The Singer Airstream: Rarest of UK Cars
Created | Updated May 26, 2011
This is a piece written in England, for enthusiasts of U.K. pre-war cars. You have been warned!
Your writer was born on 6th September,1939; just 3 days after the Declaration of War against Germany.
At that time my parents and I lived in a modest, but modern bow-windowed semi-detached house in Poolside Road, Runcorn. Father was an analytical chemist with a large chemical firm. He worked shifts in those early wartime days, often being alone in the large laboratory on the night shift: 10pm to 6am. His was a ‘reserved occupation’, meaning his work was vital to the war effort, which exempted him from normal conscription into the forces. He was appointed a Gas Identification Officer, being able to identify many gases from their odour as well as by analytical means. This was essential for the protection of the factory and the population at large.
He was a quiet, kindly young man of 27; popular with most in his social and work circles.
In 1940, at the height of the Battle of Britain when the Luftwaffe was targeting nearby Liverpool and its Naval and commercial docklands, mother and I were alone in the house, often at night when most raids took place; she didn’t like going to the air-raid shelter with my being so young. They were cold, dusty places with no proper facilities, and all the childhood illnesses were rife at that time. I had chicken-pox, measles and whooping-cough, all before I was 4. Then by a stroke of luck, Father’s aunt Thurza, who had a tiny cottage in the town, came up to see us and to suggest a solution to Mum’s loneliness problem. One which also solved a problem of her own.
She had a lodger living with her family in the cottage, and the accommodation was inadequate in many ways. Many people had been uprooted from home by the war, for many different reasons. John Whiteley was one such person. He had been conscripted into the army and posted to Runcorn in a ‘Hush-Hush’ occupation. He was a privately educated man of some considerable technical skill for which they found a use. So my great-aunt Thurza managed to persuade them to take John in as their lodger. Dad was not so keen at first. The man was an ‘x’ factor, a stranger from Burton- on –Trent, 70 miles away from Runcorn, which in those days was considered a long distance.
John turned up in a car, parking it outside our wicket-gated, pedestrian-paved property. ‘Now’, you may ask, ‘what is so remarkable about that?’ Well, even before the war, very few ordinary families owned a car. They were very much a luxury possession. Moreover, during the war, many were recycled to provide materials for the war effort, and so were even rarer! Of course I, being a baby, was quite unaware of such facts until about aged 6 or so. But this car was something very special indeed.
Not a Rolls-Royce. Not a Bentley; neither a Lanchester nor a Daimler! No, this was a 1938 Singer Airstream pillarless saloon in gunmetal grey with an all aluminium body. It was truly streamlined in design, its headlights moulded into its engine cowling.The radiator grille upswept by a 45 degree angle. It had a sunroof, all leather upholstery, and its own characteristic smell. You know; that mixture of leather and real mahogany one encounters in luxury vehicles.
I had the good fortune to travel hundreds of miles in this car after the war and the end of petrol rationing, jammed between my parents with John’s daughter Jill in the back seats, legs straddling the transmission housing; Doris, his wife, taking the coveted front pew.
Then, on one such journey from Burton to Skegness in 1948, we all spotted something quite remarkable, almost simultaneously. Just outside ‘Skeggy’ we saw the only other Singer Airstream any of us had ever seen. Sadly, it had been in an accident and was in the scrap yard of a country garage. It was of a different colour, that I recall, but can’t remember which.
I discovered recently that only 100 of these cars were ever made by Singer. Also interesting is that the wartime dance band leader, Jack Payne, ordered 22 of them; one for each member of his band. They were all finished in gold enamel paint. He took almost a quarter of their entire production. My guess is that Singer ceased production of the Airstream, along with their other models, when the government contracted them to turn over to aircraft component manufacture just prior to the hostilities. The Airstream’s aluminium would be needed for airframe construction, with its strength and lightness.
There are only 2 extant today in the world. One can be seen in the Caister Motor Museum, the other is in New Zealand, awaiting restoration by its proud owner.
