by Jon Hartless
‘Bear in mind this is good experience for you, young Poppy, being part of a team for the first time,’ interrupted Simeon, interposing himself between the two women. ‘It will be invaluable for you in the future if you start running your Thunderbolt cars at any racing event.’
‘Don’t remind me,’ moaned Victor. ‘That review from Barry Kitchen in the Auto Magazine! He absolutely loved the Thunderbolt.’
‘I very much doubt there will be any direct competition,’ replied Poppy, glumly. ‘The ridiculous cost of fabricating all the components has pushed the sale price way above what you charge for your vehicles.’
‘And the Thunderbolts are more grand tourers rather than sports cars,’ pointed out Simeon, somewhat disingenuously; Poppy’s intention had been to create a car serving both functions, to maximise selling potential. ‘There will be little overlap with your ERC fleet.’
‘Yes, there is that,’ said Victor, his face lightening up somewhat, unlike the sky which was growing steadily darker.
Poppy glanced at the other paddocks to get an idea on the competition. Sir Grenville Hutch was present with his Wyndham, while further down she was less than thrilled to see George Warrington seated in a Ruffold and Carl Hughes fussing over a small but manoeuvrable Massingham 88/12 model. Beyond that, it was impossible to see anyone clearly in the torrential rain. It was even difficult to see the race marshal squelching into the paddock to announce the race was about to begin, and he was standing barely three feet away as he delivered the message.
‘Good luck, everyone,’ called Victor as the drivers scurried to the cars, settled in the soaking wet cockpits with many a wet groan, and started their engines.
‘Take care, my dear,’ called Helena, her white-gloved hand waving daintily in support.
Poppy rolled the little ERC racer over the rough pebbled ground to her starting point, puzzled by an ERC car ahead which was not part of Victor’s team. She glanced at the driver as she slotted into place and yelped in pleasure at seeing the attractive face of Bhan. ‘Where did you spring up from?’ she shouted over the rain pounding down on the loose-chip road.
‘Liverpool docks,’ grinned the young prince in delight at seeing Poppy. ‘We got here early this morning so I didn’t have time to give you a call, I’m afraid.’
‘A girl could be upset about that,’ replied Poppy with a mock pout.
‘Then I must make it up to the girl by giving her a nice dinner.’
‘I look forward to it. Last over the finish line buys the dessert.’
‘Agreed,’ laughed Bhan in genuine happiness before looking slightly panicked; in his excitement, he had almost stalled his car. He blew out in relief as the hiss of the turbine picked up again.87
‘Better concentrate on the road; see you later,’ called Poppy, reluctantly deciding that flirting over several pounds of steam pressure was probably not a good idea. She turned her attention to the marshal, who was standing with the Manx flag raised over his shoulder, waiting for the last competitor to take his place at the back of the narrow road. He unfurled the flag – which hung in a soggy, dispirited manner – before energetically waving it over his head, spraying yet more water over the drenched crowd.
The race had begun.
As the red and gold flag flopped in the wet air, Poppy eased in the clutch, worried by the torrential downpour and sheets of water on the road. Her back wheels spun before biting down on the track, allowing her to slither forward. Ahead of her, Jake, Oscar, Sir Grenville Hutch and Carl Hughes were likewise sliding to and fro as they struggled for grip.
Poppy watched as Oscar’s car skidded to the side of the track, his spinning wheels sending great plumes of water everywhere. Aware of the cluster of vehicles behind him, he sportingly gestured for everyone to overtake; Poppy eased by with a wave of thanks, as did Bhan and those behind him, leaving Oscar to sort the gearing and find some purchase on the wet road. With a hiss of power, Poppy’s turbine propelled her forward, taking her to fourth place, though Bhan was almost running parallel with her as they headed down toward the sea.
Grey mist coiled over the road, almost obliterating it from sight as Jake tried to overtake Hughes. Unfortunately, the rivulets of water running down the road meant he miscalculated his speed and overshot the next bend, slithering instead into the wide corner where, luckily for him, the car came to rest with a gentle bump against the wall separating the road from the sheer drop beyond.
