Chapter Eleven

WOMEN beware WOMEN! Why good women instinctively shy away from bad women, by Lydia Kitson.

This evening, at a delightful high society event, I had the misfortune to meet the woman who is scandalising society, the notorious attention-seeking cripple Poppy Orpington, and never in my life have I met someone I disliked so much, so quickly.

I had no issue at all with the other lovely ladies at the event, including Lady Helena Pallister, Lady McIntosh, and the gracious Duchess of Sutton, who really are the absolute cream and the best this fine country of ours has to offer.

So, why my immediate distaste for the pushy Orpington, with her unnatural body, socialistic background, freakish deformity, ridiculous height, and her terrible and provocative dress sense? I’m convinced we women – true women – have a God-given ability to see through the superficial glamour and cheap beauty of any false women, and see the real threat beneath.

Women have an innate feeling of right and wrong, something men just do not have. It is something in the blood and cannot be taught.

It is NOT jealousy, no matter what some claim. After all, I never met a woman who was not charmed by Lady Cadwallander, and her wonderful series of books on motherhood and domestic harmony.

Women should trust their natural instincts, for they are a gift from God, and often lead them to the truth more quickly than the logical brains of men. And men should listen to their wives’ intuitions, and act on them.

My instinct on women has never been wrong. Any woman I have met who I mistrusted has turned out to be untrustworthy, and treacherous.

Fortunately, the many women who hate me, for they fear my instinct, are not the sort that any respectable women would wish to associate with in any case. And the reason for this is clear; they have all rode to success not by fair means but by foul. These are the women who tread on others to get what they want, and who are not particular about how they get what they want, either.

Mothers – protect your daughters from women like this!⁴³

Poppy awoke the following morning, looked round drowsily as she was not at her best first thing, and rolled over to draw Amy into a hug. Amy responded by moving away and staring at the far wall of the bedroom.

‘What’s the matter?’ sighed Poppy.

‘Nothing.’

‘Really?’

‘You were friendly with Simeon last night,’ blurted Amy, unable to keep quiet.

‘I’m friendly with Simeon all the time.’

‘You know what I mean! He seemed really upset we’re leaving. Or that you’re leaving.’

‘That’s because we’re friends, Amy.’

‘Is that why I can smell his aftershave round here so much?’ Amy sat up, her arms folded, her eyes moist.

‘He does occasionally visit; you know that perfectly well.’

‘Yes, but he seems to be round here whenever I’m out. Do you think Helena knows of all his visits?’

‘I’m here with you, Amy, right here, right now.’ Poppy’s metallic fingers reached out delicately. ‘Not that you’ve been making it an easy or pleasurable experience just lately.’

‘Am I really the only one for you? Forever?’

‘Yes. Forever,’ replied Poppy, feeling a sudden flush of hot doubt and shame. She chased the uneasy thoughts away by cuddling up to Amy’s slender body, the doubts retreating temporarily under a mutual rush of lust.

‘What are your plans for the day?’ asked Amy sometime later. She was still half wrapped in a bedsheet, her pale legs swinging playfully over the side of the mattress. ‘Are you visiting your dad?’

‘No, I’m going tomorrow. I’m going to write and post off queries to various land agents about suitable factory units, but the rest of the day is free,’ replied Poppy from the dresser, where she was forcing a brush through her mass of hair.

‘And after that?’ asked Amy, hoping they could spend the day together.

‘I want to finish reading my book on the socio-economic conditions of the peasant class at the turn of the nineteenth century,’ began Poppy, before being cut off by Amy.

‘Why do you always have your head stuck in a book? As soon as you can, you sit down in that armchair of yours and I lose you for hours!’

‘But you love working on Thunderbus while I’m reading.’

‘But not all the time,’ muttered Amy, pulling the bedsheet tighter around herself.

‘You could always pick up a book yourself,’ began Poppy, struggling with a particularly matted section of hair.

‘I don’t like your books; they’re boring.’

‘Boring? They’re fascinating! Did you know theologians only started to describe God as a mechanical creator when clocks became popular in society?’

‘So?’

‘So? It’s an example of how society’s view of God is shaped purely by the culture and attitude of the time.’

‘Er... so what?’

‘So, this demonstrates that theology is bunkum,’ explained Poppy, her enthusiasm carrying her away. ‘We’re all cut into patterns by society and we then view the world in terms of those patterns; change the pattern and our view of the world changes as well. All our interpretations of divinity come from ourselves alone and not from any objective external deity, which is why so many religions are based on old mistakes and superstitions and... You’re not listening, are you?’

