The Great Ormond Street Hospital is one of the leading centres for the care of children in Britain, if not in the world. Specifically GOSH is a leading centre for paediatric heart transplants, with state of the art equipment and the very best personnel, all of which comes at a cost. Fundraising for Great Ormond Street is vitally important and the team who promote and encourage various charitable events are busy indeed.
Those priorities (care of children and finding enough money to survive) have been the same since the hospital opened in 1852. At that time there were only ten beds in a converted mansion in the Bloomsbury region of London, and Dr West appealed to anyone who could help to spread the word. Fortunately he was acquainted with Charles Dickens and encouraged him to write an article in his magazine, Household Words.
In the edition published on 3 April 1852 was an article entitled ‘Drooping Buds’ and it opened thus:
‘In Paris, Berlin, Turin, Frankfurt, Brussels and Munich. In Hamburg, St Petersburg, Moscow, Vienna, Prague, Perth. Copenhagen, Stuttgart, Graz, Brunn, Lemberg and Constantinople; there are hospitals for sick children. There was not one at all in England until the other day.
‘No hospital for sick children! Does the public know what is meant by this? Those little graves two or three feet long which are so plentiful in our churchyards and our cemeteries – to which, from home, in absence from the pleasures of society, the thoughts of many a young mother sadly wander…..’
He went on to describe the necessity of specially trained doctors and nurses, so vital when the patients could not answer questions or explain their symptoms. He talked about the cheerful decor and air of positivity in the old building, once the home of respectable families. His words enlightened the world and soon donations and subscriptions were pouring in.
Six years later the hospital had outgrown the old house and money was again needed for expansion. Dickens stepped up to the plate once more, giving a speech at the annual Festival Dinner and then by giving a public performance at The Martin’s Hall in central London. The money raised from the reading enabled the Hospital for Sick Children to buy the next door mansion and ensured not only its survival but its growth.
It must be pointed out that Dickens was not the only literary benefactor, for there were many; most famously JM Barry left the copyright of Peter Pan to the hospital, ensuring a lasting and regular income.
So, why am I telling you all of this, other than it being an interesting peek into philanthropic life of Charles Dickens? Well, two years ago I decided to run a half marathon and at that time raised funds for Brain Tumour Research, in memory of my sister-in-law Sheila Woodruff. Last year I was recovering from my bout of Covid and various related medical conditions, and found that I couldn’t run. The doctors told me to keep active, but I couldn’t even manage a single mile without becoming breathless. I walked and cycled, but running was out of the question until late in the summer when little by little I was able to achieve longer distances. This year I am out on the roads again, increasing my distances and decreasing my times to an extent that I am confident that I can once more tackle the 13 mile route in October.
And so I am delighted to announce that my chosen charity for 2024 is The Great Ormond Street Hospital. I have already set up a JustGiving page to receive donations and although the race itself is many months away, I urge you to help support such an incredible cause. I hope to work closely with the fundraisers through the year, and may possibly recreate Charles’ 1858 performance of A Christmas Carol in London, but for now the big event is The Oxford Half Marathon. I have set a fundraising target of £3,000 and would love to smash that. The link to the fundraising page is at the end of this post.
This morning my branded running vest arrived, complete with my name blazoned across front and back above the tagline ‘A better future for seriously ill children STARTS HERE’ So: Ready. Steady. GO!!
My 2024 started, professionally, on Friday 16 February in a small arts centre on the Isle of Wight, where I was performing at a very special event which set out to encourage a new generation of writers. I had been asked to appear at the event by a gentleman I know well, a gentleman whose dream this initiative had been, a gentleman who had brought a simple idea to life: my brother, Ian Dickens.
Ian has always been passionate about childhood literacy and for a long time volunteered to in schools to help the children with their reading skills. During his spell as President of the Dickens Fellowship his stated mission was to go to schools and talk about our great great grandfather’s rags-to-riches story, and let the students know that with a blank sheet of paper and a pen anything is possible – whoever you are.
Ian and his wife Anne retired to the Isle of Wight and soon he was not only visiting the schools on the island, but also researching the many links that Charles Dickens has to the region. In the Victorian era The Island was a popular escape for respectable folk, as the Queen and her husband Prince Albert had built a retreat there, and Dickens was one of many who sought the privacy and sea air of the many resorts.
In 1849 Charles brought his family to stay at Winterbourne House near Bonchurch and enjoyed an idyllic few weeks walking, playing rounders on the beach and revelling in the scenery. Some of you may remember that I appeared in a show a few years ago called ‘To Begin With’ which was set at Winterbourne during Dickens’ stay.
2024 marks the 175th anniversary of that beautiful summer, and Ian was keen to mark the occasion with a series of events. Having spent his professional life in marketing, he could see the value of various organisations across the island coming together and two years ago he began to talk to anyone and everyone about the possibilities awaiting them. He felt if he could get Osborne House (Victoria and Albert’s residence) on board then the rest would follow, and for a while things were very positive in that respect, but eventually thanks to politics and policies the house declined.
Unbowed Ian pressed on, involving local councils, ferry companies and festivals until his plans began to take shape. Firstly he managed to convince the Dimbola Museum (the museum in the home of photographic trailblazer Julia Margaret Cameron) to display the ‘Technicolour Dickens’ exhibition that had been curated by the Charles Dickens Museum in London. Cameron was known for her incredible portraits of many Victorian literary greats, so the connection between re-imagined photographs of Dickens displayed in a building where so much photographic magic took place made the exhibition too good an opportunity to miss.
Ian’s second project was linked to his passion for literacy, as he launched a short story writing competition for children in Year 5 (age 9-10). There would be no firm subject matter – the choice was down to the imagination of the children themselves, the only restriction being a limit of 500 words.
Once again Ian dusted off his Dickens talk and went into as many of the island’s primary schools as he could, encouraging every year 5 to enter the competition. Soon the entries came flooding in (more than 100), and the process of judging began. The first selection round involved five members of the Dickens clan, none of whom lived on the Isle of Wight, meaning that there could be no accusation of favouritism. Ian sent as all a random sheaf of stories and we selected 2 or 3 that we felt merited further consideration. When the shortlist had been gathered the final selection was made by Ian, the High Sheriff of The Isle of Wight and a member of the organising committee of the IW Story Festival – at which the winners would be announced.
The prizegiving was to be on Friday 16th February, but I made my way to the island on Thursday afternoon, to spend an evening with Ian and Anne. We were joined later in the afternoon by our cousin Lucinda Dickens Hawksley, a prolific author and one of the other preliminary judges. Having met Lucinda from the ferry Ian drove us to Freshwater, to the Dimbola Museum to have a special after-hours viewing of the Technicolour Dickens exhibition. Photographer Oliver Clyde had observed original monochrome photographs of Charles Dickens and set about colourising them, but not in a straightforward way. With great diligent research he discovered what clothes Dickens had purchased in the years of the portraits and recreated the exact colours and textures of the fabrics. In one picture Dickens is wearing a tartan waistcoat and from tailor’s receipts deduced that it was a Clan Gordan tartan, so used the correct dark blues and greens, with a slight yellow stripe to bring the image to life.
I had a slight part in the success of Technicolour Dickens, in that Oliver had been worried about effectively capturing Charles’ complexion. In the black and white images his skin was quite washed out, due to the lengthy exposure times necessary in the 1800’s, so Oliver photographed me and my cousin Mark in precisely the same poses, so that he could overlay genuine Dickens flesh tones onto the original (or, as Ian pointed out, could add the ravishes and wrinkles of real life!)
It was fun to study the pictures close up, and we all posed for photos next to the photos. There is a hope that I may be able to return to Dimbola later in the year to perform one of my shows with Charles looking down on me from the walls, which may be a bit intimidating.
From Freshwater we drove back to Ian and Anne’s house near Cowes and had a lovely family dinner.
On Friday morning we rose and breakfasted before changing into our smart attire ready for the great ceremony. Ian wore a rather rakish red and white striped blazer, whilst I adopted a dark suit and blue shirt. Both of us sported G&V ties (The George and Vulture is a chop house in the heart for the City of London, which features in The Pickwick Papers, and each December male descendants of the great man meet for a luncheon there, wearing the maroon ‘club’ tie emblazoned with a gold vulture holding a bone in its beak. The original sketch was created by my grandfather, Gerald, and featured the caption ‘Alas poor George.’
