ANNIE (a daughter, wife and mother)

By Richard Banks

Annie Eliza was born out of wedlock in 1841, the first child of George Smith and Ruth Chapman. Her father was a soldier in the 2^nd Regiment of the Queen’s Life Guards, stationed at Regents Park Barracks. The Regiment provided the mounted guard for ceremonial parades and processions in London, such as those for Queen Victoria’s coronation and marriage. Ruth, had come to London from Sussex to work as a domestic servant. George would, no doubt, have cut a dashing figure on horseback and Ruth was one of many young women exposed ‘to the all powerful redcoat’ and ‘succumbing to Scarlet Fever’.       

         Although the army actively discouraged marriage for enlisted men George and Ruth were given permission to marry a year after Annie’s birth enabling the three of them to live together in barracks and later in lodgings. One of the benefits of George’s employment was that Annie would have been educated at the Regimental School well before the introduction of mandatory schooling. The school sought to instil notions of discipline, duty and respect in line with military ideals as well as teaching practical skills that would have equipped their pupils for future employment. By the standards of the time the children also received a good academic education, including spelling, reading, writing, diction, grammar, English history, geography, arithmetic and algebra. George would have been paid two-pence a month for Annie to attend and one penny for each of his children that came after her.  

         Growing up in salubrious areas such as Knightsbridge and Windsor put Annie in close proximity to a world of privilege and wealth seldom glimpsed by other working class children. From a young age Annie would have learned to take a pride in her father’s position and espouse regimental values of honour and dignity. How she spoke and comported herself would have conveyed the impression, even in later life, that she was from a good family. 

         By 1854 Anne had been joined by five siblings. The family was living in lodgings near to barracks when epidemics of scarlet fever and typhus arrived in London. Within weeks four of Annie’s siblings died, sparing only herself and one sister, Emily. Despite the trauma of these deaths family life continued and George and Ruth had several more children, including a son named Fountaine. By now Anne was in her teens and almost ready to begin working life. 

         At the time of the 1861 census she was working as a housemaid in the Westminster home of an architect; a few doors away was living Isambard Kingdom Brunel. Her duties as a maid of all work were many and involved long hours. The pay was poor and it is unlikely she had very much free time. However, for the first time in her life she had her own room. 

         In 1862 tragedy again entered her life when her father, now in civilian life, working as valet to a former officer, committed suicide by cutting his throat. The reason or reasons why he did so are unclear but since leaving the army it appears he had become a heavy drinker. 

         In 1869 Annie’s life took an upward turn when she married John Chapman, a lodger at her mother’s house. He was a private coachman, a job that put him near the top of the hierarchy of servants. They lived reasonably well by working class standards of the time. Indeed it was observed that many coachmen and their wives harboured delusions of grandeur, especially those who, like John, worked in the West End of London. In 1870 Annie’s first child was born to be followed by seven more. 

         In 1879 John became head coachman to Francis Tress Barry, a man of considerable wealth with a country estate, St Leonards Hill, near Windsor.  John’s duties now extended to the supervision of the estate’s stable block. The family’s accommodation in the coachman’s house would have been a significant improvement on previous lodgings and Annie may well have employed a charwoman or day maid. 

         Barry’s house was only four miles from Ascot racecourse and in 1881 was visited by the Prince and Princess of Wales, plus other royals, attending the races. They were often to return for dinners and shooting parties. Living close to high society, and benefiting from John’s well paid employment, the family had all but become middle class – what could possibly go wrong? 

         The answer is to be found in a letter written in 1889 to the Pall Mall Gazette by Annie’s younger sister, Miriam. She wrote: ‘Just before I was six years old, my father cut his throat, leaving my mother with five children, three girls older, and one younger than myself.’

         All, she wrote, had signed the abstinence pledge to forgo ‘fermented spirits’ but her eldest sister [Annie] was unable to adhere to this commitment. ‘We tried to persuade the one given to drink to give it up. She was married and in a good position. Over and over again she signed the pledge and tried to keep it. Over and over again she was tempted and fell.’ Annie’s struggle, according to Miriam, had been a lifelong one and that she had inherited ’the curse’ of alcoholism from their father.          

