by Jon Hartless
‘Yes. Smallhouse is the name. Frederick to friends, or Lord Frederick when I am upset with someone.’
‘I certainly hope it will be Frederick for us,’ replied Poppy, introducing herself and Amy. ‘Smallhouse? Anything to do with Smallhouse Pond?’
‘The very same. I trust you have not found yourselves in it? I would probably have been told by an over-excited villager if someone new had gone in. It does keep them amused.’
‘Nearly, but not quite,’ smiled Poppy. ‘You own a lot of land around here?’
‘Good chunks of it, yes. How do you like the house?’
‘It’s marvellous, but it may need more work than I can do. Who sent the message we were here?’
‘That young ass at the letting agent sent me a telegram – probably at the very moment you left his office. He seems to think I have no idea how to operate the telephone, the damn fool. Anyway, I wanted to see the rather rare sight of a young unaccompanied lady looking for a house.’
‘Have you had any offers?’
‘Only from uncultured types who want to knock the place about, demolishing walls and ripping out the old décor.’
‘Really? I think it’s wonderful just as it is but I’m afraid I would need electricity, here and in the stables, a modern bathroom or two, maybe a new kitchen also.’
‘Fair enough – as long as it’s all done while maintaining the character of the house,’ replied Frederick, deciding he liked the look of Poppy. ‘I’m very fond of this old place; it was my mother’s family home before she married my father. Why not give me a lift back to the agent in that fearsome-looking car of yours and we can work out something mutually beneficial?’
‘I can’t believe you have a house,’ gasped Amy as they waved goodbye to Frederick that evening. They had thrashed out an agreement for Poppy to pay somewhat less than the asking price for a fifteen year lease in return for installing a new kitchen and two bathrooms, redecorating throughout without changing the character of the property, and wiring the place up for electricity.
The negotiations had gone so amicably they had been invited to Frederick’s home to meet his wife, Jennifer, and to dine with them. Their son, Crispin, was also present, visiting for a long weekend away from his busy job and who was as charming as his parents even when pressing his business card on both Poppy and Amy, should either ever decide to get involved in the world of lacemaking.
‘Things are moving fast,’ agreed Poppy as she guided Thunderbus along the road, thinking over the issues. ‘Oh well, we can’t stand still forever. We do need our own home, and once the telephone is installed we’ll be as accessible as we are at Pallister Hall, so we won’t miss anything important from anyone.’
‘And what about basic car maintenance?’ asked Amy. ‘I can’t do that in Worcester if I’m living just outside London.’
‘We’re going to be at the hall for at least a few months yet, until all the work is done on Brook House. And that includes converting the stables into a modern garage for Thunderbus, while anything else he needs can be done at the works depot. It’s starting to come together.’
‘But what if you find a factory miles away? Or your business plans fall through completely?’
Poppy shrugged. ‘We’d still need our own place, and given most of the race tracks are in the south it makes sense to have a home down here, so stop worrying.’
Amy opened her mouth, ready to complain again, but before she could say anything they passed a nice secluded wood where an amorous Poppy suggested they stop and put the blanket down, and the matter temporarily passed from her mind...
43 In case the reader is wondering why Helena and Simeon had such a revolting person as Lydia Kitson at their party, I should explain two things; firstly, society reporters often attended such functions and wrote up favourably on them afterward. Secondly, Kitson slipped in without an invitation, no doubt aware Helena would be too polite to have her ejected.
44 The traffic police back then were viewed much as speed cameras are today; as a means of collecting revenue rather than ensuring road safety.
45 Although cars were still for the comparatively wealthy at this point, the road network was already well established owing to the increasing use of lorries and larger trucks to carry goods at a fraction of the cost charged by the railways and airships.
46 Greenford Parva today is mostly concrete; the miles of farmland and countryside are gone, as is most of the charming village. It is now merely an urban extension of outer London.
