THE  MURDER OF FANNY ADAMS

By Barbara Thomas

On scrolling through Hampshire Constabulary History I came across this article:

Although many think that the murder of children is a modern curse unfortunately, this has been happening for centuries.

There was this infamous case concerning the murder at Alton in Hampshire, of a “Sweet” Fanny Adams, aged 8 years old.

 

The murder took place at Flood Meadow on Saturday 24^th August1867.

The child was not only murdered but decapitated then brutally

Mutilated, her body parts spread over a wide area.

Even by Victorian standards this was a horrific murder.

The murderer, a Mr Frederick Baker aged 29, had been arrested

Within hours of the discovery of the child’s body.

He was discovered with blood-stained clothing. Also, damming evidence

 was found in an entry in his diary “Killed a young girl”

Involved in the arrest were Superintendent Cheyney and PC George Watkins.

Baker was tried at Winchester Assizes in December of that year.

The defence introduced evidence of a history of violent mental illnesses in Baker’s family, but he was still found guilty.

It took the jury only 15mins to reach an unanimously verdict.

Baker was publicly hanged on Christmas Eve the very same month, outside the County prison at Winchester and was watched by 5,000 spectators (mainly women)

This was swift justice indeed.

Also this was to be the last public hanging at Winchester, although hanging continued through to the 1960’s.

A detailed book entitles, SWEET FA THE TRUE STORY OF FANNY ADAMS, written and published by Peter Cansfield.

Many of the buildings still exist except for the Police Sation.

LAW, CRIME AND HISTORY (2013)

Scrolling through I came across an article connecting “Sweet” Fanny Adams and Sarah’s Law.

This article contains two cases of female murder, modern and historical. Where both victims have become household names.

There was ‘written iin the print “PRESS”’ an intent to explore how similar cases resulted in the divergent use of victim’s names and how the names of both victims become emblematic and exploited by the press.

Sarah Payne was abducted and murdered by a man with previous convictions for abducting and indecently assaulting another young girl.

Sarah’s mother fought and won and took it to the Houses of Parliament and it became known as “Sarah’s Law” which became a child sex offender disclosure scheme, which enabled members if the public to ask the police whether an individual (e.g a neighbour or family friend) was a convicted sex offender.

Although it is a fact that the names of the murderer’s were often more remembered than the names of their victims, this was not the case with Fanny Adams or Sarah Payne, but how each one is remembered differs remarkably.

The term “FANNY ADAMS” has passed into a pejorative slang term whereas SARAH PAYNE has come to be positively associated with greater public sympathy.

First glance suggests very different responses to these “remembered” victims.

The popular use, if Fanny’s name implies this Victorian child victim of such a savage murder was treated as inconsequential, or at worst taken as a figure of humour.

That her name could be used as a euphemism for “Nothing at all” is remarkable and is more striking set against the Sarah Payne case.

In 1869 new rations of tinned beef mutton was introduced for British Seaman. The sailors were unimpressed by it and suggested it might be the butchered remains of “FANNY ADAMS”

The name became slang for mediocre mutton; stew scarce leftovers and therefore worthless.

 

Copyright Barbara Thomas - 26.05.25

 

 

 

Haiga Collaboration by Poet & Painter

 Haiga collaboration by Poet & Painter

Dawn Van Win & Robert Kingston

Both are writers & artists in their own right, but in this work Rob wrote on two of Dawn's canvases to good effect:

 Copyright Poem Rob, Painting Dawn

 SAINT PATRICK’S DAY STORM

By Bob French

It was six o’clock in the evening on Saint Patrick’s Day and those who partied their lives away were already heading into town for the festivities, but the Gods that controlled the weather had taken offense at something, and storm clouds were gathering out into the wild Atlantic.  Low pressure deepened, dark clouds coiled and swelled, pulling winds into a frenzy and setting great waves rising and crashing into each other.

Those who lived off the sea, knew about such changes in the weather and realised that this was no normal storm.  The old fishermen who made their living on the west coast of Ireland had no need for such things as weather forecasts. Their senses told them what they needed to know; whether to launch or beach their ancient fishing boats.

Kelly O’Hara and Jean O’Connell were walking arm in arm towards the bus stop.  They had become best friends since infant school, and been inseparable since the day they left The Holy Cross Roman Catholic Senior School for Girls in County Cork. Everyone thought it normal when they turned up without a boy on their arm for the end of school dance.

Kelly looked up at the dark clouds that had formed on the distant horizon, they were still a long way off and frowned.

