by Jon Hartless
Poppy’s fingers sprung open with a metallic snap, releasing both the editor and his scream of pain and horror as he stared at what was left of his mangled, ruined hand. Nodding in satisfaction, Poppy left the room, refusing to look back at the three people within.72
71 The police refused to even record the attempted sexual assault by the previous pit crew as there was no evidence for it – with “evidence” here being physical bruising or a witness statement from an independent man of high social standing.
72 I realise this shows Poppy in a very negative light, given the calculated – almost sadistic – nature of her action, yet it happened and I am therefore obliged to record it. We can at least understand her anger and frustration, and some may applaud her tactical genius in claiming the only victory possible against McArdle – his silence. From this point on, Poppy became far more reserved in her diary entries, fearing they would be stolen and published by unscrupulous journalists. Thankfully, I can finish off the 1904 season with some confidence as many others recorded the subsequent events in their own diaries, letters and articles.
Chapter Twenty
The following day, Amy was sitting in the small parlour of her parent’s home, trying unsuccessfully to crochet a place mat. Her mother had ordered her to make herself useful around the house, but so far Amy’s attempts at tableware had resulted only in various lumpy creations not unlike a series of malformed hedgehogs. She looked round in irritation; returning to her parents’ cramped, stained, crumbling terrace, with a privy in the garden and a tin bath in front of the open fire was altogether too much after the luxury of the little cottage at Pallister Hall, and the even greater comfort of Brook House.
‘If you’ve had enough of crochet you can make a start on mopping the floor,’ snapped her mother, glaring at her only daughter while working on her own knitting. ‘You may have got used to sitting around doing nothing with that friend of yours, but you won’t do it under my roof.’
‘Oh, give it a rest, mother,’ sighed Amy. ‘When I wasn’t here you were always moaning at me being away, and now I’m back you’re even worse. And her name is Poppy.’
‘I know what her name is and I won’t have it spoken in my house,’ snapped Mrs Abberly in reply. ‘She’s shameless! And she was leading you astray.’
‘Leading me astray? I saw more of the country this year than you’ve seen in your entire life!’
‘Oh, listen to her, Miss High and Mighty!’
‘I was doing something I was good at,’ raged Amy, ‘and I enjoyed it, but you want me to give it all up and end up a domestic drudge like you!’
‘You wash your mouth out, you hussy!’ screamed her mother. ‘Engineering is no fit work for any daughter of mine! You should be thinking of a proper future, with a husband and babies, not shaming the family!’
‘Why? The family hasn’t done much for me recently!’
‘You ungrateful bitch! You’re warped, you are, you’re twisted – you should settle down and act like a proper woman! Do you know how much sniggering I hear in the village because of you? Or how many times your father has to listen to jokes about his daughter working in a pit crew?’
‘Oh, God forbid we should offend the neighbours by having dreams of our own! You ought to be happy for me, doing something I love and I’m good at!’
‘Happy? When I’m a laughing stock because my daughter is a wanton slag running after racing drivers?’ screeched Mrs Abberly, her voice scraping over Amy’s ears. ‘Happy because my two sons have to listen to jokes at their work about you? If they don’t get on, it will all be your fault!’
‘They were always your favourites, weren’t they?’ yelled Amy. ‘This is what I’ve come back to – being hated by my own mother!’73
‘You can always leave; I’m not keeping you here! I’m not keeping you at all! You can get a job, my girl, and pay your way, or you can do what God intended and find a husband! I know Ted Barker’s eldest is doing well at the small pickle factory and he wants to set up his own home.’
‘What? Ralph Barker?’ hooted Amy. ‘His job is screwing lids on jars and he needs two attempts to do that!’
‘He’s steady and he won’t mind taking on damaged goods!’
‘Damaged goods?’ yelped Amy in shock.
‘Yes, that hits home, doesn’t it? If you think you can have your pick of anyone, you can think again, my girl! You’re tainted, you are. Tainted by Poppy Orpington!’
