Rise of the Petrol Queen

by Jon Hartless

  ‘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 y
ou?’ 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 Mac
hine. 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?’