Portsea: A True Love Story from the Great War

By Colin Powell

Charlie and Violet were born in Portsmouth at the end of , the Victorian era. Their story is the true story of two , young people being born and raised in a great garrison , town, becoming childhood sweethearts, and then being , separated by the Great War. When Charlie returns from , the Western Front, badly wounded, Violet nurses him back , to health but their relationship is affected by the social , changes caused by the war. Women had found new roles , in society and in the home. This story shows how the , conflict changed the lives of ordinary people like Charlie , and Vi and how they had to struggle to build a new society , from the ashes.,

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Aug 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499088588

Colin Powell

Colin Powell was born in New York City in 1937. He was a retired four-star general in the United States Army and earned numerous military, civilian, and foreign honors. He served four presidential administrations in a variety of roles, most recently as Secretary of State from 2001 to 2005.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The View

The vast flat watery expanse of the harbours surrounding the island city of Portsea is nestled against the rolling hills of the South Downs. Immediately above Portsea is an area known as Portsdown Hill. Along the ridge of this hill are still to be found Palmerton’s Follies; great thick brick walled fortresses built in the 1860s when the country feared French invasion, and named after the Prime Minister that commissioned them.

The shimmering sunlight reflected off the silver Solent Sea, as the great ships of the Jubilee Review sailed majestically past Prince Edward, aboard the Royal Yacht. Edward would be King within three years and he would inherit his mother’s vast empire and her crown. For now, the fifty-five year old playboy prince could enjoy taking the Queen’s place in the review and show off the pride of her powerful navy to his envious nephew, the German Kaiser Wilhelm II. The cream of British and European aristocracy was assembled on board the Yacht and witnessed the last great spectacle of an era that was about to flicker and fade, and pass in to the history books.

The majority of Portsea people had watched the review from the shore and saw how the enormous ships had sent huge waves crashing on to the beach, scattering exuberant children and screaming seagulls. Others had boarded the trams to the top of Portsdown hill to gain the highest viewpoint. From here you could see almost the entire Solent.

Charles Raggett, sitting splendidly on the steep grassy hill in his beautiful new bowler hat, gazed through his powerful binoculars towards Spithead. He could see clearly the armada of ships that, from this distance, looked like expensive toys. Charles generously passed his binoculars to his daughters so that they could gain a closer view of this historical maritime pageant.

Charles began to contemplate the significance of the day’s events, and about the global influence of the country he inhabited. He considered, also, his own place in the grand scheme of things. Charles had recently been promoted to Sergeant in the Portsmouth Constabulary. He was patriotic and proud to serve as a Police Officer in such an important Naval Town. The Royal Navy was the military arm that kept the Empire safe and Portsmouth was the home of the Royal Navy.

Charles leaned forward and concentrated his gaze. Since the time of King John, Kings of England had taken advantage of the natural geographic features that made Portsmouth an ideal military garrison. The deep natural harbour and the narrow port entrance made Portsmouth a safe haven for the fleet. Henry V had reviewed his fleet here before his Normandy campaign, Henry VIII had watched in horror as the Mary Rose sank and, most famously, Lord Nelson had left Portsmouth to win the battle of Trafalgar. Britannia ruled the waves and this would never change, or so it seemed on a hot summer day in June 1897.

The scene in the Solent was breathtaking and exhilarating. The flags from the ships could be made out even from this distance. This sense of pride and national well-being must last forever. The pride that Charles felt for his nation was reflected in the pride he felt for his own family. His young daughters, Ella and Rosa sat elegant and motionless in their pristine white crinoline dresses and wide brimmed hats as they gazed at the scene beyond. The sisters were close in age and affection and were often mistaken for twins. They had a way of understanding each other’s thoughts and were rarely apart. The girls had grown up in a loving household where they never went hungry or wanted for nice clothes. The Raggett household was a fine exemplar of lower middle class Victorian England and the daughters of the house were the epitome of Victorian morality and virtue. Not that they did not know how to behave badly, like any other young girls, and run around making too much noise and pulling faces at small boys.

Charlotte Raggett, the family matriarch, was busying herself with the details of an elaborate picnic and worrying about the unpredictable changes the turn of a century might bring. As Charlotte carefully laid out the ham sandwiches, pickles, pork pie, cold sausages and cake on the starched white tablecloth her sanguine face frowned at the extravagant spectacle in Spithead.

Charlotte was a self-taught erudite and well-read woman who recognised this was a rapidly changing world; and that the lives of everyone could soon be very different. She saw the many social changes reflected in her own family, and, as a naturally conservative person, it frightened her. Charlotte was a stoical person and had grown up during the heady days of industrial revolution and rapid expansion. Her own mother had come scurrying to Portsmouth with Charlotte in her arms, and with a secret in her heart that Charlotte would keep from her husband for years to come. The extreme hardship of those early days in the naval town taught Charlotte some hard lessons in the school of hard knocks. As a consequence, she would always make sure that her own family would not suffer as she had.

The prosperity that came with recent promotion had filled Charles with thoughts that he would need a son. Charles adored his two beautiful daughters but he must have a son to continue the family name. The Raggetts were ‘old’ Hampshire people that had lived in Greywell and Odiham for many centuries. When his father had died twelve years earlier the traditions of the lumber industry that had kept Raggetts employed for generations were on the wane. Great swathes of forest that had been felled to build the wooden warships of Nelson’s navy were no longer needed since the creation of the ironclad warships and gunboats that would create a global empire.

