by Jon Hartless
And her crime was made worse by her POOR driving, which hampered the proper drivers on the track and handed victory to foreign visitor Lorenzo Sellini, marking his first – and only – victory at the Sussex.
Full report to follow in tomorrow’s Daily Post! With yet more SHOCKING pictures of the Petrol Queen!
61 As noted in Volume I, one reason Thunderbus was better than its steam competitors was that the engine could be run for much longer periods at high speeds, whereas a steam turbine could only run at full velocity for a limited time before it had to be slowed to cool down a little. British steam racing was little more than bursts of speed alternated with slower pacing.
62 Today, there are some two hundred of the Thunderbolts made during the company’s first life still on the road, in contrast to only a rather modest forty seven of all the Albizzis made during the same era.
63 A popular club in Grosvenor Square; it was later informally known as the Thunderbolt Club, while Grosvenor Square itself was known to London cabbies as Thunderbolt Corner, given the number of Thunderbolt drivers who lived and parked their cars there.
Chapter Sixteen
Poppy Orpington SLAPS the face of British workers! by Harvey McArdle.
Astounded, amazed and sickened as we were when reporting the incredible story of outspoken suffrage man-hater POPPY ORPINGTON setting up her own business, we had at least assumed that she would be hiring BRITISH workmen, the best in the world, to fill the jobs. But no! It seems British workers are not good enough for her! For incredibly, the top job has been given to a GERMAN engineer! I hope Miss Orpington does not expect too much work from him, as he will no doubt spend most of his time marching around the office threatening war on the neighbours. This is, after all, what Germans do.
Even more astonishingly, she also seems to have a MONKEY on hand! This swarthy little fellow has been spotted on her pit crew at various races, so we can only assume she has shunted him over to the factory so he won’t be in anyone’s way.
Now, don’t get me wrong. As a tolerant nation we are proud of offering a safe – but temporary – haven to foreign guests, providing they know how to behave in a correct manner. But this sausage-munching German and the unknown darkie are not temporary guests; they clearly wish to stay here indefinitely – and at OUR cost!
Another point of contention is the rampant socialism to be found on the work site. The men address the Orpington female as Poppy. She calls them by their first names!64 Perhaps this is no surprise, however, as SOCIALISM goes hand in hand with many other UNNATURAL practices, such as Miss Orpington’s FEVERED female friendship with her female mechanic, Amanda Abberly, who can often be seen with a spanner in her hand rather than a ring on her finger. Does she regret the SHAME she brings to her family?
This Fair Isle has long stood for tradition since time immemorial, a tradition that foreigners and unnatural unmarried women can scarcely hope to appreciate or understand. Rest assured, the British public know the score and will not be buying any of these shoddy goods with FOREIGN fingerprints all over them!65
The question of when “Mr Thunderbus” would get his cars into production vexed Poppy considerably over the next few weeks; after the early triumph of getting the prototype engine running, every day since had brought new problems postponing the launch of the first car.
‘What’s the problem now?’ demanded Poppy, wearily.
‘I’ve taken EXP1 out again and confirmed it, I’m afraid,’ apologised Garrin. ‘The chassis suffers from awful crank vibration.’
‘How badly?’
‘Enough to damage the engine if left for too long,’ replied Garrin, gloomily.
‘So what’s the engineering solution?’
‘We can manufacture a solid rubber seal which should reduce the vibration to practically zero,’ said Yousef, who now officially worked as Garrin’s deputy. Thankfully, he had family in London he could stay with, and it seemed the family had friends who had an attractive unmarried daughter living with them, facilitating Yousef’s move down south. ‘I’ve been looking into the materials we’d need – and that includes a new type of lathe – but it will take time to gather everything together. After that, the seals themselves shouldn’t be too difficult to create.’
‘How long, do you think?’ groaned Poppy.
‘It could be weeks yet.’
‘We can’t wait that long; the company will go bust!’
