by Jon Hartless
‘Gentlemen,’ she said, finally, waving her folder over her head. ‘These are the projections and the agent is due any moment now to close or reject the deal on purchasing this land. You have the facts. You know the risks and the potential rewards. It is now up to you to decide how much you want to invest.’
Still they hesitated, until Simeon moved forward. ‘I am in, gentlemen,’ he declared, grabbing a spare folder and extracting the contract. ‘I can see the potential for this company.’ This had the effect he had hoped; spurred into action by his example, the men instantly began explaining how much they were going to invest.
‘Simeon!’ hissed Poppy, appalled. ‘We decided last night we wouldn’t risk your money.’
‘I know,’ whispered Simeon, ‘but this lot would never have decided otherwise. Don’t worry; you have the clause in the contract giving you first option on the buy-back of any shares. You can discreetly buy me out sometime in the future. Just don’t forget the huge favour you owe me.’
Poppy ignored this to concentrate on the investors signing their contracts, smiling as her company, Thunderbolt Motor Cars Limited, was finally launched.55
50 The speed with which the press discovered Poppy’s new home, and their ability to run a series of disingenuous stories on her fledgling business, demonstrate how they were keeping a very close watch on her movements – though some of their information undoubtedly came from darker means including burglary and bribery, culminating in the abhorrent actions of Harvey McArdle in Poppy’s cottage.
51 The showroom had belonged to an undertaker; Poppy’s ex-employees often claimed down the years to have found an old coffin with a dead body still in it while clearing out the shop front.
52 Telecasting-Phones, allowing face-to-face conversations, were an innovation only available only to the wealthiest in the land; but then, even normal telephones were beyond the means of the average British worker.
53 Poppy didn’t need to build the car body; that was left to the buyer’s own coach builders. Only later did car manufacturers begin building everything in-house. Neither could Poppy afford a computer-controlled automatic production line, hence everything was to be done by hand-operated machines. Fortunately, British car manufacturing was some way behind Europe and America, with most of Poppy’s direct rivals still using similar car-building techniques.
54 The company managed one hundred and thirty four in the first full year, but in any case Poppy’s financial figures were inaccurate as the production costs were much higher than she had foreseen.
55 It could be argued Poppy lost control of her company that very first day when the shares were issued, thus tying her to a board more concerned with seeing a quick financial return rather than nurturing the business into life.
Chapter Thirteen
BRITAIN Going to the DOGS! by Harvey McArdle.
After our shocking EXCLUSIVE scoop some weeks ago that the infamous POPPY ORPINGTON is setting up her own business, the Daily Post has launched an investigation and what we have discovered will horrify our readers. Concerned residents are concerned about the NOISES of this new factory in their sleepy little quarter. It has been claimed the noise of a petrol engine can damage the hearing of a child from half a mile away, so what will several such engines be like? Pity the poor working man who has to get up for work after being kept awake all night by the sound of socialism running through the night!
I am informed that Miss Orpington, as good breeding compels me to call this modern harpy, has already tried to invade the man’s world by working in a factory where, owing to her lack of understanding of machinery, she lost her arm in an industrial accident.56 One would hope she will soon realise her place is, as God intended, the HOME, and that she will return there forthwith before risking her life or anyone else’s.
Of course, this ill-advised socialistic venture is bound to FAIL. History tells us so. It therefore begs the question why anyone would think we want a petrol-driven motor car. Steam has been good enough for us for years past, so why the tyranny of change? Let us hope for a speedy return to COMMON SENSE before women driving cars, fixing cars, and even selling cars, becomes acceptable and brings all the other deviants out of the woodwork.
Once the factory was equipped and the workforce in place, progress on developing a working engine moved with surprising speed. Poppy had hired a small but hard-working group of engineers and mechanics, most of whom had already worked in bus or truck workshops and who expressed no objection to working under Poppy or alongside Amy.