Charles was drawn to the attractions that a great Naval Town could offer and before long was recruited in to the Portsmouth Constabulary. He served with bravery and distinction and was deeply respected by the community he served. This respectability, and the place in society he came to cherish, made his desire for a son all the more urgent. These thoughts of paternity were broken by the shrill laughter and shrieks of Ella and Rosa as they chased each other down the steep slope of Portsdown Hill.

It was too hot for skylarking really but Charles smiled at his wife and they shared private thoughts about how happy their family was on this brilliant summer day. Charlotte was the strong arm of the family and if Charles indulged his daughters a little too much she could be relied on to rein them in. Besides which, he had had to spend all week dealing with hardened criminals and just wanted to switch off and languish in the warmth of family life.

Charles pulled an opener from his deep pocket and carefully opened a bottle of the beer that he had developed a keen taste for. It vaguely reminded him of the beers he had been so fond of in Greywell. It conjured up childhood memories of The Fox and Goose when he would watch his Grandfather play cards and talk about the times when people feared Napoleon would invade England. Those times were long past but he was fascinated to see Nelson’s flagship, HMS Victory, still afloat in the harbour below.

Charles felt hot in the baking sun and removed his bowler hat to wipe his brow with a starched white handkerchief. Victorian morals dictated dress sense and a strict moral code was necessary to signify one’s place in society. Even on such a glorious day as this a man was expected to observe this rigid code by wearing a tailored suit, a starched collar and tie, and a bowler hat. How one dressed was a statement about social status and Charles had clearly declared his ambition to progress from his humble origins up the social ladder. Charles was naturally a pragmatic character when he came to carefully choose his clothes. He had no wish to dress like the Dandy he would raise an eyebrow at when on patrol in Southsea. But he did take a pride in his manly appearance and maintained a very dapper style.

Charlotte had indulged in a new hat from the Landport Drapery Bazaar in Commercial Road. She shared the social ambitions of her husband but would do so parsimoniously. Women’s fashion had shed some of the extravagances of past times, being looser fitting and having less voluminous sleeves, but constrictive corsets were still pulling a woman’s waspish waist unbearably tight. Charlotte’s dresses fashionably consisted of a tight bodice with the skirt gathered at the waist and falling naturally over her hips. Her hat, with a broad rim, would protect her pale complexion from the sun.

Women’s clothing was, perhaps, much more comfortable now but it would be their daughters that would benefit from the changes the twentieth century would bring. Times and fashions would radically change but on this historic day the Raggett family could be celebrated as the ideal Victorian family dressed in their Sunday best enjoying the view with a hearty and mouth watering picnic.

Charles became tired after the picnic and lay back on the grass to have a nap with his bowler hat covering his face from the fierce sun. As he drifted to sleep Charles came over nostalgic and began to reminisce about the past. When, as a very young man, he first travelled perilously from Greywell to find a new life in Portsmouth he had stopped at the George Inn at the top of Portsdown Hill to enjoy the view and taste the local beer. On that hot and dusty day he realised that his past life was a closed chapter and the great military town that stretched before him would be an ideal place to put down roots and make a new beginning.

Life in the country had been very good when Charles was a child. Growing up in a large family, with three brothers and three sisters, his father Richard had worked long hours as a timber carter whilst his mother and elder sisters saw their hands turn blue with cold working as laundresses. Traditional occupations would continue for the foreseeable future but many country people were now migrating to the expanding cities to search for better employment and modern living.

When his father died Charles was only eighteen. He had seen how things were changing and it was a good time to make a fresh start. He would miss Greywell and Odiham though. His family had been there for many generations and, as a traditionalist, this sense of being rooted to the small town community through alehouse and church would not be a bond that would be easy to break. Charles felt a deep love for his family and he was very close to his brothers and sisters.

A brief love affair with his sister’s best friend had given him his first experience of the pain of unrequited love. As tall and as athletic as Charles was, the bar maid with the long red hair and the emerald eyes was just too much of a woman to be satisfied by the carter’s boy. He had stolen a kiss on his eighteenth birthday when his father had taken him to the Fox and Goose. The ale had made him heady and full of song, Lily had completed his night with a passionate kiss before he staggered home to dream of manly passions. Harsh reality comes with the dawn and the young Charles was soon to realise he was out of his depth with the vivacious flame haired beauty. Life changes so quickly at this age and before he could ask his father to make sense of romantic matters for him, the old boy was laying rigid and cold in the ground of the churchyard of St. Mary the Virgin. It was a sudden and terrible shock to the whole family. It was difficult to find employment and the best thing Charles could do was to move away to ease the burden on his mother. The family had discussed this the previous summer. Charles had saved hard for his new life, labouring and bringing in the harvest. He had already visited Portsmouth to make arrangements for accommodation and employment. A distant cousin had kindly offered him a small room in the attic of her house in Clive Road and this was all he needed to get started.

Charles smiled as he remembered his first day as a policeman and how tight and itchy the dark blue uniform had been. His mind and body came abruptly back to the present as his wife gave him a gentle jab in the arm to inform him she was thirsty and needed a cup of tea. The picnic had been consumed through out the long afternoon and Charlotte had packed away the things ready to find a café where she could satisfy her thirst. Charles sat up with a heavy frown and rose uneasily to his feet and briskly brushed the dry grass from the seat of his trousers.