‘I just don’t think we should be talking about such things,’ muttered Amy, her inbuilt deference rising up to stopper her thought processes before they could lead anywhere dangerously self-deterministic. ‘Your books don’t appeal to me.’

Poppy blew out in exasperation. Just about every intelligent conversation with Amy ended before it began and Poppy was feeling increasingly isolated from her first love. ‘Well, what do you want to do?’

‘Why can’t we spend some time together, just the two of us?’

‘Like a day out? A picnic somewhere?’

Amy sat upright, her whole face beaming with delight, the bedsheet falling away from her body and distracting Poppy somewhat. ‘That would be brilliant!’

‘Good. If we’re going out, we may as well look for a new home as well.’

‘Can’t we just have the day to ourselves with nothing else interfering?’

‘You know I have a hundred things going on, but we’ll have a day out. A picnic, an entire afternoon and maybe the evening together. Isn’t that enough?’

‘We hardly spend any time alone these days,’ carped Amy.

‘I’m here now, with you, for the day,’ responded Poppy, struggling to keep her irritation in check at Amy’s whining tone. ‘A day out with a picnic, and maybe a nice quiet wood on the way back where we can have a little lie down, like we did at Sir Milford’s place when we visited him for the day. You remember that?’ She felt a stab of self-reproach for giving up so easily on any sort of intellectual conversation with Amy in favour of a sexual encounter later on.

‘Yes, a day out; that would be nice. Just us,’ smirked Amy.

‘Come on then, let’s get ready,’ muttered Poppy, recognising the gleam in Amy’s eyes was little more than a sign of petty triumph for forcing Poppy to change her plans. She grabbed a fresh pair of bloomers from her drawer and savagely put her foot through the material.

Amy spent an hour filling a large hamper with freshly cut sandwiches, small pies, pastries, tarts and flasks of tea, while Poppy quickly wrote out her queries on her second-hand electrostatic typewriter before printing off the batch of letters and stuffing them into her coat pocket. She swung the hamper over her shoulder and carried it out to the garage before dropping it behind Thunderbus’ passenger seat.

‘Are we taking Thunderbus?’ asked Amy in surprise. ‘After what Jack said about sparing the engine unnecessary strain?’

‘Jack Talbot isn’t here and I’m sick of driving that underpowered, boring car of Simeon’s,’ replied Poppy as she happily settled herself in the driving seat. ‘Besides, we have some ground to cover today, so we need something fast.’

‘Why? Where are we going?’ Amy’s eyes lit up and a warm flush of pink coloured her cheeks in excitement as she climbed into the car.

‘Toward London.’

‘What? Why?’

‘That’s where the wealthy live. I need to sell cars to the wealthy. Ergo, we need to live close to London, where I can set up my own factory. Simple economics.’

‘I thought we were going to have a picnic.’

‘We are,’ said Poppy, her face a study of pure innocence.

‘But won’t it be nice to have it in the countryside?’

‘We are in the countryside. This is Worcestershire. There’s nothing but countryside!’

‘But this will be different countryside,’ mumbled Poppy. ‘Most of the journey can be done on the new trunk road from Worcester direct to London. Simeon mentioned it the other day; mile after mile of smooth tar, and with a sixty mile an hour limit for most of it. Can you imagine? Sixty miles an hour on a beautiful summer day?’

‘It’s not summer yet. And are we going to have time for our picnic?’ sulked Amy.

‘That’s why I decided to use Thunderbus; to make sure we will. We can get the house issue sorted by midday, if we’re lucky. Then the rest of the day is just for us. Alone.’

‘Hmm, I don’t know,’ said Amy, weakly. ‘Do we have enough petrol?’

‘No, but I have my little list of garages that sell it,’ said Poppy, tapping her inner coat pocket. There were several retailers who sold petrol to bus, truck, and charabanc companies, and all were happy to fill Thunderbus partly for the extra revenue and partly from a feeling of camaraderie for a successful petrol-fuelled car. If Poppy liked the garage-hand on duty, she would usually give them a quick, flirtatious peek of the famous engine.

‘Anyway, Thunderbus needs a good run and you wouldn’t begrudge him a little bit of fun, would you?’

‘Yes, all right, fine,’ replied Amy, trying to give the impression she was doing Poppy a favour to disguise the fact she wanted to go. ‘But drive to the speed limit; you’ve already had three summonses in the past month.’