She had fallen lucky in finding her chief engineer, Garrin Schmitt, who had extensive experience of petrol vehicles gained – like Yousef – from working on public transport, albeit in Schwabach, Bavaria, rather than Stourbridge, West Midlands. Under his guidance the engine, with input from Yousef who doubled up at both the factory as well as the pit crew, was swiftly taking shape, helped by the crudely drawn but voluminous notes made by her father over the years.57
It was a fine summer day when Poppy arrived at the works, her mood high even as she glanced over the early post which consisted of nothing but bills and invoices. The first Thunderbolt engine, codenamed EXP1, was almost ready, and this was also the last week Poppy would be living alone in a rented room. That weekend, Amy would leave her small lodging a few streets away and together they would move to Greenford Parva, for Brook House had now been transformed by Poppy’s money into a comfortable home.
‘Good morning, Poppy,’ beamed Garrin, intercepting Poppy before she could get to her office.
‘Morning,’ replied Poppy, distracted as always by Garrin’s facial hair. Her father’s beard was so thick and large it had once been challenged to a fight by a myopic badger; Garrin’s seemed to be undecided if it was even up to the job of covering his face, clinging in half-hearted tufts along his rosy cheeks and chin.
‘Various people have been wondering in and out again,’ continued Garrin. ‘Some asking as to what we are doing, while others are asking if we have a car ready for sale yet.’
‘I hope we’re getting their names for when we do have a car?’
‘Yes, Peter58 is very good at that, and in raising orders on thin air! But he must have a product soon to show to people.’
‘And when will we have a product?’
‘We already have,’ chuckled Garrin. ‘Some of us came in early today to sort the remaining issues and it is ready!’
‘What?’ yelped Poppy. ‘Seriously?’
‘Ja,’ beamed Garrin, relapsing briefly into his native tongue in excitement. ‘Come and see.’
They hurried to the experimental workshop where the engine stood on a mounted wooden frame, gleaming in the early morning sun. The rest of the workers were already gathered around, gazing at the polished steel and aluminium. Poppy thundered forward, oblivious to everything except the silent heart of her company. Would it now, finally, begin to beat?
‘It’s all ready, Poppy,’ said Garrin, puffing up behind her. He had wired up a primitive electric starter for the demonstration, while Yousef was busy pouring a small amount of petrol into a rickety tank lashed to a chair behind the engine. He stood back and everyone turned to look at Poppy.
She took the proffered starter while trying to think of something suitable to say, but couldn’t. Instead, she turned the key on the box, waited for the electrics to power up, and pressed the small button underneath. The engine coughed, whirled, whirled some more and finally burst into life with a roar that almost shook the wooden frame to pieces.
The team cheered, Poppy included. ‘Excellent!’ she shouted. ‘When will the first chassis be ready to drop the engine in?’
‘Not long now’ grinned one of the staff, pointing to a half-assembled chassis standing in the next section of the factory. The team cheered again but then fell silent as they became aware of an alien presence amongst them; a nurse was glaring at them from the doorway.
‘What is the meaning of this dreadful noise?’ she hooted. ‘I have a sick man across the road who
needs complete peace and quiet for his recovery.’
‘And I have an engine ready to transform the world,’ replied Poppy. ‘Tell your patient he must either get better with the noise or else die in protest!’
56 As readers of Volume I already know, Poppy’s missing arm was the result of a birth defect, yet this untruth on her losing the limb in an industrial accident frequently appeared in the press. I assume it fitted the media’s narrative of emphasising the dangers of women being allowed to work in non-traditional roles.
57 Poppy kept all her father’s notes locked away for security reasons, only allowing them out in her office when required. This wasn’t just paranoia; there had been several unexplained break-ins over the weeks, yet nothing had been taken from the factory.
58 Peter Harding, Thunderbolt’s head of sales. He also represented the total number of staff within the sales department.
Chapter Fourteen
POPPY ORPINGTON’S clothes range is an embarrassing FLOP! Exclusive story by YOUR Morning Star!
The self-styled PETROL QUEEN launched her new clothing range some months ago, including dresses, skirts, blouses, and a disgusting copy of her racing clothes which are actively marketed at WOMEN and sweet, innocent GIRLS! But we can exclusively reveal that the whole enterprise was a waste of time, for the clothing range has FLOPPED!
