While the year 2022 was, of course, the 100th anniversary of the introduction of the Austin Seven, was there, perhaps, another 100th anniversary of the car that happened in 2023? Christmas is a time for family gatherings, when 'driving home' is the order of the day, so might the Christmas of 1923 have been the first occasion when this was done by the owner of an Austin Seven? But, you ask, could this not have happened before, in 1922? Yes, it's possible, for full production of the Seven is believed to have started in November of that year, and so deliveries to dealers would have begun just weeks later.
However, let us imagine a scene in late December 1923, when a Miss Martha Matilda Flint might have been among the first to complete this task. Tilly (as she was always known) had been educated at the prestigious Sheffield High School for girls and achieved a Distinction in her Higher School Certificate. Recruited through a personal recommendation from her headmistress, Tilly was employed at the Sheffield-based Brown Firth Research Laboratories as secretary and personal assistant to the renowned metallurgist Dr. William Herbert Hatfield. Dr. Hatfield, with Miss Flint accompanying him, had visited Herbert Austin on several occasions to offer advice about the grades of steel and other metals suitable for use in his factory, and especially for the soon-to-be-introduced 'Seven'. Miss Flint had been convinced by both the Austin Company's advertising in every edition of the Light Car magazine during 1923 (which emphasised how suitable the Seven was for the lady driver) and by her own inside knowledge of the quality of the car's mechanical components.
Consequently, she had purchased on the 1st of December, on the never-never (and with some help from her father in Derby), a new example from George Kenning's Sheffield showroom. And so, on Monday the 24th of December 1923, with snow beginning to fall and having been allowed to leave work at 4 pm - somewhat earlier than usual - she stopped first to top up the fuel tank and then called at 244 Ecclesall Road, her digs during the week. Having feigned polite interest and enthusiasm at being shown a just-delivered Norton Brooklands Road Special motorcycle for Rowland, eldest son of the house to race, she handed over presents to her landlord and family. Next, with great care, she stowed her own family's gifts into the Seven (a selection of heavily discounted Firth-Brearley stainless steel cutlery) and then, having been assured by young Norman, a mechanically-minded son of the house, that her battery was fully charged, set off, just after six o'clock, into the darkness. With over 40 miles to her parents' new home to the south of Derby, and with the snow showers increasing in frequency, she must have been a little nervous. Even her familiarity with the regular weekend route she took through Dronfield, Chesterfield, Clay Cross, Alfreton, and Ripley was of little help. Things looked so different at night with the infrequency of the towns' gas street lamps and their soft, parchment coloured light - and the countryside between a blacked-out wilderness. Eventually, with the hand-operated windscreen wiper - an accessory suggested by the salesman - unable to cope, Tilly resorted to pivoting open the top section of the screen and peering through the tiny gap so created. Fortunately, improved immeasurably by reflections from the snow, the feeble output of the headlamps proved to be no significant disadvantage, and so she motored on, shivering in the cold, at a steady 20 to 25 m.p.h. the narrow, beaded-edge tyres cutting through the snow to the road surface beneath. Occasionally, she found herself threading her way through deeper snow and was careful, of course, not to let the car drift too far from its proper track. Perhaps, towards the end of her journey and looking forward to dinner and the open coal fire that would greet her in the parlour at home, she was glad that she'd dismissed Dr. Hatfield's suggestion that she take the 5.25 pm Derby train from the Midland Station. This had been a far more engaging adventure - and one that proved her choice of little car had been correct. Happily for Miss Flint, the worst of the bad weather that Christmas began on the following day when mild air from the Atlantic moved in to bring a widespread frontal snowfall, a real white Christmas for most of England and the heaviest since 1890.
By Boxing Day, the skies had cleared, and, taking this opportunity, Tilly allowed her father a drive in the car hood down (she was an outdoor type) - and then posed with him outside the family home for a photograph, taken by her mother on that year's family Christmas present, a just-released No. 2C Autographic Kodak Special with a coupled rangefinder.
