inside story
The romance of
the Gosport
Ferry.
See pages 2-5
ISSUE NO. 10
Reading books really does increase your life-span
People who read books will live for
two years longer than people who
don’t read at all - that’s the
conclusion of a research project
that tracked the lifespan of over
3,600 people aged 50-plus.
The findings classified people
as ‘readers’ if they read books for
up to three-and-a-half hours a
week. On the other hand, there
was no increase in life-span for
those who only read newspapers
or magazines. The reasons are
unclear but are thought to relate to
the ‘immersive’ quality of bookreading.
Of course, one could speculate
that the kind of people who are
avid book-readers are perhaps also
the kind of people who have
enjoyed a good education and are
therefore more likely to look after
their health, but even allowing for
these factors, the conclusions were
the same.
Another interesting study has
revealed that people who read
literary fiction are more empathetic
than people who read genre or
formulaic fiction (in our view the
terms ‘genre’ and ‘formulaic’ are
not interchangeable - as any Ian
Rankin or Ray Bradbury fan would
tell you). The thinking seems to be
that the characters in literary fiction
are more rounded and nuanced
Our top five
sellers
*****
1
than those in genre fiction and that
therefore readers are able to
identify t heir emo tions more
accurately, a quality they then
carry over into their own lives.
All of which sounds a very
good reason why you should sit
down with a good book.
In this issue:
Going Over the Water
Writing your memoir
Cover appeal
Preview: Felix Ryp The Wonder of Woolies by Derek Phillips
HMS Ganges Days by Peter Broadbent
Dear Miss Landau by James Christie
Britain’s Wartime Milkmen by Tom Phelps
HMS Bermuda Days by Peter Broadbent
2
6
8
14
A cheer for our jolly watermen!
The Gosport Ferry occupies a
special place in people’s lives.
Day in, day out, it calmly plies
David Gary relates the early history of the
Gosport Ferry
back and forth across Portsmouth
Harbour, and though the ferries
themselves may have changed
over the years – from steam-boats
with open decks, where
passengers were exposed to the
elements, to the comfortable
diesel craft of today with their
heated saloons – they are still the
source of familiar stories, handed
David Gary, compiler of the book
down through the generations.
Going Over the Water: Memories
of the Gosport Ferry contains
dozens of those stories: of the
ferry that got lost in the fog, of
the man who misjudged the leap
from the pontoon and ended up
in the water, of the Dockyard
matey who met the girl of his
dreams on board, and even of the
dog that travelled on the first
ferry every morning – on his own
– to go to Portsmouth Meat
Market for a bone.
2
For hundreds of years, men and
women from the little fishing village
of Gosport had need to travel to
Portsmouth.
In the Middle Ages, the
fourteen-mile journey by land was a
dangerous one. If you managed to
avoid the ever-present threat of
robbers around Fareham and
Portchester, there was still the
treacherous open marshland that
surrounded Portsea Island to be
crossed. The road was of ten
completely washed away by storms
a n d t i d e s , s o t h e r e wa s n o
guarantee that you could get onto
the island at all. With a good
horse, the journey would have
taken the best part of half a day and even longer if pulling a cart.
So the sea route across what is
quite a narrow strip of water,
measuring about a third of a mile,
was by far the most attractive and
there were always fisherman who
would ferry people across as a
lucrative sideline. The job was not
an easy one: often the weather was
bad, and they also had to deal with
fast-flowing tides.
Portsmouth grew during the
reign of Henr y VIII. Constant
threats from both the Spanish and
the French meant that he needed to
build a real Navy, and indeed it
was from Por tsmouth that his
flagship, Mary Rose, sailed on its
ill-fated last trip in 1545, sinking in
the Solent on a fine day.
With the growth of the Navy
came expansion for Portsmouth
and for that small fishing village
across the harbour mouth, Gosport.
Many of the men who provided the
labour for the Royal Yard came
from Gosport, and so the need for
a reliable ferry service was born.
In 1602, in the reign of Queen
Elizabeth I, Commissioners ruled
that Gosport folk had a legal
entitlement to a ferry to Portsmouth
run by the Gosport Watermen and
that no-one else should be given a
monopoly. The fare would be one
Gosport’s watermen: clearly not to be
messed with ...
halfpenny, and the same to return:
no-one would be allowed to charge
more. They also set up a
mechanism for inspecting the boats,
to ensure they were ‘good and well
able to brook the sea’, and were
responsible for ensuring good
order.
The ferrying of passengers was
hard work: seldom was a sail any
use, so the boat had to be rowed
across. But it was good work, too,
and for this reason there was a lot
of competition, which often resulted
in violence between watermen.
Additionally, a boat was kept
‘in the family’, with the business
passing from father to son by
indenture, and so it was that the
wherrymen (a ‘wherry’ was a light
rowing boat for carr ying
passengers) consisted of a few
Gosport families, with all the
corruption that can occur in such
circumstances.
As time progressed and the
might of the Royal Navy reached
what many an old sailor would call
its peak, around the time of
Nelson’s victory at Trafalgar in
1805, the watermen were not only
ferrying passengers from one side
of the harbour to the other, but
were also engaged in taking men
out to ships, and rowing provisions
out to those ships moored in the
harbour.
