Chapter Six

The first race of the season was at Baggeridge Park, Wolverhampton. It was not a popular track with many of the racing elite because of the location; despite firing the Industrial Revolution, the West Midlands was looked down upon for being both working class and outside London. The prize money, however, was substantial as the track drew workers for miles around, eager for excitement on their Saturday afternoons away from back-breaking toil in the mining industry.

Leaving Helena and her latest enormous hat in the paddock, Simeon and Poppy strolled toward the steward’s area for the pre-race meeting. ‘You’re quiet today, Poppy,’ observed Simeon, glancing back at his wife while picking up his speed a little. ‘Not getting nervous, are you?’

Poppy shrugged. ‘Just personal issues pulling at me; nothing for anyone else to worry about,’ she replied, thinking both of the ongoing bickering between herself and Amy as well as her father’s virtual imprisonment in the hospice. She had visited him the previous day and was feeling fresh waves of anger and guilt that he was unable to be there to watch his engine triumph.²³

‘You always imitate an oyster when you have things on your mind, which I understand; I know you’re a private person at heart.’

‘Yes, you can see how private I am,’ said Poppy, gesturing at the dozens of advertising boards surrounding the track – most of them showed Poppy’s face or Poppy in Thunderbus – advertising everything from Andromeda Airships (Cheapest air freight in England) to Waterhouse Washing Machines (For the proud housewife!).

‘Does it bother you much?’ asked Simeon, leaning possessively toward her.

‘It feels odd to see myself on so many billboards and the like; rather like an invasion of privacy,’ replied Poppy, pointedly.

‘Do bear in mind advertisers will use your face without permission, given half the chance,’ said Simeon, somewhat complacently. ‘That’s why I’ve taken the initiative and turned you into something of a commodity – a commodity has more worth than a person in advertising.’

‘Yes; which is why I have to wear this stupid thing before a race,’ muttered Poppy, looking down at the bright blue coat Simeon insisted she wore for maximum recognition on the track. ‘I’d be just as noticeable in my normal racing coat and this top hat,’ she added, flicking the brim of her topper which she wore for the rebellious image it imparted to the crowds.

‘Recognition equals money,’ replied Simeon with a mischievous grin before giving her a discreet pat on the hip. ‘But do remember, as far as privacy is concerned, you still have the right to a home life free of interruption or persecution, despite your fame. Not that the press recognises that right, unfortunately. It’s a good job they can’t easily get into the grounds of Pallister Hall, so at least we can have some privacy there.’

‘That’s when I get mercenary and think of the money I get for selling myself, piece by piece, to all who demand their pound of flesh,’ said Poppy, with a somewhat caustic glare at Simeon’s wandering hand.

‘Er, in what way?’ stammered Simeon, thrown by the comment.

‘I get more advertising so I get a greater income, but also greater press intrusion, so I decide to sell myself even more as this at least gives me greater wealth and the process begins once more.’

‘Ah, yes, I thought you meant... or at least... I mean...’ gabbled Simeon.

‘Of course, we do have to sell ourselves in one way or another, don’t we? It’s assumed by those in power anything and anyone can be bought – and used.’ Poppy was aware of Simeon’s sidelong glance at the barbed comment but she ignored him as they arrived at the steward’s room and took a seat at the back, which was the only place they could get in.

‘I do believe we are all here, finally,’ beamed a middle-aged overweight man at the front who was wearing a spotted shirt, matching cravat and loud chequered trousers. ‘Thank you for attending, everyone. For those who don’t know me, my name is Harry Peacock and I am the chief steward here at Baggeridge.’

‘Don’t worry; we all know who you are,’ laughed a man at the front, one of many sipping champagne.

‘I’m afraid I don’t,’ said Poppy, politely, causing all the heads to turn at the female voice. ‘This is my first race here. Hello, Mr. Peacock,’ she added with a friendly smile and wave.

‘I say, what is she doing here?’ snapped a voice from the middle of the crowd. The various heads revolved around to identify George Warrington, a scornful expression on his face.

‘Do you mean, “What is the woman who beat me at Purley doing here?”’ responded Poppy, acerbically. She recognised Warrington as one of the drivers who had sided with Lord Hepplewhite and his son after her unfair disqualification.