‘It’s not my fault; it’s the police,’ retorted Poppy, hotly. ‘They’ve realised drivers are nice little cash earners if they hide behind bushes and then jump out when you go slightly over the speed limit.’⁴⁴

‘Slightly? Slightly? How fast were you going up the Droitwich road when you got stopped?’

‘I wasn’t going that fast.’

‘How fast?’

‘About fifty.’

‘And what is the speed limit on that stretch?’

‘About twenty.’

‘Thank you,’ sneered Amy in triumph.

‘But there’s hardly any traffic on that road,’ muttered Poppy, ‘and you know how Thunderbus hates to dawdle.’ She glanced at Amy’s disdainful yet beautiful face; despite her inner voice telling her she was a coward for doing so, she decided to bring the argument to an end by taking Amy’s mind off it. Leaning forward, she planted a firm kiss on her mouth.

‘Poppy!’

‘Does it upset you, when I kiss you... or when I touch you?’ asked Poppy, remembering Simeon’s barbed observations in his office.

‘No, of course not. I like it,’ mumbled Amy, her pretty face flushing. ‘Just not in public, though.’

‘Don’t worry,’ smiled Poppy in relief. ‘I’ll be good and won’t touch you again until we find a nice little private wood where we can put the blanket down and have some alfresco fun.’

‘You know I always end up with leaves in my underwear when we do that.’

‘I know. I always enjoy finding them afterward.’

The drive went smoothly;⁴⁵ Thunderbus was happy to charge ahead at a consistent pace while Poppy mostly behaved herself with regard to the speed limits, meaning it was well before midday when they reached a signpost informing them London was just a few miles down the left hand road. Poppy turned left, followed later by an exploratory right to avoid the outer edge of urban sprawl. Tall trees shaded them, allowing the sunlight down in bursts of pretty patterns while the road itself was in an excellent state, allowing Thunderbus to build up to a decent speed.

‘What a pretty church!’ exclaimed Poppy as they rounded a curve and saw a graceful yellow-stone construction sitting on a hill some distance ahead. ‘If there’s a church, there must be a village or a hamlet around somewhere.’ Poppy pressed down on the accelerator in pure exhilaration, enjoying the breeze on her skin, the long road winding and snaking in a pleasing manner, the power of Thunderbus under her hands, Amy by her side, the beautiful countryside streaking by in ever increasing speed, the sharp turn ahead which she was going too fast to get around...

‘BUGGER!’ screamed Poppy, savagely wrenching the steering wheel. Thunderbus wallowed round, the back end kicking out, but Poppy had already wrestled the huge car back under control, spinning the heavy wheel under her steel arm and leaving the sharp turn safely behind them in the rear-view mirror.

‘For god’s sake, Poppy, you almost put us through the hedge!’ screeched Amy once she found her voice again.

‘There should be a warning sign there,’ hyperventilated Poppy. ‘Mind you, it seems to have amused the natives,’ she added, looking up the road to where a wide, comfortable-looking hill dominated the immediate landscape. A great many people, all dressed in traditional agricultural apparel, were lolling around on the grass, cheering and applauding as Thunderbus drew nearer. Poppy gave a theatrical wave and brought the car to a halt as some of the crowd moved enthusiastically down toward them.

‘That was brilliant!’ exclaimed a small boy. ‘I’ve never seen anyone drive that fast and avoid the pond!’

‘Pond?’ asked Amy.

‘Yes, Smallhouse Pond is just beyond the hedge,’ grinned a man. ‘As the lad says; all who take the turn too fast end up going straight through and into the water. It’s only waist deep, mind, but it’s good for a laugh.’

‘What, you heard me coming and you rushed out here to see if I’d crash?’ asked Poppy, half scandalised and half amused.

‘Most of us were on our lunch break; we often take it up on the hill if the weather is dry enough,’ replied a young woman with soft eyes and a friendly face. ‘We thought you were going to go in for sure! But we always help the driver get the car out and give everyone a nice cup of tea after to calm their nerves.’

‘Wholesome country pursuits, you might call it,’ said another woman with a wink. ‘I’m not sure how you avoided skidding off; you must be born lucky!’

‘We heard you coming from miles away,’ exclaimed the boy. ‘Is your engine broken? It must be, to make that sort of noise. But how can you go so fast if the engine is broken?’

