Rise of the Petrol Queen Read online

  ‘Ignore him, you two,’ smiled Helena from under her enormous hat. ‘Simeon is just envious as he doesn’t have an aura of romance. At all.’

  ‘Witty as ever, my dear,’ sniffed Simeon, pulling a face at his wife. ‘As I was endeavouring to explain, you’ll have to visit during the week to see an airship, but even then you can only observe from a distance. The crews are too busy to allow gawkers to wander around freely.’

  ‘They might make an exception for Poppy,’ observed Helena. ‘After all, she has her own aura of romance thanks to her racing career.’

  ‘How about me?’ asked Amy, feeling excluded from Helena’s praise.

  ‘I’m sure any friend of Poppy’s would be welcome also,’ added Helena quickly, blushing at her rare instance of insensitivity.

  ‘I’d love to see an airship from the inside,’ said Poppy. ‘I used to dream of flying when I was a child.’

  ‘You still are a child,’ laughed Simeon, moving with speed from the car before Poppy could poke him with her hard finger again. ‘Come on, this is our paddock; let’s get ready to race!’

  Poppy watched in satisfaction as Thunderbus rolled carefully off the back of the flat-bed truck, exciting the ever-increasing spectators. Simeon had contacted various newspapers about their attendance, resulting in an enormous paying crowd and a substantial cash prize for the eventual winner. ‘Go over the rules again, just to make sure I’m clear,’ she said, watching Amy performing the pre-race checks on Thunderbus. The pit crew had been released at the end of the previous season, leaving Amy – temporarily – in sole charge.

  ‘It’s very simple,’ explained Helena, indicating the long stretch of concrete that was the aerodrome. ‘Can you see the series of cones at the far end of the track? They form a turning circle for the competitors who run two at a time. You race down your side of the track and into the cones, follow them so you get turned about and then back to the finishing line. The first over the line wins and moves on to the next round.’

  ‘Only you have to do it in a rather more exciting manner,’ interrupted Simeon. ‘My wife has many sterling qualities, but making a race sound thrilling is not one of them.’

  ‘That is because I am trained by society to supress all excitement in my demeanour,’ replied Helena, raising her eyebrow. ‘Anything else is considered unladylike.’

  ‘Ignoring the radical politics,’ replied Simeon, ‘the race is about a mile each way and thus demonstrates the power, straight line speed, and also the turning ability of each car. That, of course, is where you will lose time, and badly, as Thunderbus has such an awful turning circle.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ countered Poppy, cheerfully. ‘The top speed will compensate.’

  ‘On a longer stretch, yes, but this is a much smaller event. The rival cars can go flat out each way without lifting.’5

  ‘Fortunately, Thunderbus flat out beats anything else on the road.’

  ‘Your overconfidence is a possible weakness,’ cautioned Simeon. ‘I really wish you could see that.’

  ‘We’ve got the best car and the best mechanic, so unless I have a blow-out or similar, where is the problem?’ asked Poppy. ‘It’s just a shame this is such a short event. It’s a pity we can’t enter Thunderbus in a long haul race like the Riviera Rally; I’m sure he would be brilliant in it.’

  ‘Quite possibly, but as the Riviera Rally is for production cars only... oh dear’ Helena’s sentence trailed off as something over her husband’s shoulder took her attention.

  Poppy and Simeon turned in alarm. “Oh dear” was Helena’s strongest exclamation, bordering on profanity. Rolling up to the starting line was an open-top, stubby Kineton 4404 Racing Special, one of the fastest British production cars on the road. Emblazoned on the side was the car’s nickname, Silver Bullet, consequently revealing the car’s driver; Lord Oswald Hepplewhite.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see that gobshite so soon,’ muttered Poppy. She had beaten Hepplewhite at the Purley race track a few months previously but his father had unfairly disqualified her, giving the delighted Oswald the win.

  ‘Poppy, your language,’ gasped Helena, closing her eyes in despair. ‘I’ve told you on many occasions before; polite people don’t say such things.’

  ‘Yes, sorry,’ said Poppy, contritely. ‘I’ll try harder. But you can’t expect me to suppress all my reactions to seeing that...’ She paused, unable to find a single socially acceptable word to describe Hepplewhite.