For cufflinks I used the set given to me during last year’s tour in New Jersey by my friend Laurel, featuring small golden geraniums with a pearl in the centre if each.
The event was to be held at The Quay Arts Centre in the town of Newport, a brilliant facility which sits astride the River Medina. The centre was full of noise and bustle as we arrived, for the entire weekend was taken up with the IW Story Festival and in almost every gallery and space in the building there were entertaining talks, loud concerts, spectacular presentations and noisy workshops taking place. Our slot was at 12, so we were shown to the green room where we all chatted and waited.
As time passed we were joined by Dawn Haig-Thomas, the High Sheriff of the island who would be announcing the winners, and representatives of the sponsors, HoverTravel and Cowes Enterprise College.
The clock ticked on. I withdrew into myself and ran through what I would have to read, Dawn disappeared and changed into her High Sheriff regalia, Anne listened into an interview with an author who had been giving a presentation and immediately went to buy a copy of his book, and Ian chatted, networked and effortlessly schmoozed.
Soon it was time to begin and the auditorium filled with school children and their families, all anxious to know if their story had won an award. At exactly 12 Cheryl Buggy welcomed us all onto the stage and we took our seats as if we were going to be interviewed on a Saturday night chat show. Ian was first up, talking about his vision and the reasons behind the contest, and when he had finished, it was my turn. I had been asked to perform ‘A Child’s Journey With Dickens’, the short story by Kate Douglas Wiggin in which she reminisced about meeting Charles when she was only ten years old. The story had particular relevance for this event, because at the time of the encounter, in 1868, she was the same age as the contestants in the competition.
I used my best New England accent, pronouncing car ‘cah’, barn ‘bahn’ and water ‘Watah’. Despite the title, the show isn’t really aimed at children, and I was worried that it wouldn’t hold the attention of the audience, but everyone seemed to enjoy it.
Performance over, it was now time for the important business of the day, and Dawn announced the winners. Part of the prize was that each winning story would be read by an actor, related to Charles Dickens, so I was up and down for the rest of the session reading 6 amazing stories. The talent on display was remarkable and there was a real mixture of charming, intense, thoughtful and poignant essays. After each the child in question came to the stage, accepted their envelopes, shook hands with Dawn and politely whispered ‘Thank you’, before returning to their proud family.
The overall winner not only received a book token, but also a stack of books equal to their height for their school library, so when the first prize was announced we had great fun on stage piling up books behind the beaming victorious author, trying to prevent them toppling over to the applause of the audience.
When we had finished we mingled on the stage and posed for photographs with the prizewinners, One lady came up to me and shook my hand, saying ‘Thank you so much! You could read the phone book and make it sound amazing’ I shall accept that review with great pride! Ian also welled up when one of the young authors came up to him and shook his hand, ‘may I have a photo?, he asked. ‘Of course,’ replied Ian, ‘would you like to have the High Sheriff and Gerald in it too?’ ‘No,’ the little boy replied, ‘I just want it with you’
We vacated the stage, as the next event was due to start, and returned to the Green room, where I was interviewed by the festival’s social media team about Charles Dickens, my shows and the event itself.
Anne, Lucinda, Ian and I then drove back to Cowes, had some lunch in a pub near their home, and then he drove Lucinda and I to the RedJet quay for our journey back to the mainland.
It had been an incredible event and the huge success of it was purely down to the efforts of my big brother, and I hope he feels justly proud. I can say for sure that I am immensely proud of his achievements, and hope that this is just the start of a major and important competition. Imagine his delight if, in ten years time, the winner of the Carnegie Medal (a leading prize for children’s and young adult’s literature) was to be the author who won the Isle of Wight Charles Dickens Short Story Competition in 2024. What a legacy that would be!
This is a blog post that I mean to write every year, and yet never have. One of our traditions is that on New Year’s Eve we go to watch a pantomime at one of our local theatres, and it is always an amazing experience: an afternoon of sheer joy and fun
Firstly, for many of my America readers, I must explain pantomime. The theatrical genre has long been an essential part of a British family Christmas, and generations of children have delighted in the brash, brightly coloured, slightly anarchic slapstick fun that makes up the performance. However, Pantomime has very classical its roots, dating back to the commedia dell’arte movement of 16th Century Italy, when familiar stories of youthful love were told by a company of stock characters such as Harlequin, Pantalone, Columbine and Punchinello. Those shows often had a satirical political bent and the performers wore masks so as not to be recognised by the authorities.
Pantomime as we know it today became popular in Britain during the Victorian era, and was soon the Christmas staple that we enjoy now. So, how to explain the premise? The story is loosely based on a fairy tale, such as Cinderella, Beauty and the Beast, Jack and the Beanstalk and others. The audience is conducted through the plot by a boy, often a simple working lad (usually played by an older man, often a star of theatre or TV). The boy will have a mother, an outrageous woman with multiple colourful costumes and huge wigs, this is the pantomime dame, and she is played by a man. There is a great skill in playing a dame, and those who excel in the art are sought after professionally.
As to the plot itself, a girl, often on the point of marriage undergoes some terrible experience at the hands of an evil villain, but ultimately will be rescued by her true love and there will be a happy ending, probably culminating in a grand celebration of the couple’s wedding. Traditionally, and it was still the case when I was a child, the handsome prince character was played by a girl, but that has changed in recent years (cross dressing was obviously a big thing in panto land: a man playing the dame and a girl playing the prince). In the telling of the story there is no fourth wall and most of the characters talk directly to the audience, encouraging them to shout and cheer and join in, hyping up the children (and the adults too, it must be said) to extreme levels as thy scream ‘He’s behind you!!!’ until their faces are scarlet and voices hoarse. Much of the performances are taken up with grand set pieces of slapstick comedy, including the ‘slosh scene’ when the stage, the actors and much of the audience gets covered with water or foam.
In our case we visit The Hexagon Theatre in Reading, and have done for the last four years, where the star of the pantomime is Justin Fletcher, an incredibly popular children’s TV entertainer and presenter. Working alongside Paul Morse as the dame, Justin producers and writes the shows and has around him a regular company of actors (and I am sure back-stage team as well), who gel superbly. This year’s offering was Sleeping Beauty and from the moment we walked in and admired the luridly colourful set, to the moment that we filed out into the dark of New Year’s Eve we were royally entertained. We laughed at routines we have seen many times before and know so well (who cares about the plot, the comedy is much more important), such as the cake-making slosh scene, the hilarious ballet performance in which the Dame and Justin perform using balloons as props, and the simple ‘we’ll have to do it again then, won’t we, woo!’ routine to the tune of Ghostbusters. Do we care that we have seen the same moments for four years? No! We expect them! We demand them!
It was a brilliant performance by a brilliant cast, and I am sure that anyone in England could write the same thing about their own local production. But, the main point of me being moved to write this was a realisation as I sat in my seat waiting for the show to begin that when I perform I do not understand that feeling. The excitement of the visit started in our household days before the show and reached a peak on Sunday afternoon. Every part of the trip was a tradition: the route we drove, the car park we used, the walk to the theatre, the photograph in front of a cast photo, and then the finding our seats.
It was amazing for me to think of the performers in their dressing rooms, some sitting quietly reading a newspaper or playing on their phone, others warming up, others nervously looking through a script (maybe they had gone slightly wrong during the morning performance and wanted to recheck the exact line or cue). Whatever their respective moods, they would have had no idea of the individuals gathering in the auditorium, until the moment that they walk onto the stage and suddenly there is a connection.
When I perform I do love to stand in the wings of the theatre and listen to the audience gathering, to try and get a feel of the room, but I rarely think about the journey that each individual has made – what they were doing that morning, the mood they are in, what the show might mean to them individually. I know that some people return year after year and there is a sense of excitement and anticipation, others have not been before and maybe wondering how on earth the performance is going to work. My thoughts backstage tend to be focussed on myself and giving a good performance, but in the future I will try to think a little more about the audience and how they are feeling as they take their seats.
Sitting in a theatre, watching a show, being entertained is a great way to bring my season to a close and I thank the cast of Sleeping Beauty for signing off 2023 in such a lavish and exciting way.
Happy New Year to you all, and I look forward to seeing you in ’24.
Saturday, 23 December: the last day of this year’s tour. As has become a firm tradition I would be driving to the city of Leicester to perform in the ancient and beautiful Guildhall. During the days since Highclere my insurance company delivered a new rental car to the house, and my damaged car was finally returned to me meaning that I could use my own props once more.