         Her letter further states that of Anne’s eight children, ‘six of these have been victims of the curse.’ Indeed, all died within days or weeks of being born or suffered medical conditions likely to have been a consequence of Annie’s addiction. In 1882 after her eldest child, Emily Rose, had died of meningitis Annie began to acquire a reputation for public drunkenness. In the December of that year she was persuaded by her sisters to enter a sanatorium in Spelthorne, West London. One year later she was discharged and according to Miriam, ‘came out a sober wife and mother’.

         However, after a year of abstinence she was again observed wandering the St Leonards Estate the worse for wear. John was presented with an ultimatum by his employer, either to remove her from his estate or face dismissal. With two surviving children to consider, including one who was severely disabled, John and Annie agreed too separate. It was agreed that John pay her 10/-s a week maintenance and that she return to the family home in Knightsbridge. With the help and support of her mother and sisters there was still hope she could overcome her addiction, but within weeks Annie’s inability to stop drinking caused her to leave the home of her pledge adhering family. 

         It is likely she relocated to Notting Hill, a poor working class area, where she met a Jack Sievey and the two of them became a pair, probably on account of their mutual love of alcohol. In 1884 they moved to Whitechapel in search of work. Known as Mrs Sievey she was described by a friend as a respectable woman, never using bad language, clever, and industrious when sober. They lived in Dorset Street, a road the social reformer, Charles Booth, described a few years later as ‘the worst I have seen,’ on account of its poverty, misery and criminality. As Annie and Jack almost certainly had enough money between them to afford better lodgings it would seem that most of what they had was spent on alcohol. 

         In December 1886 her situation worsened when John’s maintenance payments ceased. Learning that he was gravely ill Annie set-off to walk the twenty-five miles to Windsor where John, now retired from Barry’s service, had taken a house. Their reunion was a brief one, John dying on Christmas Day. Back in Whitechapel she seemed genuinely remorseful although her grief may have had more to do with the loss of her maintenance money. Early the following year Jack Sievey deserted her, leaving Annie without a protector, imperative in a neighbourhood renown for its criminality. 

         Annie’s life became increasingly affected by drink, despondency and ill health that included tuberculosis. Nevertheless she attempted to earn money by selling matches, flowers and her own crochet work. Occasionally, she would return to her family who would give her clothes and, in Miriam’s words try to, ‘win her back, for she was a mere beggar’. Annie’s brother, now resident in Clerkenwell, was also approached for help and likely gave her money as well as buying her the occasional drink. Like Annie he was an alcoholic whose addiction later led him to steal from his employers. 

         In 1888 Annie began to spend her weekends at the Dorset Street lodging house of Crossinghams in the company of Edward Stanley, a brewery worker, who paid for their accommodation from Saturday through to Monday morning, also paying for Annie to stay there a night or two more. Their relationship appears to have been an exclusive one and Annie, trying to affect an appearance of marital respectability, purchased and wore rings which Stanley described as a wedding ring and keeper, ie an engagement ring.

         On 7 September 1888 Annie’s friend Amelia Palmer saw her lingering on Dorset Street looking unwell and apparently penniless. Asked if she would be going to Stratford Market to sell her crochet work Annie replied, ‘I am too ill to do anything’ and then, ten minutes later, when their paths crossed again, ‘I must pull myself together and get some money or I shall have no lodgings.’ By this time she may well have been sleeping rough on some of the nights she was not with Stanley. 

         On the evening of 7^th September Annie appeared at Crossinghams having apparently begged five pence. By 1.45 am when the kitchen was cleared of those unable to pay for a bed her money had largely been spent on alcohol and a meal of potatoes. With insufficient money to pay for a bed Annie wandered out into the night with no other option but to sleep rough. 