‘It shouldn’t be allowed, women on the track,’ muttered Warrington, ignoring the jibe, though his face reddened. A few of the other drivers muttered in agreement but they were in a minority, unlike the previous year when most had been against Poppy’s presence.

‘Do you hear the crowd out there?’ snapped Poppy. ‘Did you hear the roar they gave when Thunderbus was unveiled? Did your steam car get that sort of reaction? Most of those people are probably only here to get a glimpse of Thunderbus, but if you wish to object to my presence I can always leave again. What do you think the reaction of the crowd would be, Warrington? Knowing you are the person who prevented them from seeing the car they have paid good money to watch?’

‘How dare you address me that way,’ bleated Warrington, his face going almost purple. ‘You are a rude and uncouth woman!’

‘I believe you have been the ruder,’ said a quiet voice with an unusual, lilting modulation. The various heads swivelled around to focus on two Siamese men sitting quietly at the side of the group. Poppy found them both beautiful in appearance, and so alike she assumed them to be brothers.

‘Quite right, Prince Bhan,’²⁴ interrupted Harry. ‘Miss Orpington has been invited here as a competitive driver, just the same as everyone else.’

‘Thank you, Harry, and you, er, Prince Bhan,’ replied Poppy, keenly aware Bhan’s gentle nod and smile was a trifle warmer for her than for the race steward.

‘Then I withdraw in protest,’ squawked Warrington, standing upright as though on a parade ground. ‘It’s against decency, having a woman racing on the circuit. Our fathers never considered such a thing; it’s disgraceful!’

‘Do sit down, George, you’re making yourself look a complete ass,’ muttered one of the other drivers.

‘Never. I am making a stand!’

‘Then perhaps you’d better stand elsewhere so we can get on with the meeting,’ said another driver, to much amusement. Warrington glared before stalking from the paddock with as much dignity as he could gather.

‘Put car number fifteen down as scratched, will you, Bob?’ said Harry to his assistant in the corner, who was sitting with piles of paperwork reaching up to his chin. He watched as Bob began sorting through the various sheets to find the correct form to amend. In doing so, he dropped several folders which in turn caused him to lose his other papers as he tried to catch them, resulting in several sheets exploding upward like a powerful ornamental fountain.

Harry closed his eyes for a few moments, muttered under his breath about being afflicted with a plague of Bob, before turning back to the group. ‘Apologies about the unpleasant scene. We must move with the times, I feel.’ He was reassured by the rumble of agreement around him and plunged on to what he knew would be unpopular news.

‘Now, in the past we have run a simple sort of race where you all line up at the beginning, the flag drops, you roar off and the first over the line after ten or fifteen laps wins. However, we have received representation from various concerned people that this method is no longer fair as we are getting so many different cars appearing, all with differing power ratios, different engine sizes and the like. As such, a handicap has been imposed onto this event.’

‘A handicap?’ asked Poppy, suspiciously. Given Thunderbus was the most powerful car present, she would most likely be the worst affected.

‘You should know all about handicaps, Orpington; you live with them every day,’ guffawed a voice. The varying heads swivelled toward Lord Oswald Hepplewhite who was lounging against the side of the paddock, looking rather pleased with his wit.

‘I beat you last year, even with my handicaps,’ snapped Poppy. ‘I take it you’re the “concerned representative” mentioned by Harry?’

‘I won the Purley Cup last year, Orpington,’ snarled Hepplewhite in reply, ignoring the question.

‘I got over the line before you; your daddy had me disqualified to give you the win,’ retorted Poppy. ‘You may recall the row about it afterward in the media?’

‘Which was only caused by damn bolshie agitators in the socialist press, stirring up trouble,’ raged Hepplewhite to cover the truth of Poppy’s remark, his stubby moustache quivering in outrage. ‘We were absolved by a race enquiry of any wrong-doing!’

‘Yes, a race enquiry staffed by your father and the Purley Race Executives,’ snorted Simeon. ‘They investigated themselves and found they were all correct and splendid chaps.’

‘And how do you explain away the thrashing I gave you at the speed trial in Wycombe?’ demanded Poppy.