Liz had set off to the shops to buy the Christmas dinner ingredients, and when she returned I got on the road at around 9.20. Now, I like to arrive at a venue on time, I rather pride myself on it, and on Saturday I seriously nailed it. I was due to arrive at The Guildhall at 11, and as I opened my car door the great Cathedral bell began to strike the hour – I was rather pleased with myself!.
I walked along the narrow alley to the front door of the Guildhall and was met by my old friend Ben, the manager at the venue. He helped me to unload the car and then I took the car to the nearby NCP car park, before walking back past the huge Ferris wheel and skating rink which are erected each Christmas season. The original oldest part of the Guildhall was built in 1390, and the wonderful timbers and crooked walls lend a perfect backdrop for the show. A fire had been lit in the grate and chairs were laid out for two sell-out performances, and I spent some time simply sitting in the empty room thinking about the shows to come.
By 12 the first of the audience were gathering, so I went upstairs to the Jury Room which doubles as my dressing room. There is a sort of wooden window in one of the walls which can be opened so that in days past jury members could look down into the main chamber below, meaning that I could hear the audience gather beneath me as I prepared my costumes.
They crowd sounded a festive bunch! I got into costume, and made sure that everything was in order before going to the back of the hall as the Cathedral bell struck 1. The show was to have a slightly complicated start to it, in that Ben would introduce me (heavily plugging my book as he did) and I would be responsible for playing the opening sound effect on a small CD player at the back of the room before commencing my walk to the stage through the middle of the audience. Meanwhile, Ben would be running around the outside of the hall to get back in to stop the CD before it launched into the second track – Mr Fezziwig’s fiddle player giving his ‘Sir Roger de Coverley’, which wouldn’t really be appropriate for the sombre, atmospheric scenes of the opening passages. I was relieved that even as I reached the stage I could see Ben opening the door at the back of the hall.
The audiences in Leicester are always great to perform for, not as lively and boisterous as their Liverpudlian counterparts, but they are so wrapped up in the performance, in the words, in the drama and in the various messages that the story delivers. At first the group was silent, which worried me slightly in that none of the usual chuckles were there (Bob Cratchit being ‘warmer than Scrooge’, the ‘blind men’s dogs’ seeing him coming down the street, and the question as to what is particularly dead about a door knocker always raise little laughs), until a very smartly dressed little girl in the front row (she must have been 8 or 9 maybe), giggled infectiously at some line or other: the purity of that laugh in the old hall was truly infectious and the flood gates were open. I could have hugged her.
Quite often my shows in Leicester are physically difficult coming, as they do, after the entire tour. I am often fatigued and my voice is often tired (last year was particularly difficult following on from my bout of Covid and the subsequent medical issues which debilitated me more than I was aware at the time), but this year I had enjoyed two days off since Highclere, and was feeling in very fine fettle. The first show played out superbly, and the audience applauded loudly as I returned to the small stage to take my bows. When I returned to the Mayor’s Parlour to sign my books there was a long line waiting for me. The comments were so nice, some saying they were regulars of many years, whilst others told me that this were their first experience of my show and would certainly be coming back!
When I had finished, I changed and then walked into the Christmassy streets of Leicester to do a little last-minute shopping. As in Liverpool, and to a certain extent Leeds, it was wonderful to be out among the festive shoppers, with superb decorations lighting the streets and enjoying a real sense of the season.
Shopping done, I went to my hotel to check in, and then relaxed on the bed watching my favourite Christmas Film, ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’. I got as far as the scene in which George Bailey is being seduced by the awful Mr Potter, being bribed with unimaginable wealth and an endless supply of huge cigars, before I had to leave for the Guildhall again.
I had made sure that the stage was set ready for the opening of the show, but I checked again (as Santa Clause will attest to, it is always good to check things twice), and then went to get ready for the evening’s show, the 52nd time that I would perform A Christmas Carol this year. There was a slight concern about Ben’s ability to introduce me, as some food had stuck in his throat, almost choking him and for a while he was struggling badly. If he was incapacitated, I decided that I would open the show as I had done at Byers’ Choice, explaining to the audience that this was an important day (final show on my 30th anniversary tour), and would begin by reading the opening passages from my green book. In the Jury Room I went through the opening a few times, working out the best moment to move from reading to unscripted performance, but in the end Ben had recovered and we were able to go back to the original system.
The evening show was amazing. It was one of the strongest and most theatrically dramatic shows I have performed, it just felt good! The audience once again were wrapped up in the event, but had good reason to cheer loudly when, on the final performance of my thirtieth anniversary tour, the top hat landed perfectly on my head! Thank you Charles, or Jacob or Clarence, or whoever was watching over me at that precise moment.
The ovation at the end was superb, and I soaked up the applause taking bows to both sides of the hall as the Christmas revellers stood, stamped and shouted – what a way to end.
Once again there was a good queue for my books, with a lot of GCSE students who have been studying A Christmas Carol for their exams also wanting their school books signed. Many regular attendees told me that they believed this to be the strongest performance that they had seen me deliver, and it certainly had felt that way to me.
Soon it was time to pack up and I left the Guildhall for the last time.
In the hotel I ordered a pizza from the 24hr room service menu and I watched another Christmas movie, Die Hard (I know, controversial territory there, but I suppose the fact it was being shown on 23rd December, on the same channel that had shown ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ earlier, qualifies it). The adrenaline was still circulating and it took me a long time to finally get to sleep, but sure enough the 2023 tour had come to a close.
As always at this time, I would like to thank all of the event organisers who have given me such a fun time over the last few months, but most of all the audience members who come out to join me in the retelling of Charles Dickens’ ghostly little book. It is my honour and my pleasure to share it with you.
Usually my second day of performing at Highclere Castle is a relaxing one, in that I don’t need to arrive until around 3.30, and it is not a long drive from my home.
However on Wednesday, 21 December, my day was filled with sorting out the details of how to get my car back from Yorkshire, and how I was going to drive to both Highclere and my final shows in Leicester on the 23rd. Whilst being driven south the day before, I had booked a hire van (cheaper than a car, and easy to store all of my furniture in). Unfortunately, as my car was not yet home I actually didn’t have much furniture to put in it! At 10 o’clock Liz drove me to the car hire office and I was soon sitting in a white Vauxhall Vivaro, ironically exactly the make and model which had caused all of this confusion in the first place. Back at home I was able to put the chair I use for The Signalman (much smaller than the usual A Christmas Carol one) and the small 3-legged stool from Doctor Marigold into the cavernous rear, along with a box of books, and I was ready to go. Very much a case of using a sledgehammer to crack a nut.
In the afternoon I drove to Highclere, and the traffic on the A34 was heavy and slow, and on a few occasions I had a slightly uneasy emotion as I thought about the three young men in the cab of their Vivaro as they realised that they were about to collide with another car, the noise of the smash, the violence of the airbags exploding into their faces The silence of the aftermath. Needless to say I drove with plenty of room in front of me.
I arrived at the grand front door once more and unloaded my meagre pieces of furniture, before returning to the Studio where my costume was still hanging after Tuesday’s performance. I changed, and then returned to the Saloon, where I was due to chat with Lady Carnarvon for one of her many social media posts. Sitting on the stage together, in ‘my office’, we chatted about A Christmas Carol and how much detail lies within those pages. After thirty year of performing the story I still find new things every year, new avenues to explore, new ways of expressing an emotion or playing a scene. Considering the book was written in only 6 weeks, it is a remarkable work.
When we had finished our chat, I returned to my dressing room, as Lady C went to receive the guests at a champagne reception. At 4.50 I made my way up onto the balcony and looked down as the guests took their seats. John (the estate manager who had done so much to get me to Highclere the day before), and Lady Carnarvon went to the stage and made introductions, and then it was time for me to walk down the stairs and into the story. The Wednesday audience were certainly a lively bunch, and joined in happily and enthusiastically, which made the whole evening great fun. Very frustratingly I forgot a line at one point in the second act, which left me floundering, which is not a nice situation to be in. I was describing Fred’s party and should have been saying: ‘It is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things, that while there is infection in disease and sorrow, there is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good-humour’. It is a lovely line, and one that I has only arrived in my script in recent years, but for some unknown reason on Tuesday night I couldn’t get the word ‘adjustment’ I gaped like a guppy for a while and eventually came out with something and managed to get back to the script, but I was so disappointed with myself. From that point I quickly got back into my rhythm and the final scenes were full of drama and joy, and when I finished, the audience stood and gave me a lovely ovation.