         Her murder in the early hours of 8 September 1888 was the second of five thought to have been committed by the serial killer, Jack the Ripper.   

        

                                                    ***** 

         It was generally assumed in 1888 that the Ripper’s five victims were prostitutes. That belief has persisted into modern times. The available evidence indicates that only one was. All had problems with alcohol which for four of them wrecked stable relationships contributing to their slide into desperate poverty. Sadly nothing of Annie’s tragic life would be remembered today had it not been for her brutal murder.

[Bibliography: ‘The Five. The untold lives of the women killed by Jack the Ripper.’ A book written by Halle Rubenhold and published by Transworld Publishers (part of Penguin Random House UK group of companies.]

 

Copyright Richard Banks

Spring on the bank of Buttsbury Brook

 Spring on the bank of Buttsbury Brook 

By Christopher Mathews

The stream is swollen ripe with rain, that feeds the meadow and the plane,

Suckles the trees with fertile wine, and feeds the myriads that dine, on tender shoots of verdant green, spring may soon be seen.

Gentle rain beats softly down, on the dry and frozen ground, and so the earth begins to yearn in winter’s night for spring’s return,

spring must come at last.

The air is laden warm and sweet to wake the moles from winter sleep, to stir the worm beneath the ground to seek the fresh spring’s vibrant sound,

Spring is coming fast

It nourishes the wild and fertile soil, as all the creatures begin their toil,

urgent now no time to lose find a mate and choose. find a home, make a nest no time to take a rest,

spring shall come at last.

The earth once captive to winter's grasp, begins to warm by sun at last, and so to wake the sleeping land from its slumber, unseen by man.

The beetle and the bee begin to stir inside their secret tomb, the frozen soil begins to yield to the warming sun across the field.

spring will come at last.

No time to lose too much to do, to build the hive and tend the brood, to seek the nectar in the flower, this is her appointed hour.

Spring has come at last

The snowcapped hills release their store of living water on the poor. For thirsty land, a new fresh spring is now at last at hand.

But spring will never last

 

© Christopher Mathews, April 2025

The History of clocks being changed.

 The History of clocks being changed.

By Barbara Thomas

In 1905 a British man named William Willett published a leaflet to encourage people to make the most of the early morning sunlight.

He suggested bringing the clocks forward each Sunday in April then turning them back in September.

William Willett was Born on the 10th of August 1856 in Farnham Surrey.

His occupation was a master builder he inherited his father's business equivalent to today's Wimpy Houses.

Willett Builders built houses in choice parts of London and the South including Chelsea and Hove plus Derwent house.

He lived most of his life in Chislehurst Kent and where he would be found in the early hours of the morning on horseback riding through Petts Wood.

Near his home early one summer morning he was noticing how many blinds were still down. This is where the idea for daylight saving time 1^st occurred to him.

He used his own financial resources and published a pamphlet

called,  “The waste of daylight” In it he proposed that the clocks should be advanced by 80 minutes in four incremental steps during the month of April and reverse the same in September. The evenings would then remain lighter for longer, increasing daylight recreation and work time and also saving £2.5 million pounds in lighting costs.

William suggested that the clocks should be advanced by 20 minutes at a time at 2 a.m. on successive Sundays in April and to be reversed in September.

In1908 Willett through vigorous campaigning managed to get the support of a Member of Parliament namely Robert Pearce MP who had also made some unsuccessful attempts to get a bill passed by law. A very young Winston Churchill promoted it at the time and the idea was examined again by a Select Parliamentary Committee in 1909

Unfortunately, his idea was never taken seriously, and the idea was thrown out.

Step forward approximately to 1916 during World War One and the issue of more daylight became important. The Germans decided then to implement the changing of clocks due to the need to save coal.

A bill was finally passed in Parliament the British could also implement what was called “summer time” on 17th May 1916.

And the clocks were advanced by 1 hour on the following Sunday 21^st May 1916 enacting as a war-time production boosting device under the Defence of the Realm Act, it was subsequently adopted in many other countries apart from the USA.

