by Jon Hartless
‘The Hepplewhites are fast becoming the greatest menace in racing,’ muttered Anthony as he and Lorenzo glanced over the sheet.
‘True, but what can’t be endured must be cured,’ observed Lorenzo.
‘I think you’ve got that expression back to front,’ said Simeon.
‘I know what I mean,’ grinned Lorenzo. ‘Come on, Anthony, we’d better get to our paddocks. It looks like the practice laps are about to start.’
The pit crew, now consisting of four mechanics26 plus Amy, had finished preparing Thunderbus, giving Poppy time to change into her brown racing coat and take the car for a practice laps before the main event, much to the delight of the crowd. When she got back to the paddock she found Helena chatting to another old friend in one of the chairs lining the back of the pit.
‘Hello Cuthbert,’ she called, a gentle smile breaking out as she pulled her scarf from her face and lifted her goggles. She had met the Honourable Cuthbert Gilmore the previous year at Thunderbus’ debut on the Sussex track, and he had proved himself a staunch friend and ally ever since.
‘Hello, Poppy,’ replied, Cuthbert, politely uncoiling from his chair while doffing his tall top hat. ‘Time for a quick bite to eat?’ he asked, solemnly gesturing at a table piled high with food.
‘No, it looks like we’re about to start,’ replied Poppy with genuine regret as she glanced at the race information boards. ‘In fact, I’d better get back out there. I thought I had a few minutes free, at the very least.’
‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ said Cuthbert, his monocle twinkling in the midday sun. ‘Here, at least have a chicken sandwich while you’re sitting there; keep your strength up.’
‘Good idea,’ agreed Helena, the only other person in the paddock with no official role, though she was warmly welcomed for her rank, appearance, and genial demeanour. ‘You’ll be famished by the end of the race.’
‘And you’d better have a drink, keep your throat wet,’ said Amy, her expression hinting Poppy was incapable of looking after herself and thus needed someone to do it for her.
‘And you have time for a hard-boiled egg before you get out there,’ added Simeon, handing one over in a determined manner.
‘And some fruit; very important, fruit. Full of goodness and, well, goodness is enough, I suppose,’ drawled Cuthbert, looking rather like a vacant yet impeccably dressed prawn, though Poppy knew his vague manner hid a very sharp mind. ‘We have apples and oranges and even a few bananas, specially brought in from the Caribbean.’ Cuthbert plucked a long yellow fruit from a covered bowl which offered some protection from the polluted air pouring from Thunderbus’ exhaust pipes. Poppy took it cautiously.
‘How on earth do I eat this?’ asked Poppy. Being working class, she had little contact with exotic fruit imported at great expense from other countries.
‘You have to peel it first – see? Like this... ’ demonstrated Cuthbert.
‘It tastes darn peculiar,’ said Poppy after an experimental bite.
‘Look at the race board; it’s the final call out!’ exclaimed Simeon. ‘Remember the tactics, Poppy; it’s unlikely you’ll get to the front on this handicap, so we’re just looking at a good solid run and maybe, if we’re lucky, a top five finish. Understand?’
‘Understood,’ shouted Poppy, slamming Thunderbus into gear. She realised she was still holding the banana in her other hand, so she quickly popped it into Amy’s open mouth before rolling forward and joining the track.
23 Prince Bahadur Bhanudej of Siam, a well-known driver of the pre-war years.
24 Chakrii means ‘King’ in the original Siamese. Chakrii’s mother had been trying to influence fate and get her son on the throne. The attempt failed because of the good health of the king’s many offspring.
25 I know Yousef was present as Oswald Hepplewhite mentioned “a darkie in the Orpington creature’s pit crew!” in a letter to his cousin, Sir Candace Leverill. I’m guessing Reg would also have been there, but who were the other two? History does not relate.
26 “Tulips Birmingham” was a mendacious caricature of Poppy, presenting her as a bossy woman nagging meek men from a large, broken down car. It was substantially no different to the newspaper cartoons denigrating the suffrage movement, even though James Gillray had originally founded his magazine as a radical, satirical periodical, standing up for the underdog against the privileged. After his death, the magazine became a safe, undemanding entity, taking pot-shots at anything new while making only the vaguest of humorous (yet still deferential) remarks against the ruling classes.
