by Jon Hartless
‘I’m sorry to hear he acted in that manner, but do you think you may have encouraged him a little?’ he asked, his tone slightly peevish. ‘Best not to do that, really. With anyone.’
‘There is one hell of a gap between flirting and full on sex,’ replied Poppy, a sharp edge in her voice as she moved to the centre of the office, away from the hug.
‘Yes, indeed, but you admit you were deliberately flirting. To get him interested in your new business.’
‘Do you think that justifies his behaviour?’
‘No, of course not. But if you act a certain way, certain men will respond like for like.’
‘Then certain men should learn some self-control,’ snapped Poppy.
‘Yes, absolutely, but if you hint an amorous encounter could be enjoyed later on, and the man then responds accordingly... ’ began Simeon.
‘Simeon,’ interrupted Poppy, rather sharply. ‘There is no excuse at all for groping. If you can’t stay in the verbal-only area, you shouldn’t be allowed out into society.’
‘And do you stay in a verbal-only area with Amy?’ retorted Simeon. ‘I’ve heard several strange squeaks from her when you two are out of sight and you think no-one is around. The sort of squeak which suggests Amy has been unexpectedly grabbed.’
‘That is different,’ coughed Poppy, going red. ‘We are... friends.’
‘Oh? Being “friends” in a “friendly relationship” means you can grab your “friend” by the posterior when you feel like it? Does that mean your other friends can grab you when they wish?’
‘Amy doesn’t mind. And I would not advise any “friend” to try taking hold of me if I don’t want them to; not unless they want to know what real pain feels like.’
‘So, Amy doesn’t mind you touching her even when the situation is not suitable?’ snapped Simeon, striding in a sudden semi-circle toward his drink’s cabinet. ‘Such as when you are in the garage, in the library, behind the garden wall? I could go on.’
‘My, haven’t you been observant,’ countered Poppy, though she was worried Simeon had a point; she did often make quick, playful grabs at Amy when she thought they were alone. ‘Looking down on all you own with a proprietorial air, thinking you can have what you want because you’re wealthy enough to simply take it.’
‘I have never assumed anything,’ spluttered Simeon, his face flushing at Poppy’s words.
‘No, you go straight to entitlement and bypass the assumptions you don’t even know you carry around with you. The entitlement of the wealthy man to have what he wants, when he wants, and how he wants.’
‘I’m just saying you should keep your distance from men who...’ persisted Simeon before his words were interrupted as Amy crashed into the office.
‘Where have you two been?’ she demanded, glaring at Simeon to see if he recoiled with guilt, thus confirming her darkest worries about why he was hidden away with Poppy. ‘Helena is looking for you.’
‘Yes; I’m neglecting my guests and you...’ Simeon’s eyes locked onto Poppy’s for a moment. ‘You need to continue chasing up manufacturers.’ He left the room, dropping his easy grin into place while ignoring the thunderous expression on Amy’s face. ‘Come on, back to the fray.’
‘And what were you doing in there?’ hissed Amy as they followed Simeon back to the ballroom.
‘Talking,’ replied Poppy, aware of Amy’s suspicions and somewhat resentful of them, given nothing untoward had occurred in the office. She strode toward another car manufacturer, forcing a somewhat grim smile which so unnerved the man he fled before she could get near him.38
‘Poppy,’ exclaimed Simeon later that evening, recognising she needed some good news and hoping she would look favourably upon him for delivering it. ‘I’ve got an extra race lined up for us, though they can’t squeeze us in for a few months yet.’
‘Best thing I’ve heard all evening,’ sighed Poppy. ‘Which track?’
‘It’s the Sussex,’ replied Helena, who hadn’t left her husband’s side since his reappearance from his office. ‘Where it all began.’39
‘Ah, good; that should be an easy win, then,’ replied Poppy. ‘I’ve had several requests to sign posters and postcards from the Sussex,’ she added, thoughtfully, ‘and I wasn’t even driving then.’
‘Merchandising accounts for a good chunk of revenue these days,’ replied Simeon, frowning at Poppy’s ongoing confidence in Thunderbus’ ability to win. ‘And signed memorabilia sells for even greater prices.’