“God! will you look at those clouds. I’m thinking it’s going to be a bad night, Jean.”

Jean, wondered if the buses would be running if the storm hit that evening, but discarded her concerns in favour of what the party held for them; after that, who cared. “Och it a long way off.”

Then, with no warning, the early evening skies lit up with bright lightning forks that scarred the dark distant clouds. Both girls screamed as the sound of earth-shattering thunder crashed around them, sending them into a race up towards the bus shelter.

Kelly laughed at Jean and yelled at the top of her voice,

“I thought you said it was a long way off?” But Jean never heard her.

The storm unleashed its fury on the west coast of Ireland. Within seconds, fierce winds and ice-cold rain lashed at the girls, forcing them to sprint the last twenty yards up to the bus shelter.  By now, the puddles that occupied most of the streets earlier that day had gradually turned into shallow ruts and streams of rubbish, dragging and cleansing the gutters and grassy banks both sides of the street, pushing the rubbish that had been discarded by the town’s folk along like a wave, it moved down towards the coast road.

Kelly screamed as she lunged for Jean’s hand, frantically dragging her towards the entrance of the bus shelter.

“My God, that was close.  Another second and I’m sure you would have been dragged down the street, so you would.”

          Even though they clowned around during the last few years at school, they both gained distinction in their final maths exams and were quickly accepted by the manager of the Bank of America in Cork.  Both had understanding parents who readily agreed they could flat share and had put down the deposit for a nice flat on the outskirts of Cork for them.

They had planned on going down to the Blacksmith Arms, their local pub for the celebrations, but had received a personal invite from the manager of the bank to a posh do at the Royal Hotel in Cork. This meant, that instead of jeans and a pullover and their comfortable Dock Martins, a suitable smart cocktail dress, new matching evening bags and shoes, and a hair do to die for was now required.

          They stumbled into the darkened bus shelter panting for breath before unceremoniously landing on the cold stone bench in fits of laughter. The tattered and worn advertisements that stared down at them from the walls of the shelter, boasting that if you applied this cream or ate that food, it would provide a miracle cure.

It was Kelly who had to raise her voice above the noise.  “Jesus, will you look at our clothes, they’re ruined!”

“I’m not bothered about our clothes; will you just look at our hair. We spent the last of our wages on a posh hair-do down at McGinty’s for this party.  Now look at us.  We look like a couple of Kyle Street scrubbers.”

But Kelly wasn’t listening.  She’d got up and moved carefully towards the opening of the shelter. The ice-cold wind had turned the horizontal rain into a hail storm and the sheer force of it nearly sucked her out of the shelter into the path of certain death.

Jean, who had been shivering in the corner of the shelter suddenly lunged towards Kelly, yelling at her as she grabbed her around the waist and dragged her forcibly back into the shelter.

“God Kelly! what are you trying to do?”

As Kelly stumbled back and fell, she screamed as she felt the ice-cold water instantly penetrate her clothes, sending a shock-wave through her body and taking her breath away.

Jean spun around and looked down at her best friend, who was now floundering in knee-high ice-cold swirling water, then screamed at her.

“Kelly! get up, get up or it will drag you out.” 

With extreme effort, Kelly managed to crawl onto the bench and bring her knees up to her chest and buried her face in her hands.

“Be-Jesus Jean.  This looks bad.  Really bad!”

Jean stared out of the shelter and noticed that it had turned very dark and the water level had risen, sucking the litter out of the shelter and into the river that now rushed past the shelter opening and down toward the sea.

Kelly started to shiver, then cry.

“What are we going to do? We can’t walk out of here; we’ll be swept away.”

Jean sloshed her way through the swirling dark murky water and climbed up onto the bench next to Kelly and put her arm around her and pulled her into an embraced, trying to keep her warm.

“So much for attending the Bosses party.  Still, I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t have enjoyed it as I hardly know anyone.”

“You know me, you silly cow. We would have had a few dances, then sat in the corner and got drunk, don’t you think?”  This assumption brought laughter between them, until the cold and fear of what might become of them brought silence.

After a period of contemplation Jean tried to speak with confidence.  “Don’t you worry none. We’ll get out of here, just you wait un see.”

In between bouts of shivering and chattering teeth, Kelly stared at her friend.  “Do you think we are going to die then?”

“Na, don’t be silly, someone will notice we are missing and come and get us.”

“Pity, I fancied Malcolm from CHAPs department.”