The Belle-Vue tearoom offered a perfect view of the city below and was a very popular venue for Sunday excursions since the new tramline had been opened. Tall waitresses elegantly waited on tables in long white dresses with starched white sleeves that were puffed up from the shoulders like small air balloons. Tight fitting corsets beautifully sculpted tiny waists but made it difficult for the waitresses to breathe as they struggled with the weight of teapots, fine white crockery, and great slices of fruitcake. Always elegant, they served their patrons beautiful cream teas with a Victorian politeness and a manner that would epitomize the age. As the waitresses glided between each table they had the appearance of angels.

On such a day as this it was difficult to get a table but Sergeant Raggett was a good friend of the Proprietor and a reserved table in the window had been set with the finest bone china and glass cake stands. The dark bentwood chairs and the dazzling white Damask tablecloth were a welcome sight to Charlotte and her daughters who were grateful to find refuge from the glare of the sun outside. The tallest of the waitresses ceremonially led Charles and his family to the reserved table and the girls shrieked with pleasure at the view they could still enjoy from here. An elderly lady in a large crinoline hat with a blue bow smiled at Charlotte and complimented her on her family. Charlotte turned to her husband and from their mutual smiles one could see they both felt deeply happy. Perhaps less well-placed customers did feel piqued at this preferential service but Charles would just simply ignore this resentment and enjoy the moment. He kept one eagle eye on the antique hat stand: his precious bowler hat hung imperiously on it and he must be sure not to lose it.

Looking observantly around the tearoom with the eye of a detective he made mental notes of his fellow patrons as they sat in their Sunday best enjoying high tea. Fashions were changing. The older ladies still wore the fashions of the 1880s with voluminous bustles, tight fitting corsets and dark fabrics. The cramped backs of dresses with tight lines of lacing emphasized the slender feminine waists. New fashions from Paris meant that women could now wear much looser fitting and more comfortable clothing. But this was Victorian England, still bound by the restraints of Victorian morality.

Charles cast a wandering eye over some of the fashionable young beauties as they gossiped about the new attractions in Southsea. The smell of freshly baked bread, cakes and ground coffee filled the room with a rich aroma and made Charles feel ravenous even though he had picnicked lavishly that very afternoon. He watched the sunlight play on the wall as reflections from the cut crystal glassware illuminated the deep patterns of the wallpaper and faded away again. Flowers on the table had a patriotic colour with large red and white roses filling the room with a beautiful scent.

The heat of the day had made Charles feel rather drowsy. The warmth of the café, the heady aroma that filled his nostrils and the sight of the elegantly dressed women on display caused him to daydream again and his daughters nudged each other playfully as they noticed their father’s heavy eyelids droop.

Charlotte had sat with a critical moral eye casting judgment on the new fashions she was surrounded by. She approved of the freedom the new fashions had given women but wondered if some things had gone a bit too far. The attractions of The Ladies Mile and South Parade pier were all very well known but had become a little notorious. Charlotte had her own reasons for being a guardian of morality. For one reason: she had two daughters to protect from the new customs. Her dark secret that she kept locked in her heart, was another. Charlotte cast a disapproving look at her daughters and they sat up and bowed their heads in contrition.

The tall girl returned with a large tray and a lovely smile. So, that is a pot of tea for two, two ice cold glasses of lemonade, and three slices of our delicious home-made fruitcake. Will that be all madam? The waitress asked politely.

Did you remember to warm the pot dear? Charlotte enquired. Oh yes madam, and the tea is India as you requested.

Charlotte was very particular with how to prepare tea properly and Charles was pleased that he had married a woman of such refined taste. As the waitress carefully leaned forward and poured the tea Charles could smell the freshly laundered and starched smell of her dress and it reminded him of home in Greywell and his mother’s work as a laundress.

I have not seen you here before. What is your name my dear? enquired Charles.

No sir. I am quite new here and still learning how to do things properly. We have such high standards to maintain you see.

And your name is? Charlotte glared at her husband and the waitress blushed deeply and scurried away hastily, her billowing dress catching a cup handle that Charles lunged at and steadied. Why did you have to embarrass the poor girl like that Charles? She said she was new, she is probably nervous. Charlotte said caustically.

I’m sorry love, it is just that she reminded me of someone I once knew. I didn’t mean any harm. Charles said shame-faced and winked at Ella and Louisa who began nudging each other again and giggled until Charlotte glared in their direction.

The tea, brought in the first place all the way from India, the jewel in the crown of the British Empire, was hot and strong just the way Charlotte liked it. She stirred her cup to dissolve the sugar and smiled at her precious girls. Sit up please Ella. Rosa, cut the cake please. She said gently in a tone of reconciliation. Charlotte had a habit of admonishing her family one-minute and falling over herself to be nice the next. Nobody took her lightning bolts too seriously as they were always followed by a sweet smile and gentle words.

The new waitress returned a little later rubbing her hands nervously. If she had been embarrassed earlier she had taken a moment or two to compose herself and smiled confidently at her patrons. Is everything to your satisfaction sir, madam? Would you like some more hot water?

Charles looked sheepishly at the waitress from the corner of his eye and smiled weakly. The tea and cake were very nice. More hot water would be appreciated and the girls would like some ice cream please. He replied diffidently.