47 Very few people owned their own house back then; most would buy the leasehold only, thus enabling the family to move home as and when needed, usually for economic reasons. A house was seen as an encumbrance in the financial sense, unlike today, where home-ownership is something to aspire toward even while still being beyond the earning power of most workers.
48 House agency and journalism have many qualities in common; a dependency on cliché and a willingness to break the bones of the truth are prerequisites in both industries.
49 Poppy also enjoyed Pallister Hall’s door sensors, temperature control, retracting furniture and other such innovations. It is difficult to express Poppy’s wonderment, however, as today we are rather more blasé about home technology, even while most still don’t have access to it.
Chapter Twelve
PETROL QUEEN TO MOVE INTO PICTURESQUE VILLAGE; FEARS FOR HOUSE PRICES!! A Daily Post Investigation!50
Our top investigative reporters have discovered the self-styled “Petrol Queen”, the hysterical harpy Poppy Orpington, is planning a move to the countryside. She has been spotted lurking in several beauty spots, where it is claimed she has been looking for a house to live in.
At first glance, we wonder why Orpington, the female RACING DRIVER, shown here disgracefully STRIPPING down to a MAN’S waistcoat and blouse in her pits when REMOVING her coat, revealing her BULGING stomach and height in a desperate bid for attention before finally covering her shame with her racing coat, should be so interested in obtaining her own home.
But if we think of her freakish nature, strident character, demand for attention and unnatural friendships with other unnatural females, the answer becomes all too obvious!
What sin, what depravity is this physically deformed freak intending to indulge in when she has a private home to wallow in her own filth? We can only hope that house agents across this fair nation take a moral stand against this sort of behaviour and show her the door if she comes knocking! We don’t want immorality in our fair land, in public or in private!
It took time, but on August 10th 1904 Poppy and Simeon made the journey in Thunderbus to meet the potential investors of Poppy’s company and to view an old factory unit Poppy felt had potential as business premises. The drive was constrained as both were worried about domestic concerns and the huge struggle they knew lay ahead, and Poppy was relieved when they saw the sign for Cricklewood. She pulled the estate agent’s letter from her pocket and handed it over to Simeon, who already had a map out on his knees.
‘What sort of property are we looking at?’ asked Simeon after checking the address on the letter and telling Poppy which road to take. Although he was assisting Poppy with general advice on setting up her company, he was publicly leaving all the choices to her – despite his private attempts to do otherwise.
‘It’s an elderly factory which used to belong to a car manufacturer, Farrington, not far from the main road. It backs onto a separate showroom51 that I’ve got my eye on, which can be used as the sales department and general shop.According to the agent, many of the old fabrication machines are still in the factory.’
‘They wouldn’t be any good, surely? They’ll be calibrated for steam engines.’
‘Possibly, but the agent insists they all have fully adjustable heads and flywheels; they’re general-use machines rather than specific units which can only do one job, so they may yet be suitable even if they are old.’
‘I vaguely recall the Farrington; large, clumsy, ugly thing
s. They lasted a few years and then dwindled away, if memory serves. Any machinery still there will probably be obsolete.’
‘I know,’ muttered Poppy in response, ‘but this seems to be the best place available. You would not believe the rubbish the agents have been pushing at me since I contacted them. Vacant industrial units, bankrupt doll factories, burnt-out furniture factories, large sheds, small sheds, even empty muddy fields. And all claim the site is just what I’ve asked for and is practically ready to move into barring one or two minor jobs – such as laying on water, electricity, walls, a roof and car-making equipment.’
‘Oh dear,’ murmured Simeon in sympathy. ‘They sound as bad as housing agents; you tell them you’re looking for a small flat in London and they send you half a dozen houses for consideration.’
‘This unit at least has the right layout for building a chassis on a rolling assembly line,’ replied Poppy, ignoring Simeon’s comment on local flats. ‘It also has offices and a good sized yard for future expansion.’
