Rise of the Petrol Queen

by Jon Hartless

  With immense power, Poppy gleefully charged through. Lorenzo followed, easing past the Kineton but without going as wide. Poppy swung out of the hairpin, Thunderbus turning beautifully, but Lorenzo made an even better controlled turn on the inside and drew level. The short stretch of track ahead then swung to the left, meaning Poppy didn’t have the space needed to be first into the bend.

  ‘The new Kineton has been left behind,’ exclaimed Bartholomew in astonishment. ‘And Count Lorenzo Sellini has taken first with a perfectly executed manoeuvre at the hairpin!’

  ‘Not for nothing is he thrice the European Road Champion,’ hooted Fairfax in excitement.

  ‘In terms of manoeuvring ability I would say those two cars are about equal,’ said Bartholomew, completely forgetting the Kineton as Poppy and Lorenzo accelerated away, ‘but the Count has more experience while Miss Orpington has the greater power in her petrol vehicle, so this is turning into a real contest between these two!’

  After several more laps, Lord Hepplewhite hurried down to his son’s pit, almost white with rage. It was increasingly clear the new Kineton lacked the ability to mount a serious challenge for the leading spot, and his temper was not helped by the race commentary focusing almost exclusively on the duel between Poppy and Lorenzo, with very few references to his son. ‘What is going on, Dunn?’ he barked at his head of engineering.

  ‘The new car is losing, as I said it would,’ snapped Dunn, feeling as he was probably going to be out of a job by the end of the race, he had no need to maintain a respectful demeanour anymore. ‘The designs have been rushed.’

  ‘There is nothing wrong with the design of that car,’ snarled Hepplewhite in defiance of the facts as Lorenzo and Poppy raced past the pit, followed several painful seconds later by a fuming Oswald. ‘It’s been designed by the top Kineton personnel!’

  ‘The top personnel at Kineton have been lazy and complacent for years because they’ve faced no real competition from continental vehicles.’

  ‘The continent?’ scoffed Hepplewhite in xenophobic loathing, but Dunn was correct; Hepplewhite had been instrumental in blocking foreign competition from participating at any racecourse in England, resulting in a lack of any real competition and innovation. ‘I want to see our car making up the distance, right now!’

  ‘And how do you think that can be achieved?’ asked Dunn, sarcasm edging the words. ‘Should I drop the old engine in as your son comes by again?’

  Hepplewhite opened his mouth to berate his employee before noticing the yellow information board was telling Oswald he was overdue for his pit stop. Feeling unable to face his son’s recriminations at his poor performance, he snarled at Dunn to fix the issues before walking rapidly away to the safety of the executive viewing box.

  The relatively short laps meant the race was already half over as Hepplewhite junior came in for his belated pit stop. His face and manner echoed his father almost exactly as he jumped from his car after carelessly skidding into the pit, almost crushing a couple of the workers.

  ‘What the hell is wrong with this thing?’ he yelled at one of the crew before his rabid eye fell on a lap information board. He gasped in outrage at the ever increasing distance between himself and the race leaders. ‘I’m miles behind the hussy and the dago,’ he raged at Dunn, striding over to him in a threatening manner. ‘This car is inadequate and is making me an object of ridicule!’

  ‘I’m sure the car’s defects have no bearing on that,’ replied Dunn, his voice quiet and seemingly respectful.

  Oswald blinked, uncertain if he had just been insulted, but Dunn’s placid expression betrayed nothing. ‘How am I supposed to compete with second-class engineering?’ he shouted.

  ‘You could always buy an Albizzi, I suppose,’ replied Dunn. ‘It certainly looks like a much better car. But in my opinion, it’s going to be petrol all the way from now on. We can see the advantages out there on the track.’

  Oswald’s mouth opened and closed like a goldfish. ‘This is sedition,’ he hissed.

  ‘Jolly good, jolly good,’ mumbled Dunn, feeling a strange sense of release.

  Oswald gaped, unable to deal with the strange expression of freedom on Dunn’s face. Turning on his heel, he strode back to his car to berate the pit crew once more.