Very good sir. Thank you madam. She said respectfully.

As she collected the tall glasses from the girls she smiled broadly and told them how pretty their hats were. Rosa giggled and said to the waitress: "You look like an angel, what is your name?" Charlotte looked up at the poor girl and smiled at her to rescue her from the situation her husband had created.

Well, my name is Annie Pinks. Annie was my mother’s name you see. She moved away, more carefully this time, and Charles looked across and apologized to his wife.

Sorry love, I didn’t mean to… Charles said softly.

Don’t worry Charles. Nothing could spoil today for me and I will always remember it.

Somewhere in the distance they could hear a military band playing and an old soldier, who was sat in the corner dressed in a scarlet uniform with a row of medals on his chest, began to hum along loudly as he toyed with his long white beard.

Why is that old man humming Dad? asked Rosa.

He is probably just remembering old comrades and wars in foreign countries dear. Charles explained.

The veteran abruptly stopped humming, sipped his tea noisily and gazed ahead with a glazed far away look in his eye that is the reserve of old soldiers. The Raggetts got up to leave and Charles placed a handsome tip in the saucer. As they passed the old soldier he lifted his crooked bony index finger towards Charlotte and grimaced at her. Charles shepherded his family away and turned to give the ancient warrior one of his constabulary stares. The scarlet liveried veteran nodded and gave Charles a small cackle in return. They moved slowly on through the long tearoom and the waitress brushed effortlessly past them.

Thank you for coming. I hope you enjoyed your tea. Do come again. She said politely.

I am sure we will. Said Charles softly as Charlotte turned and gave the smallest of smiles and the largest of frowns to the poor innocent girl.

The family outing was one to remember for many years. They would have to keep an eye on the time though as the last tram would soon glide in to the terminus to take them all back to Fratton. Excursions such as this were becoming highly popular and more affordable in Victorian England. They had enjoyed a trip to Brighton on the steam railway the previous summer and had marvelled at the splendour of Brighton Pavilion where the Prince Regent had indulged his exotic tastes for the Indian sub-continent. The Isle of Wight, across the Solent, had become a popular destination for family holidays and the steam ferry from Clarence pier was a common sight.

Can we sit on the top deck again please? The girls enquired boisterously.

As long as it is not too windy, we don’t want you to lose your hats. Charlotte said approvingly.

Outside, the sun had lost none of its heat and the light was dazzling after coming from the cool shade of the tearoom. The Grand Fleet was still visible in Spithead and large crowds of people were observing it on the hill. Charles could see the immaculate corporation tram waiting and passengers were carefully boarding it.

Quickly girls or we will not get a seat on the top deck. Charlie shouted as though he was still their age and caught a dark glance from his wife for his silliness.

The girls rushed playfully ahead waving their arms and calling to the conductor to save them a seat.

Girls, don’t shout so loudly! Please act like young ladies. Charlotte called sharply after them.

Don’t be too hard on them dear, they are only having fun. Their father said and gave his wife one of his funny little masterful looks that usually disarmed her. Charlotte took her husband’s arm tightly and they strode briskly towards the tram.

You are too soft on them Charles. Carry on like that and you will spoil them. Mark my words. She said to regain the upper hand.

She was right of course, but what man did not indulge and spoil his daughters? By the time they had climbed leisurely up the twisty staircase to the top deck the girls were already seated at the front of the tram where they were spotted waving colourful patriotic flags.

Where did you get them from? Asked their mother in curiosity. The conductor is giving them away from the tram company to remember the old Queens jubilee. Said Ella excitedly. We can keep them can’t we? She continued.

I suppose so, but sit quietly, I don’t want you to make a nuisance of yourselves. Their mother said as she sat down safely behind them and made herself comfortable.

As the passengers steadied themselves on boarding the tram,

they were completely unaware that a great swell of sea on the Solent had dangerously rocked the Royal Yacht. The German Kaiser, leaning on the ship rail with his one good arm had nearly been tossed in to the rough waters below. His uncle Edward would joke about the look on ‘Willie’s face for months but Wilhelm, like his grandmother, was not amused. Prince George, his cousin, would have good reason in later years, to remember his father’s swift reactions in saving Willie from a cold watery grave.

The tram filled up quickly and the passengers felt a mixture of emotions as they waited to start their return journey. It had been an historic day and they had witnessed it all from the hill. Now it was time to go home. Back to the rows and rows of compacted terraced houses that made up people’s homes. From the hill one street blended seamlessly in to another, all packed in tightly with an invisible corset under the blazing south coast sunlight. There was so much space on the hill and the air was so clean. ‘Why did we have to leave this lovely place?’ Charles and his wife wondered to themselves. Their home was a happy one where they enjoyed raising their family but the walls seemed a bit thin sometimes and the windows quite draughty. The outside toilet was a welcome piece of sanitation but froze in the winter. Their melancholy thoughts were rudely interrupted by the less than dulcet tones of the conductor who was stood imperiously on the top deck of the tram with his peaked cap of authority held aloft.

Ladies and gentlemen. If I may have your attention please! In recognition of this historic day the Horndean Tram Company has commissioned a photographer to take a photograph of this tram with its passengers on board. Copies of the photograph may be purchased from the studio of Mr. Avey on Commercial Road.

The passengers made various excited comments and turned to pose for the large camera that was sat steadily on a wooden tripod with a black canvas sheet over it. From beneath the canvas came the anonymous voice of the photographer.