By 1809 it was considered
necessary to pass a special Act of
Parliament to regulate the trade,
and prescribe legal action to be
taken against those waterman who
exploited the paying public by
charging exorbitant fares. The
watermen, as might be imagined,
immediately looked for ways
around this Act. The 1809 Act did,
however, allow for the raising of
fares in bad weather – though the
decision would be down to the port
authority, and not the watermen
themselves. The port authority
would raise a blue flag for rough
weather, when the watermen could
increase the fare to 2d, and a red
flag for very rough weather, when
those brave enough to face such
conditions would be charged 3d.
It was also legal to charge
double fare for certain night-time
hours, and to charge extra for a
ruffian made worse by liquor. Such
ruffians made their way to Gosport
on late ferries with regularity. In
1835 a fixed fare schedule was
arrived at, and pretty well adhered
to.
One of the dodges used to
attract customers in a competitive
market was to make it look as if the
ferry was about to depart. The
3
waterman would get the young
lads who played on the logs that
washed up on t he Gospor t
shoreline to sit on the boat and
make it look full. He would then
shout, “Two more and we’re over.”
Passengers would then make their
way to what they thought was next
departing boat, and the young
lads, who were known as
beac h. It must be Sout hsea!
Searches were made for the poor
f ellow, to no avail. He was
eventually found, two days later,
exhausted, hungry and thirsty,
beaching his boat near Brighton.
Then there was William Cottrell,
captain of one of the new steam
launches plying to Gosport in gale
force winds on Easter Monday
chain ferry threatened the
the lanes and pubs of
serve in the Navy’
monopoly of the watermenn
4
‘Press gangs scoured
Gosport for men to
The coming of the Floating Bridge
‘deadheads’, would immediately
disembark and receive due
recompense.
The weather has always played
a large part in the lives of mariners.
In 1863 a waterman accepted a
fare to take a sailor out to his ship
anchored at Spithead. On the way
back to Gosport, he ran into thick
fog, lost all sense of direction and
flew into a panic. He could not see
any lights; he could not even find
the ships of the line. He stopped
rowing, figuring that if he kept
rowing, he might be going even
further from home. The fog lasted
two days. When it eventually
cleared slightly, he saw a pebble
floating hulks moored on the
Gosport side were apt to hijack
small craft, murder the watermen,
and attempt to row to France. The
prisoners were originally from the
Napoleonic wars but many were
still languishing there years later.
1885. When a Royal Marine threw
himself off the ferry in mid channel,
William handed over the wheel to
his ‘mate’ and without thought for
his own safety, dived into the fastrunning tide to rescue the Marine,
dragging him to shore on the
Gosport side. For this act he was
awarded a Royal Humane Society
medal, but he carried with even
deeper pride the letter from the
young Marine’s mother, thanking
him for the deliverance of her son’s
life.
We a t h e r wa s n ’ t t h e o n l y
danger that these men faced. It has
been rumoured that French
prisoners who escaped from the
It was sometimes not too good
for the customers either, as the
area was freq uent ed by t he
infamous Press Gangs, who
scoured the lanes and public
houses of Gosport for men to serve
in the Navy. They would get men
drunk, and pay the wherrymen to
take them to ships of the line,
where they would be ‘invited’ to
serve the King. At that point complete with hangover, one
supposed - they were given a
choice to be ‘pressed’ or to
become a ‘volunteer’, whereby
their pay would be better, and any
previous debts incurred would be
wiped out.
The downside was that should a
‘volunteer’ ever desert, he would
be hanged, whereas a ‘pressed
man’ would be merely returned to
his ship. The concept of joining the
Royal Navy had not yet come to
pass. Men joined a ship, and
became part of the company that
ran and served on it. Only the
Officers who received a
commission from the Monarch
could be regarded as the ‘Royal
Navy’. The wherrymen, however,
were safe from such ‘pressing’.
Like many industries, the trade
o f w h e r r y m e n – s o m ew h e r e
between a waterman and a ferry
man - was a closed shop. Unless
you were one of t he local
wherrymen families, you stood little
chance of breaking into the trade.
A register in 1841 listed some of
the family names, which included
Tu r n e r, Wo o d m a n , B o y l i n g ,
Grogan, Hodgekinson, Manon,
Ric hardson, Johnson, Brewer,
Coker, Cottrell, Unwin, Butcher,
Seager, and Genge. Teddy Genge,
incidentally, was the last chairman
of the Old Blue Bell Variety
Playhouse that was knocked down
to accommodate the power station
at Gunwharf.
Most had sons working as
wherrymen or apprenticed to them.
The last known wherryman was Joe
Lloyd, known to be an apprentice
to his f at her in 1858. Joe’s
nickname was Cock Robin, and this
was also the name of his boat. It is
believed that Joe died in 1938 at
his home in Cheriton Road in
Gosport and at a grand age. The
hard work of rowing had clearly
not done him harm.
Among the boats the
wherrymen operated were Cygnet,
Why Not and Amelia, while over
on the Portsea side there was The
Pride of the Port, There She Goes
and Flying Cloud - all owned by a
Mr A Grubb.
In 1843 Thomas Smith was
apprenticed to his father Samuel as
a waterman for a period of nine
years. Despite the fact that he was
being apprenticed to his own
father, young Thomas still had to
enter into a formal legal agreement
– he signed the document with a
cross.
In the agreement he promised
to serve his father faithfully, to
protect his goods, not to marry
during the term of his
apprenticeship, nor haunt taverns
or playhouses, or play cards or
dice. In return his father, ‘in
consideration of natural love and
affection promised to train his son
and provide him with sufficient
meat, drink, apparel, mending,
washing and lodging and all other
necessaries during the said term.’ !