  The rest of the race followed the same pattern, with Hepplewhite just holding onto third place while at the front, forever increasing the gap between themselves and the competition, Poppy and Lorenzo battled for first spot. As noted by Bartholomew and Fairfax, it was essentially a fight between the superior experience of Lorenzo and the greater flat-out speed of Thunderbus.

  ‘Good lord,’ shouted Bartholomew as he stared manically at his stop watch and notepad. ‘By my reckoning, Miss Orpington covered the Widow Maker at just over one hundred miles per hour! It’s a new record for Purley. Do your figures agree with mine, Fairfax?’

  ‘They do indeed, but the Count is not far behind at ninety nine miles an hour!’

  ‘Oh, and here comes Lord Oswald Hepplewhite in his Kineton and by my calculations he has done it at... um, ninety?’

  ‘Yes, or maybe a little less. He seems to be a little slower than before, but a decent speed regardless.’

  ‘Another wonderful corner taken by the Count, there,’ observed Fairfax, forgetting Oswald and the Kineton. ‘He’s back in front but Miss Orpington is gaining once more.’

  ‘Yes, and she is improving with each lap,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Clearly a fast learner, but Count Sellini is a sly old fox and – yes, did you see there? Beautiful handling through the chicane but Miss Orpington comes thundering back, harrying him and trying to force a mistake. Thrilling stuff!’

  ‘Thunderbus is perhaps a little slow on the tighter corners, but Miss Orpington’s skill is indeed growing with each lap – and she’s past again!’

  ‘But Count Lorenzo is catching up on the corner,’ boomed Fairfax. ‘Miss Orpington pulls away but the Count has the experience, he’s catching up, he’s past! But Miss Orpington overtakes again! And this time she has left him behind!’

  ‘The count is definitely falling behind a little,’ nodded Bartholomew, checking one of his many stop watches. ‘Is he waiting for the best moment to try again, or has his challenge been thwarted?’

  As they accelerated into the final leg, Poppy glanced at an information board and saw Hepplewhite’s new car had just burst its boiler. She smirked evilly while accelerating hard onto the Widow Maker before finding the best line to take on the approaching bends. As long as she could fend off Lorenzo’s challenge, she would win; she would win as she had done the previous year, but this time the Purley board would be unable to deny her the victory. Lorenzo tried to squeeze through a bend but Poppy confidently closed the space down, all the while refusing to lift her foot from the accelerator, gaining another yard over her rival.

  Up ahead, sitting in his car which now looked like a mobile volcano of erupting steam, Hepplewhite screamed in fury as he tried to deny reality and continue racing to the very end, burning the boiler and turbine down to molten metal and charred wood. Only the approaching snarl of Thunderbus finally brought him to his senses and he knew he was not going to win the Purley cup for a fifth consecutive year, and it was all the fault of the woman and the damn foreigner who were about to lap him in his own country, on his own race track.

  Hepplewhite glared into his wing mirror as Poppy and Lorenzo flew up toward him and without any hesitation he hauled the wheel sharply to the right, veering directly across the track in a reckless, spiteful protest, trying to stamp his presence onto the race and prove he was still a force to be reckoned with.

  Poppy and Lorenzo hurled their cars around each side of the steaming Kineton, both reacting instinctively to avoid a collision, Poppy still just ahead as they approached the last set of corners. She hugged the line perfectly as she dropped down through the gears before accelerating into the final straight, chasing down the victory as she sprinted over the finish line a good car’s length ahead
of Lorenzo, the green finishing flag waving in acknowledgement at her triumph.

  ‘Disgraceful!’ boomed Fairfax in the commentary box. ‘Lord Oswald Hepplewhite deliberately swung across the track to block both Count Sellini and Miss Orpington. This is not what motor racing should be about.’

  ‘Agreed; there must be a full enquiry and quite possibly a ban for that despicable action,’ agreed Bartholomew indignantly. ‘The finishing order is first, Miss Orpington’s Thunderbus, Count Sellini in his Albizzi is in second place, while Lord Derek Scott takes third in his Massingham Grand Tourer. Sir Grenville Hutch has fourth and Lord Roxborough comes in fifth, just ahead of newcomer His Royal Highness Prince Bhan of Siam, who has driven a very good, steady race, and is certainly a young man to watch in the future.’