Once again Lady Carnarvon placed a cold glass of champagne into my hand, and as I took a sip, I was greeted with a slap on the back and a voice from years past congratulating me, ‘Gerry! That was amazing, just amazing!’ The voice was that of Jonathan Lloyd, for a long time married to my cousin Marion, and a central part to many Dickens family Christmas parties. Johnathan is a literary agent, and was attending the evening as a guest of Lord and Lady Carnarvon. Having ascertained that he would be staying for a bite to eat, I disappeared to change, leaving him and the other guests to wander through the exhibition dedicated to the 5th Earl of Carnarvon’s patronage of Howard Carter’s archaeological digs in Egypt and the eventual discovery of the tomb of Tutankhamun in 1922.
I changed, packed up my things, returned to the Saloon and collected the chair and the stool, before saying a heartfelt thank you to John, and all of the staff who had made sure that I was able to perform twice within those grand stone walls. I left my things outside the main door, so often featured in Downton Abbey, and fetched the van which really did look incongruous on the wide driveway (an Aston, Bentley, Jaguar or Bugatti would have been far more suitable for the scene).
Once loaded, I returned the van to the guide’s car park and went to the marquee where dinner was to be served. I was fortunate to be seated with Lord and Lady Carnarvon , and Jonathan. The dinner was delicious, a clever single-plate affair consisting of a demitasse of soup, two halves of scotch egg with yoks bordering on the runny, but supported by perfectly firm whites, wafer thin and crispy toast topped with smoked salmon, and a slim cylindrical glass containing a chocolate mousse topped with a cherry, thereby evoking the traditional taste of a black forest gateau. The conversation was as fine as the food, and the evening wound its way to a most satisfactory end.
I now had two days at home, before my final performances of the season in Leicester on the 23rd
Tuesday morning would see me wake in Leeds and drive back south, with a chance to stop in at home before heading on to Highclere Castle for the first of two shows there.
Breakfast was a particularly fine example of the buffet genre, and I returned to my room with a spring in the step. I collected my bags and was in the car by 8.45.
My satnav gave me a journey time of 3 hours and 40 minutes, but also had dire warnings of heavy traffic on the M1. Eventually I was advised to leave the motorway to take an alternative route which would get me home sooner: how wrong would that assumption prove! I was not destined to get home until 8pm.
Following the directions I left at Junction 34, as did many other cars. I was sat stationary in a queue of traffic when I suddenly heard a huge BANG from behind and as I looked into the mirror I was jolted forward as I too was hit. And there I was, in the centre lane of a three lane slip road, 3 hours from home, involved in a wreck. Making sure that it was safe to do so I opened my door and stepped out and took in the scene. A white van had obviously run into the back of the car behind me at an unabated speed, and the aggrieved driver was already out and remonstrating quite demonstratively. Cars were filing by on either side of us and one lady slowed to inform me that the van driver had been right on her tail and driving aggressively for a long time, and then she drove off, meaning that this gem was useless information. Other drivers, mainly younger males, wound their windows down and shouted ‘Here! you cant park there!’ and sped off cackling manically. What wit! Or, to put it another way, what wit?
As the scene began to make sense the first and most important thing was that nobody had been seriously injured in the crash. I didn’t feel any aches at all, the wife of the driver in the car behind me felt she had a whiplash injury, and stayed in her seat, while the three young guys who had been in the van were clearly shocked but unharmed. My car was damaged, initially I thought superficially, but then I saw something hanging down from the region of the rear brakes, with a pipe or hose disconnected. Thinking that this may have something to do with my braking system, I immediately decided that I would not be driving it any further that day.
I phoned Liz to tell her what had happened, and to reassure her, and then I got onto our roadside recovery service and they put the wheels in motion (Ha!) for getting my car returned to my home. The next thing to worry about was how I was going to get to Highclere Castle to perform. I called them, and left a message. By this time the police had arrived and closed off the slip road, so that we could all walk around in safety. The young man who had driven the van had already admitted that the whole thing was his fault (initially he had said that his brakes had failed, but later that story disappeared). He was clearly in shock and shivering. His van was seriously damaged at the front, and he and his mates were lucky to escape injury.
Everyone was on phones to insurance companies and recovery services. An Ambulance had arrived and was checking anyone who felt that they had neck or back pains (the wife in the car behind me, and the two passengers in the van, who were both taken to hospital for routine checks and scans. Police were taking breath tests from all involved, and the young officer laughed when I told him that as an actor I used to be involved in role play at a police training college, and I had taken hundreds of such tests. As he prepared my test he recalled that when he was undergoing his training, the exercise involving breathalyser tests had been conducted on the morning after a huge Christmas party, meaning that some interesting results had been thrown up. Nobody at our crash scene proved positive for any substance, and the whole event passed from the hands of the law into those of the various insurance companies involved.
A recovery lorry had now arrived, and as my car was first in line, It was loaded up and taken to a nearby shopping plaza, where I was left.
Another recovery service had been in touch, as they had been given the job by my insurance company of collecting my car and getting it home. Unfortunately they wouldn’t be able to get to me until later in the afternoon which didn.t help as far as the show was concerned. I had been in touch with Highclere, and they had offered to send a car to collect me – don’t worry about props. they would sort something out at their end.
After an hour or so a white Audi pulled up, and I was on my way south once more, leaving my car in a Yorkshire car park, trusting that I would see it again soon!
Even as we drove, my insurance company called me, and I was able to spend a lot of the journey going through the various options for repair and for getting a replacement car. And then I could relax. The miles and hours passed by, as did my home town of Abingdon, as we rushed towards the county of Hampshire just in time for me to perform. Into the gates, along the winding drive, and there was the magnificent house before me.
At the door I was welcomed by John the Estate Manager, and Charlotte who is my contact at the house. My bags and costumes were taken from me, and I walked into the Grand Saloon, at the heart of the house, where a huge Christmas tree towered over my stage and the chairs, which were awaiting an audience.
I set the furniture that Charlotte and John had found and very quickly went through the sound cues, but it was now 4.25 and the show was due to start at 5pm, so off I went to a studio room in the private part of the house, to change. By the time I returned, the audience were taking their places, and everything else that had happened that day, the crash, the recovery and the long taxi ride, disappeared: I was Gerald performing again.
Lady Carnarvon, who had come to the studio to check that I was OK and offer her sympathies for the day I had endured, was now welcoming her guests, and then I walked down the grand stair case, so often featured in Downton Abbey, through the expensively attired audience and onto the stage. Actually, despite its grandeur, the Saloon in Highclere is a very easy space to perform in, there is no great vocal projection needed, for the acoustics are superb, and the audience are very close. Each year as I look out on what is, let’s face it, a fairly affluent audience, I wonder if the line about Marley’s face in the knocker ‘like a bad lobster in a dark cellar’ actually means something! I am assured that when a lobster goes bad it lets off a sort of phosphorescent glow, hence the imagery, but Liz and I don’t get to store many lobsters in our cellar, (of course, not having a cellar doesn’t help.)
I had fun on the stage at Highclere Castle.
The interval came, and I changed shirt, and when I returned so the show continued with a great energy, somehow that had been lacking the night before.
When I reached the closing lines I could gesture to the huge decorated tree as I said ‘Scrooge knew how to keep Christmas well!’ The applause was wonderful, and as soon as I was off stage, Lady C gave me a glass of champagne, saying ‘you deserve that!’.
The usual format for an evening at Highclere is that the guests all make their way to a marquee in the grounds, where a dinner is served, and having changed, I join them to chat and mingle, as well as to enjoy the superb food, but on Tuesday I was anxious to get home to Liz. So I stood at the door and chatted to the audience as they left. There was a lady who had travelled from Australia to attend the evening, some from Chicago and Pennsylvania, and a gentleman from Seattle, who had seen me perform before. The response was truly gratifying.
Meanwhile, Charlotte had booked a taxi to take me home, and as is the way of things at Highclere, it was not just any old taxi, but a plush Jaguar with leather seats.
At 8 0’clock I got home. Home. delicious, comforting, loving, safe home, and everything felt good in the World.