‘The engine isn’t broken; it’s supposed to sound like that,’ replied Poppy, her own face now grinning widely. ‘This car runs off petrol.’

‘Blimey, you’re Poppy Orpington, aren’t you?’ exclaimed another man in astonishment. ‘And this is Thunderbus!’

Poppy confessed and was immediately pressed for information about Thunderbus, about racing, about her arm, and what it was like to race Thunderbus with her arm, until finally one of the women good-naturedly waved the small crowd away. ‘All right, that’s enough, let the poor girl have some air. I bet she was only passing through and we’re making her late.’

‘We’re in no rush; we’re just looking for a spot to have our picnic,’ explained Poppy, signing the last of the autographs she had been asked for. She still couldn’t quite get used to being a public figure and giving her signature on postcards, racing memorabilia and even old scraps of paper.

‘Why not stop here?’ suggested one of the men. ‘There’s a small grass square just outside the village you can park on, and there are benches set out by the duck pond in the middle. It’s all nice and quiet this time of day, so you’re not likely to be disturbed.’

Poppy beamed as she snapped off the engine. The area was beautiful; trees moved slightly in the breeze, ducks quacked on the pond while the village itself, identified by a sign as Greenford Parva, was a charming mis-match of architectural styles.⁴⁶ She and Amy eagerly made their way to a rustic bench next to the pond and began spreading out their lunch from the picnic hamper.

‘It’s nice here, isn’t it?’ enthused Amy. The only loud noise came from the rhythmic striking of hammer on metal as the village blacksmith worked over his anvil before transferring the object he was making to his electrical workbench, where he started to thread wires through the casing. Such sights were becoming rare as individual and family blacksmiths gave way to the larger companies mass-producing components comparatively cheaply. This smith was still going as the village was still largely reliant on horse power for the workers.

‘Useful, too, being this close to London,’ observed Poppy as she ate a sandwich. ‘Worcester is lovely but it’s not very practical for business purposes.’

‘Do you really want to set up your own motor business?’ asked Amy. ‘It’s such a huge step.’

‘I know, but starting on the pit crew under dad, and then taking over Thunderbus after he was ill, were also huge steps – but we did them. And look at us now. If we hold back every time we’re not certain about something, we’d never do anything.’

‘But it will cost a fortune to set up a car business, and there’s no guarantee it will succeed!’

‘Do you know how many small manufacturers there are in this country? Hundreds. All making just enough to see them through, and that is all I’m planning to do, at least to begin with. If we can start something, Amy, something small and build it up from there, who knows where it will go?’

‘But what if it fails?’

‘Then it fails, but at least I will have tried to do something good with my life, something good for society. It’s not just about making cars – it’s about giving freedom to everyone. Look at us today; we’ve covered over a hundred miles, easily!’

‘I know, I know,’ said Amy, hastily deflecting the subject of socio-economic movement. ‘You’ve gone on about it often enough. And you know I’ll help you with it, no matter what.’

‘Thanks,’ smiled Poppy, looking in appreciation and lust at Amy’s beautiful face; if only she could really talk to her as well... Poppy chopped the thought off and finished her tea from the small flask, her eyes settling on a box-like, relatively new building which mostly consisted of a large glass window covered in sales brochures. ‘I think that shop over there is a house agent; shall we go and have a look in the window?’ They tidied up their rubbish, stowing everything neatly back in the hamper before walking to the shop where Poppy became engrossed in the details on display.

‘Do you really want your own house?’ asked Amy.⁴⁷

‘We can’t live off Simeon and Helena forever, and if I’m going to set up a company I will need to be close to the factory. This seems a nice place; the locals are pleasant and seem to have a quirky sense of humour. Hey, look at this one.’ She pointed to a picture of an older, larger house, weather-stained and crumbling, which seemed to be somewhat cheaper than the others on display. ‘Let’s go in and enquire.’

‘Can I help you, ladies?’ asked the man inside who had been surreptitiously watching them through the window, praying they would enter. A small boy had already scampered up to the rear door and breathlessly explained who Poppy was, so the agent knew she had considerable amounts of money to spend. Without that prior knowledge, there was a good chance he would have refused Poppy entry without a male escort.

‘Yes, Brook House, in need of updating,’ began Poppy before being flattened by the agent’s sales pitch, delivered in one explosive breath.

