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! Where 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.