Unfortunately, William Willett did not live to see his daylight saving become law as he died of influenza in 1915 at the age of 58.

He is commemorated in Petts Wood Kent by a memorial sundial set permanently to daylight saving time.

The Daylight Inn in Petts Wood is named in his honour also there is a road named after him. There is also a blue plaque outside William’s house in Chislehurst.

William Willett is buried in St Nicholas churchyard, Chislehurst and a family memorial stands in the church at St Wulfran’s Church, Ovingdean in Brighton and Hove.

Also, a Freemason he was initiated in Camden Place Lodge on the 1^{st of} November 1906.

William Willett was the grandfather of John Willett the translator

(BERTOLT BRECHT) a German theatre practitioner playwright and poet.

His Great Great Grandson is Coldplay singer Chris Martin

Popular myths claim that adjusting the clock would benefit the farmers and improve road safety for early morning commuters,

As you can see from the above the practice goes back well over 100 years.

Although in 1968 clocks went forward as usual in March they were not reversed until October 1971.

The BST Act was created in 1972 which started the tradition finally of changing the clocks in Late March; Spring forward ~ fall back.

Many were not happy with this as Muslims, Jewish and other faiths followed their own calendars; which is their choice.

 

Copyright Barbara Thomas

Spring Time Blossom

 Spring Time Blossom 

By Sis Unsworth 

The alluring vision of blossom, does now embellish the trees,

enhancing the world in springtime, it gently succumbs to the breeze.

For early spring pleasure we treasure, as winter at last says goodbye,

the blossom displayed in its glory, is enhanced by the sun and sky.

Its presence will not last forever, take time to enjoy the grand view,

the memory of springtime blossom, is a gift to last the year through.

 

Easter Limerick

By Sis Unsworth

Easter does come a bit late this year,

chocolate eggs in the shops now appear,

I asked auntie Peg,

If she fancied an egg,

She said “no, I’ll just stick to my beer!”

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 

 

SALVATION

By Richard Banks                                   

 

If I had one wish it would be to declare all wishes null and void. Call me cynical, a spoilsport, anything you like but if you had my job you'd be wanting the same. Right now you're thinking about all the good I'm doing, how I help to transform people's lives; lives full of hardship that without me and the wishes would be as grey and cheerless as the never changing sky. Well, what can I say? With three million viewers I must be doing something right; if I don't bring them pleasure then why do they watch? For thirty minutes each month on ‘UK Plus’ they get to hope that they will be chosen, one of ten people randomly selected by computer to have their wishes made reality. The real winners are those who lose. For them there is still hope. OK, they say, so I didn't win this time but there's always next week and, if that doesn't happen, there's the week after and the week after that. Someone's got to win, why not me? In a world where deaths outnumber live births by ten to one their chances of winning constantly increase.

         My sympathy goes to the chosen ones, the poor mutts who think that all their troubles are over, then they find out about the rules, the unpublished small print that no one thought to tell them about. Cash prizes are limited to 50,000 credits, enough to buy an apartment in a domed village but nothing left to pay the bills; and if you don't live in a domed village there's no shortage of desperadoes who will cut your throat for what you have got and they want. Happy days! Then there's the crazy people who think miracles can be done. Cure me of the sickness they say, I want to live in a warm place where the sun still shines, take me back in time, I know you can do it!

         But we can't. This is reality, it's all we have. Choose what you want but prepare to be disappointed. The lucky ones are those who make only moderate demands and having only moderate expectations are moderately satisfied. A man who wanted to see the sun was taken to a mountain top above the cloud bank. A woman who wanted to make love with Brad Pitt junior, was granted half an hour of his time, and went home more satisfied than most. The winner who came out best was the guy who wanted a litre of Ginsplash every day for the rest of his life. As he was on the wrong side of forty this was considered a reasonable request. He's the happiest drunk you'll ever meet. For him the world is a great place, it exists at the bottom of a glass.