‘I hope the investors can find it without problem,’ replied Simeon, looking at the narrow backstreets they were passing through. ‘It’s a little off the beaten track.’
‘True, but it does make the rent cheaper – or at least, cheaper for London. And there are a few boarding houses in the area I can use until Brook House is ready.’
‘I’m sure I could see my way to helping out with the domestic side of things. For privacy.’
Poppy smiled, a little grimly. ‘Thank you, but no. I want to do this on my own.’
‘I’m going to miss our little visits and conversations. Not that we’ve had many recently.’ When Poppy didn’t answer, he tried a different tack. ‘I assume the factory hasn’t got a phone line installed?’
‘Not that I’m aware.’
‘That will be the first job, then. Until then, do feel free to use the phone in my private office while you’re at the hall.’
‘Thank you. Have you bought a Telecasting-Phone yet?52 I remember you were talking about it.’
‘It’s on order and should be installed in a few weeks.’
‘That’s nice; you can talk face-to-face with all your friends who also have a Telecaster. All three of them.’
‘Oh, look, we’re here. Next left, please, and less sarcasm, my girl.’
Poppy turned onto a small trading estate, guiding Thunderbus into the factory yard by means of a driveway between two office blocks next to a tatty convalescence home. Rubbish and old car components were mouldering away in various corners, and the whole area seemed to be damp and miserable with neglect.
‘Charming,’ murmured Simeon. ‘Is the agent meeting us here?’
‘Later on,’ replied Poppy in excitement. ‘I wanted to get everyone gathered beforehand, so we would be against the time limit of the agent turning up.’
‘Why did you do that?’
‘People are more likely to make a decision when against the clock, and I don’t want to be left waiting on ditherers who can’t make up their minds. Come on, let’s look around.’ She grabbed a stack of folders containing the brochures she had prepared showing the projected costs, requirements and profits, as well as several contracts carefully drawn up by Simeon’s family lawyer. Poppy led the way into the factory where she examined the old, dusty machines, opening panels and checking on wiring and mechanical joints.
‘This is brilliant,’ exclaimed Poppy. ‘Much better than I was expecting. Most of these are designed for chassis construction so they should be adaptable to our needs, which will cut down on costs.’ She was interrupted by the arrival of the first people Simeon had sounded out as potential investors. None of the men were personal friends of Poppy’s; she had decided it best to keep her social and business life separate, and hence she hadn’t invited someone like Cuthbert, despite his family wealth, to join the nascent company. To that end, Simeon was only present as an informal guide rather than a potential business partner.
‘Gentlemen, thank you for coming,’ said Poppy as the tenth and final man arrived, joining his colleagues in gazing around the factory before gazing at Poppy herself, usually with calculated sexual attention. Poppy ignored the latter to concentrate on getting what she wanted from the men before wondering if she was, in fact, any better than they were; most men just wanted her for sex, while she just wanted these men for their money and contacts...
‘Simeon, thank you for the invite,’ wheezed Marcus Reese, seemingly oblivious to Poppy’s existence and greeting. ‘What’s all this about?’
‘That is for Miss Orpington to explain, Marcus; this is her company,’ replied Simeon, tactfully stepping aside and leaving Reese to goggle at Poppy, unable to comprehend the idea of a woman and business being in any way related.
‘Thank you all for attending,’ said Poppy, giving Rees a sharp look. ‘You are all aware I intend to put the petrol engine used in Thunderbus into production. For that I need investors ready to take an opportunity. This is where it will all start, with your help. You can see the factory is already laid out for small-scale production, and some of the old machines can be adapted for new jobs, saving on costs. Do please look at the brochures I have prepared for you; they give the full details and contain contracts for those wishing to sign.’
‘It has the right sort of layout, I’ll grant you,’ said Anthony Wythanshawe eventually, having examined both his brochure and the factory floor, ‘but you’ll still need a whole lot of new machinery to make the unique components of a petrol engine.’