‘Gentlemen – and lady – please,’ commanded Harry, banging lightly on the table next to him. ‘The fact remains we had no choice but to introduce a handicap. The new regulations are available on the sheets by the exit, so do please take one on the way out.’

‘I am not happy about this sudden imposition of a handicap,’ interrupted the elder of the royal princes, his face sullen. ‘We were given no notice of any such thing!’

‘Yes, but given your car has already been scratched because of a faulty turbine, Prince Chakrii, it does not affect you at all,’ replied Harry, trying and failing to soothe the situation.

‘My title is your Royal Highness,’ snapped the man. ‘His Royal Highness Prince Chakrii of the Crown of Siam!’²⁵

Harry glanced at his notes. ‘My apologies for getting your unknown titles wrong,’ he replied. Chakrii looked ready to continue the argument before his younger companion, with an affectionate smile, placed a restraining hand on his shoulder and soothed his outrage. Harry gave a quick, grateful smile to Bhan before addressing the entire group. ‘Unfortunately, the directors of several racing circuits in the country have suddenly decided – and all in the same week, oddly enough – to introduce a handicap and I am under orders to do likewise.’

Harry paused to let the significance of this be absorbed by the drivers before moving on. ‘The handicap itself is quite simple. Based on factors including power, engine size and top speed, but also taking into account past racing success and experience, we have devised a line-up in which certain drivers will go first, with the second lot leaving four seconds behind, followed by another two batches after that. If you are in the final batch, take it as a compliment on your vehicle and past driving successes. Which is why you are right at the back with Miss Orpington, Lord Hepplewhite,’ added Harry with a sly grin.

Hepplewhite gagged in fury, realising he had no choice but to comply under the rules his father had imposed; he was

the most successful driver there and he had the fastest steam-driven car. Starting anywhere else on the grid would look questionable in the eyes of the public.

Poppy roared with laughter. ‘I’ll see you at the back, Heppy; I wonder which of us will cross the line first? Would you care to make a wager on that again?’ she asked, referencing the five hundred pounds she had won off Hepplewhite the previous year. Hepplewhite glared but said nothing as he stomped from the paddock, taking his usual retinue of companions with him, the sniggers of the other drivers loud in his ears.

As Poppy and Simeon left the steward’s room, conferring on tactics in light of the new handicapping system, they were passed by many of the drivers eager to return to their paddocks. Most acknowledged Poppy, though some ignored her presence.

‘Just ignore them,’ advised Simeon, playing on his wise and sympathetic mentor role. ‘Look at the effect you’ve already had; just a few months ago, most drivers were outraged at the idea of a woman taking part in their sport, but now many of them accept it – and you – without favour or insult.’

‘Oh ho, it’s the mad English woman!’ cried a merry Italian voice. ‘This means her mad English car must be around somewhere.’

‘That in no way invalidates my point,’ laughed Simeon as Count Lorenzo Sellini, accompanied by Lord Anthony Roxborough, appeared ahead. Both had proved themselves good friends after Poppy’s disqualification at Purley.

‘How are you two?’ asked Poppy, giving them both a hug.

‘All the better for seeing you,’ smiled Anthony through his silver moustache.

‘And all the better for the hug, too,’ chirped Lorenzo. ‘You English, you are always too aloof for the body contact.’

‘It’s something I reserve for close friends only,’ laughed Poppy, aware she was quite safe in hugging Anthony and Lorenzo; she hoped no-one else was aware of the signs between the two men. ‘I didn’t see you at the meeting; are you racing today?’

‘The traffic around the track was awful, so we are late,’ said Lorenzo with a shrug and a grimace.

‘And we are indeed racing,’ added Anthony, ‘but we wanted to pop over to say hello and wish you good luck first.’

‘Thank you; that means a lot to me,’ beamed Poppy. ‘You’re in stark contrast to Hepplewhite, that’s for sure.’

‘Oh dear, has he made it then?’ sighed Anthony. ‘Such a pity.’

‘Yes, and he – or his father, I suspect – has succeeded in getting a handicap added to the race,’ interrupted Simeon, examining the sheet he had picked up detailing everyone’s positions. ‘You’re both to start on the third row, with Poppy and Hepplewhite behind.’