Poppy drove by, acknowledging the “pass” hand motion from Jake as he now had to wait for the pack of cars to get by so he could safely re-join the course; two of her teammates had crashed within moments of the start, increasing the pressure upon the rest of the squad. Matters weren’t helped by the wheels of Hughes’ car sending up miniature waves of rainwater which sloshed over the front of her cockpit. She quickly wiped her goggles, timing the action with her steering; she needed full concentration just to see the road, never mind drive it.
The cars finally reached a smooth tar surface, denoting they were now in the town itself. The better road surface gave them the chance to accelerate as they entered the shopping parade, though in the downpour Poppy could only see the occasional edge of a building looming up in the mist and rain. She gasped as she rounded the next corner and hit the town’s tram tracks, the car skidding for a yard on the steel lines before regaining traction once more. Ahead of her Sir Grenville Hutch was less fortunate as his car slithered sideways, allowing Hughes, Poppy, and Bhan to squeeze by before Sir Grenville regained control, cursing his bad luck.
Poppy followed Hughes around the course – which was now little more than a mile and a quarter of rushing water – looking for any chance to overtake. She was saturated from head to foot, her driving clothes unable to repel the rain which was now coming down like a series of six inch darts. Her speed was awful and her spirits low, though she revived under Victor’s encouragement as she came in for her pit stop at the halfway mark of the race.
‘You’re doing splendidly, Poppy,’ shouted Victor over the rain. ‘Just keep on the back of the leader and maybe you can get by, given the chance.’
‘Will do; how’s everyone else?’
‘Jake and Oscar have worked themselves back up the board and they’re in fourth and sixth, with the others holding steady in eighth and ninth. If we can finish with three vehicles in the top six in these conditions it will be a triumph, and if you can snatch the lead from Carl, it will be the cherry on top.’
‘That will be a pleasure,’ replied Poppy with feeling; denying Hughes victory would be almost as sweet as the victory itself.
‘Turbine good,’ shouted Ken.
‘Tyres good,’ echoed Jacob.
‘Go, go, go,’ yelped Victor, leaping back to leave the way clear for Poppy to accelerate out. Virtually all the drivers had pitted simultaneously, meaning Poppy was once more immediately behind Hughes while Bhan was eagerly snapping at her heels as they returned to the track.
She followed close behind Hughes for lap after lap, making it clear he had no chance of throwing her off. On the few longer stretches she opened up the turbine, almost drawing level before running out of road as they reached the next bend, hoping to force an error until finally her persistence was rewarded on the third lap from the end.
As they passed the pit and went to the first corner, Poppy saw Hughes was braking just a little too hard as he nervously approached the ominous drop down the side of the cliff. She twitched the steering and managed to squeeze parallel with him on the narrow road, her vision no longer hampered by the spray being sent up by Hughes’ back wheels and she stepped on the throttle, shooting forward and taking the lead as they thundered down the hill.
They slithered out onto the promenade and Poppy had a quick glimpse of the cheering crowds surging out from the cover of the shops to applaud her taking first place before she was pounding up the High Street and back onto the rough gravel road leading up into the hills. Clear of any other cars, Poppy was able to leave her braking until the l
ast moment, gaining precious tenths of a second on each corner, easing herself away from Hughes who was now under pressure from Bhan for second place. The final two laps saw her increase her speed and distance, and the result was never in doubt as she took the finishing line, with Hughes second and Bhan a very close third.
‘Excellent, Poppy, absolutely first rate!’ exclaimed Victor as Poppy drew into the pit and gratefully cut the turbine. As though waiting for such a cue, the rain suddenly eased off with a mocking flourish.
‘Bloody typical,’ muttered Poppy, looking sourly at a beautiful rainbow spreading over the hills.
‘A magnificent run, my dear,’ smiled Helena, venturing out from under the paddock and passing over a face towel the size of a handkerchief.
‘Thanks,’ coughed Poppy, looking at the towel before dabbing her brow with it. ‘God, I think I’ve drunk most of the rain.’ She eased herself up from the driver’s seat with a wet popping noise; water cascaded from her, drenching the feet of those standing too close. ‘Oops, sorry,’ she said, faintly. She was exhausted after the run, the weather demanding even greater concentration than usual.