‘So will the engine, without a seal to prevent the resonance damaging the crankcase,’ said Yousef, sympathetically. They were sitting around the small table in the boardroom of Thunderbolt Motors. Poppy was growing to hate the area; when it wasn’t full of directors complaining about money, it was full of staff bringing fresh problems for her to solve.
‘Any suggestions, anyone?’ she asked of the room at large. Her gaze focussed on Peter Harding, the head of sales.
‘We have to sell soon, or we will go under,’ he said, quietly. ‘We’ve now lost four orders in the past ten days because of the problems from the engineering side.’
‘It’s not easy building a new engine and chassis from scratch,’ bridled Garrin; there was little love lost between the workshop and the sales department.
‘I can’t sell problems,’ replied Peter with a shrug. ‘I have sold non-existent cars based on your promises of when the units would be ready, and those sales have now been lost.’
‘If you think you can do better,’ snapped Yousef, ‘do please come and put in an honest shift in the factory.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ demanded Peter. ‘If you want to say something, say it.’
‘That will do,’ bellowed Poppy, silencing the argument before it could escalate. ‘Sales are needed, so we need a car to sell.’
‘That’s another issue,’ said Peter, gloomily. ‘The revised estimates have gone up again. The latest projection is we’ll have to sell them for a minimum of nine hundred pounds apiece.’
‘Nine hundred?’ boggled Poppy. ‘It was seven-fifty at the last estimate – and that’s still far more than a worker can afford!’ Poppy’s original intention of making an affordable car for the masses had been long abandoned; the high costs of setting up the factory, coupled with the fees charged by outside machinists to fabricate the parts they required, had pushed the price up until it was now sitting firmly in the luxury bracket of the market.
‘I know,’ replied Peter, holding his hands up in agreement, ‘but the gearboxes are proving to be rather expensive. And temperamental.’66
Poppy breathed out in irritation. ‘Right; we’ll save money and time by fitting only rear brakes on the first models. Most other car manufacturers still don’t bother with front brakes so it won’t look odd if we follow their lead. We’ll aim for four brake sets on the later models. Are there any other problems with EXP1 apart from the vibrations?’
‘Several, but nothing urgent,’ replied Garrin, seeing Poppy’s expression and playing safe.
Poppy drummed the fingers of her mechanical hand on the cheap table top. ‘How long can the car run before the vibration causes any damage?’
‘That would depend entirely on usage,’ began Garrin before catching Poppy’s expression. ‘But I would guess maybe a few months,’ he finished, hurriedly.
‘All right; we start selling regardless. If anyone brings up the vibration, we call it the Thunderbolt power rattle and say its proof of the power of the engine. We’ll advise all purchasers to bring the vehicle in for a maintenance check six weeks after purchase and then we’ll slip the dampener on then, at no charge – we’ll partly cover the fabrication costs with the charge for the maintenance overhaul. Please tell me the dampeners will be available by then?’
‘Definitely,’ nodded Yousef.67 The tension eased around the table, confirming a suspicion of Poppy’s that a borderline ethical solution to a problem could bind people together against the outside world.
‘Then let’s get EXP1 ready and hand it over to that journalist Simeon recommended. What w
as his name?’
‘Barry Kitchen’ replied Peter. ‘Works for Auto Magazine; been getting himself a good reputation as a fair chap who knows his stuff, on and off the track. And he is a known supporter of the smaller car firms, so he could be invaluable to us.’
‘Good; he can have the very first Thunderbolt for his review. And let’s all pray he likes it.’
64 Although addressing working men by their surnames was common practice, it was already beginning to die out by this point.
65 Accompanying this article was an equally offensive cartoon, typical of the era, showing a bloated Poppy looking with approval at a group of monkeys sat on Thunderbus’’ bonnet. The caption underneath read: Why hire a darkie as a mechanic? It saves on soap! This single image says more about the press and its attitudes than I ever could.
66 The gearboxes on all the early Thunderbolt range were somewhat awkward to change smoothly, but back then many other gearboxes had similar issues so thankfully this did not mark the company out at all.