‘And hello to you, too, Mrs Abberly,’ said Poppy from the door.
Amy smiled maliciously before speaking. ‘Hello, Poppy; why are you here?’
‘I wanted to see you.’
‘You’re not seeing Amy at all,’ spluttered Mrs Abberly, finding her voice. ‘And I’ll thank you to leave my home this minute, Miss Orpington.’
‘I have no desire to stay in the house of a small-minded bigot, thank you,’ replied Poppy tartly, staring directly at Amy’s mother, forcing her to look away in sullen anger. ‘And if you haven’t got the courage to insult me to my face, don’t do it behind my back.’ Poppy turned to Amy. ‘I’m going back to London. You can come with me and have the life you want, or you can stay here and live the life your mother wants you to have. It’s your choice.’ She turned and walked from the house.
Poppy breathed deeply, trying to calm her anger. She had wanted to tell Mrs Abberly exactly what she thought of her but she realised this would not be the best way of winning Amy back. She walked slowly along the road, once again feeling doubtful if she wanted Amy back at all; she had overheard the argument from outside the house and realised again how very similar Amy was to her conventional, spiteful mother.
Poppy suspected her presence in Stourbridge owed more to do with retrieving some semblance of control over her life, given she had been told that the police had decided against prosecuting McArdle. Or was she there simply to lash out at Simeon after the events of the previous day? Poppy felt the familiar rise of self-disgust as she judged herself harshly for her every thought and action.
Poppy heard a door slamming behind her, cutting off a series of screamed insults from Mrs Abberly, but she waited a few moments before turning to see Amy walking toward her carrying a shabby carpet bag. The numerous large holes enabled Poppy to see it contained a few changes of clothes and a threadbare towel. She waited for Amy to catch up, feeling as though she were looking at a stranger.
‘Well?’ asked Amy. ‘Why did you want to see me?’
‘You know why.’
‘Do I?’
‘Why do you want me to say it? Do you need to hear it?’
‘Maybe I need to be sure,’ answered Amy, her blue eyes like ice.
‘I want you to come back with me,’ said Poppy, doubt gnawing at her words.
‘What? As your mechanic?’
‘No. As my lover.’
Amy surprisingly blushed at the direct speech, yet there was still a hint of triumph around her eyes; after waiting so long for Poppy to make contact, she was determined to enjoy the moment to its full extent. ‘All right, but you can’t expect me to come back if things stay the same.’
‘What do you want to change?’
‘You. You take me for granted. Everything revolves around you.’
‘Yes, you’ve already said all this. I’ve already told you it isn’t true. You know how busy I am, how busy I have to be with the company. With practice laps. With the endorsements.’
‘See? You’re doing it again! I’m just as important in the team, you know, and I should be as important in your life. That’s all I’m saying. Why are we standing here? Come on, I want to get away from this place.’ Amy continued up the road, abandoning the conversation for the safety of movement. ‘I assume you parked up here somewhere?’
‘Yes. What do you want me to do? Do you want me to stop racing? To stop the endorsements? Give up on the company? Is that what you want?’
‘No, of course not,’ replied Amy over her shoulder, though something in her tone suggested she would ind
eed like to have such power. ‘I want to know I’m part of it all, that I’m valued. People look at me and they just see a girl with oil on her hands; they should know I’m worth more than that. It’s only fair and right, isn’t it? After all, I am in charge of Thunderbus’ engine. Without me, he wouldn’t be racing at all, would he?’
‘No. No, he wouldn’t,’ said Poppy, following slowly behind. She had rehearsed this moment continually on the way down, hoping wildly for reconciliation and happiness, but in reality she felt only disturbed and uncertain. She looked at the bag in Amy’s hand. ‘Did you have that ready to go? You couldn’t possibly have packed it in the few seconds it took you to leave the house.’
‘I thought I’d be ready, just in case.’
‘If you were ready to come back, why didn’t you? Why did you wait for me to come down here?’
‘I wanted to make sure.’
‘Make sure of what?’
‘Of you. Of your feelings for me. I just needed to be sure.’
