December 2008 (CMM 237). CMM’s senior correspondent Peter Cahill died
suddenly in October. Here, editor John Hodson, pays tribute to a Journalist
who lived for classic motoring, in an extended version of the eulogy delivered
at Peter’s funeral....
PETER CAHILL - 1932-2008
In all his years working for Classic Motor Monthly, Peter
only ever let me down twice at deadline. The second time was just a few weeks
ago, the first time was about, if memory serves, five years back.
Both Peter and I had a natural instinct for deadlines; we both knew, to almost
the minute, when too late was really too late. Thus for 16 years we played the
game of him asking me when deadline was, me giving him a wildly optimistic reply,
and him completely ignoring me, in the nicest possible Peter Cahill manner.
This despite the pleas, the cajoling, the downright begging. And so his copy
usually arrived well after the date I'd given him, it overshot by a good margin
the actual 'too late' date. And, despite the fact, as I lectured him on many
an occasion, it being truly pivotal in the planning and layout of our publication,
it always arrived last.
What he didn't know was that after its arrival it sat on my desk, for, oh, a
good half day, an eternity in our chaotic deadline schedule. My deadline clock
was tuned slightly finer than Peters; I can see him now, smiling broadly and
chuckling as only he could at that news.
However five years ago, Peter pitched up the day before deadline at my home
having driven from Rodder, Germany in his little LHD MG Metro. He parked it
on the pub car park opposite, had a quick cuppa, then, because he was to stay
the night, he went to get his bag. Except he couldn't; in the brief minutes
since he arrived, the car had been stolen. Peter returned looking quite distraught.
The car contained practically everything Peter owned; his clothes, his computers,
cameras, notebooks, the lot. I assured him in a slightly glib but I hoped reassuring
manner that everything would be okay, and he said; "But everything's gone;
everything I had for deadline, pictures, the stories, my notes, the lot."
Peter calmed down, the police arrived, and within a couple of hours, the car
was found abandoned and written off. Everything of value was gone. The following
morning, we reversed roles, I was hit by panic and Peter exuded calm and a quiet
assurance that all would be well. He worked beyond the call of duty; between
us we sorted out the police and getting the few possessions the thieves didn't
take - thankfully the fashion sense of a, well, slightly rotund pensioner was
not to their liking so we got back most of his clothes. And he bashed away at
his computer rewriting, from memory, everything he possibly could - the pictures,
well, they were gone for good, but we did it, and though his pieces that month
contained many, many generalisations, Peter hit his deadline, and if he let
me down, honestly, how could he help it?
Peter was bat this point now a house guest again; they'd stolen his only means
of transport. But I had a cunning plan. I recalled having a conversation with
a chap earlier in the month who was trying to sell his late father-in-law's
SAAB, he just wanted to get it off his drive; from his description, it didn't
sound half bad, and as luck would have it, he was local. So off we trotted and
it did look like a bargain - with the minimum of umming and ahing, Peter was
back on the road.
It's only a couple of years back that the SAAB gave up the ghost. Peter called
me and said - only half joking I'm sure - that he was thinking of having her
recommissioned, dusting off his motorsport license and campaigning her. Typical
of the man. Peter was in his early-70s, but simply refused to acknowledge the
fact. He always appeared to have unlimited energy, even if that was not always
the case. Last year, when he was quite ill, only a very few knew just how sick
he was. It's an irony that he'd appeared to have come through that trauma, and
people, up and down the country, folks in our classic car world who genuinely
cared for him, remarked just how well he looked.
The second time Peter let me down at deadline was, well, the last - this final
for Peter - issue. He rang me to tell me, quite excitedly, that he'd had word
from the hospital that were at last going to sort him out, but that he'd be
going in for his 'minor repair' as he called it, on deadline. Don't worry, he
said, I'll have everything to you in time. Peter worked the whole weekend, and
despite me getting a little twitchy, the copy came down the line as promised.
He would ring me, he said, from hospital to make sure everything was alright.
But, everything wasn't alright. Peter, shockingly, is no longer with us. It
was deadline, and there were no late night coded ring telephone calls as he
fussed and kept my sagging spirits up. He didn't call me the morning after we
went to bed with CMM, to ask how I was, how late did I finish, to start planning
for the next issue. Not his fault. If he let me down in these small, but oh
so important ways, honestly, how could he help it?
He won't be at the shows, hoving into view, the accoutrements of the photo journalist
slung around his shoulders, brightening our days, taking command of the CMM
stand, telling the odd, daft joke. Suddenly we would be attracting visitors,
old friends, strangers, all of whom Peter had time for, to have a chat with
the man who had come to personify, for many, Classic Motor Monthly.
Peter and I were introduced at the Alexandra Palace Classic Car Show by Andrew
Greenwood in 1992. 'You should get together' said Andrew. Peter looked at my
wife Ann and I, sitting behind our table and still quite new on the scene, and
probably thought not. I looked at him, and he appeared...well, expensive...