  ‘And Miss Orpington is now making her way back to her pit,’ concluded Fairfax. ‘She is taking in the cheers of the crowd who all seem very excited at what they have just seen. I wonder what the Purley board will make of today’s result?’ Poppy returned to her paddock to find Lord Hepplewhite senior already waiting, his face furious. With him were several of the race directors, including Lidington and Phipps.

  ‘Poppy,’ called out Helena. ‘A splendid race!’

  ‘That was excellent; I should think you’ve done your car business the world of good,’ exclaimed Simeon, noticing the twitch in Hepplewhite’s eye as he mentioned Poppy’s rival company.

  ‘Indeed,’ beamed Helena, giving Poppy a kiss on the cheek and getting rather smudged in the process; racing was a dirty business. ‘You were brave and clever and everyone could see you improving on every lap. You are truly the champion of the people.’

  ‘And your car didn’t blow up, either, which was a rarity today,’ added Simeon, exaggerating only slightly as half the competitors had over-taxed their vehicles into retirement. Hepplewhite’s scheme to slow Thunderbus down by introducing several tight bends had backfired completely as many of the steam vehicles had buckled under the added strain, including his own Kineton.

  Poppy laughed, though she was acutely aware of Amy busying herself with Thunderbus; it was a strange contrast to the previous year, when Amy had proudly hugged her after the race and it had seemed they would be together forever. Now, the relationship was unravelling every day, making Poppy wonder if winning at racing while losing at life was worth it.

  ‘Have you come to apologise for your son’s behaviour?’ she demanded of Hepplewhite, distracting herself from her problems with Amy. ‘He could have killed me and Lorenzo.’

  Hepplewhite stared angrily into the distance, trying to find a way out of the impasse. He had stormed down to the pits to disqualify Poppy but the murmured protests and objections from the rest of the board had persuaded him to remain silent. His jaw flexed but no words emerged.

  ‘Please be assured, Miss Orpington, we will investigate the matter and will report back in the fullness of time,’ murmured Lidington, soothingly. ‘Your victory today is confirmed and official. If you would step this way to the podium for the speeches and the cup presentation?’

  ‘In other words, “least said, soonest mended” is the motto of the day,’ muttered Poppy. ‘They’re not going to punish Oswald at all, are they?’83

  ‘Probably not, but they have admitted you won,’ pointed out Simeon. ‘I honestly think that’s as much as you can hope for.’

  Poppy nodded in agreement. ‘Come on, everyone,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and collect the cup. I want you all with me at the podium because I couldn’t have done it without you. Oh, except one of you will have to stay here and look after Thunderbus, in case anyone tries to damage him.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ huffed Amy.

  Poppy looked at her and shrugged, knowing she would have to take drastic action to save or terminate the relationship... Putting off the decision, she walked away to the podium.

  80 Robert Bartholomew and Edward Fairfax were the most famous sporting commentators of the early twentieth century; they still have fan clubs dedicated to them today, where members pour over their recorded transcripts and even re-enact their most famous moments.

  81 Gregson’s claimed the screen was merely a billboard, albeit a moving one, and was therefore covered by the contract.

  82 An excellent degree of strength and fitness was required to be a racing driver as most vehicles of this era were appallingly hard to steer when compared to modern cars. Poppy had been keeping up with her callisthenics and other exercises for this very reason.

  83 The board did indeed gloss over Oswald’s actions, while even today the Purley Historical Motor Racing Association refuses to mention Poppy’s excellent racing record.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  It had been arranged that Poppy and Amy would visit Helena and Simeon at Pallister Hall the following day, partly for a break from the factory and partly to allow Poppy to visit her father at the Worcestershire clinic; her visits had dropped off somewhat as she spent more and more time with the business in London, resulting in yet more guilt in Poppy’s mind. In the event, a new argument intervened as Amy’s sullen fury exploded as they were packing their suitcases at Brook House.