Jean forced a smile as she looked at her best friend.

“Really.  When did you have a crush on him?”

“I’ve spoken to him loads of times when he gets a cup of water from the water cooler.”

“You’re a dark horse, so you are Kelly O’Hara.  Did you ever pluck up the courage to ask him out then?”

“No!  Didn’t need to.  But you can talk.  I’ve never seen you take an interest in any of the lads down at the Blacksmith Arms or the bank. Kelley took a quick deep breath as the flowing ice-cold water came over the lip of stone bench in the shelter. then reached out to hold Jean’s hand.

“No, I didn’t need to. I always had my best friend, didn’t I?”

Jean took Kelly’s hand and kissed it gently. “If we aren’t going to make it, I think we should leave something behind to show people we were here.”

“Oh God, do you think we are going to die then?”

No one spoke for a moment, then, with shivering hands, they took off their crucifix and chains and hung them on a nail above their heads.

They clung to each other in the darkness, amidst the heavy volleys of thunder, lightning and howling wind, and the rising raging and sucking ice-cold water that slowly penetrated their young bodies.

No one came looking for them during the night, nor the following day. A wide search party was organised a day later but never found them.  The police sergeant who led the search spoke to the press.

“Though we have not found the girls, we found a crucifix and chain hanging on a nail in the bus shelter on Drombridge Road which has been identified by Mrs O’Connell as belonging to her daughter. The only thing I can think of is they, the young women, sought safety in the shelter but were overcome by the elements, rendered too weak, then sucked out of the shelter and probably down into the Atlantic. I have contacted the Coastguard but there is little hope.

Copyright Bob French

 

 

 The Spring of ‘45’ 

By Sis Unsworth 

The Union Jack so proudly shown,

distracted from the street,

of bombed out shells that once were home,

to folk I’ll never meet.

 

Street parties came, with tables laid,

we danced and sang for more,

what was this peace for which we’d prayed,

I‘d known nothing else but war.

 

A little girl with a pink dress on,

And ribbons in my hair,

Too young to know why we’d fought so long

With a man no longer there.

 

Pictures of him were placed that night,

on a bonfire along the drive,

I watched them burn in the twisted light

in the spring of ‘45’

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 Better Go Home

Author Unknown

Well you say you’re gonna cut me, put me six feet under.

Better listen to me buddy, to what I’ve got to say.

I aint a bad man, that’s plain to see,

But bad men don’t mess around with me

 

Well I’m fresh out of prison, ten years in San Quentin

Lost my wife & family, I don’t feel so nice!

So before you reach fer that blade,

I didn’t do that time just for shooting dice.

 

I wasn’t lookin fer trouble, I never do.

But the man I killed acted just like you.

Well I had a little boy like the one you’ve got

Though you aint much, I guess you’re all he’s got

 

So you better go home, just walk away

Better go home and throw that blade away.

Better go home and throw that blade away,

Better go home - and throw that blade - away!

 

I learned this song in the 1960s, from an old reel2reel tape recording found at a friend’s house.  I don’t know the artist or the author.  And I’ve long ago lost contact with my friend. 

If anyone can enlighten me, as to its origins, I would be obliged!

 

It has occurred to me that if it were reissued, it might give a stern warning to kids about the folly of carrying knives…

 

Len

 Dancing Light

By Jane Goodhew

I drew back the curtains to let the sun shine through

And the colours danced across the room

As the light caught the crystals hanging on a thread

They reminded me of delicate butterflies

flying from flower to flower

Or a rainbow in the sky after a light April shower

The beautiful colours so vibrant and clear brought back memories of you all my dears

                           

                  

The love of the friends who had given them to me

 so many years before

Time stood still and I saw their faces again

 even those that were a long time dead

Memories are the gifts they leave 

of the colour they gave to our world

so if in the present you are feeling alone

Just remember that they are always still here

 

 

Copyright Jane Goodhew

EASTER SUNDAY 20TH APRIL 2025

 EASTER SUNDAY 20^TH APRIL 2025

By Barbara Thomas

Everyone waited in anticipation, would Pope Francis give the Easter Blessing.

Everyone went quiet when the French windows opened and a very frail figure

In a wheelchair being pushed by a priest bought the wheelchair to a halt on the Balcony of St Peter’s square Bonsilica.

The roar went up; our beloved Pope Francis had come to give his Easter blessing and homily.

Weeks before the Pope had been near to death and after 5 weeks in hospital, he came home which unlike other Popes he chose to live outside the Bonsilica in a 2-bedroom apartment.