Everyone look this way. Hold it as still as you can. Smile! There, thank you and I look forward to seeing you when you call at my studio. He said as he revealed himself, complete with a bald head and a black walrus moustache.

The photographer jumped hastily on to the tram with his camera and tripod and sat grinning devilishly at the back. The tram lurched forward with a jolt and gained speed as it glided safely back down the hill. En route, the passengers were talking and laughing, pointing out landmarks and remarking how smooth the ride was. Older passengers marvelled at the fact that no horses were used to pull the tram.

As the tram smoothly descended the steep chalk hill the view of the Solent diminished and was soon replaced by the houses and pubs of Cosham and Hilsea. The tram sailed across the bridge over Portsea creek and Charles was reminded that Portsmouth was still an island with just this narrow bridge connecting it to the mainland. He thought of the famous people that must have crossed the bridge, notably sea heroes such as Nelson. He was pleased that he had moved from the relative backwater of Greywell to this great City with all its history and place of importance in the British Empire. They moved past the Coach and Horses and down towards Kingston. The girls were quieter now and must be tired. Charles and his wife moved in to the front seats that were now vacated and put their daughters on their laps. It had gone a bit cooler now and the speed of the tram brought a cold rush of air to the faces of the passengers on the top deck.

Charles could see the parish church of Saint Mary’s ahead and knew their stop would be soon. The stop appeared and the family got off the tram as the girls politely thanked the conductor for the ride. The walk home was filled with memories of the day and imaginings about the future. Charlotte wondered if the cold ham would be enough for the family if she put some extra potatoes with it. Charles wondered if this was a good time to talk to Charlotte about trying for a son. The girls wondered if summer would last forever and if life could always be so perfect. They linked arms and walked smartly in front of their proud parents.

Coming home to the neat little terraced house in Purbrook Road may have been a disappointment to some people after such a delightful day out. For the Raggett family, it was always a pleasure to return to the tidy house they called home. Charles and Charlotte had lived happily here since the day they married. Looking up and down the long narrow streets of Fratton every house looked pretty much the same as any other. Thousands of terraced homes hastily built to house the thousands of Dockyard workers who toiled in the biggest factory in the world that was the Royal Dockyard and home of the Royal Navy.

Great steel ships built and repaired in the dockyard needed a great army of highly skilled workers. The wealth this created enabled the workers to enjoy a good standard of living with warm houses, flushing toilets and even gas lighting. The layout for the houses was almost universal in its design. On the ground floor the solid front door would be set back under an arched brick porch. A glass fanlight above the door would illuminate a passage. The front room, known as the parlour, was reserved for those special occasions when guests called. A glass cabinet would display the family china and a sense of pride in the status of the family could be observed in this sanctuary. Moving down the narrow passage and running ones fingers along the dado rail one could enter the main sitting room of the house.

In Charlotte’s sitting room a coal fire would be prepared on frosty mornings to warm the whole house. This fire and the mantelpiece that framed it were the homely heart of the house. On the mantelshelf a clock, inherited from her husband’s father, ticked away as the pendulum swung slowly from side to side. In the corner was Charlotte’s fine wooden chair, a wedding present from Charles that he had made from oak he had felled himself at Greywell. Behind this finely crafted chair was the black hole of the coal cupboard.

Once a week, the coal man would arrive with his huge dark dray horse and cart to unload sacks of Kentish coal in to the coal cupboard. Dust and smoke from the fire would leave a residue of black dust that had to be cleaned every day and the wallpaper would turn to the colour of soot. The coal fire was a difficult thing to light and to maintain, and it was hard to keep the house clean because of it. However, it was the place the family liked to sit around and listen to stories of old Hampshire told by Charles, and ghost stories told by Charlotte. In the winter the family would simply stare in to the subdued remains of the fire and roast chestnuts and try to imagine faces in the embers. The glow of the fire and the shadows it would generate would make the fire almost a living and cherished part of the family.

The sitting room door opened on to the compact kitchen where a coal heated range would be used to prepare meals. The range heated water for laundry and the flat irons to iron with. Moving outside, there was a small garden and yard with the mangle and outside toilet. In 1897 a flushing toilet was a luxury. If your house had one to itself it was a real benefit. In the winter it was so cold a potty would be kept under the bed to avoid a freezing nocturnal dash in the frost or snow.

The steep stairs to the two bedrooms had to be negotiated slowly and carefully. The bedrooms were a good size and had their own coal fires. Large sash windows in the rooms let the light from the great azure blue sky flood in but were usually draughty and rattled wearily in the wind. Ella and Louisa shared a large iron bed with lots of handmade blankets to keep them snug and warm. At night they could hear an owl hoot and would hide under the thick blankets. There was no bathroom in the house and the weekly bath was taken in front of the fire in the sitting room. The labour involved with heating water and filling the large tin bath meant that the family took turns with the water with Charles going last.

Once they were tucked up warm in bed Charles would read stories by Dickens to his daughters. The great Victorian author had been born in Portsmouth and Charles loved the colourful characters in the novels. The bedroom that Charles and Charlotte shared had a large iron bed too with a more comfortable mattress and a great patchwork quilt that Charlotte had sewn together. On a winter night the family liked to turn down the gaslight and just use the light from the fires and candles. In the summer they would all be in bed before it got dark as the following day would begin again at 5.30 a.m.

