by Jon Hartless
Poppy pulled the topmost towel from around her father’s shoulders, exposing the lobster-red skin underneath. ‘Light skin burns,’ she hissed in fury, well acquainted with scalds from motor racing.
‘It’s medically proven to help the circulation,’ stuttered Baxter. ‘We will apply soothing creams as soon as the treatment is over.’
‘The treatment is over now,’ snarled Poppy, backing the doctor up to the wall. ‘For months you have done nothing to improve my father’s health and now you’re restraining and damn-near torturing him! You will get him ready to be moved to my house outside London and you will deliver him there tonight.’
‘I can’t recommend at this delicate stage of treatment...’ began Baxter before being cut off.
‘Tonight! And if you don’t, I will bring a medical negligence and assault suit against you and your hospice so fast you’ll be bankrupt and exposed by the end of the week. Do I make myself clear?’
‘I will start the necessary procedures,’ muttered Baxter, trying to save as much face as possible.
Poppy spun on her heel and stormed down the corridor to the reception area, where she grabbed the phone on the desk. ‘Worcester 5567,’ she snapped into the receiver, giving the number for Helena’s private boudoir rather than any other number within Pallister Hall, which ran the risk of Simeon answering. She glared at the receptionist as she tried to protest that the phone was for staff only. ‘Hello, Helena? I’m not going to be able to join you this weekend after all.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Helena’s voice in concern. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I’m taking my father from this hospice and I’m going to sue them for negligence and torture of the patients.’
‘Torture?’
‘I’ve just found him confined in burning hot towels, in pain and unable to escape from the heat, so I’m taking him away.’
‘Confined? You mean he was strapped in?’
‘There was no need for a strap; the towels were so tight around him he couldn’t move.’
‘What on earth was the medical reason for that?’
‘According to that fraud Baxter, it’s the latest medical procedure. We’ll see what the medical council have to say about it.’
‘What are your immediate plans with your father?’
‘He’ll have to be taken to Brook House. I’ll find private nurses from somewhere to look after him there.’
‘I know a doctor in London who can probably arrange the cover; shall I give him a call?’
‘That would be very kind,’ whispered Poppy, suddenly feeling she was going to cry at hearing someone being helpful and sympathetic. Her guilt took the opportunity of asking if she deserved a friend like Helena, increasing Poppy’s misery.
‘Not a problem; I’ll give him your address and he can send the nurses over, ready to meet you’
‘Thank you, Helena,’ replied Poppy, making a determined effort to speak clearly and normally. ‘I do apologise I can’t see you this weekend.’
‘Don’t you worry about it,’ soothed Helena. ‘Call me when you get to Brook House and let me know how things stand.’
‘I will. Thank you again.’ Poppy dropped the phone back into its cradle and turned as she heard footsteps behind her; Baxter was striding up the corridor, trying to look official by hiding behind a clip board.
‘Your father is being prepared now,’ he said, staring intently at the paperwork on the clipboard rather than at Poppy. ‘He should be ready to go in the ambulance in just a few minutes. Here are the final bills, including the costs of moving him out of business hours.’ He thrust the board at Poppy, who snatched it from him.
‘Business hours?’ she demanded. ‘I’ll remember you said that, Baxter; you clearly have no sympathy for the people here. You just view them as a way of making money.’
‘We are at the forefront of psychiatric care,’ sniffed Baxter, ‘as any medical council will attest.’84
‘You’ll be attesting it in court when you try to sue me for non-payment of these bills,’ replied Poppy. She squeezed her mechanical hand around the clipboard, splintering the cheap wood and crushing the bills.
‘Then you leave us no choice and we will be taking legal action,’ blustered Baxter, suddenly looking rather nervous.
‘I look forward to it,’ snapped Poppy, looking past him to where her father was being wheeled along the corridor toward the rear exit. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, one of us has to care for my father and it quite clearly isn’t you.’
Having seen her father safely conveyed into the back of the wooden ambulance, Poppy followed in Thunderbus at frustratingly low speeds all the way back to Brook House. There, she found two nurses waiting for her, as well as a confused and petulant Amy.