On one of Tilly's visits to the Austin works at Longbridge, while taking lunch in the staff canteen (Dr. Hatfield, of course, was being entertained in the directors' dining room), she had encountered an engaging, clever and well-spoken young man, Trevor, who worked in the publicity department. He's spotted her turning over the cutlery and examining it in great detail; curious to know why she was doing this (and taken by her comely appearance), he introduced himself and asked her why. She explained that she worked in Sheffield, where cutlery was an important industry, and that, when socialising with work colleagues, she'd always been intrigued to see them check the cutlery to discover its origin; she'd caught the habit.
As a result of the knife-and-fork meeting the couple had, over the next 18 months, formed a mutual attraction, exchanged numerous letters, and met on several occasions. It was therefore with some excitement that she sat down at home to write and tell Trevor of her successful nocturnal adventure through the snow in her Austin Seven, and to explain how well it had performed. Intrigued by the letter and its possibility for publicity, he showed it to his head of department, who commented, "Driving home for Christmas", that sounds like a good title for a song, somebody ought to write one. Let's see what we can do with this, I know, make up a Light Car and Cyclecar front cover, and we'll see how it looks."

Episode Two: "A Young Lady of Promise"
By early January 1924, the snow had mostly melted, though the hedgerows still wore frosty collars each morning and the rutted country lanes remained treacherous with overnight frosts freezing the lines of slush. The Austin Seven, now comfortably garaged under a tarpaulin in the Flint family's timber shed, had earned a place of respect in the household. Mr. Smith, a stolid man of method and few surprises, had declared it "A competent machine--if rather small." Praise indeed.
Miss Martha Matilda Flint, known to all as Tilly, was back in Sheffield by the 3rd, refreshed and rather pleased with herself. Her journey had become the subject of some interest at the Brown Firth Research Laboratories, with several of the younger engineers, all motorcycle enthusiasts, now keen to examine the Seven and discover more. The notion of a "lady motorist" making such a trip in the depth of winter had impressed even Dr. Hatfield, who normally reserved compliments for alloy compositions and tensile-strength curves.
But it wasn't the local admiration that truly stirred Tilly's thoughts that week. It was Trevor. His reply had arrived by the 5th, two pages in crisp blue ink, typed (of course) with his usual precision, but with a handwritten postscript at the end:
"You have a knack for adventure, Miss Flint. And for writing it down well. You mustn't let it stop there." A few days later, enclosed in a stiff brown envelope bearing the crest of The Light Car and Cyclecar, came a dummy magazine cover. Trevor had drafted a feature headline across a mocked-up January edition:
"DRIVING HOME FOR CHRISTMAS: A LADY'S ACCOUNT OF THE AUSTIN SEVEN IN WINTER
An Exclusive Report from Sheffield to Derby"
Beneath it, a photograph, taken by her mother, showed Tilly beside the car, one gloved hand resting on the windscreen frame, her father standing by, cap tilted back, both grinning into the weak winter sun.
Trevor had written, simply, "What do you think? Shall we submit it?"
The article appeared in the February issue, with modest editing. The response was unexpected. Letters arrived at the publication from other early Austin Seven owners, many of them women, applauding "Miss M. Flint" for her composure and mechanical confidence. A Manchester school headmistress described her own Christmas journey to Keswick. A nurse from Norwich wrote of travelling to her post in Ipswich by Seven, "The roads dreadful with ice, but the machine brave and true."
Austin's directors were delighted. They saw it as a marketing gift: the Seven as not only a man's second car, but a woman's first. Suddenly, there was talk in Longbridge of a follow-up series--"Ladies at the Wheel". Trevor, meanwhile, was given quiet permission to keep in touch with Miss Flint on "editorial matters."
And so began a curious and rather modern arrangement. Tilly Flint, by day still a secretary to a metallurgist, became --by post and by train -- a kind of unofficial correspondent for the publicity department. She visited more frequently, sometimes ostensibly to discuss her next short piece, sometimes with samples of various metals to pass to the design engineers. She continued to write to Trevor, but now the letters carried a new tone--less formal, more teasing.
In March, she received an envelope with no return address. Inside was a handwritten note from Trevor:
"It seems Miss Flint has started something. The Seven, they say, is an instrument of liberty. Shall we test that theory this spring?"