This was the treasured family home the Raggetts returned to. They carefully hung their coats and hats on the wall rack in the hall and went to the kitchen to wash their hands for tea. In the kitchen Charlotte prepared the potatoes and ham. The girls sat patiently playing with their dolls and listened to their mother singing. Charles looked up at his daughters and smiled paternally. Perhaps tonight would be a good time to discuss his plans with his wife. The girls ought to be in bed early after such a long day and he needed time to be alone with his wife.

CHAPTER 2

The Bakers Arms

Commercial Road stretched languidly from Mile End, down past Edinburgh Road, on to the new railway station and past the civic pride of Portsmouth that was the Town Hall. This bustling thoroughfare was the commercial heart of the town, which is why it had that name. The road was full of shops and pubs and theatres and music halls, and shops and photographic studios. Charles Dickens was born at the Mile End part of the street and who is to say this great Victorian shambles did not have a profound influence on his life and literature. His time in Warrens blacking factory amid the robust and turbulent characters of Portsea can be found in fictional characters such as Abel Magwich.

At the centre of Commercial Road there was an ancient public house known as The Bakers Arms. Part of the Pike Spicer brewery, the pub dated back to 1750. Now surrounded by much taller buildings and the new fashionable department stores of late Victorian England, the old pub had seen better days. Squeezed in between Patterson’s the fishmongers and Timothy Whites the Chemists, the pub had been popular with sailors since before Nelson’s time. The Georgian windows had looked out on many social and economic changes and its thick brick walls had been witness to major events in the history of the nation. You had to be tough to run a pub in Portsea. If Portsmouth was a tough military garrison, Portsea was the toughest part of the town. The new cultural developments such as the Hippodrome and the new tramlines running past the pub brought prosperity. They also brought more trouble and notoriety.

The landlord of the Bakers Arms was one Alfred Pitts. Alfred had run pubs before and knew how to handle difficult customers. He moved to Portsmouth to seek his fortune and this pub would be the centre of his own little empire. Alfred was never known by any abbreviation to his name. It was never ‘Alf’ or ‘Alfie’; it was always strictly ‘Alfred’ or Mr. Pitts. Alfred had a very long grey beard and a pair of cold steel grey eyes that could bore holes through walls. He was a frightening man but did have a dark sense of humour. Uncompromising, inflexible, as hard as nails and not one to cross, Alfred ruled his pub and this stretch of Commercial Road with the discipline and authority of an Admiral of the Fleet.

Alfred had been a lonely widower for five years, and had three grown up daughters from his happy marriage to Mary Ann. As the last rays of sun filtered fleetingly through the old crown glass of the big Georgian windows it was easy to read that troubled look on the landlord’s gnarled face. It was the look he wore when you asked only politely for a drink and made it last for a while before you dared to disturb him again.

It was just as well the majority of his faithful regulars were ensconced in the bars of Old Portsmouth, where they had retreated to after watching the Spithead review that very afternoon. The Still and West and The Bridge Tavern did not offer the quality of ale or bawdy entertainment to be found in The Bakers Arms but they were closer and if a man was thirsty what was he to do?

Alfred missed Mary Ann but what was the point of that? He had wanted a son and she had produced three daughters who were a money pit for their fine clothes and shoes and who cost a fortune to maintain. Good riddance that he had managed to marry them off and damn the expense of it. He did not like being alone though, and the ghosts of that ancient pub would haunt his dreams and wake him trembling from his bed. Sometimes he would just stare through the small window in the attic room and wonder where all his money would go once he called ‘time gentlemen please’, for the last time.

Lost, deep in this black train of thought, he was unaware of a tall and attractive young woman waiting to be served at the copper topped bar. She coughed to catch his attention. He turned and scowled at her but caught the sharp look in her large dark eyes. This seemed like a woman that was tough like him and she just kept on staring in to his eyes with out blinking. As much as his eyes were cold and grey hers were dark and fierce. He blinked unwillingly and carelessly threw a bar towel on to the bar in front of her.

Yes, madam, what can I get you? He enquired rather condescendingly.

A gin please. Make it a double! The vivacious stranger replied curtly as she surveyed the dirty sawdust strewn floor and inadvertently kicked a brass spittoon.

The Bakers Arms was not a pub that the toughest of Portsea men would go in to on their own. It was certainly not a pub that a finely dressed young Lady would enter alone or even escorted. The gentle hum of the few loyal regulars that evening fell away as they watched in awe. The old white haired sailor propping up the bar pulled a deep breath on his pipe and grinned at the landlord. Don’t often get a ship like that in this port Alfred! The stranger turned to face the sailor and knocked back the gin in one loud gulp. Her piercing stare unsettled the ancient seadog and he was reminded of the wild tales of sea sirens when he was a cabin boy on the old sailing ships. A cold draught made the candles flicker and the sailor skulked off to sit on the bench near the window.

Sorry about him. He’s got a bad mouth on him but he is harmless growled Alfred.

Are you the owner of this filthy hostelry old man? The tall woman asked belligerently, ignoring Alfred’s commentary.