‘Poppy, what is going on?’ she demanded as the ambulance reversed toward the front door. ‘Why are there two nurses here saying they’re going to look after your father? I’ve told them he’s in Worcester but they won’t believe me – oh!’ Amy stuttered to a halt as the back of the ambulance opened to reveal Poppy’s father on a wheeled stretcher.
‘I’ve brought him home,’ said Poppy, her voice suddenly tired. She felt drained by the confrontation with Baxter and the long, slow drive back to Greenford Parva.
‘But why?’ exclaimed Amy. ‘We can’t have him here with us!’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘We can’t look after him, can we?’ mumbled Amy, suddenly aware her reaction looked rather selfish.
‘That’s why I’m going to be employing nurses,’ replied Poppy, coldly.
‘But where will he stay?’
‘He can have the main bedroom; it’s the biggest and the nurses will have room to sleep in there also.’
‘But where will we go?’
‘I don’t know; choose another room,’ snapped Poppy. ‘Any you want. I’ll be taking the blue room at the front of the house.’
‘Don’t you want...’ Amy’s voice dropped, even though the nurses and attendants had now gone inside and were busy unstrapping Poppy’s father from the trolley.
‘Don’t I what?’ asked Poppy, pausing on the threshold of her house.
‘Don’t you want to share a room anymore?’
‘It’s not really going to be possible now, is it? Not now we have my father and strangers staying with us,’ said Poppy, flatly. Another sliver of self-disgust pierced her soul; was she using her father’s presence as an excuse to shift the parameters of her unhappy relationship with Amy? To effectively begin the process of breaking up with her? ‘You know we have to be discreet.’
‘Did you even consider me when you decided on this?’ demanded Amy, anger rising in her face.
‘No. I was thinking about my father being abused at the hospice. Sorry, was I supposed to be considering something else?’
‘Oh, so my feelings don’t matter? My position isn’t important? Is that what you’re saying?’ demanded Amy, hoping to force some kind of admission from Poppy that she, Amy, did matter in her life, for this would give Amy some power in the relationship.
‘For God’s sake,’ Poppy rubbed her face so Amy couldn’t see her eyes were watering. ‘The doctor’s burned my father – do you understand that? And now you want to make it into something about you, and you alone,’ Poppy could barely keep her voice down. ‘I’ve had enough of your selfishness and narcissism, do you hear me? I’ve had enough of it!’
‘Then I’ll go,’ screeched Amy. ‘I’ll leave you and then we’ll see how you get on without me!’
‘Fine. Then go.’
‘And what about the TT at the weekend?’ demanded Amy, a wheedling tone in her voice as she realised Poppy was not rising to the threat.
‘What about it?’
‘Are you still going?’
‘If Dad has settled by then.’
‘And do you want me to come with you?’
Poppy looked at Amy’s sullen face. ‘As I’m not using Thunderbus, no.’
‘So, you’re running o
ff instead of staying here to look after your own flesh and blood?’
Poppy turned away, the truth of Amy’s words hitting her before speaking carefully over her shoulder. ‘As I’ve signed a contract with Victor I don’t have much choice, but given I have professional help here, I know he will be cared for, so it’s the best I can do right now.’
Poppy strode into the house before Amy could say anything else and approached her father. ‘Come on, Dad, you’re home, now,’ she said encouragingly as she knelt down by the stretcher. Mr Orpington was now sitting up and looking weakly around him.
‘Poppy?’ he said, doubtfully, sounding as though he were half asleep. ‘Where are we?’
‘Our new home,’ explained Poppy, giving him a gentle hug. ‘Come on; let me show you to your room.’ She helped him up with her mechanical arm, much to the relief of the ambulance crew who had been getting worried about the durability of the wheeled stretcher underneath the immense frame of Mr Orpington.
‘Workshop?’ asked Mr Orpington, causing the nurses to glance at Poppy in puzzlement.
‘Er; no, not here,’ began Poppy, ready to explain once again they no longer lived over the old workshop in Stourbridge.
‘But, I must, I must get to the workshop,’ mumbled Mr Orpington.