‘Ah, a splendid property, a real character piece, full of history, a real period property, some renovation required but a chance to put your own stamp upon it and there has been much interest and I believe an offer may be forthcoming soon.’⁴⁸

‘Oh dear, what a shame,’ replied Poppy, who simply wanted a few answers rather than a one-man advertising campaign. ‘No point in going to look, then.’

‘Things aren’t settled just yet,’ gabbled the man, alarmed his commission was about to walk out of the door.

‘No, no, I wouldn’t dream of trespassing onto someone’s dream home if they are about to make an offer on it,’ said Poppy maliciously, still feeling vindictive after being subjected to the bruising sales patter. ‘I’ll have to find something else as I don’t like any of the other properties in the window.’

‘Perhaps if you have a look at the house, a quick offer may be accepted,’ spluttered the agent, lunging to a cupboard and pulling out a large, dirty key. ‘The house is only a five minute drive away,’ he lied, holding the key out and trying to radiate sincerity.

‘Just to get an idea of the place, then,’ sighed Poppy, hiding her grin.

‘I’m afraid I have no-one to cover me here, so you’ll have to let yourselves in; just make sure you lock the door and return the key before five, please.’

‘Do you always trust strangers with the key?’

The agent shrugged. ‘No, but given I know who you are, Miss Orpington, I have no fears on that score.’ He gave them directions to the house and Poppy and Amy finally escaped the office.

Poppy whistled in appreciation as they turned onto the driveway of Brook House, which had proved to be a ten minute journey even at Thunderbus’ rumbustious pace. The building was a solid, eight bedroom detached house with symmetrical windows all around and columns either side of the front door. A large stable block stood to one side in the neglected garden, where the trees and bushes were taking over the land.

The front door resisted Poppy’s attempts to turn the key for several seconds before yielding. They walked into a large hallway, with rooms lying off on both sides and a staircase rising at the back. The house was old and dusty, with no modern conveniences, yet Poppy found herself laughing as they explored, feeling at home almost immediately despite the neglected air.

Amy shivered, feeling small and out of place inside the large rooms. She glanced at Poppy and was disconcerted to see she was practically wearing the old house like an overcoat, as though she already belonged there. Belonged there with lots of other people, other women, other men, men like Simeon... ‘It’s too far from Worcester; what about your father?’ she demanded, hiding her deep insecurities under what she hoped would be a trump card.

‘With luck, I’ll be able to get Dad transferred to a local sanatorium. There’s bound to be more choice this close to London.’

‘It’s damp and mouldering,’ muttered Amy, annoyed at how easily Poppy had ripped through the issue.

‘A few roaring fires and some radiators will soon dry it out. The potential in here is amazing. The bathroom and kitchen are ripe for modernisation, with all the latest gadgets.’ Poppy often visited the little private kitchen next to Simeon’s office in Pallister Hall just to make a coffee on the Tadcaster Auto-Coffee Machine. It never once presented her with anything remotely drinkable, but she thoroughly enjoyed playing with it while waiting for the old kettle to boil in the corner of the room.⁴⁹

‘Those sorts of gadgets are really expensive; for the super-rich only,’ said Amy primly.

‘I can afford one or two.’

‘Look at that stuff on the ceiling and in the corners! It’s so old. It looks hideous.’

‘You mean the coving? It looks lovely to me. It harmonises with the size and shape of the rooms.’

‘The wallpaper is peeling off.’

‘Wallpaper tends to do that,’ sighed Poppy. ‘It just needs new plaster and paper putting up.’

‘It will cost a fortune! It’s not worth it.’

‘Can’t you see past the outer appearance and imagine how lovely this house was, and could be again?’ demanded Poppy, wondering why Amy was being so relentlessly negative. ‘A big fire in the hearth, a comfortable sofa for us to sit on, a thick rug in front of the fire, just you and me, here alone?’

Amy looked away so her smirk would go unnoticed, happy to be included in the future plans for the house, though she retained her irritation that Poppy expected her to fall in with her ideas without any complaint. ‘It’s still too much work, and too expensive,’ she said, more for the sake of speaking and despite the fact she would be contributing nothing to the costs.

‘Hello, anyone in?’ called a voice from the front door, preventing any reply. Poppy and Amy walked back to the hallway and saw a small, white-haired, elderly man peering into the gloom behind a pair of old-fashioned glasses. ‘Ah, there you are. Sorry to intrude, but when I got the message someone was looking round the old place, I thought I’d pop along to greet you.’

‘You own the house?’

‘Yes. Smallhouse is the name. Frederick to friends, or Lord Frederick when I am upset with someone.’