Now you could hear a pin drop, for nobody spoke to Alfred Pitts in that manner, man or woman. But this woman was clearly quite different. She had caught him off guard; he was not prepared for her. It was not a fair fight and something about her manner and physique frightened him. He studied her for a few long tense moments with narrowed eyes. She looked immaculate. Her clothes seemed, even to Alfred, a little old fashioned but she was, in his estimation, still quite young. Her hair was pinned up tightly and this allowed him to see her long elegant neck. The large puffed up shoulders of her coat made her seem formidable but the tiny waist gave her a feminine quality that could not be ignored by a lonely old widower who had not felt the comforts of a woman for many years.

Alfred could tell that she must have been walking vigorously and watched tiny beads of sweat trickle slowly from her brow. Her chest was heaving as she struggled to restore her breathing and the fine cheekbones of her long face were flushed with blood as it raced through her veins. She pouted at him and seemed about to say something but remained silent. He darted glances around the darkening gloom of the saloon bar to calculate the reaction of his regulars to this outspoken and daring young woman. Wisely, the few drinkers present turned their backs and stared in to their beer glasses and smoked their clay pipes.

Can you read young lady? He enquired sardonically. My name is over the door outside. Alfred Pitts. Yes, I own this pub. Who wants to know? Alfred replied eventually, concluding with a question of his own.

Agnes. Agnes Jessie Burden. That is my name. Agnes said boldly as though she was introducing herself to the Lord Mayor.

And why would a lady like you wash up in a pub like this? Alfred said as he fished deeper.

She hesitated for a moment, as she planned her counter attack, but continued to stare him right in the eyes. He pulled nervously at his long beard as he waited for her answer.

I am a member of the congregation of New Road Baptist Church. She responded defiantly, her eyes blazing now and her strong jaw sticking out aggressively.

So that was it! Some months ago Alfred had sued the Minister of her church for slander. The Minister had preached that The Bakers Arms was a den of iniquity, and that he was banning his congregation from going there. Alfred had taken the malevolent Minister to Court and easily won his case. The damages awarded had been so high that the Minister would have to go to prison, as he was unable to pay the damages or even the costs of the hearing.

I just wanted to see this hovel for myself and to meet the infamous Mr. Pitts in person. Agnes said fearfully as her heart began racing again.

And what? Did you think I would let your Minister go scot-free? Did you think I would let him damage my good name and my business? Alfred spat out, knowing he had this unwelcome interceding intruder on the ropes.

I don’t know what I thought Mr. Pitts. I just, I just wanted it to finish so that our church can return to normal. We mean you no harm. The belligerence had left her now and she seemed frail and vulnerable. Alfred felt a pang of guilt and almost relented.

The door is there. Close it behind you when you leave Miss Burden. Alfred said in a calm business like manner.

Agnes was still cradling the small gin glass in her long gloved hands and fighting back the tears when she heard the old sailor burst out laughing from his corner retreat.

Nobody gets one over on Alfie Pitts. He shouted lewdly as he staggered drunkenly towards her.

The name is Alfred. The volatile landlord hissed back at the barnacle nosed reprobate.

Agnes shuffled her feet on the beer-stained floorboards and slowly offered the empty glass to the publican. Are you going to fill it, or wash it? Either way the glass is empty. She asked peremptorily.

Agnes had spotted a small chink in his obdurate armour, a streak of decency and respectability. Look. Is there somewhere a bit more private we could go? Perhaps we could discuss things more amicably if we were alone. Agnes said confidently as she felt her courage returning.

Alfred was completely on the back foot now. Nobody had been in the back since his wife had died and it was a terrible mess. He had not cleaned the rooms or scrubbed the cold stone floor for months. There was something about this shrewd girl he liked though. How old was she, 31, 32? Alfred admired her brave pluckiness. He liked her strong chin and her swan like neck. He noticed how she held her pretty head to one side and how her back was as straight as a poker. Best of all, he kept coming back to those big dark eyes and the way they just looked straight at him without blinking. He imagined being alone with her but, frankly, it terrified him. And those sniggering bastards were watching him.

Not now, not here. He said softly. I am on my own and there would be nobody to mind the bar. Alfred continued.

He hesitated, what was he doing? He desperately tried to think straight. What did she want? This woman worried him deeply, she was trouble indeed but he quite liked the challenge of that. It had been too long since he felt like this about a woman. Alfred had begun to think he would never feel like this again at his age. Emotions that he thought had been buried for good with his late wife were surfacing again and it scared him.

Where do you live? He asked meekly.

Oh, you can not possibly visit me. I am a governess at a private girls school in Southsea. Agnes replied haughtily.

‘A governess! Bright as well as attractive.’ Alfred said to himself with a small smile in the corner of his whiskered mouth.

Do you know the Mikado tea rooms by the Pier? He asked her casually

I know of them. Agnes replied nervously.

Meet me there next Sunday afternoon at four O’clock and I will listen to what you have to say for yourself. The Landlord was heard to say by his admiring but nosey regulars.

Well I, why I. I am not sure that I could. Agnes replied in panic.

Why not? Alfred snapped at her. You came in here didn’t you? And the Mikado is very posh and grand.

Very expensive too, I understand! She said, knowing she was as poor as the church mouse she had run screaming from one Sunday morning.

It would be my treat of course. Alfred said generously.

Very well then but if you are late I will not wait for you Agnes said with a force that made clear her intentions.

With that she slammed the still empty glass on the counter and almost ran from the pub, slamming the door hard behind her to hoots and whistles from the smoke filled corner of the lounge bar.