‘We’re already wet through, so don’t worry,’ said Simeon, taking a drink from a large silver hip flask.
‘Really? I thought you were just a little wet. How did everyone else do?’
‘Jake was fourth, Oscar fifth, Drew sixth and William managed eighth, replied Victor happily as Simeon coughed into his drink.
‘Which means five out of the top six cars are from Victor’s ERC factory, even if one of them is a private entry,’ observed Helena.
‘That will look good in the press,’ nodded Poppy, making a mental note; a series of top place finishes for the team could look as impressive as being number one.
‘Everyone is in; time for the cups and speeches,’ announced Victor, a wide grin on his face. Poppy took and gave congratulations to the other drivers as they made their way to the official podium, which was placed in the open so everyone could see it. Unsurprisingly, the rain chose that exact moment to begin lashing down upon them once more.
The weather kept the speeches brief, after which Poppy was presented with the cup, thanked everyone for their help and support, and raised a quick laugh about buying shares in an umbrella factory before her next visit to the island. The crowd cheered, the majority of the rival drivers congratulated her, and a glass of champagne was pressed into her hand.
‘Be careful with that; you know how you get on alcohol,’ muttered Simeon through the corner of a tight smile. ‘The last time you had a brandy you tried to kiss Lady Anabelle Green in the clematis.’
‘She would have let me fondle her hydrangeas if you hadn’t turned up playing gooseberry,’ replied Poppy, somewhat wrathfully. ‘And just what were you doing lurking in the cucumbers anyway?’
‘As I explained at the time; I just happened to be taking a stroll when I unexpectedly came over you. Er, found you. I mean, look, Anabelle is a pillar of the community! Married for almost twenty years! And her eldest daughter is married to a possible future prime minister! You have to be careful in your... dalliances. Choose wisely.’
Poppy snorted. ‘Married to a man for twenty years? Then I’d say she is fully entitled to kick back against the social conventions which have stifled her true identity. But don’t worry,’ she added, sarcastically. ‘I think most of this glass is now full of rain water.’
‘Good,’ replied Simeon, sullenly. ‘Ah, there’s a chap I need to speak to; you get back to the hotel as quickly as you can. Before you catch a chill.’ He strode away, his back straight in irritation.
‘I may as well,’ muttered Poppy, shuddering at her reflection in one of the car windscreens. ‘I don’t think anyone would be interested in my clematis at the moment; I look frightful.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure,’ said the quiet voice of Bhan behind her.88
POPPY ORPINGTON SHOCKS CROWD IN WET CLOTHING!!! A Daily Post expose, by Paul Baker; The Voice of the People!
The Isle of Man RRC was the scene of shocking scenes here today, and once again, the notorious PETROL QUEEN was at the centre of the scandal!
Denied her usual racing car, POPPY ORPINGTON had to rely on the weather to take a dubious first place over other established drivers. Such is her brazenness, she then SHOCKED the crowds by openly displaying her soaking wet features after the race!
Never have I seen such a disgusting display parading in front of my disgusted eyes with no thought for decency! It was as much as I could do to watch this wanton exhibition!
Turn to pages 2, 3, 5, 7, and 8-13 to view the full sordid affair!
86 Poppy’s laconic diary entry here simply reads sang loudly to smother guilt about Dad. Enjoyed first time on ferry then felt bad about enjoying myself. Thankfully, both Drew and Victor wrote their own, fuller accounts.
87 Bhan had bought two cars – named Apollo and Artemis – from Victor; one to race and one for spares.
88 Poppy’s merely jotted down in her diary After race, had to peel all clothes off - v slowly. Bahn’s diary simply reads Accompanied Poppy back to hotel. A letter written by Helena to a friend mentioned Poppy looked rather flushed at the dining table, leading Helena to fear she was coming down with a fever. I shall leave the readers to draw their own conclusions .