‘The Hepplewhites are fast becoming the greatest menace in racing,’ muttered Anthony as he and Lorenzo glanced over the sheet.

‘True, but what can’t be endured must be cured,’ observed Lorenzo.

‘I think you’ve got that expression back to front,’ said Simeon.

‘I know what I mean,’ grinned Lorenzo. ‘Come on, Anthony, we’d better get to our paddocks. It looks like the practice laps are about to start.’

The pit crew, now consisting of four mechanics²⁶ plus Amy, had finished preparing Thunderbus, giving Poppy time to change into her brown racing coat and take the car for a practice laps before the main event, much to the delight of the crowd. When she got back to the paddock she found Helena chatting to another old friend in one of the chairs lining the back of the pit.

‘Hello Cuthbert,’ she called, a gentle smile breaking out as she pulled her scarf from her face and lifted her goggles. She had met the Honourable Cuthbert Gilmore the previous year at Thunderbus’ debut on the Sussex track, and he had proved himself a staunch friend and ally ever since.

‘Hello, Poppy,’ replied, Cuthbert, politely uncoiling from his chair while doffing his tall top hat. ‘Time for a quick bite to eat?’ he asked, solemnly gesturing at a table piled high with food.

‘No, it looks like we’re about to start,’ replied Poppy with genuine regret as she glanced at the race information boards. ‘In fact, I’d better get back out there. I thought I had a few minutes free, at the very least.’

‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ said Cuthbert, his monocle twinkling in the midday sun. ‘Here, at least have a chicken sandwich while you’re sitting there; keep your strength up.’

‘Good idea,’ agreed Helena, the only other person in the paddock with no official role, though she was warmly welcomed for her rank, appearance, and genial demeanour. ‘You’ll be famished by the end of the race.’

‘And you’d better have a drink, keep your throat wet,’ said Amy, her expression hinting Poppy was incapable of looking after herself and thus needed someone to do it for her.

‘And you have time for a hard-boiled egg before you get out there,’ added Simeon, handing one over in a determined manner.

‘And some fruit; very important, fruit. Full of goodness and, well, goodness is enough, I suppose,’ drawled Cuthbert, looking rather like a vacant yet impeccably dressed prawn, though Poppy knew his vague manner hid a very sharp mind. ‘We have apples and oranges and even a few bananas, specially brought in from the Caribbean.’ Cuthbert plucked a long yellow fruit from a covered bowl which offered some protection from the polluted air pouring from Thunderbus’ exhaust pipes. Poppy took it cautiously.

‘How on earth do I eat this?’ asked Poppy. Being working class, she had little contact with exotic fruit imported at great expense from other countries.

‘You have to peel it first – see? Like this... ’ demonstrated Cuthbert.

‘It tastes darn peculiar,’ said Poppy after an experimental bite.

‘Look at the race board; it’s the final call out!’ exclaimed Simeon. ‘Remember the tactics, Poppy; it’s unlikely you’ll get to the front on this handicap, so we’re just looking at a good solid run and maybe, if we’re lucky, a top five finish. Understand?’

‘Understood,’ shouted Poppy, slamming Thunderbus into gear. She realised she was still holding the banana in her other hand, so she quickly popped it into Amy’s open mouth before rolling forward and joining the track.

²³ Prince Bahadur Bhanudej of Siam, a well-known driver of the pre-war years.

²⁴ Chakrii means ‘King’ in the original Siamese. Chakrii’s mother had been trying to influence fate and get her son on the throne. The attempt failed because of the good health of the king’s many offspring.

²⁵ I know Yousef was present as Oswald Hepplewhite mentioned “a darkie in the Orpington creature’s pit crew!” in a letter to his cousin, Sir Candace Leverill. I’m guessing Reg would also have been there, but who were the other two? History does not relate.

²⁶ “Tulips Birmingham” was a mendacious caricature of Poppy, presenting her as a bossy woman nagging meek men from a large, broken down car. It was substantially no different to the newspaper cartoons denigrating the suffrage movement, even though James Gillray had originally founded his magazine as a radical, satirical periodical, standing up for the underdog against the privileged. After his death, the magazine became a safe, undemanding entity, taking pot-shots at anything new while making only the vaguest of humorous (yet still deferential) remarks against the ruling classes.