Rise of the Petrol Queen

by Jon Hartless

  RISE OF THE

  PETROL QUEEN

  JON HARTLESS

  Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas’d,

  Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,

  Raze out the written troubles of the brain,

  And with some sweet oblivious antidote

  Cleanse the stuff’d bosom of that perilous stuff

  Which weighs upon the heart?

  Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 3

  Table of Contents

  Preface

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Preface

  by James Birkin, editor

  Writing this second book on Poppy Orpington has proved somewhat problematic, not least because a biography demands a traditional linear structure of cause and effect – from birth to success and from success to death. Volume I, Full Throttle, did indeed cover Poppy’s early years to her stunning debut on the Purley racetrack, but despite her tragically curtailed life we are not yet ready to focus upon her passing.

  Volume II, Rise of the Petrol Queen, instead focuses upon the months of February to November 1904 – a time encompassing Poppy’s first full season as a racing driver and also the founding of her famous car company, Thunderbolt Motors. 1904 also witnessed the first sustained outpouring of hatred toward her from the popular press, of which the worst offender was the Daily Post, founded by Lord William Wrohan to propagate his loathing of the poor, the working class, women and foreigners.

  Sadly, the paper still operates to the same values today. Not once have the proprietors admitted their culpability in libelling Poppy, nor have they ever admitted to the criminal actions against her by their editor of that time, Harvey McArdle. His behaviour at Poppy’s cottage has been an open secret within the newspaper industry for years, yet this volume – astonishingly – is the first account of the attack ever put before the public.

  It was the Post, incidentally, which hung the disparaging nickname of the “Petrol Queen” upon Poppy – a mocking label repeated across many other newspapers. I have included several contemporary articles to demonstrate the media’s attitude toward Poppy and the inevitable strain this placed upon her.

  A far better view into Poppy’s character can be gleaned from her numerous letters and diary entries, all vital resources in my attempt to rehabilitate Poppy’s reputation. Unfortunately, this is the last time I can offer a definite insight into her state of mind as Poppy became far more circumspect about recording her feelings after her traumatic encounter with McArdle. For Volumes III and IV, legitimate guesswork coupled with external sources such as letters from third parties, press reports and other publications from the era will have to suffice.

  In conclusion, I hope the reader enjoys this return visit to Poppy’s world – her life, her victories and her defeats – and will come away with a little more sympathy and understanding of a most wronged woman whose worst days sadly lay ahead of her.

  Chapter One

  ‘Can my father return home?’ enquired Poppy of the specialist, Doctor Joseph Baxter.

  ‘Good Lord, no. Although he has been quite lucid this morning, on other days he will suffer a relapse and will be quite helpless in looking after himself – and he then potentially becomes dangerous to others.’

  ‘Is he still having violent episodes?’ asked Poppy, anguish showing on her face. She had been asking the same question for weeks. As she sat in the hard button-back chair across from Baxter’s polished desk, she hoped today’s answer would be different.

  ‘There have been a few, and some of the nurses are afraid to go near him. I know it is not an issue for you, given your prosthetic, but your father can be an intimidating man.’ Baxter casually gestured at Poppy’s gleaming arm of steel and brass, powerful enough to break bones.

  ‘How is the latest course of treatment going? You mentioned a cold water cure?’

  ‘Yes; total bodily immersion in a cold bath, three times a day. The results have not yet been encouraging, but I am theorising your father’s greater frame requires a bolder course of treatment. Maybe five longer treatments each day.’

  ‘How does being submerged in cold water help?’1

  ‘It has been established by Doctor Grant Peterson, of the Swindon Spa Centre, that mental illness is caused by poor blood circulation and hence an invigorating course of cold water treatment, if applied scientifically, can work wonders in improving the flow of blood around the body.’

  ‘But how exactly is such a treatment done “scientifically”?’

  ‘It’s done on a specific timetable which pays attention to the patient’s unique bio-chemistry,’ replied Baxter, refusing to meet Poppy’s eyes as he fiddled with a pen on his desk.

  ‘Very well,’ said Poppy, feeling somewhat dissatisfied at the answer. ‘I’ll go and visit him now. But I’ll be back tomorrow to see how the treatment is progressing.’

  ‘Certainly, certainly,’ said Baxter quickly, eager to get the tall, irritating young woman out of his office. ‘Just make an appointment as usual with the receptionist. Please remember; no more than five minutes with your father as external factors can cause negative excitement in a patient and impede recovery. And no stories of the outside world, otherwise his treatment may be put back by weeks, if not months! Here is this month’s invoice; payment is due within one week, thank you so much.’

  Poppy breathed deeply as she left Baxter’s office. She hated the Corbin Sanatorium but it was the only place in Worcestershire offering any sort of treatment for mental illness, and as such she could not think of anywhere better for her father. Except, perhaps, being cared for at home, and Poppy often felt ashamed she didn’t do just that. Was leaving him in the hands of the newly-emerging psychiatric profession merely an excuse to live her own life without hindrance? She tried to shake the guilt from her head, her hair bouncing in wild red waves down her back.

