by Jon Hartless
‘Surely, you do yourself a disservice?’ protested Helena. ‘How many others would have seized the opportunity as thoroughly as you have done?’
‘Not many could afford it. Imagine you’re bringing a few shillings a week into the home; it doesn’t sound much, but those shillings may be all that is keeping the family from dropping beneath the starvation line. So even if you have an opportunity, if you take it and leave, you know your family will go hungry. And that’s assuming you can even afford to leave. Transport costs money, putting a deposit down on new lodgings costs money, and so it goes on.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that aspect,’ said Helena, her face worried.
‘Besides of which,’ continued Poppy, her colour rising, ‘deference is bred into people, making them too scared to even try. “It’s not our place” is a refrain I have heard a lot from the servants here, and from others down the social scale. It’s astonishing, the way most people are unaware of how limited their world really is – and how they collude with authority without even realising.’
‘I wonder if anything can be done about the situation?’
‘Doubt it,’ replied Poppy, sadly. ‘The system is too ingrained. Those at the top have no reason to change as it would loosen their power and prestige. People like Simeon worry about it but don’t really do anything, and most others further down the scale aren’t even aware of how they’re imprisoned within deference and social conformity.’
‘Is this why you wanted to attend the ball this evening?’ asked Helena, suspiciously.
Poppy laughed at Helena’s concerned expression. ‘Not at all. My cunning plan for tonight has nothing to do with smashing the status quo. In fact, I’m going to make myself as charming as possible to the status quo because I need something from it.’
‘You? Charming?’ carped Amy as she and Helena swapped glances. ‘This I have to see.’
Helena walked between Poppy and Amy, linking arms companionably with each to give them reassurance, aware Amy was shifting uncomfortably in her heavy dress as they walked.
‘I wish I could wear my overalls instead of this contraption; it feels like a suit of armour.’
‘You look lovely in it, as do you, Poppy,’ smiled Helena.
‘And yet most wealthy and entitled men will only see our working class status and will therefore patronise us – or if we are really lucky, assume we are cheap and available,’ murmured Poppy, somewhat provocatively.
‘I sincerely hope there will be no such men under my roof,’ replied Helena with feeling, though she was unable to refute Poppy’s observation.
‘Never mind,’ said Poppy, quickly. ‘If there are any such men here, I know how to deal with them.’
Helena glanced uneasily at the long ruffled sleeves and gloves hiding Poppy’s mechanical arm; she knew the power within could do serious damage to a groping set of fingers and she hoped there would be no scandalous scenes that evening, a feeling which provoked a rush of guilt that she should be more concerned for social nicety than the safety of her two young friends. She fell silent, suddenly aware of the whining cogs and linkages of Poppy’s arm and knee brace as they walked along.
The stately ballroom – kept in a thoroughly traditional manner except from some discreet electrostatic lighting hidden behind the ornate gilding – was empty except for Simeon and a dozen footmen standing ready to greet and serve the guests as they were announced. Helena took her place next to Simeon, who nodded warmly at Poppy.
‘My word, my girl, you’re wearing that dress splendidly,’ he smiled. ‘As are all of you,’ he hastily added to Helena and Amy.
Hardly a girl, thought Helena
She noted her husband’s reaction and couldn’t help but feel both relieved and guilty that she had smothered Poppy’s full frame under an ill-fitting and unflattering dress.36 ‘Just a little something, my dear,’ she said, sharply. ‘Now smile for our guests; the ball is starting.’ As the guests were announced and began circulating within the large room, Amy took a cool sip of champagne from a delicate crystal flute and leaned in close to Poppy. ‘What are you really up to?’ Her warm words tingled into Poppy’s ear; it had been some weeks since they had stood this close together in a public space. ‘Why are we here? Really?’
‘I want to talk to people who own car companies.’ Poppy tried to keep her voice level, despite finding herself momentarily breathless as the old rush of lust for Amy’s body powered through her. ‘I know there are going to be a few of them here tonight.’
‘Why do you want to meet them?’
‘I want to start my own company making and selling petrol-driven cars to the workers,’ replied Poppy, pugnaciously.