"An outing," he proposed, "to Malvern. You and I. The Seven, a picnic basket, a map--and no obligations."
Tilly sat quietly for a long moment, then folded the note and placed it in her diary. That evening, she wrote back:
"I agree that liberty must be explored. But only if I drive."

Episode Three: "To Malvern, at 25 Miles Per Hour"
By late April, the hedgerows had begun to blush green, the meadows were now thick with wild mustard, primroses decorated the verges, and the first signs of cow parsley were appearing. The Easter chill had finally faded, and with it, the wet of the winter roads. It was time, Tilly Flint decided, to put Trevor's invitation to the test.
After careful negotiation with Dr. Hatfield, who was deep in correspondence with a Parisian alloy specialist and therefore inattentive (he was also grateful for her French translations), she was granted a Friday and a Monday free. Trevor arranged for their rendezvous in Longbridge--a place convenient for him, since he could "borrow" one of the newly liveried Austin press cars "for comparative notes, of course."
But Tilly insisted: "It must be mine. The real one. The one that faced snowdrifts on the Alfreton roads and whose company I so enjoyed ."
So it was that on the morning of Saturday, April 19th, 1924, a two-tone Austin Seven--black wings, pale green body, canvas hood smartly folded--drove into the car park of the Austin Motor Company. Tilly at the wheel, goggled and gloved, cheeks pink with speed and sun. Trevor was already waiting, dressed informally for once, in a knitted tie and well-cut jacket, with a picnic basket in one hand and a small brown leather case in the other.
"I've brought something for the journey," he said, placing the basket in the back and offering her the case. Inside: a leather-bound road atlas (three years out of date), and a small brass-bound aneroid barometer.
"In case the weather changes," he said, grinning. "And the map... well, so we get pleasantly lost."
They set off around ten, keeping off the main roads where possible, Tilly handling the gear changes with increasing finesse. South through Redditch, then westward through Droitwich, cutting across the Severn plain. The Seven, unhurried but enthusiastic, handled inclines with commendable spirit. Trevor pointed out the signage innovations introduced since 1921, and Tilly, curious as always, quizzed him about rumors she'd heard from the testing department of upcoming engine improvements.
He leaned in: "I shouldn't say, but, yes, something bigger might be coming. 850cc, maybe. But that's off the record and, in my opinion, Sir Herbert will not allow it. It might make the car faster than the Twelve, and the racing class for this size of car is set at 750cc. One day, If you wish, I must take you to Brooklands. I go occasionally to watch the racing."
By mid-afternoon, they were winding into the lower folds of the Malverns; skylarks overhead, and a surprising number of cyclists on the road--many of them giving approving nods at the little Austin.
They stopped just beyond Great Malvern at a hilltop field with a view clear to the Welsh border. Tilly unpacked their lunch--cold pork pie, hard-boiled eggs, and a tin of tangerines she had acquired at some expense.
"I'm afraid," said Tilly, "that it's not quite as good as rat's picnic in Wind in the Willows as she rattled off from memory, "Coldtonguecoldhamcoldbeefpickledgherkinssaladfrenchrollscresssandwiches
pottedmeatgingerbeerlemonadesodawater…But I hope you like it."
"It's delicious, and thank you so much," said Trevor, as he poured tea from a Thermos and produced two delicate tin cups with blue enamel rims. It was then, as they sat in the grass, wind pulling gently at their coats, that Trevor said: "I think you should write more. Not just accounts of your journeys. Something longer. A handbook for new motorists, perhaps. From a woman's point of view."
Tilly laughed. "And would you illustrate it? With little diagrams and cheeky captions?"
"I might," he said. "And we'd get Hatfield to write the foreword. 'A metallurgist's tribute to motoring grace under pressure.'"
She was quiet for a moment. "You're serious, aren't you?"
"I am," he said. And then, softly: "About more than just the book."

Episode 4: A Turning Point at the Factory and an Invitation from the Top
Back in Longbridge, the idea was gaining traction. A woman's perspective on motoring--sensible, confident, technical--was something few manufacturers had captured sincerely. Letters continued to arrive at Austin's offices praising "Miss M. Flint's" articles. In the staff canteen, her name was spoken with a kind of amused reverence, and not only by the young draftsmen. Even a few junior salesmen had started recommending the Seven as "Miss Flint's choice."