  ‘Gobshite?’ suggested Simeon, cheerfully.

  ‘Simeon!’ hissed Helena. ‘We are supposed to be setting an example!’

  ‘Sorry, couldn’t resist, and you must admit the word does fit Oswald like a glove.’ Simeon recoiled under Helena’s unusually ferocious glare. ‘Ah, the race marshal is flapping his arms wildly which seems to be the recognised signal across the land that we’re ready to start,’ he gabbled, avoiding his wife’s expression. ‘I see by the boards Thunderbus will take place in the third heat. That’s good showmanship by the marshals, you know; making the crowd wait to see the famous petrol car will whet their appetite.’

  Poppy left Simeon to jabber his way to safety and climbed into Thunderbus. Her racing clothes were chosen for practicality as much as effect; the large leather coat was for warmth in the open top car, while her scandalous blouse, waistcoat and jodhpurs allowed her free movement for steering and gear changes. For protection she wore a leather racing helmet – though what a half-globe of leather could do to protect her if the car rolled over she could not say – while a face scarf and a pair of expensive goggles kept her face free of stones, dust and insects.

  ‘Any problems?’ she asked Amy.

  ‘No, all set and ready to go,’ beamed Amy. She loved engines and would spend many happy hours tinkering with Thunderbus while Poppy devoured book after book indoors.

  Poppy smiled. While she was a competent mechanic, she lacked Amy’s passion for diving into the workings; she just wanted to drive and race. She turned the ignition key on the dashboard and flicked a few switches, waiting for the plug warmers and fuel feed to do their work before pressing the starter button. Thunderbus exploded into life, the deep snarl of the petrol engine scattering the more nervous members of the crowd. Compared to the quiet, hissing tone of a steam car, Thunderbus was a mechanical demon from the lower pits of Hell, an effect heightened by the bursts of flame erupting from each side of the long bonnet.

  Poppy eased the huge car toward the track, her mechanical arm making light work of the steering system which was too heavy for even the strongest of men to handle effectively. The competitors were being organised by a steward into two lines in the order they were to race. Poppy neatly slotted into the gap left for her before turning her attention to the first two entrants as they set off down the track.

  The two cars were evenly matched as they accelerated down the straight, their steam turbines hissing furiously. They were also equal as they turned through the cones and made their way back up, but as they reached the line one vehicle just managed to get its nose out in front and was declared the winner. The driver waved in triumph, though the reaction from the cheering crowd was oddly muted; it was clear they were all eagerly waiting for heat three, and the first run by Thunderbus.

  Heat two had a little more drama as the skill of one driver was rather lacking and he collided with the tightly packed cones at the bottom of the course as he swung his car about, losing a few vital seconds and ultimately the heat itself. Poppy hastily checked her copy of the rules, worried that colliding with the cones would incur a penalty; fortunately, no such forfeit existed, meaning Poppy could simply flatten the markers if necessary. She threw the rules onto the passenger seat and rolled forward under the guidance of the steward, who could hardly take his eyes from the smoking grill of the famous petrol car.

  Poppy glanced sideways at her rival; he was staring aghast at Thunderbus, a common reaction from many drivers at having an enormous, snarling vehicle spitting flames at them. She refocused on the st
eward as he raised his flag, giving it a theatrical twirl over his head; as the flag dropped, Poppy’s foot dropped with it, stamping firmly onto the accelerator as she skilfully balanced the clutch. Thunderbus reacted instantly, smoke pouring from under his6 tyres as they put the power down, searching for grip.

  The crowd whooped in astonishment as the huge black car leapt forward, leaving its rival behind. By the time the steam car had built up to its top speed, Thunderbus was already slowing for the cones at the end of the track. The crowd watched in amazement as the massive bulk of the car slewed round, clearly under the driver’s control yet unable to keep within the zone marked out by the cones as it did not have a good enough turning radius. As Poppy straightened out of the scattered cones, she accelerated hard, tearing back up the track and beating her rival by almost a complete length.