Amy didn’t drop the glass she was holding but she did spill most of the contents on the expensive tiling, thus spoiling the intimate mood somewhat. ‘What?’
‘I’m going to do what my father intended. He didn’t design Thunderbus just for the racing potential.’
‘I know he wanted to sell the designs and get rich, but he never said anything about starting his own business! You’d need a fortune for that. I know you’re making money from your endorsements, but surely they won’t go that far?’
‘They won’t. This is why I need to talk to these men; to sound them out about sharing the costs in return for sharing the profits.’
‘But you don’t know anything about business,’ exclaimed Amy.
‘I’ve been reading up on business practices so I’m not going in blind. I know most won’t back me because of a lack of finance or vision, while others will try and buy the patents for a ridiculously low sum. Or they’ll try and buy the designs with the sole intention of burying them so they won’t threaten their business and profit. But maybe, just maybe, in all of these people I can find one or two who are honest enough to be trusted.’
‘Hello, what are you two plotting about?’ asked Simeon, who had been hovering nearby while greeting his guests.
‘Poppy wants to set up her own business,’ blurted Amy. ‘She wants to sell petrol cars!’
‘What? Er...’ stuttered Simeon as he tried to get the rather large idea into his head. ‘It’s a huge step, Poppy. Business can be very complicated.’
‘I’m aware of that, but I want to honour my father’s wishes of putting Thunderbus into production.’
‘I thought your father just wanted to sell the designs and make money?’ queried Simeon with a frown.
‘It’s the same thing,’ replied Poppy, coolly. ‘Now, who should I speak to first about setting up such a company? I know there are plenty of motor manufacturers lurking around tonight.’
‘Oh, that’s why you accepted the invitation,’ responded Simeon, his eyes widening in dissatisfaction. ‘I’m not too sure. I mean, there are many here who could advise you, but they won’t be happy in helping a rival to set up her own company. And in any case, have you thought this through? Can you afford the distraction to your racing career? Many people are saying you only win by luck, or by having a
prosthetic. If you want to prove your racing ability, you have to keep on winning.’
‘I’m going to do this, Simeon,’ scowled Poppy. ‘On my own, if need be.’
‘There is no need for that attitude, my dear girl. I will always be here for you,’ replied Simeon. ‘To help you, I mean... in your business... your driving business, er... your car business,’ he babbled, flushing under Amy’s suspicious gaze. ‘Now, let’s find you someone to talk to about car manufacturing.’
34 Actually a Turner-Casbach, and Poppy didn’t even have that prosthetic limb until after leaving school.
35 It is worth clarifying here that Poppy was only allowed into both society and racing as she fell under Simeon’s “protection”; he vouched for her and thus she was accepted, at least to a certain extent. This patronage goes some way to explaining Poppy’s affair with him; without Simeon, she would never have been given the chance to succeed.
36 The term “teen-age” was not coined until about fifteen years
after the Great War. Prior to that, there was no special clothing for teenagers, no carefully marketed books or music etc; you left school, found work, started wearing the sort of clothes your parents wore and you were – by and large – an adult. Obviously some matured faster than others, while language even today codes “women” and “girl” as being synonymous, but Poppy and Amy would have been viewed as adults in the legal sense, hence Poppy was fully able to start her own business. Sexism aside, of course.
Chapter Ten
‘Sir Milford Duddlestone, chairman of Turleybridge Motors, may I present Miss Poppy Orpington, racing driver?’
‘Charmed, my dear, ab-so-hootely charmed,’ slurred Sir Milford who, despite the early hour, was rather inebriated. ‘Looked forward to meeting you for some time.’
‘A pleasure, Sir Milford,’ smiled Poppy as she leaned back from his face which was disgorging alcoholic fumes in the manner of a fire-breathing dragon. ‘How is business at Turleybridge?’
‘Terrible, my dear, abo-hootely terrible,’ hiccupped Sir Milford. ‘No-one is buying cars anymore. Not one.’
‘Surely not?’