Epilogue
Two weeks later, Poppy was in her office at the Thunderbolt works, her long legs up on the desk, speaking lazily into the telephone. ‘No, it’s actually died down a little, at least from Wrohan’s mob; I can only assume it was fear after their editor... well, we needn’t go into that. But yes, the stories from the Daily Post have lessened, though they haven’t gone completely.89 Thankfully the motoring magazines are far more enthusiastic about petrol engines.
‘Are you making your preparations for next season? You are? That is good news. I look forward to facing you on the track.’ Her grin became rather more salacious. ‘Yes, I would be delighted to teach you a thing or two. And I hope to sell you a car also. What? Oh, yes, the sales are rolling in; not enough, but numbers are increasing.
‘Where are you going to be living when you get back? Bermonsdey? Oh yes, not too far. When will you be back from Siam? Not until then? Poot. I suppose I will have to learn patience. Oh, I have to go, something business related. Yes, I’m working late again. See you soon, I hope.’ Poppy deftly returned the phone to its hook.
‘Who was that?’ demanded Amy from the doorway, her arms crossed, the piercing intensity in her eyes undercut by the smudge of oil running across the bridge of her nose.
‘His Highness Bahadur Bhanudej, the Crown Prince of Siam, known to his friends as Bhan.’
‘And what did he want?’
‘He wants a good car for racing,’ shrugged Poppy, deciding Amy did not need to know Bhan had been phoning almost daily. ‘Who knows; we may soon be ready to give him one. Sell him one.’ She yawned in a theatrical manner, privately wandering what Siam was like to visit, how long it took to get there, and what you could do to pass the time on the voyage... She glanced at Amy’s suspicious face and sighed. Despite resolving to take firm action over their relationship, she had so far lacked the courage to even begin the process.
‘You two should be home by now,’ said Garrin, bustling through the office door.
‘So should you,’ replied Poppy. ‘Come on, let’s close up.’
‘I’m waiting for a phone call from a friend in Germany; he wants all the latest gossip on the motor racing over here,’ replied Garrin. ‘But you go ahead; I will lock up when I leave.’
‘Is he a fan of racing, this friend of yours?’
‘He is a director of the Saden track in Stuttgart, so he is always interested in new cars and what the public are looking for.’
‘News of the Thunderbolts must be spreading,’ beamed Poppy.
‘It is, but when we last spoke, he was also terribly excited at a new type of race being discussed; a 24 hour endurance.’
‘24 hours? That’s ridiculous! Wh
ere is it being held?’
‘In France. Some place called Le Mans.’
89 Vilifying Poppy seems to be an ongoing obsession with the media; after the success last year of Volume I, the Daily Post made the decision to once again attack her reputation with half-truths rather than praise the astonishing achievements of a disabled working-class woman. It therefore falls upon me to protect her name from their derogatory assaults, a task I am happy to perform both now and forever.
Afterword
I have been asked by the publisher to write this afterward for the second printing of Rise of the Petrol Queen in order to address the retaliatory backlash from the press after the revelations against their long dead editor, Harvey McArdle.
As witnessed over the past few weeks, Rise of the Petrol Queen, (rushed into print against my wishes, to take advantage of the unexpected popularity of Full Throttle),debuted in the top ten bestseller lists and has remained there ever since, prompting dozens of articles, letters and commentary in papers, magazines, conversational telecasting shows and across many “convo” boards on the Global Wireless Network.
No doubt mortified by the revelations against one of their own, the press began a diversionary campaign of fake outrage, branding Poppy as “predatory” and “promiscuous” for the affair with Simeon, with one hack reporter even labelling her a “schoolgirl strumpet”, a term protested against vigorously by the Parisian Academy of Suffragettes.
However, it properly falls upon me – Poppy’s official biographer – to add some clarification to the affair.
Yes, there were indeed affairs, and yes, the first was with Simeon, though I do not intend to explain again what has already been explained in this very volume.
While Simeon undoubtedly aided Poppy both professionally and personally, it is clear he held the assumption that “personal” recompense would be given as standard – though Simeon’s inherent privilege allowed him to recast this gross form of payback into the “acceptable” shape of the worldly older man-of-the-world guiding the naïve younger woman toward polished sophistication.