‘I meant to ask you about Poppy Scarves,’ said Poppy, referring to the various scarves being sold under her name, inspired by the one she wore when racing. ‘I’ve seen them in shop windows and magazine adverts but they’re nothing to do with us, are they?’
‘I’m afraid not; people will jump on a craze and sell what they can from off the back of it. We really need to aggressively pursue any non-authorised material and set up a company to sell official Poppy merchandise, otherwise you’ll be losing money; maybe even hundreds of pounds.’
‘Hundreds?’ echoed Poppy in shock. ‘I can’t afford to lose any, not if I’m going to set up home and business in London.’
‘Home?’ exclaimed Amy, staggered at the sudden revelation
‘In London?’ gasped Simeon in horror. ‘Most manufacturing firms are only just over the border in the Black Country and out toward Coventry. That’s where you need to set up a factory; somewhere close to the existing industry, so you can buy in any parts required.’
‘But most businesses supply steam parts, not petrol. There are a few charabanc builders in Coventry working with petrol components but there are more in London itself, so I think it sensible to set up shop there, especially as the potential market for buyers will be stronger down south. You don’t get many wealthy people with a large, disposable income around here.’
‘You’re going to be exceptionally busy,’ said Simeon in a wheedling tone. ‘Do you really want to add to your troubles by finding a new home?’
‘I have been thinking about it for a while.’
‘Why?’ demanded Amy. ‘And why didn’t you say anything to me about this? This affects me as well.’
‘We’re basically scrounging off Simeon by living rent-free in the grounds of Pallister Hall,’ replied Poppy, aware she had indeed made her plan without even consulting Amy. She was relieved to see a blush spread over Amy’s face as she realised the truth of Poppy’s observation.
‘Oh, rubbish’ exclaimed Simeon. ‘The arrangement still holds. While we race as a team. Besides, we enjoy having you here, don’t we, dear?’
Helena smiled and nodded, though in truth she was getting anxious as Poppy continued to develop into a strikingly beautiful woman who would inevitably be spending a great deal of time with her husband... She gnawed her lip as incipient jealousy and genuine friendship collided within her. ‘Of course we do,’ she blurted, her warm nature overriding her fears. ‘You know you’re welcome to stay as long as need be.’
Poppy put her hand on Helena’s. ‘I know, but I don’t feel right imposing. Having said that, I do need Simeon’s help; given the existing manufacturers have no ambition to make petrol cars, I’ll have to do it all from scratch. Which means raising money to acquire suitable premises and then buying the tools and machines, and hiring a work force. And that necessitates having wealthy backers to do it all.’
‘Ah,’ said Helena. ‘Simeon’s contacts?’
‘Exactly. Thunderbus Motors; sounds good, doesn’t it?’
‘Not a problem,’ mumbled Simeon. ‘I’ll draw up a list and begin contacting them myself, if you like; I can try to discreetly find out who would be interested.’
‘Excellent. And I’ll start contacting business agents to find out what sort of factory units are available.’40
‘It sounds as though you fully intend to beat down the masculine doors of business,’ observed Helena.
‘I do. And with your help and support, I believe I can succeed.’41
‘I’
m sure you will,’ nodded Simeon, still looking slightly upset at Poppy’s plans. ‘But I am concerned at the ongoing confidence you have in Thunderbus. There is no such thing as an easy win in racing.’
‘I’ve only been beaten by the handicapping system so far this season, not by any other car,’ replied Poppy, somewhat tartly. ‘And I’ve taken five victories out of eight.’42
‘Yes, but we are carefully selecting the best tracks to compensate for Thunderbus’ poor steering.’
Poppy shrugged. ‘Thunderbus is still the fastest thing on four wheels. As long as we stay on tracks with long straights we should still win just about everything going, handicapping notwithstanding. Here, and maybe even abroad.’
‘Let’s concentrate on the domestic tracks this season,’ said Simeon. ‘We can try abroad when you’re more experienced. And have a new car.’