Poppy could see the spiteful change in Amy but she closed her eyes to reality, telling herself being together was all that mattered. She repeated the thought several times, hoping the repetition would make it true, ultimately knowing it wouldn’t.
‘Oh. Is this the new Thunderbus?’ asked Amy as they reached the car, her expression somewhat disdainful.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s smaller, isn’t it? Still, at least it looks a bit more like a proper car now. What’s the next race?’
‘The Purley Cup.’
‘Oh, are we going back to Purley? There’s a lot of press coverage there, isn’t there? Good. It will be nice for my parents to see me doing well.’ Amy settled into the passenger seat. ‘Wake me up when we get to Brook House, will you? I’ve not slept properly the last few nights in that old bed of mine, and I need a nap.’
Poppy turned on the ignition and pressed the starter button, acutely aware she was not experiencing the usual joy she felt when waking Thunderbus from his slumber. With a spurt of irritation, she clashed the gears and began the drive to London.
73 This sort of exchange was fairly normal between Amy and her mother. It was usual for the two women to explode at each other in a vicious argument and then, some two minutes later, be talking perfectly normally again before the next row started.
Chapter Twenty One
The Thunderbus team arrived at their respective hotels in Purley the day before the final race of the season. Despite Poppy’s invitation, the pit crew preferred to stay at a separate location to minimise social awkwardness. Poppy was prepared for social awkwardness, given the revelation of Simeon’s friendships with the people who had been attacking her for the past year, yet neither Simeon nor Helena had raised the issue over the past week, leaving Poppy to assume they were drawing upon their breeding for the sake of harmony.
It was therefore a stilted party of four – Poppy, Amy, Simeon and Helena – who dined in the hotel’s restaurant that night. Poppy’s nerves were not helped by her discomfort in wearing another of Helena’s chosen gowns, though her irritation only expressed itself at seeing several “boilers”74chugging away in the dining room. ‘Ridiculous things,’ she muttered, pulling a loose thread of lace from her sleeve.
‘I thought you liked anything mechanical?’ queried Helena, hoping for a non-controversial topic.
‘Not when they are a visible symbol of separation,’ replied Poppy. ‘The table boiler exists only to show the wealth of the people around it.’
‘But it serves a purpose in keeping the food warm,’ protested Simeon, eager to have his voice heard and to re-engage with Poppy.
‘Yes, but the waiters are present anyway to serve the food to the wealthy who, as always, get it handed to them on a plate,’ replied Poppy, somewhat tartly, undeterred by Amy’s mortified face at this critique of the class system.
‘It’s just a device’ mumbled Simeon.
‘Nothing is ever “just” a device; not if it is used as a visible barrier of separation between people.’
‘Perhaps we could just enjoy the meal without the social commentary?’ asked Simeon, testily.
‘Not when social exclusion is also present when dining.’
‘Oh, come on! How can dining be seen as an act of social exclusion?’
‘By the insistence of using the correct cutlery in the correct way; where does all this etiquette come from?’ asked Poppy, her voice mocking Simeon and his peers as she waved the pickle fork she’d been using to eat her fish. ‘What is the point? What purpose does it serve? Why does the upper class have to make such a meal out of eating dinner?’
‘Most amusing,’ muttered Simeon.
‘Surely,’ continued Poppy, ‘the true purpose of eating is to get the food into your mouth with the minimum of splashing? So, why this rigmarole about eating in the “correct” manner?’
‘There is more to a meal than simply eating the food,’ replied Helena, somewhat carefully. ‘There is conversation and wit, and the exchanging of news on mutual acquaintances.’
‘You mean politely listening to bores, laughing at their jokes and gossiping with friends?’
‘No,’ replied Simeon, trying to re-impose his authority. ‘We do indeed mean conversation and wit and exchanging news.’ Without asking for Poppy’s permission, he reached across the table and took the small four-tined pickle fork from her fingers and replaced it with the socially acceptable small four-tined fish fork.