  This set the standard for the rest of the day. The sheer power of the petrol engine compensated for its dreadful handling issues, ensuring Thunderbus easily bested every competitor until only one remained; Hepplewhite’s Silver Bullet. The excitement of the crowd increased as most knew of the bad blood between the drivers after the conclusion of last season’s biggest race.

  Poppy eased up beside Hepplewhite, carefully ensuring she was closer to the streamlined Kineton than she needed to be as Hepplewhite stared ahead, trying to pretend she didn’t exist. Poppy gunned the engine, increasing the revs so the vibrations shook the ground and made Hepplewhite’s car tremble. He finally glanced over, his lips peeling back in a snarl of hatred as his well-fed cheeks wobbled up and down.

  Poppy heard a faint bubbling noise in her engine, indicating a little too much petrol was being sucked in from the tank. She grinned evilly as the flag dropped and she floored the accelerator pedal, knowing the excess fuel in the system would be expelled into a side exhaust before being ignited under the boiling temperature. A huge orange flame erupted in dramatic fashion, washing over the Kineton and scaring Hepplewhite into swerving away, thus losing precious seconds of acceleration.

  Poppy tried no other tricks after the flaming, instead concentrating on holding Thunderbus in a straight line before swinging the huge bulk around and blasting back up the track to the finish line. Behind her, Hepplewhite struggled to match the pace of the huge car, and although he gained a yard or two in the cones he never had any chance of catching the petrol-fuelled vehicle, a fact emphasised by the wildly cheering crowds...

  ‘How was that?’ grinned Poppy as she pulled up next to her friends.

  ‘I’m not sure flaming Oswald was a good idea,’ murmured Helena, worried again at Poppy’s hot-headed nature.

  ‘It’s the least he deserves,’ replied Poppy, watching as Hepplewhite raged at his pit crew in the distance, no doubt blaming them for his car’s slow speed. He turned and saw Poppy looking at him across the track, causing him to falter before abruptly walking away, hurling his leather helmet at one of his workers. ‘All in all, I thought it went rather well.’

  ‘A bit too well,’ murmured Simeon. ‘That was playing to Thunderbus’ strengths rather too much. You’re not going to have it so easy out on the race tracks with proper corners and tight bends.’

  ‘I can’t see how there will be any real problem,’ replied Poppy, giving the enormous car an affectionate pat. ‘With this sort of speed and consistency, how can we fail?’

  ‘Through overconfidence,’ warned Helena, who shared Simeon’s fear that Poppy was not approaching the new racing season with enough trepidation. ‘You are still rather inexperienced compared to the other drivers.’

  ‘I’ve done plenty of practice laps on plenty of different courses over the past month or so,’ replied Poppy, her tone pleasant but firm.

  ‘Those private laps don’t count,’ said Simeon, shaking his head. ‘They give you knowledge of the track but that is not the same as racing twenty other people all determined to squeeze you out and claim the winning flag.’

  ‘Just think about what we’re saying, Poppy,’ soothed Helena, seeing her young friend was getting slightly ruffled. ‘You know we only want to help you. Now, why don’t I go and collect what is left from the buffet to sustain us on the drive back to the hall? You must be tired and hungry after those heats.’

  Poppy gave a non-committal grunt as Helena slipped away, her enormous hat brushing over people standing some distance away. Poppy turned her sharp eyes onto Amy, who shuffled her feet and mumbled about packing up the tools and supervising the loading of Thunderbus back onto the truck. Poppy shook her head in exasperation before turning once more to Simeon, who smiled conspiratorially, prompting Poppy to move onto a new subject. ‘Speaking of money, which we weren’t... you need to take ten percent.’

  ‘Ten percent?’ replied Simeon, puzzled. ‘Ten percent of what?’

  ‘Ten percent of my advertising fees, to begin with. I’d have none of them if it weren’t for you and Helena guiding me, telling me which to pick and which to leave, and negotiating good rates of pay on top of that. I know you’ve worked hard getting those endorsements so you should be on an agent’s fee. And the same goes for any winnings from the track events; you should be earning from them, too, as you’re my racing manager.’

  ‘That’s nothing between friends,’7 grinned Simeon.

  ‘From now on, it’s strictly business.’

  ‘Really?’ smiled Simeon, gazing into Poppy’s eyes until an angry cough made them both jump; Amy was standing some distance from them, her hands greasy with oil, holding numerus tools.