Poppy gazed at him in puzzlement; she knew his fractured mind insisted he had to prepare for Thunderbus’ debut at Purley, but his uncoordinated speech and movements were worrying her intensely. Why did he appear so helpless?85
‘You will, Dad, you will,’ said Poppy, ‘but not until you’ve rested and had some food. Food, rest, then workshop.’ She watched as her father slowly assimilated this before his vacant expression returned. ‘Food?’
‘Food,’ mumbled Mr Orpington.
‘Good,’ smiled Poppy, fooling herself that this would be the first sign of some sort of breakthrough. ‘This way to your room; you settle yourself down and we’ll see what’s in the pantry.’
84 Unlikely, as there was a sharp distinction between the medical and psychiatric professions back then, with the former looking down at the latter as being little more than a collection of charlatans. Only when psychiatry became a huge money-making machine from the 1960s onward did its reputation improve in the UK, though even today it lags far behind continental health care and practices.
85 Mr Orpington was, of course, heavily sedated. That Poppy did not realise is scarcely her fault; the invoices from Baxter’s hospice did not list the tranquilisers used to keep the patient docile. Instead, they charged over the retail price for the drugs and hid the charges under the heading “general care.”
Chapter Twenty Four
After the trauma of rescuing her father from the dubious practices of Doctor Baxter, Poppy was looking forward to getting back to the uncomplicated business of racing a car as fast as possible. It was arranged she would garage Thunderbus at Victor’s factory and travel with the entire team on a specially hired charabanc. As such, on the Friday lunchtime, she arrived at ERC and found the bus waiting.
She leapt aboard to a chorus of greetings and cheerful boos from Victor, the mechanics, and the other four racing drivers. ‘Thank you, thank you, you know how to make a girl feel at home,’ she said, deliberately banging her luggage off a few heads as she walked down the aisle to her seat. She pulled her lunch from the case before stowing the luggage away in the overhead compartment.
‘Blimey, it’s a travelling buffet,’ laughed one of the team on seeing this.
‘I didn’t have time to stop for a bite on the way,’ replied Poppy, opening the top of her flask and taking a sip of rather tepid tea. ‘I was going to share the homemade shortbread but if you’re all going to be beastly to me I’ll eat it myself.’ She held up a greaseproof bag as she spoke, eliciting a roar of protest. ‘Oh, you do want some? Then out of the goodness of my heart you may partake.’ She passed the shortbread to the nearest man and watched the rapidly diminishing bag go round. ‘Leave some for me,’ she called out as she ate her doorstep of a sandwich. ‘That has to keep me going until we reach the hotel.’
‘Right-ho, Greg, we can go,’ called Victor to the driver, who nodded, closed the door, and started the engine. ‘Poppy, do you know everyone?’
‘Drivers; yes. Pit crew; no,’ replied Poppy, finishing the last of the shortbread and tea. The drivers were William Osborne, Jake Davenport, Andrew ‘Drew’ Windborne and Oscar Fielding, all known and all friendly to Poppy.
‘Then let me introduce you to Ken, Jacob and Thomas, who will be keeping us running throughout the race,’ replied Victor
Poppy nodded in greeting. Ken acknowledged her with politeness, while Jacob and Thomas stared directly at her, their expressions showing their sexual interest. Poppy ignored them both; she was only attracted to those who treated her with politeness and respect. Blatant leering simply put her off.
‘Poppy, you’ve never driven as part of a team before,’ called out Victor, deciding to hold an impromptu race meeting while he had everyone’s attention, ‘so remember this is a collective effort. I’ve listed you one to five alphabetically; this means Jake is number one, Oscar two, Poppy three, William four, and Drew is five.
‘This means if someone of a higher number is ahead of you on the track, do not try and overtake; simply follow their lead. This way we can avoid mix ups and bad feelings during the race. You should only overtake if the driver ahead gives you a clear signal to do so, and that will only happen if they are in some sort of trouble and know they cannot compete effectively.