If you enjoyed this extract then you’ll
want to read the book: Going Over
the Water: Memories of the Gosport
Ferry, compiled by David Gary. A
112-page illustrated large-format
paperback, It is available exclusively
from the publisher, Chaplin Books, at
£9.99 post free, but is not available
t o b u y i n b o o k s h o p s o r f ro m
Amazon. Readers local to Gosport
can also find the book at the Tourist
Information Centre (next to the ferry)
and at The Book Shop in Lee-on-theSolent.
5
“So you want to go and seek your fortune, do you?” she said, looking rather sternly through all the papers.
“Well, I suppose if Puss in Boots can do it, you can. But first of all we must make a list of all the things you’ll need.”
She began to write a list on a piece of paper she had torn out of a notebook, frowning and biting her pencil
every now and then.
This was the list:
Change of jersey
!
!
Change of trousers
!
!
Brush and comb
!
!
Clean handkerchief
!
!
Magnet
!
!
Sticking plasters
!
!
Compass
!
!
Telescope
!
!
Treacle toffees
!
!
Money box
!
!
Passport
!
!
Reel of cotton
I looked rather puzzled about the reel of cotton.
“It’s for if you get lost in a maze,” she said. “You tie one end to the beginning and you can’t possibly go
wrong. The magnet is for finding things you’ve dropped down wells and drains and things like that. The compass is
in case you are lost in the desert. You always come to the North Pole if you walk far enough.”
I looked rather doubtful.
“The sticking plasters are for your stuffing. Don't ever let your stuffing leak out!” She wagged a finger. “Put a
plaster on straight away. And the treacle toffees are for sticking things together. You’ve no idea how well one stuck
Uncle Alec’s plate to the table the other day. It’s for things you don't want to lose.”
This was all very well, but I still hadn’t decided where to go.
“How about Cheltenham Spa,” she said, “or Moreton-in-Marsh, or Weston-super-Mare? Or even,” she went
on with an expression of great excitement, “or even Paris?”
Paris! Where they have those funny round kiosks all covered in posters and where they painted letter-boxes
yellow instead of red. What an adventure that would be!
Amanda was serious again, nibbling her pencil. “The only problem now is where you could stay.”
I hadn't really thought of staying anywhere, just moving about, but I supposed she was right. I had to have
an address after all, for my post, as well as having somewhere to unpack.
“There’s always Géraldine,” she said. “When she came last August for her school holidays she offered to
put up any member of the family. That must mean you too.”
Géraldine wasn't too bad. A bit flippant perhaps, and with an annoying habit of standing you on your head,
or covering you with a tea cosy, and then running off.
“Well, you don't seem very keen, but it’s all I can think of. Unless we write to the French President and ask
him.”
No, Géraldine would have to do; and she did live in a flat with a balcony and shutters at the windows, which
sounded very interesting.
“Getting you there is another problem though,” said Amanda thoughtfully. “You can’t just go like a human
bean would. Think of all the changing of trains and boats and buses, and all that sort of thing. You would probably
end up in Arabia or somewhere like that, where they had never even seen a bear before.”
We all sat round rather glumly. Arabia would not suit me at all, especially my squeaker, with all that sand.
Amanda’s Mummy came in then with the hot milk and biscuit.
“Well, your menagerie does look serious tonight, dear,” she said. “Hurry up with your drink, and don’t
forget to clean your teeth afterwards. Oh, and remember tomorrow we must pack up that present for Géraldine.”
6
Got a life-story worth
Writing Tips : Memoirs
telling? Struggling as to how
to begin? Here’s some
practical pointers to
help get you started
" Unless you are a household name, or
intending the book to be read only by friends
and family, then a memoir rather than an
autobiography is the best approach. What’s
the difference? An autobiography tells your
entire life - a memoir is an account of just part
of your life. There’s a strong commercial reason
for this: you may have had wide-ranging
experiences in your life - perhaps you spent
time in the armed forces, then brought up a
family, retrained as a nurse, then moved
abroad and opened an animal sanctuary. In
terms of marketing, it’s much easier to target a
book that focuses on just one aspect of your life
- how you became an animal rescuer, for
example. Just imagine the front cover and
you’ll see what we mean.
" Should you begin at the beginning? Bear in mind you need to grab your reader’s attention on page one, so it’s
often best to start with the most dramatic event in your story - and then you can backtrack to tell the reader how it
came about. So if you came under fire one day when living in Uganda, begin with that dramatic scene: don’t start
with the day you were born.
" Dialogue makes a memoir come to life. We know that you won’t really remember exactly what was said on a
particular occasion: but you’re not giving evidence in court - you’re telling a story. So ‘poetic licence’ is perfectly
acceptable - just make up the dialogue.
" We often receive memoir manuscripts in which the writer is curiously absent from the narrative. The events are
interesting and are well-told, but we never really learn what makes the author ‘tick’ because the emotional reaction
to events is withheld. So, don’t be afraid to say how you felt about things that happened, and how you reacted.
" When you’re writing about people you know well, and perhaps have known all your life, you’ll have their
picture in your head all the time. But remember that the reader can’t see that - so you need to describe what they
looked like, how their voice sounded, what gestures they used, what kind of clothes they wore, how they walked,
what you thought of them when you first encountered them and whether that first impression was the right one.
" Don’t keep stepping ‘out of the time frame’. It’s tempting to comment with hindsight on events you are
describing - for example saying ‘of course, we didn’t have the internet then’ or ‘not like families today who never
seem to sit around the table together for a meal’. This breaks the ‘time bubble’ that the reader is in and therefore
breaks the spell. On the other hand, it’s fine to draw the reader into the story by saying things like ‘Little did I
know that this was the last time I would see her’.