‘Just between you and me, maybe one or two, but barely enough to keep body and soul together. Nobody wants steam power now; they all want petrol! All thanks to some girl racing a petrol car somewhere. Jolly brave of her, I say; you wouldn’t catch me in a car, not on your life. Horse and carriage is good enough for me. Dirty, horrible things, cars. But they sell, you know. Just enough to keep a chap in cigars, eh what? Where’s my drink gone?’
‘You drank it,’ sighed Simeon. ‘Here, have this one.’
‘Bless you, my boy, bless you, can’t think where the other drink went. Must have put it down somewhere. Now, what was I saying?’
‘About the increasing demand for petrol-fuelled cars?’ prompted Poppy.
‘Yes! Ever since that girl, what’s her name?’
‘Poppy Orpington,’ said Simeon.
‘That’s the chap! Ever since she made the news, all the people coming to the show room want petrol vehicles. They don’t get them, of course. We don’t have any, so they end up buying what we do have, ha ha!’
‘Have you considered selling petrol cars?’ asked Poppy, trying to steer the conversation in the intended direction.
‘Sell petrol cars?’ gasped Sir Milford, astounded at the thought.
‘Yes, sell the product the public is asking for. You could make a fortune.’
‘I don’t know about that, I mean to say, what? Sell petrol? We don’t sell petrol cars, we sell steam cars.’
‘But the public are telling you they want petrol cars,’ interjected Amy.
‘Well, yes, but what does the public know?’ spluttered Sir Milford, leaning backwards to drain his glass. ‘If we listened to the public we’d be selling cheap, reliable cars, and where’s the profit in that? Ha! No; we tell the public what they want, so that way we can sell it to ‘em. Petrol? I can’t tell the public they want petrol cars, not after telling them they want steam cars. Stick with what you know, that’s my motto!’
‘Baron Sylvester Howarth, owner of the famous Wyndham car company,’ interrupted Simeon as he dextrously flipped Sir Milford away to the drinks table and gathered in a tall, thin man who was passing. ‘Have you met Miss Poppy Orpington, racing driver?’
‘I have now,’ responded Lord Howarth, bowing slightly. ‘I see Milford’s started early.’
‘Yes, he was a little confused, and confusing,’ said Poppy, her large smile indicating she knew Lord Howarth would be the exact opposite. ‘He was telling us the public want to buy petrol cars but he will only sell steam-driven vehicles. Does that make sense to you?’
‘Oh, yes, indeed,’ murmured Lord Howarth, nodding vigorously. ‘His factory – like my own modest affair – is set up to produce steam engines, not petrol. To be able to produce a petrol-driven car he would have to build an entirely new factory from the ground up. It would be a huge undertaking, even if there is a demand for such a thing.’
‘But wouldn’t it be worth it in the long run?’ asked Amy. ‘If people want petrol, surely that’s where the future lies.’
‘There may be a demand for it at the moment, but what of next year? And the year after that?’
‘Would you consider moving to petrol if you had a design no-one else had?’ asked Poppy, discreetly squeezing Amy’s hand to acknowledge her support.
‘No, not really. After all, where will the car drivers get their fuel from?’
‘The number of petrol stations is increasing,’ pointed out Poppy.
‘Along trucking and bus routes, yes, I’ll grant you, but if you don’t live near such a route, what do you do then? So, what with that and the huge costs in switching production, the future is still with steam.’37
‘Hello Monty,’ called Simeon, cheerfully, as Lord Howarth drifted away and a tall, broad man approached. ‘How’s your factory? All thriving? This is Eustace Monty, of Monty Motors.’
‘Ah, the famous MM marque,’ exclaimed Poppy.
‘And you’re the famous Miss Orpington,’ beamed Monty. ‘A pleasure indeed.’
‘You’ll notice Monty also has a rather splendid prosthetic,’ continued Simeon, gesturing at Monty’s left hand. ‘Isn’t that a different model to when I saw you last?’
‘I’ve had an upgrade,’ smirked Monty in the casual manner of someone showing off how rich he was as he airily waved the brass hand in the air. ‘This is the latest Prendergast 505 model. Only came out a few months ago and, well, I thought I’d treat myself.’
‘There’s no arm in it, eh?’ grinned Simeon, inanely.