Chapter Seven
Unlike at Purley, Baggeridge didn’t have a public address system, though they had invested in electronic boards to relay information to the crowd. The boards were showing the new handicapping system, causing several boos to erupt from the public who wanted a simple, traditional race in which everyone set off at once.
Poppy took her place at the back of the starting grid next to Hepplewhite’s Silver Bullet, Thunderbus snorting in contempt at his old rival. The race track was actually a road set in a beautiful park which was usually only open for the wealthier public to wander through while enjoying the harmony of nature.
Thunderbus’ constant growling was somewhat disturbing to this harmony, especially when compared to the quieter steam hiss of the other race cars, yet it was the terrifyingly loud Thunderbus people wanted; the petrol-fuelled car was still a novelty.
Harry Peacock was standing by the first line of cars while his assistant, Bob, still buried under piles of paperwork clasped to his podgy chest, was just ahead of the third row. The cheers of the crowd grew wilder as Harry unrolled a black flag and held it high, his eyes resting on the stop watch in his other hand.
Harry’s flag dropped and the first row of cars sprinted away, increasing the cheers and whistles of the crowd. He strolled to the second row, squinting at his stop watch, and after four seconds had gone by he released the next set of vehicles. He looked over at Bob who lifted his flag and promptly dropped half of his papers, causing him to leap around as he tried to catch the swirling sheets. In doing so, he dropped his flag and the four cars around him, including Anthony and Lorenzo, roared past his trembling frame.
Abandoning the violent snowstorm of rectangular sheets, his face red with misery and embarrassment, Bob waddled toward Poppy and Hepplewhite, panting slightly as he stared at his watch, ready to wave the final competitors off. He was still gazing at the watch when Hepplewhite’s temper gave out and he blasted forward, drawing a shocked breath from the crowd.
Poppy instantly released her clutch but then changed her mind and stamped back down, stopping Thunderbus before he started. The car snarled in anger but Poppy kept him under control as she held her arms up at Bob, Harry and the crowd, making it clear she was obeying both the rules and spirit of the race in waiting for the signal to go.
Harry strode over to Bob, who was shuffling indecisively as he tried to decide if the race was void or not, grabbed Bob’s wrist and yanked his arm down as though pulling on an ineffective lever. Thunderbus roared forward, several angry flames scything out from the side exhausts as though intending to decapitate Bob at the knees before igniting his paperwork on the ground, leaving him in a halo of burning cinders which settled on his balding head like a physical shroud of shame before Harry gave him a consoling squeeze around the shoulders.
‘Clever girl,’ murmured Simeon in delight in the pits. ‘Though how she held her temper in check I do not know.’
‘She is showing signs of improvement,’ nodded Helena, watching Poppy accelerate away, ‘but what happens now? She’ll never catch up with anyone, surely?’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure,’ observed Cuthbert. ‘Poppy now has a clear run to build up her speed, and a consequence of the handicap is the slower cars at the front will inevitably be caught up by the faster vehicles behind, causing something of a scrummage. With luck, that will wipe out any advantage of the handicap and then it will be down to skill and good fortun
e as to who gets out of the bottleneck first.’
‘Thunderbus is faster than all the other cars out there,’ said Amy, ‘so if she has a good run, it’s possible.’
‘I fear the delay may still be too much,’ replied Simeon, determined to be pessimistic, ‘but as long as she can give a good, steady run, everyone will see she at least played fair.’
‘Indeed; just listen to the crowd,’ said Cuthbert. Cries of “cheat,” “unfair,” and several ruder descriptions were echoing around the track; Hepplewhite had certainly made himself unpopular by starting before the flag dropped.
Cuthbert’s analysis of the delayed start proved true as Poppy didn’t have to fight anyone as she set off; she simply accelerated – hard and smooth – drawing the attention of the crowd as the petrol car tore up the straight and snarled into the first bend.
‘She’s driving perfectly,’ reported Reg in the paddock, squinting through a pair of electrostatic binoculars provided by Simeon. ‘I doubt anyone could handle that car any better, even if the steering was light enough for anyone to try.’