  ‘Yes, indeed, but never mind, the race, I mean we must mind the race, we need to be prepared, so you can win. The race’, prattled Simeon.

  ‘Yes, we’ll need a new pit crew if we can’t re-hire the old one again,’ babbled Poppy, growing hot under a sudden rush of confusing emotions. ‘Are they still around?’

  ‘I believe they may be, or not, possibly, I’ll find out about them, see if they are available... Oh look, there’s a chap I was at school with; I’ll just go and say, er, say, say something.’ Simeon scurried away, nodding at Amy with a surprised exclamation as though he had only just seen her.

  ‘You two looked close,’ snapped Amy, her face angry and hurt.

  ‘We were talking business,’ protested Poppy. ‘You can’t talk business at the top of your voice, not with strangers passing by next to you.’ She and Amy looked around the small area which served as their paddock; it was deserted except for a lone pigeon looking hopefully for a discarded sandwich. Poppy laughed, hoping Amy would join in. She didn’t.

  4 This was back in the era of the five and a half day week, a practice which only changed in 1983 after concerted pressure from many unions over many decades. Most employers (supported by the government) resisted giving the workers the entire weekend off as they felt one and a half days was already luxury enough.

  5 Most British steam cars of this period were built to a poor design which meant they could only go at top speed in short bursts; sustained speed put too much pressure on the turbine and boiler. Most overseas manufacturers had long ago invested in new techniques which eliminated this flaw. This also explains why British racetracks were rather shorter than their European counterparts.

  6 For Poppy, Thunderbus always took the male pronoun.

  7I must here offer an apologia. I mentioned in Full Throttle that I did not believe Poppy and Simeon ever had an affair. I wrote in haste. There was a liaison, as subsequent research has demonstrated, but it was over quickly and is not something worth dwelling upon.

  Chapter Three

  The tension had not relaxed as Poppy and Amy walked into their small cottage on the grounds of Pallister Hall. Despite the building being little more than a two up, two down ex-workman’s terrace, it was carpeted, had running water and a bathroom suite, all luxuries unknown to Poppy and Amy a year beforehand.

  Poppy sank into her shabby armchair and glanced over the evening papers, wondering how best to begin a conversation as Amy bustled around the kitchen in angry silence. She felt a lurch of anno
yance as she read over the Daily Post’s vile opinion piece on her presence at the speed trial.8

  ‘We’re in the paper again, Amy,’ she called out. No answer came from the kitchen except for further bangs and the rattling of plates and saucepans. ‘It’s not a good write up, either. As usual.’ More silence in the form of energetic utensil thrashing drifted out. Poppy exhaled in irritation and started reading out loud, hoping for some form of verbal response.

  ‘“Today’s speed trial at High Wycombe, usually a welcome reminder that the new racing season will soon be upon us, carried the same smell that soured the end of last season. The sport of kings was again made a mockery of by a female racing driver, one Poppy Orpington, who clearly fancies herself as some sort of “Petrol Queen”, and who was disqualified from last year’s final race at Purley for gross infractions of racing law.

  ‘“Let us hope that she sees that a racing car is no place for a woman, no matter how bossy she may be, a hint she should have picked up from the appalled crowd who had their day spoiled by the appalling stunt. She would be better served using her energies in proper feminine pursuits, and leave the men’s work to the men.”’ Poppy waited for a response but Amy was still only communicating through the form of interpretive utensil abuse.9

  ‘There isn’t one damn comment about my success in Thunderbus,’ continued Poppy, grimly ploughing ahead with her lone conversation. ‘It’s all about my supposed flaws in not being a meek little woman who knows her place is in the home. God, it makes me sick to think of all the brilliant women being held back by these attitudes.’ Her anger and guilt increased as she waited for an answer which was still not forthcoming, forcing Poppy to cast around for a different topic. Her eye fell on a genuinely interesting advert.

  ‘Hey, Amy, listen to this: “Talk tonight by the Woman’s Suffrage Movement at Worcester Town Hall on the role of education in maintaining the status quo. All welcome. Refreshments available.” What do you think? Amy?’