67 Oddly, enthusiasts were soon bragging about their power rattle and they complained bitterly when the rattle was dampened down, thinking they had lost speed as a result.
Chapter Seventeen
Infamous Poppy Orpington ready to unleash unwanted petrol cars on public roads! by J Wilberforce, Chief Feature Writer of The Daily Delivery!
With the news out that the shameless Poppy Orpington is pressing ahead with her half-baked ideas on car design, I herein make a prediction that her company will have folded within a year of starting.
Why do I claim this? Simple. The British public knows what it wants. And what it doesn’t want is an ugly black monster of a car raging through our streets! Can you imagine the roads being clogged by the enormous, smelly, dangerous and uncivilised copies of the dreadful, unreliable and unstable Thunderbus?
What horrors will we face when dangerous and unstable people – who are, after the all, the only sort who will buy a petrol car from this woman, for like attracts like – are racing hell for leather around our cities and beautiful countryside? Children will be killed, the elderly will be terrified, and livestock will be affected! And what is the government doing about this? Nothing!
Already we must lament the passing of the age of beauty in motoring. Thanks to the Orpington woman, we will instead have foul-smelling death-traps upon our roads, black bricks of death scarring the landscape with ugliness, greed and uncouth behaviour.
What is happening to our once great land, my friends? What?
Having accepted the evidence that Thunderbus was no longer the fastest vehicle in the country, Poppy ruthlessly decided the car her father had worked on for so long, which had broken him so completely, and which had given her so many victories, would have to be stripped down and rebuilt with a new gearbox, chassis and bodywork.
It would mean missing a few races but with any luck they would be ready for the final – and richest – event of the season; the Purley Cup. Lord Hepplewhite had recently announced the track would re-open for the event, and everyone with a car and enough money for the entrance fee would be able to participate.
‘How are you going to sort Thunderbus?’ asked Amy.
‘Victor Foulis,’ replied Poppy, running her finger down a page of the telephone directory. They were sitting in Poppy’s office at Brook House where a telephone had recently been installed, an invaluable – albeit expensive – tool for communicating with the factory, in case of emergency.
‘Who?’
‘We met him at the Oxford circuit; the owner of English Racing Cars,’ replied Poppy. ‘Nice chap. No friend of the idiot Hepplewhite, either.’
‘And how can he help?’
‘As well as running ERC, he does many custom jobs for various clients; unique alternations to production cars, that sort of thing. It’s said Victor can take a family limousine and turn it into a champion-winning vehicle.’
‘Why not let the team at Thunderbolt Motors have a go?’ demanded Amy in an accusing tone. ‘Don’t you trust us?’
‘Because I’m not giving them a personal job which will distract them from their paid work; we need to get Thunderbolts out of the factory and onto the road,’ replied Poppy, finding the number and pulling the heavy brass phone toward her. ‘Besides, I need a skilled and experienced manufacturer who can do a quick turnaround. We’re still on a learning curve at the factory. But we’re getting there.’68
‘I don’t know how you can use that thing,’ muttered Amy, searching for another topic to complain about. ‘Anyone could be watching us, and I’ve heard the germs build up in the mouthpiece where they can jump right onto your tongue!’
‘This isn’t a Tele-Casting Phone; it’s sound only. And telephones have been available for years, at least for the rich, and I don’t think any of them have died from a sudden avalanche of phone germs. I’m more concerned that such a useful invention has never been rolled out universally so everyone can enjoy it.’
‘Enjoy it?’ echoed Amy, who shared the widespread fear of telephone sets popular among the lower classes. ‘What’s to enjoy about shouting down a germ-filled mouthpiece? They’ll never catch on, you know; people prefer letters and telegrams.’
‘That’s because the mass public haven’t been given the choice; it’s the magician’s card trick all over again. You think you’re being asked to select a card at random from the deck but in fact you’re being given a particular card under the illusion of choice, so the magician can then say “it’s the ten of clubs” and everyone is impressed. The technology exists to have a phone in every house, which would drive the costs down, but the telephonic companies are all owned by the rich who keep the technology to themselves.’