The doctors instructed strongly that whilst he was fairly good enough to go home, it was vitally important that he rested so therefore no meetings and that included Royalty, presidents and world leaders.

But the Pope had other ideas.  He met our King Charles and Camilla the Kings consort,

Vice President of the United States of America, the Ukrainian President,           

and many more. All against Doctors orders.

Let me tell you about this extraordinary man who sadly lost his fight just after 7.00am our time. On the 21^st of April 2025 88 years of age.

 

JORGE MARIO BERGUGTIO who years later was to take the name of Pope Francis.

was born in Argentina’s capital BUENOS AIRES on the 17^th December 1936

His father was an Accountant on the railway and an Italian by birth.

He indoctrinated his son Jorge with his obsession of a football club San Lorenzo de Almagro.

Pope Francis would say years later that this was one of the best times in his life.

Jorge would go with his dad to the stadium. Although he also admitted he was no great player and played goalkeeper in matches to avoid the humiliation. The Pope would say later that playing in goal was a great start to get him ready for the school of life. The goalie has to be ready to respond to threats which can arrive from every side.

Wise words for when as Pope Francis he took on the Vaticans “Snakepit”

He started by dismantling the monarchy-style of previous Popes.

He expanded dramatically the number of decision-roles that both lay men and women could hold within the administration.

He would be heard repeatedly saying (about being a goalie makes you aware).

I digress let me tell you more about this amazing person.

One day in 1995 a 16 year Jorge dreamed of being a chemist, on his way to a party he passed a Church and dropped in on a whim to make his confession. Afterwords he said “I felt something had changed, I was never the same, I heard something like a voice or a call I was convinced that I should become a priest.”

He studied at a seminary, but this did not distract him from his other passion ‘The Tango’. Also, during this time, he met a girl and in his own words “I was bowled over for quite a time.”

Jorge eventually chose his faith and particularly the Jesuit Order with its focus on missionary activities and its vow of poverty.

Although whilst he was studying, he worked part time as a bouncer.  Young Jorge took his final vows as a Jesuit priest in April 1973.

This was the year before the outbreak of Argentina’s so called “Dirty War”.

He explained that this was the darkest days of his life. During this time, he was chosen to be the archbishop and had become the leader of the Jesuits in Argentina.

It was felt at the time that as Archbishop he had failed to protect two Jesuit’s priest who had been continually tortured for alleged involvement in left wing activities in 1976, he would always maintain all that could have been done had been done.

Moving forward, as he worked his way through the ranks in 1998 Jorge Mario BERGUGTIO was appointed the Archbishop of Buenos Aires.

The archbishop was soon famous for visiting slums the poor and lonely he would use a bus rather than car to get to his flock.

He continued doing this even when he was made a Cardinal by Pope John Paul, the second in 2001.

Four years later he narrowly avoided becoming the new Pope after Pope John Paul died.

Despite begging his fellow Cardinal’s NOT to vote for him, he still came 2^nd behind Pope Benedict XV.

But in 2013, after continues illnesses a poorly Pope Benedict shocked the world by becoming the first Pope to resign since 1415.

Jorge Mario had not thought of being a contender this time, after all he was now 76 and had already lodged the official paperwork for his retirement.

Many Cardinals strongly believed that the new Pope should be from Latin America home to 39% of the worlds catholic’s.

Then Jorge Mario caught their attention by giving an emotional speech in which he said:

“The church must walk amongst people and be in step with the poor.”

Jorge Mario was voted into the top job on March13th 2013, he joked, “may God forgive you for what you have done.”

When he first appeared on the balcony of St Peter Basilica, he made sure he looked different from any previous plaintiff.  The Pope chose the name Francis as Saint Francis governed the poor sick and lonely. And that’s what Pope Francis always wanted for himself. Therefore, instead of all the pomp of the Vatican he chose to wear a white Cossack and instead of an ornate cross he once again chose his old iron cross.

An Australian Archbishop at the time, Mark Coleridge was later recorded as saying:

“It was clear that this was NOT business as usual.”

So, this is my homage not only to Pope Francis in situ but the man behind the throne, Jorge Mario Bergugtio.

Pope Francis may all the Angels and Saints take you up to the Kingdom of Heaven, you have served his people well and deserve the rest.

 

God Bless may perpetual light shine above you, live in the house of the Lord forever.

Rest in Peace, Amen.

Barbara Thomas