‘Obey the pit signs even if they don’t seem to make sense. We have a much better idea of what is happening on the track than you do. Be safe and steady, be consistent, and I’m looking at grabbing at least two medals for either high finishes or else best in class between you all. All clear? Good. Right, how shall we while away the journey? I spy, or a singalong?’86
Race day dawned in typical Isle of Man fashion. ‘Good grief, it’s pouring down,’ exclaimed Poppy, peering out of the hotel’s dining room window.
‘Good bracing climate,’ grinned Simeon with the full mirth of a man who would be under cover for the day. The Pallisters had arrived somewhat unexpectedly the previous evening, though they hadn’t been able to talk to Poppy as she had retired early for the night. Although happy to see Helena at the breakfast table, Poppy was still cool toward Simeon.
‘Where’s Amy? Is she not here?’ asked Helena, pulling her fox pelt scarf a little tighter around her shoulders.
‘No,’ replied Poppy, bluntly stopping the conversational thread.
‘Ah, I see,’ mumbled Helena, fumbling awkwardly with the little fox paws hanging loosely at her chest as she searched for a socially acceptable topic. ‘Are you looking forward to the race, my dear?’
‘I am; this sort of race is a new experience for me.’
‘Yes, we should always be open to new experiences, shouldn’t we?’ blurted Simeon, staring intently at the breakfast table.
‘As long as those experiences are rewarding and don’t become terribly dull, then I agree,’ replied Poppy, sharply. ‘There is nothing worse than a dull experience; it makes for dull talk, dull company, and dull men. I suppose that is why Simeon was so insistent on suddenly watching the RRC this year; to avoid becoming dull.’
‘Morning, Poppy,’ said Victor, hurrying into the dining room. ‘I wondered where you had got to – oh, hello, Helena, Simeon, didn’t know you were here.’
‘We arrived last night,’ replied Simeon, his lips tight as he stared at Victor.
‘Good, good,’ replied Victor, too distracted to notice any edge to the atmosphere. ‘You ready to go, Poppy? You eaten? Not nervous?’
‘Yes, yes and slightly,’ replied Poppy, thankful for Victor’s sudden appearance.
‘You’ll be fine; you’re a very experienced driver now,’ said Victor as he nervously paced the room, worried about the upcoming race and the effect a bad result could have on his sales. ‘You and the other four drivers have the makings of an
excellent team.’
‘Thank you – but I’ve never driven through a monsoon before.’
‘Keep to a steady pace, that’s the ticket in this weather. Right; let’s get over to the course.’
‘Poppy, you need to be registered with the marshals and you’ll need me there to do that,’ interrupted Simeon. ‘Given I am your race manager.’
‘Already done; Victor signed me in last night as the team manager,’ replied Poppy, coolly.
‘Oh. Right. Fair enough. Jolly good. Excellent. Excellent. Excellent,’ warbled Simeon. ‘That is excellent,’ he added again as Helena busied herself intently over the jam, marmalade and butter. ‘Well, we’d better be off to the track.’
‘No need for you to be there this early,’ said Poppy. ‘You stay here with Helena and enjoy breakfast. Besides; spectators won’t be allowed in for another hour yet.’
An hour later, Poppy was in the ERC paddock hut at the top of one of the taller hills on the island, nervously waiting as her car was readied by the pit crew out on the track. The atmosphere was tense as the rain continued to pour down, hammering on the wooden roof.
‘I wonder if it will be cancelled?’ asked Helena in a worried tone. She and Simeon had been invited to share the small, covered part of the paddock by Victor, to which they had willingly agreed, and she was now looking out at the country lane dug into the beautiful hillside which marked the beginning of the race. She couldn’t see very far along the road as the mist and pouring rain obscured almost everything around them.
‘No; this is nothing more than a light shower to the hardened Manx native,’ observed Simeon, working hard on his light, breezy manner. ‘They’ll think us mainlanders a weak and pathetic bunch if we suggest cancelling because of the weather.’
‘I’d rather keep Poppy safe and be considered weak than have anything happen to her,’ replied Helena, looking rather upset. She glanced at Poppy, who smiled back and hastily looked away, blinking rapidly. ‘Something wrong, my dear?’
‘No, just got some rain in my eyes,’ muttered Poppy, dabbing at her face with the back of her hand.