  Poppy walked the long dark corridors, her leg brace whining gently as it supported her weak knee. Reaching her father’s room, she gently knocked on the door and gave him a few seconds before walking in. He was in his cheap sanatorium pyjamas and dressing gown, sitting on a shabby chair next to a small bed. He looked up sharply as Poppy walked in, his face suspicious, but after staring at his daughter for several seconds he relaxed a little.

  ‘Hello, Poppy,’ he grunted, his voice low.

  ‘Hello Dad; how are you?’ she asked, stooping down to give him a peck on the cheek and a quick hug. She could feel his huge frame trembling under his thin gown, presumably the after-effect of the cold water treatment.

  ‘I have to get out of here,’ said Mr Orpington, his voice rising. ‘The race is coming up and I must prepare the car. I must work on Thunderbus!’

  Poppy shook her head sadly as the metal fingers of her prosthetic hand tensed in her coat pocket. How could she make him understand the Purley Cup was long gone? Her father had built the car before being broken by it, while she was free to enjoy the financial rewards it brought her
. Her guilt was not helped by the sheer joy at driving the fastest vehicle in the country.

  ‘When can I go home, Poppy?’ asked Mr Orpington, pityingly. ‘I want to go back to the workshop.’

  ‘I don’t know, Dad, it’s difficult,’ replied Poppy, her eyes glistening. ‘Soon, hopefully, when you’re fighting fit.’ She had given up telling him they didn’t live at the workshop anymore; they had moved the previous year to a small cottage provided by their sponsor, Lord Simeon Pallister – something her father’s fractured mind could not recall. She looked at him but already his focus seemed to be elsewhere, as though he were mentally retreating into unpleasant memories. Sadly, she kissed him again and walked from the room.

  ‘Any improvement, my dear?’ asked Lady Helena Pallister as Poppy climbed into the steam-puffing limousine outside the clinic. Helena, her husband Simeon, and Poppy’s “friend”, Amelia Abberly,2 had been sitting in a somewhat uncomfortable silence in the back, awaiting Poppy’s return. Although Poppy could converse with Helena and Simeon on equal intellectual terms, she was increasingly aware that Amy was inhibited by her limited interests and ingrained deference to those higher up the social ladder.

  ‘None at all,’ replied Poppy as she settled on the luxurious bench seat. ‘He still can’t remember anything except being in the workshop.’

  ‘They are the best at what they do,’ soothed Simeon, pressing the intercom button and instructing the driver to set off to Pallister Hall.

  ‘That in itself is a problem,’ muttered Poppy, glancing at Baxter’s latest invoice in her hand. The treatment she was paying for was expensive.

  ‘You’re still earning good money from your endorsements,’ murmured Helena, sympathetically. ‘Enough to look after your father for now, at least.’

  ‘Yes, but the advertising revenue will dry up as my fame recedes,’ replied Poppy, feeling a little sick at her mercenary reaction. ‘I can’t look after him personally; I haven’t got the skills or the knowledge.’ Despite telling herself he genuinely needed the best treatment money could buy, Poppy couldn’t help but wonder if her attitude would have been different if her mother was still alive and ready to act as a domestic nurse.

  ‘And it would be a considerable waste of your singular talents to do so,’ pointed out Simeon. ‘Well, it’s true, even if no-one wants to say it,’ he added as Helena frowned at him in exasperation.

  ‘I fear Simeon has caught your habit of undiplomatic observations,’ murmured Helena with a gentle sigh. ‘Much as I loathe the blunt statement, however, my husband is correct; you cannot let your considerable talents go to waste on domestic duties.’

  ‘Which brings us neatly to your future career, young Poppy,’ interrupted Simeon. ‘Are you going to return to the race track? The new season will be starting soon and we must prepare if we are to enter. You don’t want to waste all the practice laps you’ve been enjoying over the past few weeks.’

  ‘I know,’ replied Poppy, ‘but I can’t pretend it’s all about Dad; that would be hypocritical. The financial aspect is just as important for me, personally.’ Poppy was now living to a much higher standard than she had ever imagined, and she was increasingly worried she would lose it all. She needed money not only to pay for her father’s treatment but also to maintain her prosthetic arm – as well as to pay for her own private pleasures.

  ‘Then why the delay?’ asked Simeon. ‘If you want to race, we can get started immediately by putting in an application for the High Wycombe speed trials. It’s only a fortnight away.’

  ‘What’s that?’ blurted Amy, to remind everyone she was still there.

  ‘It’s the most famous flat-out trial in the country,’ chuckled Simeon, unaware of Amy’s face reddening at his laughter. ‘Huge crowds, lots of publicity, and a nice straight run for Thunderbus who, as we all know, does not like tight corners. It promises to be a good event for us, so why not?’

  ‘And if I may venture an opinion,’ murmured Helena. ‘You are now a public figure, and with that comes a responsibility to – well, to do your best, as an example to others. Especially to those of the working class who look up to you as a beacon as to what you can achieve, if you put your mind to it.’

  Poppy snorted as she looked out at the passing Worcestershire countryside, little changed for over a century despite the enormous technological strides enjoyed by the wealthy elite. ‘I sometimes think my own class is absolutely the worst for bigotry, given the number of letters I get from them telling me to get back in the kitchen where I supposedly belong.’