Poppy rolled her eyes; she and Amy had gone through every known pun after Poppy obtained her own prosthetic, and while Amy was still amused by the jokes, Poppy had quickly become bored of the repetition. She instead focussed on Monty’s hand; it was clearly intended for show rather than for rugged practicality, unlike Poppy’s own Turner-Casbach which was designed for heavy industrial work rather than demonstrating personal wealth.
‘Excuse me, I think I’m wanted,’ murmured Simeon in response to a gesture from a footman. ‘Probably someone fallen in the pond again. I’ll leave you to get acquainted.’
‘Marvellous race at Wolverhampton; you have an incredible car,’ said Monty, who worked hard on his jovial and easy-going manner.
‘I’ll be back in a few moments,’ whispered Amy, who had noticed the footman was showing Simeon the slippery champagne pool she’d left behind from nearly dropping her glass earlier. She scurried away, leaving Poppy and Monty alone in a small alcove in the ballroom.
‘I’m glad one manufacturer seems to be impressed,’ replied Poppy. ‘I’m amazed none of the existing companies has started producing petrol-driven cars yet.’
‘It’s a funny business, car manufacturing,’ said Monty, his grin getting even wider. ‘Some bright young thing comes up with an innovation, they make good on it, but twenty years later everyone else has moved on. Suddenly, the bright young thing is old hat – and he doesn’t trust any new-fangled ideas coming from the next generation of whippersnappers!’
‘I hope that isn’t the official policy of Monty Motors?’
‘Not at all; I’m always ready for a new experience.’
‘This would be a new experience indeed,’ whispered Poppy, taking a flirtatious approach despite finding Monty’s persona false and unattractive. ‘A chance to get ahead of all the competitors and maybe establish a monopoly in the process. A monopoly on petrol cars. But of course it would take the right man with the right sort of vision.’ Poppy’s soul all but gagged as she fluttered her eyelashes and forced a winning smile.
‘I’m sure there is nothing wrong with my vision,’ leered Monty, pressing into the alcove and fumbling to put his glass down on a convenient shelf. ‘I’d love to have a look under the bonnet.’
‘Then perhaps I could run Thunderbus over to you next week for an inspection, with a view to discussing the full scale production of a petro
l-driven car?’
‘Why wait until next week for the inspection?’ sweated Monty, his phony charm evaporating. ‘To get ahead in business, you need to act now.’ He grabbed Poppy’s hips and squeezed them. ‘Let’s see how the dipstick comes up, and then we can see about your other engine.’
‘Engine first,’ replied Poppy, restraining herself from slapping his hands away.
‘Dipstick first,’ leered Monty, pressing in closer, his eyes staring hungrily at her body.
‘I think not,’ replied Poppy, placing her hands on his arms to stop him from getting any closer.
‘You want to do business, you need to throw in a sweetener. We can slip away to a spare room and – argh!’ Monty grimaced as Poppy’s fingers dug into his wrists.
‘I think you’d better go away,’ said Poppy in a level voice.
‘You little tart! You offer yourself up to get your own way and then refuse to go through with it. Don’t think you scare me with your hand – two can play at that!’ Monty grabbed at Poppy’s prosthetic hand with his own, closing the brass fingers and squeezing, snarling in anger and injured pride until realising in horror his Prendergast 505 was being twisted out of alignment under the far greater strength of Poppy’s Turner-Casbach. He tried to pull away but Poppy held him firm, crushing him with pitiless ease until contemptuously shoving him away.
‘You bitch,’ he gasped, looking at his damaged hand and splayed fingers. ‘I’ll get even, you’ll see!’ Spinning around, he blundered into the crowd.
‘Is everything all right, Poppy?’ asked Simeon as he hurried back.
‘I’ve just seen capitalism up close and personal, and it is not pretty.’
‘Oh, dear,’ murmured Simeon, taking immediate advantage of the situation. ‘Let’s find somewhere private and pleasant for a while. To talk.’
The two of them left the crowded ballroom and took refuge in Simeon’s office. Simeon knew Poppy’s character enough to allow her to vent her feelings on the behaviour of Eustace Monty before attempting a consoling hug.