         Most of our winners aren't that fortunate. All suffer from the same disadvantage, that having won they are no longer eligible for further wishes. For most of them no wishes, no prospect of wishes, equals no hope. No wonder that the suicide rate for winners is three times higher than for the rest of us. By now you're thinking I don't get much job satisfaction. I don't, but at least I get to live in a domed village. Life in the bubble may not be normal but if normal is what we once had, normal no longer exists. At least we're alive. In the combat zones no one lives, twenty million deaths for every second of war. But not here, not on this sceptred isle. We were spared, no rockets, no bombs, not a single casualty, not a single building destroyed. Then the clouds rolled in. We thought they would pass, that it was just a matter of time before we woke up one morning to see a blue sky. Thirty years on we know that’s not going to happen, not for us, not for many generations to come. Our world is a twilight place where few crops grow and those that do are contaminated with the same sickness that's in all living things. We that were once sixty million are now down to four, but we cling on. Food is grown in factories, electricity generated, new buildings constructed. We have adapted, we continue to adapt. Every year some small progress is made but as yet there is no cure for the sickness. In the accountancy of human life if we do not balance the books in twenty years mankind will be extinct. We are on the edge, but not done yet. The newborns contain less radiation than their parents. For most the difference is not significant, in some it is. These fortunate few are nurtured within the benign environment of a dome. In time they will be paired with others of their kind. In them is our salvation.

         For now, we must take consolation in the few pleasures that remain. Our lives are short, fifty years for those in domes, thirty-five for the rest. What would we do without the wishes? On TV screens crackling with radiation those who watch dare to dream and believe in the possibility of better. For a short while behind drawn curtains the world is out of sight and the things that remain seem more precious than those lost. It could be worse, they say. While there are life and wishes there is also hope.

         Important people also get wishes. For them there is no need for random selection. They are chosen as a reward for services rendered, members of the ruling council, district marshals and occasionally TV personalities like myself. Yes, I too have a wish. Having observed the shortcomings in other people's wishes I have been careful not to waste mine. I have chosen psycho-stasis, ten days in an induced coma where I can be in an ideal world of my own construction. I tell the therapist precisely what I want and she programmes my mind like others programme computers. For ten days I can be anyone I want, do anything I want, in any place or time. It's a fantasy world in which the mind moves but the body doesn't. For some it's more real than reality.

         Sometimes things go wrong, but not often. The nurse assures me that their success rate is 98%. She attaches electrodes to my head and chest, explains the procedure yet again and punctures my arm with a needle. Have a good trip she says. I close my eyes knowing that the next time I open them I will be in the south of France, circa 2001. The programme downloads and I slip into unconsciousness.

                                                       *****       

         I awake in a pleasant enough room that has floral wallpaper, a cupboard, and a media viewer. It's morning on day one. I get out of bed and cross the room towards the window. My legs are unsteady but this is to be expected; it will, I'm told, soon pass. I draw back the curtains and stare out at a landscape that's definitely not the south of France. This is England, the way it used to me. It's a sunny, windswept day, the radiator beneath the window is cooling but still warm. My disappointment is eclipsed by the sight of the sun and the blue sky that surrounds it. I shower, select some clothes from the cupboard and go exploring. The building I am in is a large one, evidently a hotel. There is food cooking, a full English breakfast. The smell of bacon mingles with that of sausage, mushrooms and coffee.

         At the end of a corridor is a staircase. I follow my nose and descend two flights to a dining room where the food is set out in metal bowls within a long wooden cabinet that separates the kitchen from the dining area. I help myself. A jolly woman in white overalls asks me whether I want tea or coffee. I ask if I can have both. She laughs, says I will need a tray, finds one and, when my hands shake, she takes my breakfast to a table where the cutlery is already set out. Other people enter the room, but little is said. They choose their meals, sit down and eat. There are no children. I wonder why, surely there must be children.