  ‘All the more reason to prove them wrong, to show what anyone is capable of achieving if they try hard enough.’

  ‘Except it isn’t, is it?’ replied Poppy as a deflection from her ever growing self-loathing which told her she didn’t deserve to succeed. ‘Most poor people will never even get the chance to try. They lack the opportunities and the resources. And they’ve suffered an entire lifetime of having the hidden directive of society – knowing your place – drummed into them from school onwards.’

  ‘Yes, but we aren’t talking about them, we are talking about you,’ interrupted Simeon, a sly look in his eyes. ‘The only real reason you can’t enter any races is if you feel you’re not a good enough driver to compete – no more, no less. Are you good enough to compete?’

  This, at least, Poppy could answer; she was more than good enough – and she loved the drama and excitement of being in control of a powerful car against top-class competition. She never felt so alive as when on a race track, her worries and doubts dissolving under the pure joy of driving fast and well; only afterward did the gnawing self-hatred return.

  ‘Very well,’ she said, aware of Simeon’s crude manipulation and irritated by both it and him. ‘We will do another year.’

  ‘That’s the stuff,’ enthused Simeon.

  ‘You’re just over-excited at being Poppy’s manager,’ smiled Helena, demurely, for she had been trained in the belief it was unladylike to show any feelings too openly.

  ‘I was Poppy’s manager last year in all but name,’ protested Simeon.

  ‘But now it is an official position,’ countered Helena, gently. ‘Which means you can swank to your friends about your famous driver and her famous car.’

  ‘Gosh, yes, I hadn’t thought of that at all,’ grinned Simeon, smugly adjusting his cravat. ‘Though the job itself isn’t all fun; I’ll have to submit all the paperwork for the trials as soon as possible. And then I’ll have to sort a hotel and transportation for race day. The pressures and responsibilities soon mount up, you know.’ To save Thunderbus any unnecessary wear and tear, the car was carried on a flat-bed truck to each race, annoying Poppy considerably as she loved driving Thunderbus on both road and track.

  ‘I hope we can all share the same hotel this year,’ said Helena, her tone of voice announcing they would indeed be sharing the same hotel. ‘I strongly dislike the idea of leaving Poppy and Amy in a separate establishment.’ This was the usual practice for racing teams as the working-class pit crew would stay at a cheaper hostel than the socially superior drivers and sponsors.

  ‘As long as Poppy and Amy concur,’ replied Simeon.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ mumbled Amy, who found the idea rather alarming; she and Poppy would have to sleep in separate rooms as society would not tolerate a relationship such as theirs. Even Simeon and Helena were expected to have separate rooms, or at least single beds in the same room, despite being married. On certain matters, society was rather squeamish.

  Poppy reflected on this and more as they passed through the edge of Worcester town. She was happy to be racing again yet she felt inhibited from saying anything about her fears and concerns, even with those closest to her; some things were just too private to be shared with anyone. Besides, Poppy rather doubted Amy would truly understand her dilemmas. A flash of irritation at herself, at her father and at Amy rose up and was immediately replaced by a savage slap of guilt from the self-doubt festering in her soul.3

  1 A grea
t many sham remedies were being tried on many thousands of mental patients at this time. As shown in her diary, Poppy was becoming increasingly suspicious of Doctor Baxter’s claims, but at this point she still held the medical profession in some reverence. It was medical science, after all, which had enabled her own prosthetic to be fitted, thus giving her a full and active life in a prejudiced world.

  2 Although Poppy was now enjoying a fully rounded relationship with Amy – the foundations of which we saw in Volume I – their domestic life was sadly far from harmonious. Amy suffered from jealousy, envy, and acute feelings of inadequacy. That she placed the burden of these squarely on Poppy’s shoulders only put more pressure on Poppy herself, and may have damaged her future ability to commit to any lasting relationship.

  3 One heartrending element which became clear in my researches was how the first stirrings of guilt and self-loathing were developing behind Poppy’s public façade of confidence and determination, defects which prevented her from truly enjoying her life as any success was inevitably followed by mordant self-criticism as to her true worth.

  Chapter Two

  ‘This is an aerodrome, isn’t it?’ exclaimed Amy as they arrived for the High Wycombe speed trial. The area was little more than a huge open rectangle with enormous tethering rings hammered into the concrete; despite the technology required to keep an airship in the skies, very little was spent on ground level where manual labour could do the work of moving cargo from airship to truck far more cheaply than hydraulic loaders.

  ‘It is indeed,’ answered Simeon.

  ‘Excellent! Are there any airships about?’

  ‘Not on a Saturday afternoon,’ smirked Simeon. ‘Even the aircrews observe the weekend tradition.’4

  ‘Why are you wearing that superior smile?’ asked Poppy, giving Simeon a sharp prod with her steel forefinger.

  ‘Ow! It’s the expression on your faces; the excitement at seeing a heroic air pilot,’ teased Simeon. ‘Oh, the romance that still clings to the airships, even today!’