An Evening at the Nine Elms
Public houses have always occupied a curious place in Britain's social history. They have served as meeting places, unofficial offices, dining rooms, debating chambers and, occasionally, places where complete strangers became friends before the evening was over. For generations of sailors arriving in Portsmouth, they also provided a welcome change from the routines of life on board ship.
The Nine Elms was one such establishment.
It stood close to Portsmouth Guildhall, beside the Waterloo, occupying a long, rather narrow building that made no attempt to impress. There was no elaborate décor and little to distinguish it from countless other working public houses of the period. Along one side stretched a long wooden bar, polished smooth by decades of use. Opposite stood a line of tables where regulars settled with their pints. At the far end of the room hung a dartboard that seemed rarely to be without players gathered beneath it. Somewhere on the wall, a jukebox quietly competed with conversation, providing the familiar soundtrack of another ordinary evening in the city.
Its clientele reflected Portsmouth itself.
Most were men. Some wore working clothes, others were sailors, while a few appeared simply to have wandered in because they always had. Dockyard workers, tradesmen, sailors and local residents shared the same room without ceremony. It was not unusual, and nobody seemed to consider it worthy of comment.
By the time four young sailors from HMS Glamorgan arrived, Pop was already there with his two workmates, both known simply as Pete.
Introductions required remarkably little effort.
Within minutes there was no obvious distinction between the two groups. They occupied neighbouring places at the bar, bought rounds in the accepted fashion and settled into conversation with the ease that characterised so many British public houses of the time. Nobody appeared concerned that some had travelled from Manchester while others had come directly from a guided missile destroyer lying a short walk away in the dockyard. They simply shared an evening together.
Looking back, that easy companionship perhaps says as much about the period as any official record ever could.
Britain in the early 1970s remained a country where many occupations encouraged familiarity rather than formality. The Post Office driver, the building worker, the Royal Navy sailor and the local publican all inhabited broadly the same social world. Conversations began easily because everyone already understood its unwritten rules.
The Nine Elms proved an ideal setting.
Before long attention drifted towards the dartboard at the far end of the room. Like many public houses, the Nine Elms possessed no shortage of confident players, although confidence and ability did not always travel together. Friendly rivalry quickly developed, accompanied by the good-natured observations that invariably followed any dart landing somewhere other than its intended destination.
Among the regulars was a player with an enviable reputation. He had reached the semi-finals of the News of the World Individual Darts Championship, then one of the most prestigious competitions in the country. His name has long since slipped from memory, but his ability certainly has not.
He threw with the effortless rhythm that distinguished genuinely accomplished players from enthusiastic amateurs. There was no flourish, no unnecessary movement and very little waste. The darts simply seemed to arrive where they were intended.
Such expertise inevitably attracted attention.
Pop, however, regarded reputations as invitations rather than warnings.
For much of the evening he and his stepson cheerfully attempted to unsettle the accomplished thrower with every harmless distraction they could devise. Light-hearted comments, exaggerated encouragement and the occasional theatrical display of admiration all failed completely. The champion remained entirely unmoved, continuing to find his targets with irritating consistency while his two would-be hecklers enjoyed themselves immensely.
The contest, if it could be called that, produced no winner beyond those fortunate enough to witness it.
Eventually attention returned to the tables.
Cards appeared.
Pontoon, Poker or Cribbage followed, played not for money but for matchsticks, a common practice wherever the entertainment mattered far more than the outcome. Nobody stood to make or lose a fortune. The matchsticks merely kept score while conversation wandered comfortably from one subject to another.
The games themselves were almost incidental.
What endured was the atmosphere.
There was laughter without excess, competition without unpleasantness and conversation that flowed naturally between people who had not known one another a few hours earlier. Looking back across half a century, it is impossible to remember every topic discussed, yet the overall impression remains remarkably clear: everyone enjoyed themselves.
That included Pete and Pete.
Neither man appears to have expected anything more than an evening in the local after work. Instead, they found themselves drinking with sailors aboard one of the Royal Navy's newest destroyers, swapping stories and making acquaintances that, if only briefly, felt like old friendships.
Such meetings were seldom planned.
Perhaps that was why they worked so well.
For the young sailor, however, one aspect of the evening stood above everything else.
Pop had made it happen.
There had been no family occasion to celebrate, no birthday, no anniversary and no carefully arranged reunion. The entire gathering had come about because one man, hearing that his stepson's ship might be in Portsmouth, had decided that the possibility alone justified a journey from Manchester. Everything that followed grew from that single decision.
He appeared perfectly content simply to watch others enjoying themselves.
That, too, was characteristic.
Some people naturally become the centre of attention wherever they go. Pop managed something rather different. He drew people together without ever seeming to seek the spotlight himself. Conversation formed around him almost effortlessly. New acquaintances quickly became old friends, and an ordinary evening somehow became memorable without anyone quite understanding why.
Time, as it invariably does during enjoyable evenings, passed unnoticed.
By the time final drinks had been finished and farewells exchanged, the clock had edged towards one o'clock in the morning. The two groups prepared to go their separate ways. The sailors faced the short walk back through Portsmouth towards the dockyard and HMS Glamorgan. Pop, together with Pete and Pete, returned to their lodgings ready for another day's work before the journey back to Manchester.
At least, that was the intention.
Nobody present had the slightest reason to imagine that the evening's story was not yet complete.
The reunion had exceeded every expectation. Friends had been made, stories exchanged and memories created almost by accident. As far as the sailors were concerned, the matter ended there. Weekend leave beckoned, and within forty-eight hours one of them fully expected to see Pop again after returning home to Manchester.
Events, however, had other ideas.
Somewhere between leaving the Nine Elms and arriving home, another chapter was waiting to be written—one involving Portsmouth Guildhall, its stone lions, an encounter with the local police that remained cheerfully disputed for the rest of Pop's life, and a family who never allowed him to forget it.
Like so many good stories, it began after everyone thought the evening was over.
Tug Wilson Part 4 - The Long Journey Home
Primary source: RN-002
RN-E-117
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