On her return from Malvern, Tilly found an envelope waiting at her digs.
Inside: a short typed note from Sir Herbert Austin's secretary.
Sir Herbert wonders if Miss Flint might call in to discuss the public's interest in her writing, and whether she might be available for further collaboration in matters relating to the future of the Austin Seven and its many drivers.
Tuesday at 2:15pm, if convenient.
While the invitation to meet Sir Herbert Austin had arrived without ceremony, its implications were enormous. Tilly stared at the note for a good five minutes before reading it again. Tuesday at 2:15pm. Just a line or two--but formal, unmistakable.
On the morning of the appointment, she wore her neatest navy serge skirt, a blouse with pin-tucks she'd ironed twice, and a light wool coat in dove grey. Trevor had offered to meet her at the gate, but she declined. She wanted to walk through the doors of the Austin Works at Longbridge on her own terms.
The Meeting
The directors' wing of the Austin Motor Company was a different world from the noisy factory floor, the test sheds and the drawing offices. Polished parquet floors, green carpets, and panelled rooms that smelled faintly of varnish and cigars. She was ushered into a small study where Sir Herbert was reading a typed memorandum and making pencil corrections in the margins. He looked up.
"Miss Flint," he said, standing. "You've caused something of a stir." And he motioned for her to sit, then continued without preamble.
"Your article - well expressed. The cover, what a wonderful idea. And now all the letters we're receiving. One from a clergyman in Shrewsbury. Another from a schoolmistress who drove from Bath to Brighton, in one of our cars, inspired by your story."
Tilly, caught slightly off guard, managed a modest, "I'm very glad, sir."
Sir Herbert nodded. "We've long known the Seven is an engineering solution. But your little piece showed it's something more -- it's personal. Accessible. Modern, even. I'd like to encourage that."
From his drawer, he pulled out a typed draft. "We propose a quarterly column. 'By Miss Flint'. Advice, anecdotes, perhaps a bit of practical guidance. Paid, of course. Modestly."
She blinked. "You'd like me to write for Austin?"
"Officially, yes. But not connected with the Company. We don't want an advertising piece; we can do those ourselves. We want you. That tone. That honesty." A pause.
"And if you ever tire of metallurgy, we might have a seat for you here. There's talk of expanding the publicity department. Mr. Cartwright"--he meant Trevor--"speaks highly of you."
Tilly smiled, heart quickening. "That's very kind of him."
Sir Herbert stood again. "I find that kindness rarely leads men to risk their reputations. Competence does."
While Tilly's first column was: "What I Wish I'd Known (Before Driving at Night in a Snowstorm)" her first official piece appeared in the Spring 1924 supplement: a smartly written essay with subheadings, practical notes, and dry wit.
Topics included:
·On Lighting: "The headlamps are not so much a guide as a vague suggestion. Snow is your ally. Use it."
·On Windshield Wipers: "Hand-operated is rather optimistic. Try polishing the glass with paraffin."
·On Gloves: "No shame in wearing two pairs. Cold hands don't steer well."
·On Male Advice: "Dr. Hatfield told me to take the train. I ignored him. I remain pleased that I did."
·On braking: Remember the foot brake works on the back wheels, the hand brake on the front. For most stops, the foot brake is adequate. For harder stops, especially on slippery roads, use both together, but gently.
·Hood and sidecreens: Both are very easy to erect and are best already in place if rain threatens
·Petrol and oil consumption: Both are small and need to be checked only every 100 miles.
The response was immediate. Austin dealerships began receiving questions -- not about power, price, colours, or fuel economy -- but about "Miss Flint's tips." A few requested signed photographs. One gentleman from Kent asked if she might consider a weekly column. Austin's mailroom clerk, a cheerful lad named Dennis, began calling her "The Queen of the Seven."
Trevor, meanwhile, was under increasing pressure. The success of Tilly's writing had ruffled a few collars--particularly those who believed car marketing should remain firmly in male hands. But Sir Herbert was unmoved." She knows the customer," he said in a meeting. "More than most of you know the car."