After three successful days in Liverpool, Monday would see me perform in the Yorkshire city of Leeds. The drive was only about an hour and a half, or to put it another way, the same length as my show, so I had plenty of time in hand. I had my standard Ibis breakfast of muesli, granola and yoghurt, followed by a croissant, then returned to my room to finish writing my blog posts, as well as catching up on a few admin details.
I delayed my check out until 11, and as I drove away from Liverpool made a stop at a certain store in order to buy a Christmas present for one of our daughters, and that duty completed (which involved me sending a good many messages and photos to Liz, as we made a decision as to what to purchase).
I then set off slightly to the North East towards Yorkshire. At one point the motorway rises up across a bleak and wild moor, and as I ascended towards the peak I drove into the thick cloud, which reduced the visibility dramatically.
Soon I saw the Leeds city skyline before me, and passing the Elland Road stadium, home to Leeds United Football Team, on my right, made my way into the city centre where I parked. It was only 1pm but I went to my hotel anyway to see if I could check in. Fortunately there was a room ready on the 7th floor. I had left my bags in the car (parked in a parking garage about 5 minutes walk away), and I would collect them after I had eaten some lunch. The City centre of Leeds is very compact and the first thing I did was walk to he Leeds Library, which was to be my venue that evening, just to refamiliarize myself with the location. In the past the unassuming frontage of the Library had been sandwiched between a branch of Cinnabon and a Paperchase store, selling beautiful notebooks, cards and pens. However, over the year the latter store had been taken over by the Ann Summers chain and the window that had once displayed stationery was now filled with mannequins, well ‘ladyquins’, dressed in skimpy Santa costumes.
I made my way into the busy, bustling shopping centre, and found somewhere to have lunch (a very nice Thai Duck Stir Fry), before returning to my hotel and relaxing for the afternoon. In England we have one channel, channel 5, that shows a succession of Christmas movies throughout the festive season. These films are not things like ‘Its a Wonderful Life’, ‘White Christmas’, ‘Elf’ or ‘Home Alone’, these are those over-lit, over-focussed, over-coloured (actually, they are all American, so it should be over-colored), Hallmark type films. There have been hundreds made, and they all share the same plot. When I am away and Liz has an afternoon at home, she takes solace in their mundanity, and recently I have done the same. On Monday in fact we were both watching the same one!
The afternoon drifted on and the beautiful young couple who seemed so unlikely to get together at the start of the film, eventually did (at a lavishly decorated Christmas party, naturally) , and I started to get ready for my evening show at the Library.
Tis would be my third visit to Leeds Library, and my second with A Christmas Carol. As I mentioned previously, the establishment’s frontage is unremarkable, just another door on a commercial street (actually, the address is on Commercial Street), but once you are inside and have walked up the curving staircase it is as if you have left the modern world behind you. It is a beautiful building, especially the ‘new’ extension to the rear, that was added in 1881, which doubles as my theatre. When I arrived I found Librarian Nimi setting out chairs in readiness for a full house, and we were soon joined by Ian Harker who is my main contact in Leeds. I joined them to help erect the stage and then ran through the sound effects with Ian, who was rather nervous at the prospect of looking after them! Fortunately the Ian had agreed to provide the furniture that I needed, so I hadn’t needed to carry all of my props through the city.
My dressing room was in the old office, which had once been the committee room, and still houses the secret ballot box in which white or black balls were inserted to support or decline a prospective member’s candidacy. The books in the room had titles such as ‘Protozoa Coelenterates Echinoderms Etc’ and some date back to the 1300s. I wouldn’t be passing the time with a little light reading!
At around 6.30 the audience started to arrive and soon the room was full, and Ian came back to tell me that we were ready to begin. I made my way through the floor to ceiling bookcases in another room and emerged at the back of the audience. Ian made a short introduction, then sat at his laptop computer to one side of the stage and played the opening sound effect. I walked slowly through the room and onto the stage, and began.
I have to say, I found it a difficult performance. Last time I performed The Carol in Leeds it had been right at the beginning of the ’22 tour, but this time I suffered from just having performed on a succession of large stages, and I found myself very constrained by the limited space available. The audience were very attentive, but they were not am energetic group, and I struggled a little to adapt to the surroundings effectively. The applause at the interval reassured me that things were going well, which was a relief, and of course the second act bursts into life with the arrival of The Ghost of Christmas Present (with his Yorkshire accent!). The intensity of my performance increased as we moved together into the future, and the whole story came to its wonderful conclusion.
Unfortunately, I had no merchandise to sell, but I stood at the library door, like a vicar after the Christmas Church service, and said goodbye to the audience as they left, gratefully taking their thanks and congratulations. I posed for some photographs and answered some questions (in hindsight, it would have been the perfect venue to do a Q&A session on the stage), before returning to the Committee room to change and to pack up.
Having started at 7, and with no formal signing session, it was only 9.15 when I left the Library, having offered my sincere thanks to Ian and Nimi. I returned my costume and bag to my car, and then tracked down a branch of TGI Fridays, which according to my phone was still open. I was the only customer, and I asm sure the staff wanted to go home, so I didn’t detain them long, just a late-night plate of Chicken tenders and fries, before walking back to the Park Plaza Hotel, taking the lift to the 7th floor, and into my bed.
The tour is entering its final days now, and on Tuesday and Wednesday I shall be in more sumptuous surroundings, for it is time to go to Highclere Castle, the home of Downton Abbey.
On Friday afternoon I set off to the North West of England for my annual visit to the bustling, exciting, lovely city of Liverpool, to perform in the magnificent Concert Room at St George’s Hall – always a highlight of my year.
The drive was a slow one with lots of traffic, but I had left plenty of time and was regaled along the way by the audiobook of Bill Bryson’s ‘Notes From a Big Country’. I arrived a little before 4 and drove straight to the cobble street that leads to the Walker Art Gallery on the left, and St George’s Hall on the right. In recent years the city has staged a huge Christmas market and fun fair, initially just in front of the hall, but now almost completely surrounding it. Of course this means that traffic is restricted to the site, making the unloading of my props difficult, but in the past I have gone to the security checkpoint, they have called the St George’s Hall staff who have bought a metal cage to load my things onto. I was then allowed through the barrier to drive a little way up, where I would meet the cage team. When the car was unloaded I would leave the area and park at my hotel. Having been in touch with Lynne Hamilton, the event promotor, I assumed that this would be the routine once again, but that assumption did not take into account the intransigence of the lady in the security box. Not only was there a security barrier blocking the way, but there was a row of traffic cones across the road too. I had to stop on the very busy roundabout that filters various streams of traffic towards the City Centre, the Cavern Quarter and to the Birkenhead Tunnel and move one cone so that I could get to the ‘checkpoint’. I stopped, moved the cone back into place again, walked up to the hut and explained why I was there. ’You are not on the list’ I was told. ’Yes, but I am performing at the hall tonight,and need to get my things in, then I shall leave.’ ’You are not on the list.’. ’Oh, I see, But we do this every year, and it always OK.’ ’You are not on the list. Everything has changed. NO cars are allowed on site.’ I looked at the various parked cars lined up on the cobbles and raised what I hoped was an inquisitive eyebrow, but it elicited no response. I asked if she could call the St George’s Hall staff and I could unload there. I was told that she couldn’t, as I was not on the list. It was obvious that this negotiation was leading nowhere, so I moved the cones from the entrance, turned my car around and drove off towards my hotel. Oh, I didn’t think that I could stop on the roundabout again, so left the cones for my nemesis to replace in my wake.
I drove towards the hotel, but accidentally found myself in the wrong lane and took an unexpected journey beneath the Mersey and back, before I pulled into an NCP car park and checked in at The Ibis Styles Hotel, situated in the Cavern Quarter of the city, named after the famous club where the Beatles first played. The hotel was stylishly appointed, with various art pieces scattered through the lobby including a wall-mounted sculpture made out of old record players, and table fashioned into the shape of a cassette.
There was no reception desk as such, and a young man who was working at a laptop (I assumed just availing himself of the WiFi), approached me and asked if I needed help. I was soon checked in and on my way to the 6th floor, which was named in honour of The Beatles’ famous Abbey Road album, (other floors had different Beatles connections, including Strawberry Fields, Long and Winding Road and Yesterday). My room was painted and carpeted in broad black and white stripes in honour of zebra crossing featured on the iconic album cover.