‘I certainly hope it will be Frederick for us,’ replied Poppy, introducing herself and Amy. ‘Smallhouse? Anything to do with Smallhouse Pond?’

‘The very same. I trust you have not found yourselves in it? I would probably have been told by an over-excited villager if someone new had gone in. It does keep them amused.’

‘Nearly, but not quite,’ smiled Poppy. ‘You own a lot of land around here?’

‘Good chunks of it, yes. How do you like the house?’

‘It’s marvellous, but it may need more work than I can do. Who sent the message we were here?’

‘That young ass at the letting agent sent me a telegram – probably at the very moment you left his office. He seems to think I have no idea how to operate the telephone, the damn fool. Anyway, I wanted to see the rather rare sight of a young unaccompanied lady looking for a house.’

‘Have you had any offers?’

‘Only from uncultured types who want to knock the place about, demolishing walls and ripping out the old décor.’

‘Really? I think it’s wonderful just as it is but I’m afraid I would need electricity, here and in the stables, a modern bathroom or two, maybe a new kitchen also.’

‘Fair enough – as long as it’s all done while maintaining the character of the house,’ replied Frederick, deciding he liked the look of Poppy. ‘I’m very fond of this old place; it was my mother’s family home before she married my father. Why not give me a lift back to the agent in that fearsome-looking car of yours and we can work out something mutually beneficial?’

‘I can’t believe you have a house,’ gasped Amy as they waved goodbye to Frederick that evening. They had thrashed out an agreement for Poppy to pay somewhat less than the asking price for a fifteen year lease in return for installing a new kitchen and two bathrooms, redecorating throughout without changing the character of the property, and wiring the place up for electricity.

The negotiations had gone so amicably they had been invited to Frederick’s home to meet his wife, Jennifer, and to dine with them. Their son, Crispin, was also present, visiting for a long weekend away from his busy job and who was as charming as his parents even when pressing his business card on both Poppy and Amy, should either ever decide to get involved in the world of lacemaking.

‘Things are moving fast,’ agreed Poppy as she guided Thunderbus along the road, thinking over the issues. ‘Oh well, we can’t stand still forever. We do need our own home, and once the telephone is installed we’ll be as accessible as we are at Pallister Hall, so we won’t miss anything important from anyone.’

‘And what about basic car maintenance?’ asked Amy. ‘I can’t do that in Worcester if I’m living just outside London.’

‘We’re going to be at the hall for at least a few months yet, until all the work is done on Brook House. And that includes converting the stables into a modern garage for Thunderbus, while anything else he needs can be done at the works depot. It’s starting to come together.’

‘But what if you find a factory miles away? Or your business plans fall through completely?’

Poppy shrugged. ‘We’d still need our own place, and given most of the race tracks are in the south it makes sense to have a home down here, so stop worrying.’

Amy opened her mouth, ready to complain again, but before she could say anything they passed a nice secluded wood where an amorous Poppy suggested they stop and put the blanket down, and the matter temporarily passed from her mind...

⁴³ In case the reader is wondering why Helena and Simeon had such a revolting person as Lydia Kitson at their party, I should explain two things; firstly, society reporters often attended such functions and wrote up favourably on them afterward. Secondly, Kitson slipped in without an invitation, no doubt aware Helena would be too polite to have her ejected.

⁴⁴ The traffic police back then were viewed much as speed cameras are today; as a means of collecting revenue rather than ensuring road safety.

⁴⁵ Although cars were still for the comparatively wealthy at this point, the road network was already well established owing to the increasing use of lorries and larger trucks to carry goods at a fraction of the cost charged by the railways and airships.

⁴⁶ Greenford Parva today is mostly concrete; the miles of farmland and countryside are gone, as is most of the charming village. It is now merely an urban extension of outer London.

⁴⁷ Very few people owned their own house back then; most would buy the leasehold only, thus enabling the family to move home as and when needed, usually for economic reasons. A house was seen as an encumbrance in the financial sense, unlike today, where home-ownership is something to aspire toward even while still being beyond the earning power of most workers.

⁴⁸ House agency and journalism have many qualities in common; a dependency on cliché and a willingness to break the bones of the truth are prerequisites in both industries.

⁴⁹ Poppy also enjoyed Pallister Hall’s door sensors, temperature control, retracting furniture and other such innovations. It is difficult to express Poppy’s wonderment, however, as today we are rather more blasé about home technology, even while most still don’t have access to it.