         I’m drinking the last of the coffee when a woman, a youngish sort of woman, asks if she might join me.  It sounds like an old joke. Am I falling apart is the standard response. Instead I gesture politely towards an empty chair. Her name is Lyn. Lyn is pleasant, informal, but businesslike. She says I am her ten o'clock. I wonder if she is the escort I requested.

         “Why don't we go through to the conservatory,” she says, “it will be quieter there.” It is. 

We sit by the French windows in the full glow of the sun. Outside, in the garden the rhododendrons are almost in bloom. It’s Spring.

         “How goes it?” she asks.

         I nearly say that it is not what I asked for, but this would be absurd. The woman exists only in my imagination. How can she explain the malfunction in my programming?

         “I'm fine.”

         She smiles. “How is your room?”

         “It has a nice view,” I say, “the sun shines in.”

         “Yes, we thought you would like that. It's east facing. There's nothing better than waking in a sunlit room. Don't you agree?”

         I do. She knows I do.

         She smiles, changes the subject. “Your publisher's been in touch. He sends his best wishes.”

         I suppress my annoyance. I speak quietly, but firmly. “I'm Gerry Donovan, the TV presenter, I don't have a publisher.”

         “What about the other Gerry?” she asks.

         “Which Gerry is that?”

         “This Gerry.” She hands me a book. “Give it a read. I'll be interested to know what you make of it. No hurry. We'll talk again tomorrow. Until then, make yourself at home.”

         She terminates our meeting with yet another smile. Her smile is irritating, affected. It seems to be saying that she knows things that I don't. I decide that if she wants me to read the book that's a good reason for not doing so. I take a walk in the garden but it's still cold so I come back in. The book lies on the table where I left it. I pick it up. It's an hour and a half until lunch and there's nothing else to do. I turn to chapter one. I start reading, get to page twenty-two and stop. This is a narrative I know only too well. It's about me, Gerry Donovan, a TV presenter in the year 2050 granting wishes to the poor wretches that have survived the apocalypse. Someone has been observing me, writing down the minutia of my life for an unsanctioned biography that reads like fiction. It's an outrage! Who has done this? I turn back to the inside flap of the cover where there is a short biography of the author. His name is Gerry Baker. His life is summed up in three short paragraphs. Beneath them is his picture; it’s a picture of me.

Copyright Richard Banks

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Riddles 25

By the Riddler

The Riddler has more puzzles for us today:

 

No 1.  Height, Asinine, Unwrit??? 

(what three letter word can replace the question marks?)

 

No 2.  On a QUERTY keyboard, which number can be written  from a single row of keys?

 

Keep em coming Riddler

 

Scarlett's Granddad said...

 Scarlett's Granddad said...

 by Len Morgan

When I was a boy, about your age, the tooth fairy began to visit.  She took away my milk teeth.  One by one they fell out until they were all gone. 

Then the tooth fairy waved her wand and allowed me to grow a new set of teeth, bigger and stronger. 

"Take good care of them!" she warned, "they are your second chance.  Do not eat too much sweet stuff or drink too many fizzy drinks or they won't last long." 

But Granddad was a silly boy who drank too much Lemonade and Fizzy Pop.  He ate sweets by the bag full and sweet sticky cakes and buns by the ton.  He forgot to brush his teeth regularly and pretty soon, he was visiting the dentists for fillings every month.  

When he had his first extraction, he recalled the Tooth Fairies warning and tried to change, but he was a 'sugar-junkie' he couldn't resist the 'Sugar-Demon'. 

He called out to the Tooth Fairy and promised he would change his ways!  His Teeth were being extracted every three months, regular as clockwork. 

"If you prove you can go one month without sweets or fizzy drinks, I'll see what I can do," she said. 

After a month she returned with his old milk teeth and fashioned them into a new set of false teeth. 

Granddad smiled and showed his bright teeth. 

"Ha ha!  You got them from the dentist," Scarlett said.  

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Mmm..." she wasn't quite so sure after all...

Copyright Len Morgan