" Memoir-writing is very like writing fiction: you’re telling a story and you’re showing how you - the writer - was
changed or affected by events. So the same writing-rules apply: don’t forget to use colour (the red chair, the dark
green Volkswagen, his strawberry-blond hair) and don’t forget to end every chapter on a cliff-hanger. !
7
A dearth of imagination?
Why book cover design today seems to be dictated by accountants
With the continuing steep decline in the number of UK
bookshops and the dominance of internet book-selling,
has book cover design become more important ... or
less?
In theory, there’s less opportunity for browsing
and therefore less opportunity for a potential reader
to stumble across a book they’ve not heard of - and be
attracted to it simply by the cover-design. Talk to any
any publisher outside the ‘big five’ and they’ll tell you
just how hard it is to get their titles into the bookshops,
let alone in a ‘front-facing’ display. Indeed, large
publishers actually pay to have their book on one of
those tables placed enticingly opposite the doors as
you enter a Waterstones branch.
But covers still have two vital jobs to do: to capture
the attention of a browser, and to give an indication of
the genre of book (and therefore set readers’
expectations). Cover design has adapted to allow for
the fact that most readers now browse titles on the
internet: the cover has to have impact even at
thumbnail size. If it’s a well-known author, their name
has to be prominent, often above the title. And
because Amazon and other retailers want to cross-sell
(‘if you enjoyed this book, then you’ll like this one’),
publishers are commissioning front covers that are
increasingly formulaic. We’re not talking here about
‘author brands’ - we expect, for example, an Ian
Rankin book to have a distinctive cover that echoes, in
typography and the images or graphics used, his
earlier novels. This new trend is about homogenising a
entire genre. Thus, the ‘nostalgia memoir’ will almost
always use a black-and-white or sepia photograph,
with the key figures in the foreground hand-tinted in
colour. Chick-lit books will use illustration rather than
photography, a flowery, ‘curly’ typeface, and almost
always include ‘girly’ artefacts in the illustrations (highheeled shoes, handbags, cupcakes, wedding scenes
and so on). There is also, of course, a preponderance
of pink on these covers.
‘Misery memoirs’ have covers that are surprisingly
close to the ‘nostalgia memoir’ genre, except that the
children pictured are never smiling, are often shown
with their faces hidden (a back view is common) or in
extreme close-up, and the typography usually uses a
script font rather than the classical upper-case serif
fonts often found on the ‘nostalgia memoir’ books. The
Formulaic covers: ‘nostalgia’ books (below) are easily recognisable through their use of black-and-white or sepia
photographs with hand-tinted figures in the foreground. Chick-lit (opposite) uses ‘curly’ typography and generally
eschews photographs, preferring stylised illustrations. Their ‘sameness’ makes the genres easily identifable and
encourages impulse purchases.
8
background colour of the misery-memoir cover is
almost always white.
Most genres have these conventions (just look at
‘cosy crime’ novels to see how homogenised they have
become). Thrillers use large block typefaces; red and
black are the colours that are most common: often
they will have embossed lettering, something only
visible only when the book is on a bookshop or
supermarket shelf, not on the internet.
Now, arguably all these conventions make it
easier for readers to discover books that they might
like, but playing it safe is also an accountancy-driven
ploy that seems cynical and unimaginative, more
suited to selling baked beans than books. It’s a
decision that begins, of course, long before the cover
is designed, when the book is first commissioned by
the publisher: the immediate thought on being
‘pitched’ the book by an agent seems to be ‘what can
we link it to?’ rather than whether the book has merit
in its own right. Is it lazy marketing or simply a
commonsense approach to a business in a competitive
market in which most titles lose money? If you take a
look at Hollywood, much the same formulaic
approach currently holds sway: studios like what is
already proven to work and just want more of the
same. If they can’t pigeonhole it, they don’t want it.
Such a formulaic approach is less likely when it
comes to literary fiction, which sells in much smaller
quantities - and does not have the benefit of
supermarket sales (a key market for many of these
genre books). Cover design of literary fiction is often
striking and innovative, with imaginative use of
typography. Indeed, over the last couple of years,
illustration or photography has taken a back seat to
typography.
No matter what market the book is aimed at,
front-cover endorsement is important - a quote from a
newspaper or magazine reviewer or (more often these
days) a quote from another author, thus linking the
book more firmly with a particular kind of writer. If
Kathy Lette has a quote on the front cover, saying how
much she enjoyed the book, then it’s likely that fans of
Kathy Lette will buy this book, even though the author
might be new to them.
Endorsements are rarely altruistic, however:
agents and publishers may approach other authors in
their ‘stable’ for a quote (a subtle form of crosspromotion) - and often that author will receive
payment for such an endorsement.
It does make us wonder what would happen if
we went back to the old French method of plain covers
with just the title and author on the front (as indeed
Penguin did for many years in the UK, though these
were at least colour-coded by genre). After all,
Persephone Books sell their titles in plain grey covers
with uniform typography - and do so highly
successfully, building a strong publishing brand-image
into the bargain.
Or perhaps we should experiment by mixing up
cover-designs so that they subvert genre expectations?
A bloody thriller in a chick-lit style cover, for example.
Or literary fiction in a Mills & Boon style cover. That
might shake up the publishing world! !