I sent a message to Lynne explaining the situation, and that I could not get in, and she replied to say that she was having the same issue and could not get any of her equipment to the hall either. She said to just relax and she would sort something out. About ten minutes later Lynne called me back, saying that the staff at St George’s Hall had managed to sort something out, and that I should drive around the road until I saw Lynne on the pavement waving at me, then turn into a tiny access road which led to a ‘secret’ tunnel beneath the hall, and which wasn’t under control of the draconian City Stasi.
I followed the directions, and was soon edging into the magnificent vaulted tunnel which, if it hasn’t been already, needs to be used in a Bond or a Mission Impossible movie. The great advantage of this arrangement is that I could leave my car there throughout the duration of the stay – it must have been the safest, most secure parking spot in Liverpool.
We unloaded my props into the cage and rolled it into a service lift and eventually navigated ourselves through a warren of unfamiliar corridors to the lobby, and then up to the level of my dressing room. Now I was in, I could return to some sort of routine, and I set the stage in the magnificent gilded surroundings of the Concert Room, where Charles Dickens himself performed in the 1860s, dubbing it ‘The most perfect room in the world’. As I moved in, so I was greeted by Taz, the technical guy that Lynne employs for the event, who has looked after me for the last three or four years and who I trust implicitly, for he is utterly professional. I had sent him the latest version of the script, complete with the new eerie wind effect, and he confirmed that he understood exactly what I was aiming for with it. We did a sound check, and then I went to the dressing room to relax.
Outside, the sound of the fair, with over-amplified Christmas music, raged on, as it would until around 10pm each day. A never-ending loop of music played, and it seemed that every time I came back into the dressing room the playlist reverted straight to Huey Lewis and the News singing ‘The Power of Love’. I looked down from my window on various tents and stalls selling ‘Dutch Pancakes’, ‘Mac n Cheese’, and ‘Hot Chimney Cakes’ (whatever they may be).
Down in the lobby Lynne had various boxes of my merchandise to sell – the old brochures that my brother and I had designed and produced a few years ago, my DVD version of my performance and a limited amount of my new book, Gerald Dickens: My Life on the Road With A Christmas Carol. To use my contactless card reader Lynne would need my phone, so I showed her how the whole system worked, told her how to unlock the phone, and was left with no electronic distraction or entertainment in my dressing room. Worst of all was that I couldn’t be in regular touch with Liz through the shows.
The audience arrived, as did the magnificent choir who open the show here, and soon the evening was underway. As always, I made my way up to the balcony level and quietly stood listening to the beautiful choral harmonies as they whirled and swirled around the circular hall. I also took the opportunity to look at the audience, to gauge the mood of the room. One thing I noticed is that it was incredibly warm in the hall, I could imagine a few nodding off during the show!
As the choir started their third carol I made my way down to the wings, put on my scarf and hat, gathered my cane and waited. As the 40 singers filed down the little flight of stairs and towards their dressing room I thanked and congratulated them, whilst on stage the great Steinway piano was rolled upstage, my furniture was replaced on the marks that Taz had laid down earlier, and I was ready to go.
The St George’s Hall audience is always a pleasure to play to, and Friday night was no exception. Suddenly all of the frustrations of over-zealous security guards and city council regulations were gone, as the ghostly little book, A Christmas Carol weaved its magic anew. I reached the interval and left the stage to loud applause, and in my dressing room found that ‘The Power of Love’ was playing once more.
The second half went as well as the first, my only issue being that somehow my lovely big scarf got hooked onto the microphone meaning that I couldn’t throw it onto the hatstand as Bob Cratchit rushes in to the office on Boxing Day, but if that were the extent of my woes, then I would accept it happily.
The ovation was a wonderfully, raucous, Liverpudlian one with shouts and loud stamping of feet on the old wooden floors (I wondered if they did the same for Charles, and if he heard the same as I heard as he took his bows).
I changed into a dry shirt and went to the lobby where there was a huge cue, no, not a cue, a crush, of people wanting books and brochures signed. Such was the surge that my signing table collapsed under the weight. When it was repaired, the line became more ordered and I could pose and chat with fans in safety.
It had been a long day, but thanks to the adrenaline sleep took a long time to come. I sat on my bed beneath the zebra crossing and watched a programme about television shows in the 1980s (the same decade that spawned The Power of Love), and eventually fell asleep around 12.30.
SATURDAY
I had two shows scheduled for Saturday, the first of which was at 2 pm, so I had a morning to myself. I slept in late, for me, and went to breakfast at 8.30. It was a buffet, but a good one. There was not much in the way of hot food (scrambled eggs and beans), but the continental offering was suburb. I piled a bowl with muesli and granola and grabbed a little pot of yoghurt topped with red fruits. There was also an impressive tray of remarkably plump looking blueberries, curiously situated next to a plate of guacamole. I took a large spoonful and was just about to tip them onto my cereal when I realised that they were not blueberries at all, but black olives!
During the morning I walked into the bustling L1 shopping centre, and as always got completely wrapped up in the Christmas spirit. There is something about Liverpool at Christmas that makes it a very festive place to be, and while I did a little bit of Christmas shopping I mostly enjoyed just being in the midst of the crowds.
I had a very light lunch, and then went to the hotel grabbed what I would need for the shows. and walked up to St George’s Hall, battling through the massive crowds enjoying the fun fair. I needed to get the remaining box of books from my car, and was taken through various passageways and down various staircases all lined with iron bars, making it feel as if I were being taken down having been found guilty of some heinous crime (the city’s court room used to be in St George’s). I grabbed the books and returned to my dressing room Taz appeared, checked my microphones (he always gives me two, the main one and a backup in case of emergency), and then went to the sound desk to prepare for the show. Lynne took my phone from me, and I felt like a teenager at school being forced to hand my mobile to the teacher. The choir on Saturday afternoon was much smaller, only numbering twelve, but as they warmed up in the dressing room next to mine I was treated to a beautiful private show.
When the audience were in, the choir went to the stage and I once again went up to the gallery. It was as I was looking down on the audience that sudden realization came to me: all of these people could have done anything on that Saturday afternoon – shopped, stayed at home, gone to a movie, visited friends, anything, and yet they had all chosen to spend their time and money in coming out to see me. A huge wave of emotion came over me, and I was almost in tears as I sat listening to the carols.
Again the show went really well (again my scarf got caught) and again the applause was cacophonous with the Liverpudlian foot stamping shaking the dust from the venerable old building.
After the crush of the night before, we had arranged the signing table more carefully, and the session was much more ordered. By the time the audience had left we only had 6 of my books left for the evening show.
I changed and walked back to the hotel, buying a Bratwurst from one of the stalls at the fair, and rested for an an hour or so, before returning for the 7.30 performance. Lynne took my phone, Tazz checked my mics and we all fell into our well-grooved routine. There was no choir for the evening show, so at precisely 7.30 I was on stage. The audience was maybe the most responsive (during the show) of the three, and I had great fun. The performance was topped off, quite, literally, by my hat landing squarely on my head as Scrooge got dressed ‘all in his best’, which received a loud round of applause, which was followed only a few minutes later by an even louder one.
Even though Lynne had now sold all of my books, there was still a long cue wanting autographs and photos, and I was happy to chat and pose with them.
And that was the end of my time at St George’s Hall for another year, As I changed, my furniture and props were loaded onto the cage and taken down to the Bond tunnel, and I loaded the car, before reversing out onto the streets of Liverpool, assisted by the ever-helpful members of the St George’s Hall staff. I parked in the NCP next to the hotel and returned to my Abbey Road room where a very busy and energetic day took its toll.
SUNDAY
Although my performances at St George’s Hall in Liverpool had ended, I had one more show to give in the region, and that was not to be until 4pm on Sunday afternoon, giving me plenty of time to mooch. A strange change of colour had come over the city during the night, although a few signs of it had been present the day before, but when I went to breakfast the entire hotel lobby was populated by individuals wearing red. Red shirts, red hats, red scarfs all bearing the stylised emblem of a Liver Bird standing atop three letters: LFC. Sunday 17 December would see Liverpool Football Club play host to their arch rivals Manchester United, who have been struggling of late. Maybe it was the opportunity to rub Manchester’s nose in the dirt, or the fact that a new tier of grandstand was being used for the first time, but the day’s match was to see the largest crowd at Anfield since the 1960s. This is presumably why Lynne had been unable to book me into a room at my usual hotel, the LFC-themed Shankly Hotel, named in honour of one of the club’s greatest managers.
