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 book-reading.

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

than those in genre fiction and that therefore readers are able to ident i fy their emotions 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.

1

insid

e sto

ry

Our top five sellers

*****

The Wonder of Woolies by Derek PhillipsHMS Ganges Days by Peter BroadbentDear Miss Landau by James ChristieBritain’s Wartime Milkmen by Tom PhelpsHMS Bermuda Days by Peter Broadbent

ISSUE NO. 10

In this issue:Going Over the Water 2Writing your memoir 6Cover appeal 8Preview: Felix Ryp 14

The romance of the Gosport Ferry.See pages 2-5

Reading books really does increase your life-span

For hundreds of years, men and women from the little fishing village of Gosport had need to travel to Portsmouth.

In t he Middle Ages, t he 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 and t ides, so there was no 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 Henry VIII. Constant threats from both the Spanish and the French meant that he needed to build a real Navy, and indeed it was from Portsmouth 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

2

David Gary relates the early history of the Gosport Ferry

A cheer for our jolly watermen!

The Gosport Ferry occupies a

special place in people’s lives.

Day in, day out, it calmly plies

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

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.

David Gary, compiler of the book

halfpenny, and the same to return: no-one would be allowed to charge m o r e . T h e y a l s o s e t u p 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 r o w i n g b o a t f o r c a r r y i n g 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

Gosport’s watermen: clearly not to be

messed with ...

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 l a d s , w h o w e r e k n o w n a s

‘deadheads’, would immediately d i sembark and rece ive 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

beach. It must be Southsea! Searches were made for the poor fel low, 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

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 fast-running 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.

Weather wasn’ t t he only danger that these men faced. It has been r umoured t ha t French prisoners who escaped from the

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.

It was sometimes not too good for the customers either, as the area was frequented by the in famous 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 O f f i c e r s w h o r e c e i v e d 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 of wher r ymen – somewhere between a waterman and a ferry man - was a closed shop. Unless

4

The coming of the Floating Bridge

chain ferry threatened the

monopoly of the watermenn

‘Press gangs scoured

the lanes and pubs of

Gosport for men to

serve in the Navy’

you were one o f t he loca l 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 ne r, Woodman, Boy l i ng , Grogan, Hodgekinson, Manon, Richardson, 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 father 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. A m o n g t h e b o a t s t h e

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 d u r i n g t h e t e r m o f h i s 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.’ !

5

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

to buy in bookshops or from

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-the-

Solent.

“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

" 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

Writing Tips : MemoirsGot a life-story worth

telling? Struggling as to how

to begin? Here’s some

practical pointers to

help get you started

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 (high-heeled 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

8

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.

A dearth of imagination?Why book cover design today seems to be dictated by accountants

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 cross-promotion) - 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! !

9

Above: Persephone Books - uniform, unillustrated covers but with

a distinct brand identity

10

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 T-shirt 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

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.

A Good Year for the Roses

“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

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. !

12

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.

! 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

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.

! C h a p l i n B o o k s ’ bestseller, The Wonder of Woolies, is now out as an ebook as wel l 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.

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News Update

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!’

‘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.’

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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 Ryp -­ A Remarkable Boy

‘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.

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‘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

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. !

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