Yes, the Great British public has spoken, and they have clearly said they DO NOT WANT this FILTH in our shops! The masses of clothes in the Poppy range, and the accompanying perfumes, soaps, and even jewellery, are now languishing in shops and windows across the land. I wonder how the supposed PETROL QUEEN feels whenever she passes a shop and sees the evidence of her own failure, and the good taste of the British public?
Goodge and Whittle, the manufacturer behind the clothes, have put a positive face on the DISASTER, claiming they are having trouble in keeping up with the supposed “huge demand” from retailers. But if this is the case, then why are the windows full of UNSOLD stock?
This is a victory for morality and the British public!59
‘Miss Orpington, I believe?’ asked the race marshal of the Sussex track, looking with interest at Thunderbus before focusing on Poppy herself. He was a large, red-faced, cheerful man who, like Bob at Baggeridge, appeared to be at the mercy of the reams of paperwork he hauled around with him.
‘That’s right,’ said Poppy, tying her cravat into place around her neck. She was in her racing attire of riding boots, jodhpurs, loose blouse, waistcoat, goggles and face scarf, and although she wasn’t wearing her thick overcoat as the sun was hot and the heat from Thunderbus would roast her during the race, she did like something around her neck to keep her throat warm. She had long abandoned the blue coat Simeon wanted her to wear prior to each race.
‘I’m so glad you accepted our invitation to return,’ beamed the marshal. ‘Knowing we have the famous Poppy Orpington and Thunderbus here today has got the ground buzzing. My name is Popplewick, by the way, Sam Popplewick, but most people call me Wicksy. Of course, last year it was your father and Lord Simeon I dealt with, but it’s nice to see you moving into the driving seat. Oh, hello Lord Pallister, I didn’t see you at the back there.’
‘Hello Wicksy,’ replied Simeon, forcing his customary charm into place. ‘How’s the family?’
‘Thriving, thank you. The lad is off to technical college soon, and the young ‘un keeps asking if she can have a mechanical arm so she can drive a fast car like Poppy Orpington. You’ve definitely started something there, Miss Orpington. A lot of hero worship all round from many a young girl, so I hear.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ replied Poppy, taken aback at the idea she was being held up as a role model for anyone; she wasn’t sure she liked the notion. A jealous snort from the paddock indicated Amy was also less than impressed.
‘I’d better move on, lots to do,’ continued Wicksy. ‘We should be starting quite soon. Best of luck.’ With his large red hands snapping out around him to catch his errant sheets of paper before they escaped, Wicksy strode away to be replaced by Lorenzo and Anthony.
‘Hello, you two,’ said Poppy, giving both men a quick hug. ‘Are you racing or observing today?’
‘Both,’ replied Anthony as he shook hands with Simeon. ‘I’m a spectator today owing to a blown turbine, but Lorenzo is ready to race – and in something rather special.’
‘Oh, what’s that?’ asked Poppy.
‘An Albizzi Model 12’ said Lorenzo, proudly.
Simeon whistled. ‘Now that is a real rival for you, Poppy. The Italian Albizzi cars have a reputation for being fast. I’m surprised one has been allowed to enter; all British tracks usually refuse to host foreign cars because they’re too good.’
‘Between you and me,’ grinned Lorenzo, ‘I think Wicksy, while being delighted to get young Poppy and the famous Thunderbus back here, does not want a whitewash like we have seen so many times this season, for that is not exciting and excitement makes for the gates to be good, yes?’
‘Your English always breaks down whenever you get excited,’ observed Anthony with a smile. ‘But as you say, racing thrives on competition, and Thunderbus flattening the competition is only good for short term results. Hence Lorenzo can drive his Albizzi rather than a native English vehicle, as he has been forced to do in the past.’
‘That must have annoyed Lord Hepplewhite,’ observed Simeon.