‘It seems to me etiquette is simply showing you know the rules and therefore you belong in the club,’ replied Poppy, picking up the pickle fork and stabbing her fish with it again. ‘From food to clothes to accents to lifestyle, it all basically says “I’m up here and you’re down there.”’ Poppy glanced up and saw Helena’s strained expression; despite everything, she held her relationship with Helena close and so she moved to laugh away the uncomfortable atmosphere.
‘Oh, well; come the revolution, everyone will wear the same clothes of the same quality and we’ll all be equally miserable. And we’ll all eat directly from a gigantic trough to demonstrate our egalitarian society.’
‘An interesting peek into a possible future,’ replied Helena as Simeon let out a tentative laugh, though his face betrayed his irritation. Aware of her social duties in keeping the conversation flowing all around the table, she tried to bring Amy into the conversation. ‘What do you think, Amy?’
‘I don’t want to eat from a trough,’ she gasped. ‘Why would we be forced to do that?’
‘Indeed,’ smiled Helena, quickly covering the embarrassed silence that fell over the table. She adroitly changed the subject and put the focus back onto Poppy. ‘How are you finding the dress now? Any easier?’
‘Still too restrictive, I’m afraid, for total comfort,’ replied Poppy, her face red in frustration at Amy’s comment. ‘But I know fashion is a harsh mistress who puts appearance before function.’
‘I did wonder why you’re wearing that Victorian-looking outfit rather than something lighter and more modern,’ said Simeon.
‘Helena’s advice,’ replied Poppy, somewhat shortly. ‘She pointed out something with long sleeves will deflect attention from my arm and is therefore a way to hide in plain sight, incredible though it sounds.’
‘Ah, I see,’ mused Simeon, putting on his most thoughtful expression. ‘People recognise the arm and make the connection to the owner, so if you hide the arm, people won’t recognise you.’
‘Exactly. Most people have seen me on advertising boards and in magazines wearing my driving clothes, rendering this traditional dress something of a disguise.’
‘I’m afraid it is difficult to disguise you completely,’ observed Helena. ‘We can cover the arm but we can’t hide your height, or your profile, or that wild forest of hair.’
‘Plus, Helena thinks Poppy is in danger of popping out if she has anything too low cut,’ blurted Amy, desperately trying to re-establish herself after her earlier remark had fallen so flat. Unfortunately, ris
qué music hall humour was not the way to go about it and the table was plunged into another stiff silence.
‘We should be meeting some of the other drivers later, in the parlour,’ announced Simeon. ‘Many like to get together and have a chin-wag before a race. So best behaviour, everyone.’ he added, with a sharp glance at Amy.
‘Oh, of course,’ said Poppy, casting a somewhat vindictive look at Simeon. ‘After all, we all know society expects us to smile sweetly and gaze admiringly whenever men speak.’
After dinner, Simeon felt in urgent need of a whiskey or three, so he swiftly ushered the group through to the hotel’s back parlour.
‘I hope you’re not going to have anything,’ whispered Amy in a snide tone to Poppy. ‘You know you’re not good with alcohol.’
While this was true, Poppy didn’t like being reminded of it; neither did she care for Amy’s manner when bringing it up. She allowed Simeon and Helena, arm in arm, to move stiffly ahead as they walked to the bar before asking in a low tone; ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You remember how you were after that bottle of wine at Christmas,’ sneered Amy, assuming a lofty expression.
‘I don’t mean that,’ snapped Poppy, feeling her face redden at the memory.75 ‘I’m wondering at your attitude.’
‘I’m just pointing out you’re not superior in every way,’ hissed Amy, trying to walk ahead.
‘I suppose this is because you made a fool of yourself twice at the dinner table,’ growled Poppy, pulling Amy back by her arm. ‘That wasn’t my fault, so don’t try and make yourself feel better by dragging me down to your level.’
‘God, listen to you; you think you’re so special,’ scowled Amy, Poppy’s observation wounding her. ‘Just because you’re the most intelligent person around, you have to show off in front of everyone.’