However, we DID get together and the articles started to trickle in, mostly
under pseudonyms; I got the distinct impression somehow that Peter thought CMM
wasn't long for this classic car world! Sixteen years later, and Peter was loyal,
supportive, enthusiastic as ever; though he contributed to many other excellent
enthusiasts publications Europe-wide, he was always 'our Peter', the very heart
and soul of our publication.
People call asking to speak to the 'editor Peter Cahill', or write in under
the same impression. 'The editor, Peter, not here?' people would ask me at shows,
and a I rarely disabused them. I was comfortable with the fact that Peter was
our figurehead, I was always very, very proud to have him on the staff.
I was also proud to call him a friend, one who knew and always asked after my
family, someone who stood by CMM through times thick and thin, who was always
there, like a rock, during any editorial crisis. He was a ray of bright sunshine
during an increasingly bleak world. This 'classic car world' - and Peter was
known and loved quite genuinely the world over - is suddenly much smaller, it
is truly diminished by his passing.
And, of course, Cahill conquered Europe. In the mid-90s, Peter, as he was wont
to do, suddenly announced he was off to live in Germany, where he had very fond
memories of National Service. He would be, he said smiling broadly, our European
correspondent. He came to love Rodder, the little village that he made his continental
home, and they came to love him. Peter, who wrote for the German based British
Classic Cars magazine, and was on the judging team at the Essen Classic Motor
Show, was truly loved; they saw him as a quintessential, English gentleman,
and he forgave them for past misdemeanours, with that wicked sense of humour
of his; oh, he had a fabulous time down his Rodder local when our footballers
beat them 5-1. Darting between his twin homes - Kenilworth to Rodder and back
again was a mere hop, skip and jump for the man with boundless energy - became
Peter's life the last decade and more, and he was as welcome and recognisable
on the European show scene as he was here.
Within hours of Peter's death, my email in-box began to fill with tributes;
Gary Hall, of the German Armstrong Siddeley group, said he was, like us all,
devastated by the news, and he sent me this quote translated from Goethe, which
he said fitted Peter perfectly: "A really great talent finds its happiness
in execution."
Peter's encyclopedic knowledge of all things automotive was astounding and if
he you asked him a question to which he didn't know, he wouldn't rest until
he had a full and definitive answer. He had the great gift of making everyone
he talked with feel like they were the most important people in the room. He
lit up when he saw a beautiful machine; motor cars, and particularly beloved
classic cars were, in short, his life.
Peter always had a twinkle in his eye, he made the most mundane things FUN.
It seems to unfair that all that knowledge, all that expertise, all that genuine
love, for classic motoring has simply gone, but the fact is that Peter will
always be remembered and recalled, I'm sure, with great fondness. And he won't
really be gone as long as we have the legacy of Peter's journalism.
While making up this last issue, there was a piece of Peter's - on a Stag Fast
Back - that I'd been unable to place for space reasons for a few months. It
looked unlikely to make it again, but fate intervened. Michael Ware had submitted
his column, but I'd failed to notice that his email (that miracle of the modern
technology) only contained photographs - not the regular piece, and he was away
on holiday. Calamity.
Miraculously, it was exactly the right space for Peter's held over Stag article,
and Peter being a Triumph man to the core it was a piece that was not only written
with great expertise and full of contemporary inside information, but the sheer
joy of it all seemed to jump off the page at me, and as I read it I could hear
him, his enthusiastic voice ringing clear in my head. It was pure, undiluted
Cahill, all his powers intact, at the top of his game. Posthumously, he'd come
though again; he would have loved that.
He'd have also chuckled that husky Cahill chuckle when that morning - that same
morning that brought the dread news - the post arrived, with an envelope from
Kenilworth. Peter's envelopes were famous in our office. Once, years and years
ago. he sent some photos, the envelope had gotten wet, torn open and the contents
scattered within the maw of the Royal Mail. Right, he must have thought, that
won't happen again - every missive thereafter arrived bound in yards and yards
of the stickiest, toughest tape imaginable. There was many a morning when, after
several minutes of pulling, biting and cursing, I would sling one of Peter's
parcels across the room barking for someone to please, please break into it!
Audrey's letter opened in a trice; and inside, bless him, Peter had sent a DVD
containing all the pictures and articles that he'd worked so hard on the previous
nights to send to us for deadline; belt and braces he used to call it. And,
yes, it was bound in yards and yards of the stickiest tape imaginable...
Classic Motor Monthly goes on, the classic car world continues to spin. But
it's all so different. Things have changed now that the Great Cahill isn't pounding
away at a keyboard somewhere. It might be a cliche, but it happens to be true.
We won't see the like again.
God bless you Peter; it was a privilege to have known you and to have shared
your friendship.
It was fun.
Back to Archive Main Page
Comments, letters, suggestions; post your E-mail to; The Editor, Classic Motor Monthly, postmaster@classicmotor.co.uk
Snail-mail; Classic Motor Monthly, PO Box 129, Bolton, BL3 4YQ, Lancashire, United Kingdom.
Tel (01204) 657212; International +44 1204 657212
Fax (01204) 62479; International +44 1204 62479