost complete selection of post war Jaguars, including a Mark V - the second one I was to see. This one was in a rather ghastly two tone red and yellow colour scheme, but even so I convinced my wife that this was indeed an very attractive car.

A couple of days after we returned home I had a phone call from the owner of the burgundy Mark V that I had seen many months earlier. Was I still interested in buying? The price was two-thirds that which I would have expected to pay for such a vehicle, but he had fallen on hard times suddenly, had lost his business and house, and needed money fast. We met and I inspected the car. On a nearby freeway I took it to 70mph, and she performed beautifully. In 1973 she (like ships, all cars are female, so that guys can have love affairs with them) had won several concourse events, but since then she had deteriorated somewhat.

The owner knew the true value of the car, but also knew that to get it could take some months. I was in the right spot at the very right time. I said I would buy it, he looked relieved and said that this extra money would solve his problems, and his wife started crying. I didn't know whether to feel a heel, or elated that I had obtained my dream car far earlier than expected.

A week later after paper work had been completed, I picked it up, and drove it the 40km. across the city to home. The back seat and boot were stuffed with spare parts, and the car was rather sluggish, but as I was unfamiliar with its handling, I took no particular notice. Once home I started unloading the back seat. Complete sets of chrome, spare dashboard, and innumerable unidentifiable bits emerged. Then came the boot. After the first layer of crankshafts, headlights and body panels were removed, the treasure revealed itself - a complete spare engine! He and his two sons (whose place of conception were not revealed to me) had loaded it into the boot, but I and my two daughters had to get it out, and with a boot lid that opens down rather than up, it was a rather difficult task.

On the back lawn I sat down and admired my new toy (the epitomy of space, pace and grace) and all its bits. Now to make it as good as new.

Two days after the purchase, my daughter had a homecoming party for a friend who had been overseas. After the party, they headed into town to a night club, and EVERYONE wanted to ride in the old Jag. The lucky few who fitted in were treated to a chorus of cheers, and a lot of attention, when we pulled into the entry of the night club (open air in our balmy climate) in the grand old cat. It's nice to be appreciated.

A week later we picked up some friends to attend a dinner at the Sheraton. Our mode of transport both amazed and delighted them, and when we arrived at the front door of the hotel, the concierge gave us his very best attention. "Park underground! No way sir, this magnificent vehicle must remain on the front concourse where I can keep a personal eye on it!". So on the concourse it remained, with the hotel RR and for everyone arriving to admire. Maybe I should have charged the Sheraton for publicity!

Although looking superb, I wanted to ensure she was perfect mechanically. So after the thrill of ownership subsided slightly, I booked her in for a thorough mechanical overhaul by a trusted mechanic (contact me if you want details of a good classic and prestige car mechanic in Brisbane).

His workshop is about 15 km. from home, but as I purred along the freeway at 100 kph (60 mph), with admiring glances from the occupants of every passing car, there was a sudden loud bang. The ignition light was on, and the voltmeter had gone from strong charge to slight discharge. I had obviously lost the fan belt. I had about 8km. to go to the workshop - would the old lady make it before getting too hot?

The temperature gauge slowly rose as I cut speed and drove as gently as possible. Unfortunately I could see that after a couple of kilometres the temperature was getting dangerously high, and I drifted to an ignominious halt on the verge of the freeway as a few wisps of steam escaped from around the leaper on the radiator cap.

The driver in the late 1990s has one great advantage over his predecessor in the 1950s - the mobile phone. Mine was still clipped to my belt, so a call to the RACQ had a tilt tray truck parked in front of the Mark V within twenty minutes.

The driver was delighted to be picking up such a rare vehicle, and sympathised that the lack of a simple rubber belt had caused such inconvenience. The tray was tipped, and the steel hawser from the winch was wrapped around the chassis member at the front left underneath the car (no towing loops in fifty year old cars). All 1750 kg. was slowly winched up the tilted tray.

As the entire weight of the car came onto the tray, and within a few centimetres of completion of the winching, there was a slow cracking crunching sound, and the front left of the car sagged down. I suspect the truck driver's look of horror mirrored mine. The winch was stopped, and the tray levelled as we both tried to see what had happened. It didn't sound or look good, but the angles made inspection awkward. We headed the few kilometres to the garage, where the car was very gingerly winched down off the truck and immediately (and with difficulty) pushed onto a hoist.

The steel hawser used for winching had put abnormal stress on the front of the chassis, which had bent dramatically out of shape, badly damaging the suspension, steering and even the brake lines. The underlying cause was of course steel cancer. If mechanical problems had been minimal before, they were substantial now!

A thorough check of the car showed there was substantial rust in the front of the chassis frame, and in the body under the spare wheel, but nowhere else. Except for the damage caused by the winching, she was physically sound. Next a very slow flat tow to the classic car restorer a hundred metres down the road (one of only two in Brisbane) who spent the next fortnight cutting out the rusted sections of chassis then refolding steel sections to replace the sections cut out. A beautiful job.

Finally back to the mechanic for all the repairs to the damaged front end, new brake lines, a head-off engine overhaul (that took nine weeks due to a lack of exhaust valves which had to be made specifically), thorough grease, oil change, and of course a new fan belt.

I got her back yesterday after being away for two months instead of the expected week or two, but at least I now know that she is mechanically sound and reliable. While waiting for parts I had the vehicle trucked to an upholsterer who did a superb job of installing a new set of interior leather to replace the cracked and crazed original.

Finally it was back on the road again, and running beautifully, but the faded paint work was irritating, so after a couple of months I started getting quotes for a new paint job. They varied widely, by up to 250%! The cheapest quote came from a one man operator who had been recommended by a friend who had several classic cars. He insisted that the job would take only 2 or 3 weeks, but I was not to pester him or come to see the car while he did the job.

He was a craftsman from the old school who did what he wanted, as he wanted, with only occasional reference to his client. He was cheap because he worked alone and had minimal overheads, and I eventually entrusted my love machine (!?) to him.

The 2 to 3 weeks gradually extended to many more. I initially phoned after three weeks, and was told it would be ten days more. The next deadline was reached and another phone call was replied to with the information that it would be another week. Then the gap dropped to four days, two days, tomorrow, and finally (three days after tomorrow) to today! On arrival to pick up the car, two hours later than I said I would, I still had to wait an hour for the final polishing to be finished.

The car is now resplendent in two tone midnight blue and pewter (on the side panels only), and looks magnificent.

I'm sure the restoration will never end, but then looking after any of life's loves never does!

Please View further pictures of this car

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