‘She’s belting around like a maniac at ridiculously high speeds; if all else fails, she can get a job driving the buses for the Dudley and Birmingham Omnibus Company,’ observed Yousef, nodding sagely.
‘Stopwatches, everyone,’ commanded Simeon smugly as the race leaders reappeared. The pit crew sighed quietly as they pulled out the identical watches provided by Simeon, marked off each car as it passed, and jotted the information down in their small green booklets, likewise provided by Simeon. ‘Hopefully Poppy will be round quite soon,’ he added, glowing in pride at the equipment on display while making copious notes in his large red book.
‘No doubt,’ said Cuthbert. ‘And no doubt her excellent driving skills will once more bring down the wrath of the press, the wretched little ticks. Have you seen that abominable “Tulips Birmingham” cartoon in Gillray Magazine?’27
‘We did, and it is an outrage,’ nodded Helena, her face glowing in indignation. ‘The press seems to hate Poppy with an intensity that is truly frightening.’
‘The only consolation is the specialist car magazines treat her rather more fairly, but their circulation is low compared to the dailies,’ replied Simeon, shaking his head. ‘Ah, I do believe that ear splitting roar is Thunderbus about to re-appear.’ He glanced at his own stopwatch. ‘And I do believe she is gaining – and far more quickly than I would have thought possible!’
Poppy had indeed gained considerably on her rivals as she completed the first lap. Thunderbus, perhaps aware of the stigma of being so far behind, had hurtled forward with determination, pulling the road underneath his front wheels with savage power and grip, the engine ticking over smoothly, the flames from the side exhausts licking out as though tasting the air.
The smooth, unfailing engine tone only changed on the fourth lap when the huge car suddenly rumbled in anger, the bodywork tensing like a panther ready to spring. Poppy saw in delight her steady driving and pace had narrowed the gap considerably on the drivers ahead, proving consistency as well as speed was an important aspect in successful racing.
She yelled in outright pleasure at seeing Hepplewhite was part of the pack, hampered by the crush in getting through. No wonder Thunderbus was snarling so savagely; he saw a chance to leap forward and devour his most hated rival. Even better, Anthony and Lorenzo were nowhere to be seen, so they had to be up at the front with the race leaders.
Unfortunately, the knot of cars blocking Hepplewhite had the same effect on Poppy. The road was quite narrow in places as it had originally been laid out for horse-drawn carriages, making any overtaking a difficult manoeuvre. Poppy kept her distance, aware she couldn’t hesitate for too long while gauging and assessing the skill and speed of the drivers in front. Hepplewhite, she noted, was sliding all over the road as he attempted to overtake, gesticulating angrily at the other drivers, most of whom responded in kind.
Poppy glanced ahead; just past the small cottage belonging to the groundskeeper was a tight, winding ribbon of black track which then opened up into a long, broad stretch before narrowing again at a picturesque bridge spanning a small stream, thus providing an opportunity to overtake. Poppy patted the steering wheel, murmuring ‘steady, steady,’ to both herself and to Thunderbus.
She dropped down to second gear as she entered the winding ribbon and concentrated on moving as smoothly as possible through the curves, keeping a good distance away from the car ahead so she would have space to manoeuvre. She swept around the last tight curve and saw the beautiful sight of a long, wide expanse of road practically begging to be ravished by Thunderbus’ masculine caress. Faintly worried by her surprisingly sensual metaphor, Poppy hit the accelerator and Thunderbus bellowed as he surged forward, the sound causing the driver ahead, Sebastian Fuller, to almost skid off the track in shock.
Sebastian hastily moved over and waved Poppy through, enjoying both the spectacle of the huge black car roaring by, flames spurting along each side, and the beautiful woman in the driver’s seat, her long red hair escaping from under her leather driving helmet, her eyes glinting pure green behind her goggles as she shifted skilfully into third on her unsynchronised gearbox.28
Poppy flipped Sebastian a quick salute for making space before saluting again as two other drivers also sportingly moved over, allowing her to take the inside line of the curving road. She dropped her hand back to the gear stick, smoothly selected fourth with a twitch of her muscular arm, and surged forward with a fresh bellow of apocalyptic sound and fire, overtaking the rest of the pack on the long straight until only Hepplewhite was ahead of her.