Above: Persephone Books - uniform, unillustrated covers but with
a distinct brand identity
9
10
A Good Year for the Roses
Kay Christopher, author of Never Let Her Slip Away, published by
Chaplin Books, is working on her next novel., A Good Year for the
Roses. This time the action is set in 1973 in Portsmouth and around
the Meon Valley. Country-and-western singer Derek Fry - Hank
Wesson when he’s on stage - dreams of going to Nashville to meet
his hero, George Jones, but with a string of young children, and a
low-paid day-job working on his brother’s strawberry stall, there is
little hope of his ever
making the trip. Down
the road, in Portsmouth,
divorced and embittered
cab-driver Gerry
Chandler is trying to
track down the person
who is sabotaging the
Double-A taxi company.
Derek and Gerry’s paths
will cross in an
unexpected way and
both their lives will be
turned upside down This
extract is from Kay’s ‘work in progress’ on the novel, which is due
for publication in 2017.
As the last plaintive notes of the pedal steel died way,
Derek lifted the needle off the record and carefully
lowered it again at the beginning of the track.
“Not again, Derek!” said Wendy, hands on hips.
“How many more times?”
“I’ve got to learn the words by Friday,” he said,
reasonably, not looking up from the record player. He
fiddled with the volume knob.
“You must surely know them by now. I’m already
singing them in my sleep,” said Wendy. “Maybe I
should get up there and perform it instead of you. I
could be the next Tammy Wynette.”
She went out to the kitchen, pointedly closing the
door behind her, and he heard, above the song’s chorus,
the sound of the kettle being filled and the wail of the
baby. He concentrated on the song, listening to the way
the notes were bent, the slight break in the voice at the
emotional climax of the chorus.
Immediately the door clicked shut, Bobby – who
was wearing only a rather grubby Dallas Cowboys Tshirt and a nappy, lurched over to the door and tried to
reach up for the handle. He was scooped up by Sharon
and taken back – unprotesting - to the settee, where he
resumed repeatedly thumping an Action Man figure
against the dralon cushion. It was Georgie’s Action
Man, but Georgie didn’t seem to notice, absorbed as he
was in trying to rewind a cassette tape spool by sticking
a biro into one of the holes at the centre. Sharon
distracted Bobby by pressing the eject button of the
portable cassette player so that the tape loader sprang
open. As Bobby reached for it, she expertly whisked the
Action Man away and gave it back to Georgie, who sat
on it to prevent further theft. Bobby looked bewildered,
conscious that he’d been cheated in some way, but
unsure how.
Sharon was going through a Little Mother phase
and had appointed herself the minder of her three
younger brothers and sisters. Sometimes when Derek
saw her going off down the road with her friends from
school, each with a wicker basket dangling from their
elbow, they looked more like a gaggle of middle-aged
gossipy housewives than a bunch of ten-year-old girls.
It did take a bit of pressure off Wendy, though as soon
as Sharon discovered boys, she would doubtless not
want to spend her time looking after the little ones any
more.
“I can’t get this to work, Dad,” said Georgie,
flicking back the long dark fringe out of his eyes. “The
tape’s still all twisted up.”
Derek reluctantly took the record off the
turntable, closed the lid of the player and put the record
back into its sleeve. The picture on the front showed
George Jones (after whom Georgie had been named)
against a black background. A spotlight picked out
George and shone on the blond surface of his guitar
with its ornate fingerplate and inlaid fretboard. He was
looking straight at the camera, smiling slightly, and with
a sincere expression in his dark brown eyes. The title of
the album was written in red lettering against the dark
background. Derek ran his fingers along the title, then
put the record back on the shelf alongside his other
George Jones albums and turned his attention to his son.
“I think all we can do is to throw that cassette in
the bin,” he said, looking at the loop of twisted, creased
tape.
‘Oh, Dad – no!”
11
“Why? What was on it?”
“T-Rex. I taped it off the radio. It took me ages.”
“Well, it’s a goner now. What about this one?” He
picked up another tape off the table.
“I don’t want that. It’s that woman.”
“Jessie?”
“I don’t like her,” said Georgie. “If that tape had
got ruined, I’d have been pleased.”
“She’s got a good voice, you know. People come
and see the band because of her.”
“I still don’t like her. Her teeth are too big.”
Derek laughed.
“Don’t laugh at me, Dad. They frighten me, her
teeth.”
Derek ruffled Georgie’s hair and headed out to
the kitchen.
Georgie inserted the tape marked ‘Jessie’ into the
player and pressed the record button, erasing Jessie’s
voice and replacing it with the sound of Sharon singing
a nursery rhyme to Bobby and of his father whistling as
he laid the table for tea.
*
The sun was just breaking through a bank of hazy cloud
when Chalky dropped Derek at the strawberry stall. He
kept the engine of the Morris Oxford running while they
unloaded the crates from the boot, stacking them at the
back of the layby by the grass verge. Derek took the
buckets of cut flowers from the seat-wells. One bucket
of tulips had tipped over, soaking the carpet. He tried to
mop up the water with his handkerchief.
“There’s your float money,” said Chalky, handing
him a small drawstring bag. “I don’t finish until six
today, but I should be here well before half past. Do you
need a hand wheeling the stall over, nipper? Only I’m a
bit pushed for time and this new foreman at the mill is a
stickler.”
“No, it’s fine,” said Derek. “You get off.”
“Has Alan said anything to you yet about this
new bass player?” said Chalky, opening the driver’s
door.
“Only that he’s coming to rehearsal on
Thursday.”
“Well, I just hope he’s better than that nutcase we
auditioned last week. A good steady player, that’s what
we need, not a heavy metal merchant.”