After breakfast I went into town and there the red tide continued, whole families proudly showing off their allegiance. Of course Liverpool is a city divided when it comes to football, you are either a red (Liverpool) or a blue (Everton), but on this occasion the latter group subsided into the background and let the reds take the lead. The match was due to kick off at 4.30, and as my show was due to start at 4 I wasn’t expecting many football fans to attend.)
Having shopped the day before, my Sunday morning was given over to tourism. I walked towards the mighty River Mersey, passing the famous Liver Building on the way, and then took a photographs of the statue, or statues, commemorating The Beatles, before spending some time in the magnificent Museum of Liverpool.
From there I walked around the Albert Dock, and then to the Maritime Museum, which shares a building with the Slavery Museum. I was struck by the significance of one of the doors which had a huge chain and padlock holding it locked, just under a sign advertising the second of those attractions. I took a picture, carefully framed to show the chain and the sign reading SLAVERY MUSEUM above. This immediately got me into trouble, as one of the staff came out and quizzed me as to why I was taking a picture of their lock and security arrangements.
The reason that I wanted to visit the Maritime Museum in particular, was to see if there was any mention of the wreck of The Royal Charter, the ship that had sunk of the Island of Anglesey, that I had helped commemorate in October, but sadly there was nothing on display. There were fascinating exhibits about the Lusitania and Titanic, however, and I wiled a happy hour or so there, as did various members of the red brigade, passing the time until it was time to head to the stadium.
It was late morning as I left and walked back towards the hotel. I had a bite of lunch and before getting ready to drive to The Wirral. Everything that I needed was still in the car, so it was a question of grabbing my coat, remembering my hotel room key, and setting the sat nav. The show was to be in the town of West Kirby, at the Westbourne Community Centre. I had performed Mr Dickens is Coming in the same hall a few years ago, but never A Christmas Carol before.
The drive was only twenty minutes, through the Wallasey Tunnel, and across to the western side of the peninsular. The Westbourne Hall is a typical village hall, built in 1915, but that statement is by no means meant to be derogatory, for it is a very fine example of the genre. You enter into a modern foyer, with meeting rooms to the left (built onto the old hall), and in front of you is main space: The hall has a high ceiling with great beams supporting it, and at the far end is a proper high stage framed by a proscenium arch. Bars of stage lighting suggested an active and vibrant theatrical community in the town. Indeed, as I unloaded my car, a couple introduced themselves to me, and explained that they had come to give any technical advice that we might need. Lynne had booked Taz to join us again, and as I chatted in the car park he drove up, so I introduced the local crew to him, and continued my get in.
The stage, when I reached it, was raked (meaning it is higher at the back – hence ‘up stage’ than the front). This bought back a great memory of a musical I once performed in when I was in my teen years. The show was set in a piano shop, and the choreographer had the great idea of a big dance routine featuring members of the cast being wheeled around on piano stools. This was fine in a rehearsal room, but when we got onto the stage, which was heavily raked, all the stools ran down into the orchestra pit, leaving dancers sprawled where they had leapt for safety, and musicians scrambling out of the way so as not to be crushed. Ah, happy days!
Taz played about with the lights, which although plentiful were not perfectly focussed for our show, until he had an idea of what was achievable. He would be hampered by not being able to see the stage, being sat at a table in the wings, but he is now very familiar with the show, so could visualise what I was doing on stage.
Lynne arrived and began making preparations for the raffle, as well as for the final few items of my merchandise, and then the choir arrived, en mass. This was the same 40-strong choir who had sung at St George’s Hall on Friday night, and as they all came from West Kirby (actually they are members of the local rugby club and call themselves the ‘Off Pitch Singers’), this was a home gig for them.
They gathered in front of the stage, in rather dim light which made it difficult for them to read their music, and as soon as the doors were opened at 3.30 began to entertain the gathering audience. My dressing room was behind the stage, but I stood in the wings listening to the carols and the swelling crowd.
We had a full house – 150 +, and as the start time approached there was a rush to find extra chairs as the numbers continued to swell. At 4, the choir changed from their jolly welcoming carols (normally performed in the lobby at St G’s Hall), to their more formal repertoire (normally performed from the stage). On this occasion, of course, there was no change of location, but the audience seemed to get that the last three pieces were to be listened too, appreciated and not talked over. I was going to make my entrance from the back of the hall, so could fully enjoy the mini concert. When the choir finished, Lynne made various announcements, covering the time it took for 40 singers to leave, and a keyboard to be packed up, before welcoming me.
I loved performing on that hall stage, it reminded me of plays at school and in my early days of acting. Taz did a great job with the lighting, occasionally taking an opportunity to peer around the curtains to check if I was well lit, or not. Having only seen the show from the far end of St George’s Hall I think that he was surprised by the energetic physicality of the performance, and in the interval complained that I kept making his table shake!
The audience really enjoyed themselves, and, as with any ‘new’ group warmed into the style of the show as it progressed. My final ovation in the North West was every bit as enthusiastic and noisy as the others had been.
I changed quickly, and went to sign a few items, although with stocks running low, there wasn’t much to sign. And as the audience left so various people associated with the hall, mainly officers of the trust that administer it’s running and preservation, were helping to stack chairs and clear up. It was a lovely event, different to the grandeur of St George’s Hall of course, but very special, and I certainly hope that I can return in future years.
It was dark as I drove back to the city, and extravagant Christmas lights adorned many of the houses on the way. Once through the tunnel, the streets were lined with football supporters, shoulders slightly slumped, for the match had been a rather dull 0-0 draw, not the huge victory that the Liverpool fans had been hoping for.
I celebrated the end of my Liverpool foray with dinner out. Most of my shows see me leave the theatre at around 10.30, so I don’t often get the opportunity to dine of an evening. But on Sunday night I reserved a table at 8.15 in the Restaurant Bar & Grill, which turned out to be a rather grand and smart venue. I dined on a perfectly cooked Ribeye steak and toasted a very successful three days in the Liverpool region.
Having arrived home on Monday lunchtime, I had a couple of days to indulge myself in the wonderful ritual of balancing on the top of a ladder propped up against the front of our house to fix Christmas lights to the eaves. I like to use two long sets of lights to give a really intense effect, and of course one string wasn’t working, so I had to go and buy a replacement before the result was as I wanted. As a family we also decorated our tree, and loved finding all of the old decorations that hold particular memories for each of us. The house looked in fine festive fettle, and ready for a small party for some of Liz’s colleagues.
And then on Thursday it was back to work, although the first show didn’t necessitate travelling, other than a twenty minute trip to the next major town, Didcot. Back in the Summer I performed The Signalman at the Didcot Railway Centre, a living museum dedicated to the preservation and display of various locomotives and carriages, and the open air show in front of a genuine signal box had been very successful. At the time we discussed the possibility of bringing A Christmas Carol to the site, and I managed to find a date in my schedule, before I set off for the North of England.
The show was a leap into the unknown for both me and the centre, who had never tried a nighttime event before. Unfortunately there is no parking at the site, so I would have to carry all of my things from a public car park, across a street, through the bustling Didcot Parkway mainline railway station, through a tunnel beneath the tracks, up a flight of stairs and into the Railway Centre. Even then there is a long walk between tracks and past various trucks and wagons before you even reach the cafe and giftshop, the centre of the operation. Fortunately for me Sarah Jermyn, my contact at Didcot, had told me that she would find the various pieces of furniture from around the site, meaning that I wouldn’t have to make three or four long trips. Even so, to carry my costume, the top hat and cane, pull my roller bag and balance a box of books to sell was difficult enough. I fervently hoped that I would sell a lot of books, not only for pecuniary reasons, but that my load may be less on the return trip!
Even as I arrived at 4pm, for a 6.30 start, I was accompanied by the first of the audience members – keen indeed!
I was met on the platform firstly by Thomas Macey, who acts as a guard on the various trains, and who is always dressed immaculately in the uniform of a GWR employee, and then by Sarah, who took me down to the Transfer Shed, where the show would be staged. We walked through the darkness, passing a rather sinister wrought-iron stanchion from some old bridge or platform furniture, in the shape of a lion. In the darkness it looked rather like the face of Jacob Marley in the door knocker.