They don’t make ‘em like they used to!
Your writer was born on 6th September,1939; just 3 days after the Declaration of War against Germany.
At that time my parents and I lived in a modest, but modern bow-windowed semi-detached house in Poolside Road, Runcorn. Father was an analytical chemist with a large chemical firm. He worked shifts in those early wartime days, often being alone in the large laboratory on the night shift: 10pm to 6am. His was a ‘reserved occupation’, meaning his work was vital to the war effort, which exempted him from normal conscription into the forces. He was appointed a Gas Identification Officer, being able to identify many gases from their odour as well as by analytical means. This was essential for the protection of the factory and the population at large.
He was a quiet, kindly young man of 27; popular with most in his social and work circles.
In 1940, at the height of the Battle of Britain when the Luftwaffe was targeting nearby Liverpool and its Naval and commercial docklands, mother and I were alone in the house, often at night when most raids took place; she didn’t like going to the air-raid shelter with my being so young. They were cold, dusty places with no proper facilities, and all the childhood illnesses were rife at that time. I had chicken-pox, measles and whooping-cough, all before I was 4. Then by a stroke of luck, Father’s aunt Thurza, who had a tiny cottage in the town, came up to see us and to suggest a solution to Mum’s loneliness problem. One which also solved a problem of her own.
She had a lodger living with her family in the cottage, and the accommodation was inadequate in many ways. Many people had been uprooted from home by the war, for many different reasons. John Whiteley was one such person. He had been conscripted into the army and posted to Runcorn in a ‘Hush-Hush’ occupation. He was a privately educated man of some considerable technical skill for which they found a use. So my great-aunt Thurza managed to persuade them to take John in as their lodger. Dad was not so keen at first. The man was an ‘x’ factor, a stranger from Burton- on –Trent, 70 miles away from Runcorn, which in those days was considered a long distance.
John turned up in a car, parking it outside our wicket-gated, pedestrian-paved property. ‘Now’, you may ask, ‘what is so remarkable about that?’ Well, even before the war, very few ordinary families owned a car. They were very much a luxury possession. Moreover, during the war, many were recycled to provide materials for the war effort, and so were even rarer! Of course I, being a baby, was quite unaware of such facts until about aged 6 or so. But this car was something very special indeed.
Not a Rolls-Royce. Not a Bentley; neither a Lanchester nor a Daimler! No, this was a 1938 Singer Airstream pillarless saloon in gunmetal grey with an all aluminium body. It was truly streamlined in design, its headlights moulded into its engine cowling.The radiator grille upswept by a 45 degree angle. It had a sunroof, all leather upholstery, and its own characteristic smell. You know; that mixture of leather and real mahogany one encounters in luxury vehicles.
I had the good fortune to travel hundreds of miles in this car after the war and the end of petrol rationing, jammed between my parents with John’s daughter Jill in the back seats, legs straddling the transmission housing; Doris, his wife, taking the coveted front pew.
Then, on one such journey from Burton to Skegness in 1948, we all spotted something quite remarkable, almost simultaneously. Just outside ‘Skeggy’ we saw the only other Singer Airstream any of us had ever seen. Sadly, it had been in an accident and was in the scrap yard of a country garage. It was of a different colour, that I recall, but can’t remember which.
I discovered recently that only 100 of these cars were ever made by Singer. Also interesting is that the wartime dance band leader, Jack Payne, ordered 22 of them; one for each member of his band. They were all finished in gold enamel paint. He took almost a quarter of their entire production. My guess is that Singer ceased production of the Airstream, along with their other models, when the government contracted them to turn over to aircraft component manufacture just prior to the hostilities. The Airstream’s aluminium would be needed for airframe construction, with its strength and lightness.
There are only 2 extant today in the world. One can be seen in the Caister Motor Museum, the other is in New Zealand, awaiting restoration by its proud owner.
They don’t make ‘em like they used to!