He got in the car and drove off. Derek sat down
on the curb and lit a cigarette, unwilling to get the
working day underway just yet. He was amused that his
brother even knew what heavy metal was. Ten years
older than Derek, Chalky had old-fashioned ideas about
how the band should sound and whenever they
suggested that he use sticks rather than brushes on the
drums, he reminded them that it had only been five
years ago that the Grand Old Opry had permitted a
drum-kit on the stage … and what was good enough for
the Grand Old Opry was good enough for him. Rumour
had it that bands playing the Ryman before that had to
hide their drummer behind a curtain – and anyway, only
a snare drum was allowed. Chalky still wore his hair
slicked back in 1950s style and on stage he wore a red
shirt buttoned to the neck, with one of those black
12
bootlace ties topped by a small horse-head emblem. The
movements of his arms when he used the brushes made
it look like he was stirring a pudding.
Derek stubbed out his cigarette and looked across
the road to the edge of the Bere Forest. Only an
occasional car passed by, a flash of colour against the
dark green of the trees. Once when he’d been standing
here in the early morning, a deer had emerged from the
trees and had stood stock-still, gazing across at him.
Up the road, the pub was stacking empty barrels
on the forecourt, ready for the brewery truck to collect.
Derek got up and went over to the stall, removing the
chain that locked it to the fence and taking the chocks
out from behind the wheels. He got behind the end of
the stall, putting his back to it and walking backwards to
push it off the grass. It stuck and he wished he’d asked
Chalky to help after all. Then suddenly it shot forward
and he had to steady it as it ran onto the tarmac. It only
took five minutes for him to position it, open the flap
and arrange the strawberries along the counter. The
buckets of flowers he placed on the ground at the front.
He grabbed the A-frame board and walked with it to the
end of the layby, close to the road. The board had a big
picture of a strawberry on it - painted by Chalky’s
missus – and some writing underneath. Derek didn’t
know what it said, exactly, but it brought the punters in.
He raised a hand in greeting as the pub landlord
shouted ‘morning, Derek!’ and went back to the stall,
stowing the bag of change under the counter. He felt the
monotony of the day sinking into him already. Ten
hours to go. !
If you’ve not yet read Kay Christopher’s first novel - Never Let
Her Slip Away - yet, you can buy it from the Chaplin Books
website, or from all good bookshops and internet retailers. It is
also available as an ebook from your usual supplier.
News Update
history of the organ, now on sale in the church and
from its website.
! Following a journey on the ‘South West Chief’
train from Chicago to Los Angeles, author James
Christie is now working on his new book - a follow-up
to the successful and critically acclaimed Dear Miss
Landau. In the meantime, the writers of the musical
Dear Miss Landau - inspired by the book - are talking
to potential producers and theatrical agents about
where the musical might get its first airing.
! Business was brisk at the Local Authors morning,
hosted by Chaplin Books at the Gosport Discovery
Centre. The event was part of the Heritage Open Days
weekend - an annual celebration into which Gosport
enters with some gusto, staging around 70 different
events. The mayor, Councillor Lynn Hook (pictured
above), was among the many visitors who chatted to
Chaplin Books authors John Green, David Gary, John
Bull, Kay Christopher, Mick Laming and Brian
Musselwhite. Special guest was fiction author Mardi
Marsh.
! Gosport is the proud possessor of the Handel
Organ, which resides at Holy Trinity Church on the
town’s waterfront and which has been recently
restored thanks to a Heritage Lottery grant. Chaplin
Books has produced a full-colour booklet on the
!
Chaplin Books’
bestseller, The Wonder of
Woolies, is now out as an
ebook as well as a
paperback. Also out, but
in ebook form only, is a
new children’s storybook
by Kay Christopher, The
Adventures of Rum Ba-Ba.
! The ‘bespoke’ book
business is still thriving:
alongside its mainstream
commercial titles, Chaplin
Books is currently working on a book of nature poems
by Fareham poet Claire Hill that have been inspired
by Breamore House, an historic home near
Fordingbridge; and on ‘Mollie’s Tailpiece’, a collection
of humorous writings by a church dog - the author is
Christine Harris.
13
Felix Ryp -­ A Remarkable Boy
Peter Broadbent, author of a series of naval memoirs - all
published by Chaplin books - as well as a comic novel My
Wight Little Isle, is close to completing his new novel, Felix
Ryp. A young orphan boy of indeterminate age with no
name is held in gaol awaiting his trial at the local Petty
Sessions in 1860. Whilst there it is discovered that the boy
has a remarkable artistic gift: he can memorise what he
sees and draw it sometime later with almost total accuracy.
At the Petty Sessions the boy is given a name - Felix Ryp and his age (14) is ascertained by a horse doctor from the
public seats. A charge of theft is unfounded and the boy is
given into the care of a gentleman who is actively involved
in the construction of the world’s first iron-hulled warship HMS Warrior.
The boy spends time in the Thames Iron Works
Shipbuilding Yard in West London drawing details of the
construction processes. Later, The Admiralty invites him to
go to sea onboard Warrior to draw the seagoing trials. He
is overlooked when HMS Warrior is unexpectedly sent to
Gibraltar in order to better the time taken by the French
iron-clad ‘Gloire’. Whilst in Gibraltar he is secretly asked to
do drawings of the Garrison in contravention of the rules.
This extract is from Peter’s ‘work in progress’. The
novel is due for publication in 2017.
Felix is first down to breakfast. He scans the folded
page of The Telegraph that is placed alongside
William’s plate.