Poppy looked at him in shock, her green eyes glinting. ‘Get rid of Thunderbus?’ she exclaimed, her voice carrying a definite edge. ‘You know what it cost my father to make – the cost to his health?’
‘I know Poppy, none better,’ replied Simeon, holding his hands up in appeasement. ‘But motor racing does not stand still; even our own stodgy manufacturers bring out at least some innovations now and again. Thunderbus, as he is now, will soon be obsolete. Technology is constantly moving forward and we have to move with it or risk falling behind. Just think it over. That’s all I’m saying.’
37 Thunderbolt Motors was not actually the first producer of petrol-driven cars; four different companies in the UK had tried and failed over the years, while a fifth, British Roamer, was running at that time, albeit only producing a few steam-driven cars per year as a side-line to its main business of making agricultural machinery. Of course, Roamer would go on to become one of the largest petrol car manufacturers of the twentieth century before collapsing in 2004.
38 The rest of the evening proved Poppy’s suspicions correct; most of the manufacturers were dismissive of her plans to build a petrol-driven car, while the few who were interested offered miserly rates only.
39 The Sussex witnessed the debut of Thunderbus, driven by Poppy’s father. The Sussex had made much of its status as the first track to feature the famous car, and a return visit would undoubtedly see another boost in their ticket sales. That Simeon still had to pull some strings to squeeze Poppy in demonstrates the crowded racing calendar back then.
40 Every single response bar one began “Dear Mr Orpington.”
41 Unfortunately, many of the eventual investors were those seeking to make a quick profit on the back of Poppy’s fame – exactly the wrong sort of person to patiently nurture a new business into life. In contrast, she quickly found a clothing manufacturer, Goodge and Whittle, which was happy to produce a range of official Poppy clothing including scarves, coats, gloves, dresses, underwear and the like, which increased Poppy’s personal income considerably.
42 I apologise for being unable to cover every race in the 1904 season, but the limited space offered by a book such as this automatically compels a judicious selection (and omission) of certain events. Indeed, I have been compelled to make similar decisions on other aspects of Poppy’s life outside of racing, such as the creation of her clothing line and her disastrous meeting with the local Suffrage movement. In general, I have chosen to focus only on those moments which contain some greater significance to Poppy and her life.
Chapter Eleven
WOMEN beware WOMEN! Why good women instinctively shy away from bad women, by Lydia Kitson.
This evening, at a delightful high society event, I had the misfortune to meet the woman who is scandalising society, the notorious attention-seeking cripple Poppy Orpington, and never in my life have I met someone I disliked so much, so quickly.
I had no issue at all with the other lovely ladies at the event, including Lady Helena Pallister, Lady McIntosh, and the gracious Duchess of Sutton, who really are the absolute cream and the best this fine country of ours has to offer.
So, why my immediate distaste for the pushy Orpington, with her unnatural body, socialistic background, freakish deformity, ridiculous height, and her terrible and provocative dress sense? I’m convinced we women – true women – have a God-given ability to see through the superficial glamour and cheap beauty of any false women, and see the real threat beneath.
Women have an innate feeling of right and wrong, something men just do not have. It is something in the blood and cannot be taught.
It is NOT jealousy, no matter what some claim. After all, I never met a woman who was not charmed by Lady Cadwallander, and her wonderful series of books on motherhood and domestic harmony.
Women should trust their natural instincts, for they are a gift from God, and often lead them to the truth more quickly than the logical brains of men. And men should listen to their wives’ intuitions, and act on them.
My instinct on women has never been wrong. Any woman I have met who I mistrusted has turned out to be untrustworthy, and treacherous.
Fortunately, the many women who hate me, for they fear my instinct, are not the sort that any respectable women would wish to associate with in any case. And the reason for this is clear; they have all rode to success not by fair means but by foul. These are the women who tread on others to get what they want, and who are not particular about how they get what they want, either.
Mothers – protect your daughters from women like this!43
Poppy awoke the following morning, looked round drowsily as she was not at her best first thing, and rolled over to draw Amy into a hug. Amy responded by moving away and staring at the far wall of the bedroom.