‘Perhaps you’d better just phone this Victor person,’ said Amy, her face glazing over in a familiar manner.
Poppy lifted the phone’s ear piece, gazing at it momentarily as she too had heard the urban myths of entire families dying after using a dirty telephone before jiggling the lever to connect to the operator.
‘What number, please?’ asked the distant male voice.
‘London 52824, please.’
‘One moment,’ replied the operator. Crackles and thumps came down the line. Poppy amused herself while waiting by reaching over and trying to unbutton Amy’s blouse, making her lover blush red and squirm.
‘Poppy!’ she hissed in protest, though she was clearly enjoying the attention. ‘What are you up to?’
‘I think the rug looks very inviting down there and we could strip off and hello Mr. Foulis! Sorry, I didn’t hear you come. I mean come on the phone. I mean I didn’t know you were there!’
‘Er, hello? Sorry, this is a very bad line,’ replied the voice.
‘Oh, one moment,’ replied Poppy as she adjusted the stubby aerial on top of the phone set, wiggling it around at random. ‘Can you hear me now?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Can you hear me now?’ repeated Poppy, wondering when a telephone would be made that didn’t require the ubiquitous phrase to be repeatedly shouted in ever increasing desperation.
‘Ah, much better!’
‘It’s Poppy Orpington here; we met at the Oxford circuit a while ago.’ After establishing the pleasantries, Poppy explained her need for a new chassis before the last race of the season.
‘Ah, you’ll be needing the full bespoke custom job, with steering and gearbox thrown in?’ queried Victor.
‘You can do the gearbox as well?’ asked Poppy in surprise. ‘On a petrol model?’
‘Not as such, but we’ve always worked in collaboration with Lingford Automotive who specialise in units for both steam cars and petrol trucks. I bet they’d be delighted to work on the famous Thunderbus.’
‘And how long do you think it will take?’
‘I’ll have to work that out,’ replied Victor. ‘Can I give you a call back?’
‘Certainly,’ said Poppy. She gave the details and telephone number, and rang off with Victor promising to get back in touch
within an hour. ‘Quick, Amy, draw the curtains!’
‘What? Er, why?’
‘We have an hour to wait and I want to see how comfortable that rug is...’
The phone rang some thirty minutes later, to Poppy’s vexation. She popped up from behind the desk, her pale freckled face unusually flushed, her mechanical arm holding her blouse discreetly in front of her body in an unnecessary act of modesty as Amy’s paranoia on the all-seeing telephone temporarily over-ruled Poppy’s sense.
‘Hello?’ she croaked into the receiver.
‘Good news, Miss Orpington,’ exclaimed Victor’s voice. ‘A flexible sports chassis, with sport’s steering and brakes, and a fully integrated gearbox by Lingford Automotive can be done before the Purley Cup. It will cost, though.’
‘Marvellous,’ replied Poppy. ‘You’re being a great help, Victor.’
‘Think nothing of it; a pleasure to help. And to lighten your wallet!’
Poppy gurgled with genuine amusement. ‘If you fancy giving me a discount in return for advertising the new Thunderbus is running on a specially constructed ERC chassis, then let me know.’
‘Tempting,’ laughed Victor. ‘We could always do with the publicity. Being a car manufacturer is to lurch from crisis to catastrophe and back again. And that’s in a good week. I’ll look at the figures and get something official out in the post to you.’
‘Great,’ coughed Poppy, keenly aware that Thunderbolt Motors would probably make Victor’s life even more difficult. She hung up on the call, glad to cut the connection on one source of guilt. ‘We could be onto something with this chassis,’ she said to Amy, who was still lying on the rug. ‘But I’ll need plenty of practice in the new Thunderbus.’
‘You’re doing it again,’ whined Amy, reaching for her clothes.
‘Doing what again?’ asked Poppy in confusion.