Mrs Kettle breezes in dressed in her yellow, full
length dressing gown. ‘My apologies for my dress
Felix, I only came down to grab a sausage or two to take
to my room. A fully dressed Mister William is close
behind me.’ She skips to one side as William weaves his
way betwixt door and Mrs Kettle.
‘Good morning Felix my boy,’ says a rather
breathless William. ‘Fancy joining me on yet another
yard visit? I believe they’ll be lighting fires under our
ship today.’
‘To prevent the tallow from hardening sir?’ asks
Felix.
‘Exactly Felix, well remembered. Will you
accompany me?’
‘Of course sir.’
William turns to Mrs Kettle. ‘I do not believe that
I have told you my dear, but Felix has actually eaten
tallow when he was in Gosport.’
‘That is outrageous!’
14
‘I agree,’ says William turning away.
Felix concentrates on his plate.
‘How did your drawing go yesterday, Felix?’ asks
William.
‘Very well sir, thank you.’
Mrs Kettle waves a pair of dark brown sausages
in front of William. ‘Have a nice day then gentleman. I
will return to my room where I will prepare myself for
tomorrow’s cold and uncomfortable adventure.’
At the yard, the snow is falling heavily. The cold, white
clouds are so low that the vessel’s top deck is almost
obscured. Along the length of the keel hundreds of
small fires burn. Metal screens are being placed to
protect the fires from the wind that is whistling across
the slipway.
‘A severe frost is expected tonight and we need to
keep the fires burning all night,’ explains William. ‘Men
will work through the night to clear all the unnecessary
equipment and things from the area immediately
surrounding the slipway. The Engineers will also work
through the night to ensure that everything on the slip is
correctly installed and ready.’
Saturday 29 December 1860 is launch day. Mister
Kettle is in a slight fluster getting dressed and Mrs
Kettle is at her dressing table, only partially dressed,
applying facial beautifications.
‘My brother-in-law in Leatherhead is a confident
railway traveller, William.’
‘Is he?’ says William. ‘Do you know where my
green silk cravat is?’
‘No William, I have never seen or touched your
green silk cravat: ask Churchill.’
‘Churchill has the memory of a goldfish
sometimes.’
‘Why do you insist on travelling long distances
by carriage, William? According to my brother-in-law
the railway apparently do long journeys in much less
time as I believe they are travelling quicker this year.
Felix would also enjoy the experience.’
‘I have told you Katherine: fellow travellers and
compliance with the railway’s timetable ...’
‘Fellow travellers?’
‘Yes, fellow travellers.’
‘Felix told me some time ago that there is a
railway in Gosport.’
‘I believe there is.’
‘He said that the Queen, would you believe it, our
Queen travels to Gosport to go to a place called Weevil
something or other. Such an unlikely story.’
‘I know that the Queen and Prince Albert travel to
Gosport each summer and from there catch a vessel to
their palace on the Isle of Wight. The palace that Prince
Albert bought the Queen as a present some years ago.’
Mrs Kettle stares open mouthed at William. ‘You
are telling me a story, William. Have you been listening
to Felix?’
‘No dear. I thought everybody knew that the
Queen’s favourite place in all the world is her Osborne
Palace on the Isle of Wight.’
‘So, if the railway is good enough for royalty,
William, why in the devil can’t you feel fit to use it?’
‘Suddenly my dear, I realise that I have talked
myself out of my refusal.’
‘Then take Felix on the railway when you next go
to Portsmouth. He will forever remember it.’
‘I may. Ah-ah - here is my cravat!’
‘Congratulations on your find, William. Where
was it?’
‘In the drawer with my stockings: the wrong
drawer.’
‘How far distant is Portsmouth from Gosport
William?’
‘A short ferry trip across the harbour. I doubt if
Gosport is her Majesty’s favourite place.’
‘The wind is blowing violently from the cold north this
morning,’ says William over his bowl of kedgeree.
‘There are still massive lumps of ice floating on the
River Thames.’
Mrs Kettle, dressed in her heaviest winter coat
and a hat that covers most of her head, neck and ears,
stands by the dresser, examining the bacon while
waiting for Churchill to pour her drink. ‘I don’t suppose
the launch of this blasted ship will be cancelled until the
weather improves. In the spring perhaps or rather the
summer?’
Mister Kettle wipes kedgeree bits from his chin.
‘The launch will not be cancelled dear. Far too many
dignitaries have been invited. The Queen herself was ...’
‘You have told me that the Queen will not be here
with us William: after all we are not in Gosport are we?
How can I correctly avoid this launching business?’ she
pleads as she sits herself alongside Felix.
‘You can’t Katherine. It was difficult to reserve
three chairs. We need to occupy all of them. My
position depends on all three of us being present.’
As Felix stands to excuse himself William holds
up a hand. ‘Your warmest coat today, Felix. It is going
to be acutely cold at the yard unless this wind changes
direction.’
In the yard the fires under the vessel’s keel have been
extinguished and the launch cradles have been wrapped
in heavy, protective canvas. The launch has been widely
publicised and large numbers of spectators are making
their way up to the yard from the ferries.
‘The First Lord of the Admiralty, Sir John
Pakington, will be naming the ship and launching it,’
declares William.
The well-cushioned chairs inside the elevated
marquee facing the slip are reserved for those with
special invitations. The marquee offers protection from
the falling snow and from the worst of the wind. The
general public have to stand unprotected from the
elements behind roped barriers rigged down both sides
of the slipway.