  ‘I suppose you had fun with Simeon last night?’ she muttered, despite the previous topic of conversation being focussed on purely domestic matters.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ demanded Poppy, pausing as she folded a dress into her case.

  ‘I hardly saw you at the after race party,’ whined Amy. ‘You kept disappearing from the room. Where did you go? Was it with him? Was it? I’ve seen how he looks at you...’

  ‘It’s none of your damn business who I see, or when,’ snarled Poppy. ‘For your information, I spoke to numerous people who are now interested in buying a Thunderbolt after yesterday’s race.’ She angrily pulled a small black book from her suitcase and waved it in Amy’s face. ‘Fourteen orders! All in the book, with names, contact details and potential delivery dates!’

  ‘And was Simeon there when you were taking these orders?’ insisted Amy.

  ‘It wouldn’t matter if King Edward was there,’ snapped Poppy. ‘But at least King Edward wouldn’t be constantly sniping and moaning at me about every little bloody thing!’

  ‘Well I highly doubt you’d treat King Edward in the same disrespectful way you’ve been treating me.’ Amy scrunched up a fistful of socks and stuffed them into her carpet bag. ‘I knew you before you were famous!’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘I loved you when you only had one arm; who else would have even looked at you back then? You should be grateful – I’ve always been here for you! The least I can expect is the same. Hey, where are you going?’ she added in shock as Poppy strode from the room, hauling her suitcase after her. ‘Worcester, as arranged. I’ll see you when I get back.’

  ‘But, but...’ floundered Amy in angry despair. ‘We were going together!’

  Poppy turned, her eyes glowing malignantly. ‘Not anymore,’ she rasped before leaving the house, leaving Amy to angrily pour out the scene in her diary.

  Poppy stamped out to the garage, hurled her luggage into Thunderbus, started the car and swung out onto the driveway. She forced herself to drive slowly as she passed through the village but opened up on the main trunk road, the distance, speed and power cooling her temper. Such was her joy at being fast, free and alone, she decided to pay a surprise visit on her father when she reached Worcester. Parking at the bottom of the long driveway of the clinic, Poppy enjoyed the crisp autumn day and the crunch of the gravel under her boots as she strolled to the front doors.

  ‘Oh, er, Miss Orpington,’ stuttered the receptionist as Poppy entered. ‘We weren’t expecting you today.’

  ‘Change of plans,’ replied Poppy as she walked by. ‘I’ll just go and sit with my father for a while, and then I’ll see Doctor Baxter afterward.’ She ignored the strange bleating from the receptionist and made her way down the corridors until she reached her father’s room. She knocked and walked
in, stopping in astonishment at what she saw.

  Her father was lying on his bed, completely enveloped by huge towels wrapped tightly around his body, effectively swaddling him. His lack of freedom was emphasised by the strange manner in which he undulated from side to side like a bloated slug, feebly trying to free his arms and legs from their confinement, sweat pouring from his semi-conscious face as he struggled and groaned. Poppy moved forward, hardly believing the scene. The bed underneath was soaking wet from the towels, all of which were steaming slightly in the air. She laid her hand on her father’s shoulder and gasped at the heat enveloping him.

  ‘Ah, Miss Orpington,’ exclaimed a voice behind her, trying to act surprised. ‘You are here unexpectedly.’

  Poppy blinked back angry tears as she turned to see Doctor Baxter outside the door. Like her father, he was sweating profusely, though clearly for different reasons. He was also panting, and Poppy guessed he had run down after being informed she had arrived. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ she demanded, hardly able to get the words out.

  ‘The latest in medical research,’ exclaimed Baxter, moving forward as though to take custody of Mr Orpington.

  ‘Wrapping someone in boiling hot towels is the latest in medical research?’

  ‘The towels are warm only, not hot,’ replied Baxter, quickly stretching out and touching the towels as he spoke. His face betrayed his relief at finding he was correct.

  ‘Given the sopping wet linen underneath, the towels must have been there for some considerable time,’ snarled Poppy, pushing Baxter’s hand away from her father. ‘If they are this hot now, they must have been boiling when applied.’

  ‘No, no, warm only, to help the circulation,’ insisted Baxter.