‘I did hear through the grapevine he tried to talk Wicksy out of it, but the Sussex is an independent track,’ said Anthony. ‘Which also means there is no handicap on this event.’
‘Good for Wicksy,’ beamed Simeon.60
‘What’s the top speed of an Albizzi?’ asked Poppy, eager to know more about her new rival. Thunderbus could average ninety to a hundred, on a good road, so as long as the Italian car was no better than that...
‘About ninety to a hundred, on a good road,’ replied Lorenzo, happily.
Poppy’s stomach lurched as she realised Thunderbus was finally facing equal competition, if not better. She had long held a blind spot for her father’s work, never seriously imagining any other car being able to beat the petrol engine;
now she had to reconfigure her mental landscape as the world suddenly changed around her.
‘There goes the warning bell,’ exclaimed Lorenzo. ‘I need to suit up. Best of luck, Poppy, I look forward to seeing you out there.’ With a cheerful wave, he and Anthony hurried away.
‘You look pale,’ observed Simeon, supressing a rather smug expression.
‘I’ve just had a shock,’ muttered Poppy.
‘I did warn you,’ chided Simeon. ‘Continental cars are way ahead of our own manufacturers. That’s why the government makes it so difficult for foreign companies to import their goods; no-one would buy British if they had the chance to buy something better.’
‘What will it mean for my company if I lose?’ demanded Poppy.
‘Racing isn’t about just one victory or loss – it’s about the entire season. As long as you put up a good show, and get a good place, people will still be interested. Especially as you’ll be the only real petrol manufacturer. That’s the unique selling point, right there.’
Poppy turned to look at Thunderbus, biting her lip in sudden fear. The future she had been planning was unexpectedly under threat, mostly from her own arrogance. What would the press say if she failed against a foreign competitor? They would gleefully take the fresh opportunity to belittle both her and the company, which could have a disastrous effect on any future car sales. She stared at Thunderbus, nerves clawing through her, conscious of the appalling aerodynamic qualities of the vehicle.
A sharp bark of anger erupted from outside the paddock, interrupting Poppy’s sudden design concerns. She turned and saw two men, Algernon Hussey and Markus Williamson, glaring at her in antipathy. Both had complained ceaselessly about the presence of a petrol car and a working class female driver within the racing fraternity, though this was the first time either had felt brave enough to
actually face her. ‘Have you got a problem?’ she snapped.
‘It’s not us who have a problem; this abomination shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the sport of kings!’ brayed Hussey.
‘You want to say that up close, you inbred streak of piss?’ snarled Poppy, striding out of the paddock.
‘How dare you!’ gasped Williamson, looking alarmed. ‘You should mind your language. And your place!’
‘My place? That is undoubtedly ahead of you two parasites.’
‘I say, I say,’ brayed Williamson, totally unaccustomed to being answered back. He had no idea how to deal with someone of a lower social standing who showed him no deference. Such things did not happen in his world.
‘Don’t think you can threaten me, girl,’ snapped Hussey, who was made of sterner stuff than his colleague. ‘I can have you thrown out of this event with a single word!’
‘Then let’s go and find Wicksy and get me thrown out,’ responded Poppy, jabbing Hussey in the chest with her finger to emphasise each point, driving him back several yards. ‘Of course, if you do that, you’ll be admitting you can’t deal with a girl. That you’re not man enough to deal with a girl. That you’re too pathetic to deal with a girl.’
‘Don’t think I’m scared of you and your mechanical arm,’ squeaked Hussey, losing his nerve as he felt Poppy’s strength. ‘Come, Markus, let’s not dirty ourselves here.’ The two men scurried away.
‘Ah, the sweet sound of gentle diplomacy,’ grinned Reg in a careful undertone; he and the rest of the pit crew, who had stopped working to watch the scene, were now accustomed to Poppy’s confrontational manner with anyone trying to belittle her.
‘Come on, Poppy, cease your wild and whirling words,’ called out Simeon with a conspiratorial grin at Reg.
‘Hamlet,’ snapped Poppy, stomping back into the paddock. ‘Is Thunderbus ready to go?’