Mister Kettle, Mrs Kettle and Felix are escorted
up to their reserved, well cushioned chairs on the front
row, with an unrestricted view of the slipway.
‘Although he doesn’t realise it, Felix got us these
reserved chairs as he has been tasked to do a drawing of
the vessel going down the slipway,’ says William
placing an arm around Felix’s shoulders. ‘No paper and
pencil in this weather, Felix. Can you draw snow?’
‘I can try, sir.’
‘This will be a memorable sight, Felix. What you
draw today could possibly be the only true record of the
launch. The man Shutterstock reports that he does not
work outside in these conditions: his equipment will not
function well in these low temperatures, and at
weekends. I shall make every effort to have your
drawings printed in The Illustrated London News, so
you must sign them. A momentous day indeed, Felix,’
says William rubbing his hands expectantly together.
The vessel is topped with three temporary masts
each flying a large banner. The taller of the three masts
has the honour of flying the Royal standard. On one of
the other masts the Admiralty flag flies and the Union
Flag is resplendent on the third. Coloured bunting is
rigged along the entire length of her bulwarks.
15
‘She will enter the water stern first of course as
the back end of the vessel is nearest to the water’s
edge,’ William explains to Mrs Kettle.
Mrs Kettle remains statically unmoved, staring
out across the slipway with only her eyes visible
amongst her swathes. ‘I realise that, William dear. I may
be disinterested, but I am no idiot.’
The wooden platform in the shadow of the
magnificent figure head is bedecked with wildly
flapping, flags and banners. An army of labourers are
sweeping the snow from the vessel’s upper deck: it falls
like an avalanche upon those working below.
The yard has sold space alongside the slip to a
number of booths that are selling hot beverages and
hand held food. Not even the escalated prices deter the
queues of people prepared to pay two-pence halfpenny
for a hot meat pie of questionable content.
Crowds congregate around the coke braziers
located at regular intervals along the cordoned slip area.
Children skip around, throwing snowballs at each other
and huddling close to the braziers when recalled by their
parents. A large number of policemen, noticeable by
their tall stove hats, are busily employed keeping the
onlookers behind the barriers and away from the
slipway.
A shipyard band, stood shivering to one side of
the platform, strike up some rousing music. They are
given the order to march up and down the side of the
slip in order to prevent themselves and their instruments
from freezing solid and to entertain the onlookers.
‘What time will this monstrosity be put in the
water?’ asks Mrs Kettle through her scarf.
‘Two-o-clock I believe,’ William looks at his
timepiece. ‘See, the canvas has been removed from the
hydraulic rams we spoke of the other day, Felix my boy.
The launch is imminent.’
‘I hope so sir,’ says a shivering Felix.
The snow respectfully stops as a line of well
dressed dignitaries emerge from the wooden clad
building a short walk from the slip. They climb the four
steps to the wooden platform: one of them stumbles part
way up the steps and has to be helped up onto the
platform top. They all scrabble around searching for
their allocated chairs. The crowd falls expectantly silent.
A small group of gallivanting young boys, playing
16
down by the water’s edge, are ushered back behind the
rope cordon.
The snow begins to fall again as a sole gentleman
from the slipway climbs up onto the platform to talk to
the gentleman seated in the centre of the front row.
‘That is Captain Ford the Managing Director of
the build yard.’ William nods to the platform. ‘He’ll be
reporting the state of the slipway to Sir John Pakington:
hopefully everything is ready.’
Mrs Kettle sniffs.
The crowd are silent as the snow swirls heavily
from the direction of the river.
The gentleman seated centrally in the front row
stands and walks to the rail facing the figurehead. ‘I
hereby name this ship Warrior. God bless her and all
who sail within her.’
There is a rumble and clash of equipment as keel
paraphernalia is removed and cradles are released along
the length of the slip.
Nothing happens.
‘I hope she moves,’ says William leaning
forward. ‘What a wonderful name: Warrior.’
‘Looks like the damned thing is stuck hard and
not prepared to move,’ mumbles Mrs Kettle.
‘Get the hydraulic rams working,’ mumbles a part
standing William.
There is the sound of hammers amongst yelled
instructions as an army of men are employed along the
length of the keel. Steam engines snort and belch into
life: the hydraulic rams shriek.
A gentleman at the rail of the platform swings a
bottle on the end of a rope that breaks on the base of the
figurehead. Slowly, the newly named Warrior moves.
‘That’s all she needed: a good clout with a bottle
of something alcoholic,’ says William. ‘Nothing will
stop her now.’
‘Thank goodness for that,’ mumbles Mrs Kettle.
The few men remaining under the keel scatter.
Tackles and ropes are abandoned. Wooden blocks are
squeezed and dangerously hurled aside as a grumbling
Warrior gathers pace.
Large drag-chains tethered to Warrior’s underside
clatter down the slip in a dense cloud of red rust.
The dignitaries on the platform stand and
applaud. The crowds cheer as Warrior slides
majestically towards the water. The band strikes up
‘Rule Britannia’.
The dignitaries toss their expensive hats in the air
and scramble to retrieve them. The tugs sound their
whistles as Warrior’s stern parts the river water with a
tremendous ‘whoosh’. The river level and blocks of ice
raise up as Warrior’s hull immerses itself for the first
time.
As her bows reach the water her figurehead takes
a bow as Warrior leaves terra firma. An unexpected ten
seconds of silence fills the yard, then a roar of
excitement, whistles from the assembled throng and
polite applause from those seated in the marquee’s
reserved seats. !