‘What’s the matter?’ sighed Poppy.
‘Nothing.’
‘Really?’
‘You were friendly with Simeon last night,’ blurted Amy, unable to keep quiet.
‘I’m friendly with Simeon all the time.’
‘You know what I mean! He seemed really upset we’re leaving. Or that you’re leaving.’
‘That’s because we’re friends, Amy.’
‘Is that why I can smell his aftershave round here so much?’ Amy sat up, her arms folded, her eyes moist.
‘He does occasionally visit; you know that perfectly well.’
‘Yes, but he seems to be round here whenever I’m out. Do you think Helena knows of all his visits?’
‘I’m here with you, Amy, right here, right now.’ Poppy’s metallic fingers reached out delicately. ‘Not that you’ve been making it an easy or pleasurable experience just lately.’
‘Am I really the only one for you? Forever?’
‘Yes. Forever,’ replied Poppy, feeling a sudden flush of hot doubt and shame. She chased the uneasy thoughts away by cuddling up to Amy’s slender body, the doubts retreating temporarily under a mutual rush of lust.
‘What are your plans for the day?’ asked Amy sometime later. She was still half wrapped in a bedsheet, her pale legs swinging playfully over the side of the mattress. ‘Are you visiting your dad?’
‘No, I’m going tomorrow. I’m going to write and post off queries to various land agents about suitable factory units, but the rest of the day is free,’ replied Poppy from the dresser, where she was forcing a brush through her mass of hair.
‘And after that?’ asked Amy, hoping they could spend the day together.
‘I want to finish reading my book on the socio-economic conditions of the peasant class at the turn of the nineteenth century,’ began Poppy, before being cut off by Amy.
‘Why do you always have your head stuck in a book? As soon as you can, you sit down in that armchair of yours and I lose you for hours!’
‘But you love working on Thunderbus while I’m reading.’
‘But not all the time,’ muttered Amy, pulling the bedsheet tighter around herself.
‘You could always pick up a book yourself,’ began Poppy, struggling with a particularly matted section of hair.
‘I don’t like your books; they’re boring.’
‘Boring? They’re fascinating! Did you know theologians only started to describe God as a mechanical creator when clocks became popular in society?’
‘So?’
‘So? It’s an example of how society’s view of God is shaped purely by the culture and attitude of the time.’
‘Er... so what?’
‘So, this demonstrates that theology is bunkum,’ explained Poppy, her enthusiasm carrying her away. ‘We’re all cut into patterns by society and we then view the world in terms of those patterns; change the pattern and our view of the world changes as well. All our interpretations of divinity come from ourselves alone and not from any objective external deity, which is why so many religions are based on old mistakes and superstitions and... You’re not listening, are you?’
‘I just don’t think we should be talking about such things,’ muttered Amy, her inbuilt deference rising up to stopper her thought processes before they could lead anywhere dangerously self-deterministic. ‘Your books don’t appeal to me.’
Poppy blew out in exasperation. Just about every intelligent conversation with Amy ended before it began and Poppy was feeling increasingly isolated from her first love. ‘Well, what do you want to do?’
‘Why can’t we spend some time together, just the two of us?’
‘Like a day out? A picnic somewhere?’
Amy sat upright, her whole face beaming with delight, the bedsheet falling away from her body and distracting Poppy somewhat. ‘That would be brilliant!’
‘Good. If we’re going out, we may as well look for a new home as well.’
‘Can’t we just have the day to ourselves with nothing else interfering?’
‘You know I have a hundred things going on, but we’ll have a day out. A picnic, an entire afternoon and maybe the evening together. Isn’t that enough?’
‘We hardly spend any time alone these days,’ carped Amy.
‘I’m here now, with you, for the day,’ responded Poppy, struggling to keep her irritation in check at Amy’s whining tone. ‘A day out with a picnic, and maybe a nice quiet wood on the way back where we can have a little lie down, like we did at Sir Milford’s place when we visited him for the day. You remember that?’ She felt a stab of self-reproach for giving up so easily on any sort of intellectual conversation with Amy in favour of a sexual encounter later on.