‘I know, but at least we have a head start with the chassis workshop; you can see where they were made, piece by piece, before being handed to the next section.53 We already have a head start here; we won’t need to build a factory from scratch.’
‘I can see the potential,’ drawled Wimsloe Edwards, who fancied himself a financial wizard after scoring three good deals on the trot. ‘But starting a new car company? Let me run the figures through my Portable Automatic Office...’ He heaved the huge leather case he was carrying onto a workbench before flipping back the lid to reveal the portable computer within, a new innovation on the market. Edwards didn’t actually own the PAO; he leased it from a company and used it as much as a status symbol as for any calculations. The machine flickered into life, lights flashing on the brass surface. ‘How many units would we have to sell in the first year to be viable?’
‘I estimate one hundred,’ said Poppy, who was guessing blindly in certain areas.54
‘It’s a risk, a decided risk,’ murmured Edwards, trying to look like a shrewd financial operator as he inputted this information into the PAO; after several minutes of grinding, a small card was spat out from the side of the machine. ‘Hum! A definite and decided risk!’
‘And that is why I need bold men, men with vision, such as yourself,’ replied Poppy, applying a liberal amount of butter while trying to look at the card. Edwards hastily thrust it into his pocket, making Poppy suspect he had no real idea how to operate the machine.
‘You can’t call a production vehicle Thunderbus,’ brayed Trevor Redfern, changing the topic. ‘It’s a stupid name.’
‘It’s the name of the most famous racing car in the country; the car my father built,’ snapped Poppy.
‘Yes, but Redfern is right; we must consider the marketing angle,’ said Henry Gartside, soothingly. ‘Thunderbus is a nice quirky name for a racing car, I agree, but will it sell the product?’
‘Indeed,’ snorted Rees. ‘What do we associate with the term “bus”? A cheap, dirty form of public transport used by the lower orders. It is not the sort of association we want.’
‘The name represents what Thunderbus is,’ replied Poppy, regretting giving Rees the opportunity to invest in the company. ‘My father developed the engine as a vehicle for the masses.’
‘The masses cannot afford a car; therefore they are irrelevant to this discussion,’ replied Rees with a sniff. ‘If this company is to survive it must turn a profit, and to turn a profit we need to sell un
its. The only people who can afford a car are those with a good, solid income. We need a name and a marketing strategy to appeal to the wealthy or this company will go under, taking any investment with it. It is simple economics.’
Poppy glared as the men nodded in agreement. Despite their negativity, however, she could see greed shining in the eyes of many; Thunderbus was famous, and fame could equal a solid return on their investment. It was clear she would have to lose some battles in order to get the men to open their wallets.
‘We need something with edge, something appealing,’ said Frederick Charker as though imparting divine wisdom.
‘But not too different, otherwise people won’t associate Thunderbus with the new car,’ observed Simeon from the side of the group. The men nodded, leaving Poppy seething; had she made the point, they would probably have argued against it.
‘Maybe Thunderbolt,’ suggested Poppy. She thought it a stupid name the men would automatically disagree with, thus allowing her to lead them back to the original designation.
‘Yes, yes, Thunderbolt; that has marketing potential,’ yapped Rees. ‘Yes, the ideas are flowing. I can see it now in my mind; the Rees Thunderbolt!’
‘What makes you think it will be the Rees Thunderbolt?’ brayed Charker in disbelief. ‘This is a company of equals.’
‘I should think my share would be the biggest, therefore I will have the final say,’ replied Rees, smugly thinking about his greater wealth when compared to everyone else. ‘I will also therefore get a higher percentage of the profits. Pre-tax, of course.’
A chorus of protests and vanity broke out as the men debated, declaimed and denounced in equal measure. Poppy ground her teeth but she was impotent to do anything; she fully realised some had responded in the hope of being given a few “extras” in the bedroom, while others did not believe a woman could know anything of business, but these were the only people who had responded to the cautious overtures for investors – and as such, she needed them more than they needed her.
