It's 1965 and Martin Walter lies on his death bed. He attempts to regain his focus on the world whilst waiting for the call that could send him happily to sleep. His room is piled to the ceilings with blue prints and plans. Artist’s impressions of strange vehicles hang from the walls and the smell of engine oil is thick in the air.
He was a dreamer; an automotive visionary and a figure head for the liberal and creative revolution that in only a few years time was to reach its peak.
His past life gently scrolls through his mind; Jackie, his wife, his children; Caspian, Stryker and Claremont.
'Such joyful times.' Thinks he as his vision again begins to fade.
But one lingering doubt remains still. His life's work is incomplete. For nearly forty years now he has worked on one project, one defining machine to triumphantly carry his name through the eternity of time. The summit, the absolute pinnacle of his vision, skill and devotion to his work but his life is waning and he has heard no news now for days. The phone rings.
His clasps the receiver with a frail hand, there is a momentary pause and then a familiar voice shatters the silence.
'You did it Walter, she's alive, and...'
'Tell me John for God's sake.' Said he.
'And, Walter... She's beautiful.'
The receiver drops to floor and there is silence.
Forty six years later and a couple are walking down the side of a road on the outskirts of bath. It’s four in the morning and it’s cold and wet. They are both miserable and soaked through, having been trying to get a lift now for hours. Suddenly, between the thick matted hedges they see a light. They push their way through the undergrowth and find themselves in the grounds of large abandoned house. In the ravels of briars and shrubs they spot an unusual looking van with a warm glow coming from within. The rain is hammering down now so without hesitation they clamber inside.
A single light in the ceiling of the van shimmers yet it looks as though it has not been used for decades. A pair of gentlemen’s driving gloves lie neatly folded on the bench along side a tweed flat cap. A pack of cards sits in a royal flush across a dining table beneath a thick layer of dust. In the sink there is a tea cup and saucer. In one of the numerous cupboards is a copy of the Times dated 1965.
‘This is rather queer isn’t it Herewood?’
‘I dare say it is Hermione.’
‘What ever do you think it is?’
Herewood paused for a moment considering his surroundings.
‘It is almost like a home but in a van. Look there; a cooker!’
‘Oh yes.’ Said Hermione. ‘And hear, a cocktails cabinet.’
‘Ah ha, running water, and here; a toilet.’
‘It has a double bed Herewood, no, there are two!’
‘By Jove! This is a grand thing, whatever is it doing hear do you think?’
‘I don’t know, but shant remain here a moment longer.’