Hepplewhite immediately veered across the track, trying to prevent Poppy from passing, but Poppy was ready for his routine manoeuvre and as he weaved to the right she swung to the left, stamping down even harder on the accelerator, unleashing yet more power and fury. Before Hepplewhite could react, Thunderbus was running parallel to Silver Bullet,bellowing in triumphant disdain.
Hepplewhite screamed incoherently at Poppy as she rested her left arm on the edge of the passenger seat as though taking an easy Sunday afternoon drive, mocking his attempts to keep ahead. He blew his horn repeatedly, trying to suggest Poppy was driving too close and was deliberately endangering him, despite the three foot gap between the cars,29 but ultimately he could do little more than watch in fury as Thunderbus surged ahead of him as they approached the slender bridge, sniggering in derision at Hepplewhite’s pitiable speed.
Poppy blasted over the bridge, Thunderbus’ flames stroking the ancient stonework on either side, the inverted reflection in the stream below momentarily showing a red-haired Valkyrie on top of a monstrous black demon supported on wings of fire before she was gone, the roar of the huge exhaust firing back through the bridge’s walls and deafening Hepplewhite behind.
Poppy grinned, happy she had scored over the biggest idiot on the track. She assumed she had little chance of catching up with the leaders but she could at least settle down to a steady display of power and reliability, which would be marvellous publicity for future endorsements. She checked for signals as she passed her pit and saw Simeon shared her view; he was holding a green disk which meant “continue as you are”, while Amy displayed a large number four, showing Poppy’s position, which was confirmed by the electronic banners dotted around the race course.
Poppy left her pit stop until quite late, utilising another advantage Thunderbus held over its steam rivals which required frequent stops for refuelling and checking. As she swigged down a glass of water and answered Amy’s questions on oil pressure, water levels, and misfires (giving positive answers to all queries) she noticed Simeon gazing out at the track through his electrostatic binoculars, trying to spot the race leaders.
‘We suspect number eight is about to break,’ he shouted as Amy and the crew finished their work. ‘It’s making an unhealthy bubbling sound as it goes by, so as long as you keep running smoothly we may be on course for third place. You won’t have time to
get any further up on the leaders.’
‘Got it!’ yelled Poppy as she accelerated away. Once back on the track, knowing she had only a few laps left, she relaxed into her driving and enjoyed the roaring power of the engine, the thrill of touching ninety miles an hour on the longer stretches and the sheer joy of making a good turn or a smooth gear change.
As she came round for the penultimate lap she saw number eight had indeed burst its boiler. She grimaced in sympathy that the car should have been so close to finishing, even though it meant third place was now hers. As she rounded the final bend she saw in surprise Anthony and Lorenzo were only just ahead, battling for first – Simeon’s guess she was too far behind had been wrong.
On a track with many tight corners she would have had no chance of overtaking, but on the broad sweeps of the Baggeridge road Poppy knew she could do it, despite the awful steering and heavy bodywork which pulled her exhausted body from side to side. Her unexpected criticism of the car caused a sudden spurt of guilt which she hastily pushed away; Thunderbus was perfect as he was, the way her father had built him.
The three vehicles swung out of the final bend and onto the traditional long flat straight leading to the finishing line.
Poppy laughed, a deep, gurgling sound of pure joy as she thumped her foot onto the accelerator and passed her two friendly rivals who were helpless against the power of the petrol engine, Thunderbus roaring in contentment as it took first place.
The crowd cheered vigorously as Thunderbus sprinted over the line, the noise increasing at the subsequent sporting display of the three friends driving around the track together, waving at the crowd and saluting each other, showing their companionship now the race was over. After another lap, all three drew to a halt by the mobile podium which had been pushed onto the road. Thunderbus gave its customary final snicker of flame as Poppy cut the engine and climbed from the car, her knee brace and heavy prosthetic arm making her feel ungainly after flying free in the fastest car in the country.