Privately, Trevor admitted to Tilly: "You've thrown a pebble in the pond, and now the ripples are starting to make waves. Just be ready." And she was.
It was now May 1924, and Tilly began preparing for her most ambitious journey yet: a solo drive from Sheffield to the Lake District, with a stop to give a short public talk to the Sheffield Women's Engineering Society on "Motor Cars and the Modern Woman."
Trevor sent her a note before she departed:
"Whatever the road throws at you, remember: it's already yours. The rest of us are just catching up."

Episode Five: "The Road to Windermere"
The Lake District had been Tilly's idea--part adventure, part assignment, and partly, if she were honest, a test of nerves. Public speaking was never her strong suit, but when the Sheffield Women's Engineering Society wrote inviting her to speak on "Motor Cars and the Modern Woman," she couldn't refuse. Trevor's gentle encouragement had tipped the balance.
"You've already said more with a fountain pen than most men say with a megaphone," he told her.
"But they haven't seen me stammer," she replied.
"Then they'll see you conquer it."
She left Sheffield just after dawn on the last Friday in May, the sun just beginning to break across the Pennines. The Austin Seven was packed with sensible essentials: spare spark plugs, sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, and a wide-brimmed straw hat with a strap, this being folded under the seat, just in case the weather held.
Trevor had insisted on meeting her halfway, proposing a rendezvous at Bowness-on-Windermere the next afternoon. She agreed--but under one condition: "You bring the map, and I'll ignore most of your directions."
A Surprise Audience
Tilly's talk, delivered to a crowded church hall in Kendal, was short, crisp, and exactly what the audience wanted to hear.
She spoke of the practical benefits of driving -- freedom, independence, even the joy of learning to change a tyre while wearing a skirt. She made them laugh when she described her first snowstorm journey, and drew nods of solidarity when she recounted a garage mechanic who insisted on explaining how a carburettor worked--after she'd just cleaned the jets on one.
Afterwards, several women came up to thank her. A girl no older than sixteen clutched a notebook and asked, "Do you think I could learn to drive a car one day?"
Tilly smiled. "I rather hope you'll learn to design one."
Bowness
She reached Windermere by late afternoon, dust in her hair and sunburn on her nose. Trevor was waiting by the jetty, leaning on the railing with a small bouquet of wildflowers in his hand--awkwardly gathered, slightly squashed, but sincere.
"You're late," he said, grinning.
"I stopped to admire a view," she replied.
"Oh? And what did it say back?"
"It said I'd better get moving or someone might think I was lost."
He handed her the flowers without ceremony. "You weren't lost."
An Evening By the Water
They took out a hired rowboat, drifted quietly on the lake as the sun turned the hills copper. Trevor rowed with modest efficiency. Tilly trailed her fingers in the water and let the silence settle.
"I read your speech," he said at last. "Someone passed me a copy."
"Oh dear."
"No. You were...yourself. Strong. Clear. Warm. People listen when you speak, Tilly."
She turned to look at him, searching his expression.
"I'm not a writer, Trevor. I'm just someone who happens to own a good little car and a better sense of stubbornness than most."
He shook his head. "No. You're changing how people see themselves. Especially women. That's not just writing, it's influence."
A pause.
She lowered her gaze, suddenly shy. "And what do you see when you look at me?"
Trevor looked at her for a long moment, then said, gently: "Someone I'd cross a snowstorm for."
A Kiss Before Dusk
As they reached the shore, the boat bumping softly against the dock, Trevor stood and reached to help her out. Tilly took his hand--steady, warm, sure--and instead of stepping up, she paused. She met his eyes.
"Well?" she asked, softly. "Are you going to wait for another storm?"
Trevor didn't answer. He leaned in and kissed her, gently, there under the evening light with the water lapping behind them and the scent of crushed flowers between them.
Postscript: A Letter Never Sent
That night, back in her room above the inn, Tilly wrote a letter she never posted
Dear Mother,
I think I may have found someone who understands why I like to drive alone--
--and why it matters more when someone is waiting at the end of the road.
She folded it, slipped it into the back of her diary, and went to sleep, smiling..