That night Alfred lay awake, cold and alone, thinking about her. He tried to remember little things about her, the colour of her lipstick, her scent, the pearls she wore around that long neck. Again though, it was those dark eyes that had bewitched him. As he lay there listening to the harsh and brutal noises from the street, drunkards singing, prostitutes shouting for business and that rattle of the old window, he just could not sleep.

The full moon was now shining in on the walls and the faded photograph of his late wife was staring blankly down at him. This pub needed a woman he told himself. He needed a mother for his daughters to keep them in line. He needed a wife. The wind was howling down the chimney and in to the fire grate and he believed he heard voices whispering. The house creaked noisily at night and he would have to light a candle and investigate until he was quite sure he was safe and alone.

The summer months were bearable, with long warm sunny days, but when winter came loudly hammering on the old windows, and the ghosts of the past whispered in his ears, he felt scared and wanted the comfort of a wife to lay beside him and keep him safe. He resolved to clean the place up the next day and would arise early to do it. At 5.30 the blackbird woke him with a pretty song and he realised how stupid he had been to desire the strange young woman with the big dark eyes. He would not meet her at the tearoom or anywhere else and if she came calling again he would put her out in the street where she belonged. However, love and reason are fickle friends who change direction like the weathervane on top of the Parish Church and Sunday was a whole week away.

Whether he would elect to meet her or not, the pub was a dirty shambles and this was a good opportunity to clean it from the cellar right through to the public bar, make the windows gleam again, tidy and sweep his private apartments, even scrub the filthy pavement outside. He gave the cellar boy an extra shilling and said there would be another if he helped him to make the old place shine. He even smiled as he passed him the shiny coin. The boy hesitated and waited for the back of the old man’s hand but all that happened was that the Landlord of The Bakers Arms started to sing, softly at first, then loudly, and the louder it got the more out of tune it became. But singing and cleaning went hand in glove and by the end of the day the entire establishment was clean and habitable.

Eventually the old man had to rest for a while. He sat on the worn oak settle and watched the boy scrub the floor and walls for a second time. He liked the lad and was reminded of the days of his own youth on the Isle of Wight. Alfred thought again about Mary Ann, bless her soul, rest in peace. Things had gone more than a bit wrong since she had died and he simply wanted life to return to normality. When she was alive he had managed the pub and its rowdy regulars and she had managed the family, his accounts, and dealt with the brewery. She worked tirelessly to cook, clean, manage the laundry and bring the girls up single handled. She had been a loving and supportive wife and he missed the way she would park her backside on the small of his back and keep it warm in bed in the long winter months. Left to manage his life and the pub on his own had left him floundering and depressed.

All that week he would pace up and down the bar scowling and swearing at his regulars, saving his most vile comments for the ones he liked the best. In the middle of the night he would lay awake and try to imagine what he would say to her, if she actually turned up that was. She was so much younger than him and what did he have to offer her? He was the bad tempered, irascible, obdurate old landlord of a run down public house on Commercial Road. He would make the best of what little he did have to offer. On Friday morning he would buy a smart new suit from the Landport Drapery Bazaar. Perhaps even a new hat too. Was he getting too far ahead of himself though? Perhaps she just wanted to intercede for her precious Baptist Minister. Maybe, but there was something about the way she looked deep in to his eyes that he could not get out of his mind.

Thursday night was much the same, as Alfred lay cold and restless in his big double bed unable to sleep. Outside, a French sailor was singing bawdily in his native language. He had had too much rum and should get back to his ship before he was arrested or got his throat cut by the Portsea gangs who roamed the streets at night looking for trouble. Alfred lit a candle and sat up in bed. The heavy old wall clock showed it would be getting light in an hour, no point in trying to sleep then. Soon, the dawn chorus began its overture followed by familiar sounds from the street of traders, clattering milkmen, and heavy booted men on their way to work at the Dockyard. Perhaps he would make a good breakfast for himself and go out early to buy that suit today.

The oak smoked bacon and sausages sizzled and spat noisily in the old copper pan, and the eggs solidified and turned brown round the edges. Alfred could not resist a wry smile. The early morning sun shone brightly through the open kitchen window and bathed the room in a golden light. A fresh breeze moved the back door slightly ajar. The small black cat, that Alf had for his companion, tiptoed quietly in to the room and rubbed itself endearingly against Alfred’s baggy trouser leg. It had a lean wiry body and a short velvety coat. ‘I wonder if she likes cats?’ He mused. The cat’s tail was on end and it purred pleadingly, as it smelt the bacon. Alfie knelt down, gently stroked Blackie’s head and offered the old mouse-catcher a scrap of sausage. There Blackie, Alf said softly, That will taste better than mouse.

A great crash and rumbling roar from the busy street alerted Alfred that the draymen were here again. Blackie, alarmed at the noise fled upstairs. Leaving the pan, Alfie dashed outside and the great chestnut brown dray horse was nodding its head up and down almost in greeting to him. The cellar doors were already wide open and the heavy wooden barrels went rolling down to the anxiously waiting cellar boy.

Careful Tommy. Alfred shouted. Those heavy barrels moved at high speed and could easily crush a young lad. Ten heavy oak barrels from Pike Spicer. Ten barrels would last nearly two weeks. It was popular ale and had a heady mixture of hops that gave it the full body his regulars appreciated. The draymen remounted the massive wooden cart and it jolted