Eventually some twinkling coloured lights came into view and we arrived at the long rail shed that would be my theatre for the night. During the day at this time of year the platform plays host to Santa’s grotto, so the various carriages and locomotives were decorated and lit for the season. My ‘stage’ was on the platform and at my back was the magnificent ‘Iron Duke’ locomotive, dating from 1847 and, with its huge twin driving wheels similar in design to the locomotive that pulled the Staplehurst train in 1865. As an actor I usually like the backdrop to be as plain as possible, certainly with nothing more interesting than me behind, but on this occasion I must be resigned to being upstaged.
The performing space was very narrow front to back (the width of a small platform), and one row of chairs had been placed with their backs to a series of passenger carriages. At either end of the area were four banks of chairs, rows of four or five, meaning that I would be covering quite a distance to make sure that everyone felt included in the show.
Having set the stage as I wanted and tried a few lines to see what the acoustic would be like (surprisingly good, actually), I walked back up to the gift shop where Thomas had left two boxes of ‘Dickens and Staplehurst’ for me to sign, which I duly did.
Having finished that, I walked back to the Transfer shed, once again passing the spooky lion, and went to my dressing room, a guard’s carriage which was used during the day by various elves, whose costumes were hung up. I wondered if the jolly old man with the white beard even rested in there for a while. From the evidence gleaned I can let you into a secret about Santa: he uses Strepsils to keep his Ho! Ho! Ho! clear and resonant.
I changed into costume, and spent a little more time in my performing space, trying to work out the best way to stage the show. The carriage opposite me had a destination board on the side, and the three destinations all bore some relevance to me and the show, they were Paddington. Worcester. Shrewsbury. Let me take those destinations one at a time, Paddington, as many will know, is the little bear from Peru who first got me reading. I would have a torch beneath my covers long after my bedtime delighting in his adventures and living in his world. The connection with Worcester is not with the city in the West Midlands of England, but with Worcester Massachusetts. I not only stay in that city when I perform at Vaillancourt Folk Art, but Charles Dickens himself performed in the city, at The Mechanics Hal, and I was fortunate enough to do my show there as well. Finally, Shrewsbury. Shrewsbury is the city, as I mention in a recent post, that was the location for the George C Scott version, and where the Scrooge’s gravestone still lies.
At around 6.20 I could hear the unmistakable sound of a diesel locomotive on the tracks, which was bringing the audience from the cafe area, saving them the need to walk through the dark woods and over tracks. I stood at the end of the platform as they disembarked, and welcomed them all. I was glad to see that they had heeded the advice of the publicity and wrapped up warmly for the evening.
When everyone had found seats, Sarah welcomed them to Didcot, ran through a few health and safety requirements, and then the show began. We had no sound effects down in the shed, so it was a very old fashioned style of performance, which was no bad thing. It was also pacier than usual, for I couldn’t leave any long and dramatic pauses, with the audience spread out as they were. I arrived at the interval, at which point we all boarded the train to go back to the cafe where mince pies and mulled wine was served, and I was able to mingle and chat, which was rather a nice way to pass twenty minutes, rather than sitting alone among various elf costumes and discarded Strepsil packets. People had brought all kinds of things to show me: one lady even had a copy of her PHD on Dickens’ ghost stories. Many were interested in my book, and I promised that I would sign after the show.
We all got back onboard the train and trundled back to the shed, where the Ghost of Christmas Present took up the story. The audience were not a demonstrative group, huddling in their woolly coats and hats, under rugs, but on my were they attentive and focussed. They were a joy to perform for, and the applause at the end was wonderful.
The train came back to meet us (it was parked a little up the line so that the steady throb of a Diesel engine idling didn’t disrupt the show), and we went back to the cafe where I set up my phone and card reader and started to sell books, all of which went. I signed the lady’s PHD (she was the subject of Topper’s advances, so I was relieved that she was still speaking to me), as well as my books, DVDs and various other items, including an autograph book: I haven’t seen an autograph book for years, maybe since I had one when I was a child, waiting behind the pavilion at The Nevil Ground for star cricket players to appear, or at Brands Hatch race circuit and my Formula 1 heroes.
The audience made their way off into the night, and I was given a ride on the train once more to change and gather my belongings before saying good bye and thank you to Sarah and the team, before walking into the darkness, between the rails and back to my car.
December 10, 2023. I woke in my room at the Hampton Inn, North Wales, with two reasons to celebrate. Firstly, it was my sister Nicky’s birthday and I sent her a message to wish her a brilliant day. Secondly, the day had come for me to celebrate 30 years of performing A Christmas Carol. It was back in 1993, the 150th anniversary of the original publication of the book, that I was asked to recreate one of Charles Dickens’ public readings. As I nervously stood on that night, book in hand, looking at the gathered audience and said ‘Marley was dead, to begin with’ I had no idea where it would lead me. I am not going into the entire history of my touring life here (there is a rather good book that covers that subject, available from Amazon), but it is quite an extraordinary thing to look back on – half my life, no less.
I went down to breakfast at about 8am, and it was the standard Hilton Garden Inn buffet. I made my choices and was just sitting down when a lady and gentleman sat at the next table rather shyly approached me, ‘Are you Mr Dickens?’ the husband asked, and on my answering that I was, they told me that they had been at the show the previous evening and had really, really enjoyed it! Well, that was a nice start to my day, and it was followed up by two more ladies (maybe buoyed by seeing the first couple talk to me, or just because they recognised me too), telling me that had been at the afternoon show, and how amazed they had been too! Selfies were taken, questions asked, answers given, and I went back to my waffle and bacon. I was rather enjoying breakfast on the 10th,
I checked out at 11 o’clock and drove the short distance to Byers’ Choice. I only had one show scheduled, and when I had finished I would be driving directly to Newark airport for my homeward flight, so I needed to take my suitcase to the dressing room in order to pack for the journey home later. I met up with David and Bob, and we chatted about the import of the day, and I how I planned to run the show that afternoon. Jeff Byers joined us, as did his son Jake with his girlfriend Andrea. Jake and Jeff were keen to get some images and video clips to promote next year’s events, so I quickly got into costume and went to the theatre. Before Jake could get his footage, I was photographed in a number of poses by another member of staff, Olivia who had watched the show on Saturday and had written short aides memoir for the shoot. From the darkness she called out random phrases, such as, ‘Mrs Fezziwig after dance’, ‘Tiny Tim holding cup’, ‘Ghost of Past hands up’ Once we had worked out exactly what the precise memories were, I ran the scene a few times while she ran around the room taking shots from different angles. We ended up by taking some dramatic shots using David’s new ‘grave’ light, and then wrapped. By this time the audience were clamouring to be let in, so Jake’s video soundbites would have to wait until later.
I returned to the dressing room, and for the next 45 minutes pondered on my years of performing, reading many messages of congratulations that were coming in on my phone. Somebody had also posted a quote from A Christmas Carol forum (nothing to do with my show), that I had put into my script last year, but had forgotten about this year – the line being ‘there is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good humour’, so I spent some time repeating it, so that I could include it once more.
With ten minutes to go I walked to the back stage area to listen to the choir and the audience, as well as having plenty of time to pace around – I was getting myself into a bit of a nervous state, and had to remind myself that actually, when it came down to it, this was just another performance that needed concentrating on. My thoughts were briefly diverted by one of the saddest things I have ever seen at Byers’ choice: on one work bench was a figure of Tiny Tim, with a Post-It not attached, which read ‘Tina, could you fix this for me – Thanks, Melissa. Poor Tim had lost his left foot, as if he didn’t have enough troubles already!
It was now time to start, Bob and I greeted and thanked the carol singers and I made my way to the back of the hall to check the microphone with David. Bob went to the stage and announced that this was a particularly special day for me, and briefly explained the background to the celebrations, and then he welcomed me. Normally at this point the lights would go to a cold blue, the opening music track would start, and I would walk slowly up onto the stage, but on Sunday I simple walked on as myself. For this one performance I had decided to start the show by reading from exactly the same book that I had used at the very first reading. The room was hushed as I began, ‘A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. Being a Ghost Story of Christmas. Stave 1: Marley’s Ghost. Marley was dead to begin with….’
I had arranged with David that I would read until I got to ‘The mention of Marley’s funeral brings me back to the point from which I began: Marley was dead! This much must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come from the story I am about to relate.’ I would turn upstage (as I always do), David would bring the ‘Scrooge and Marley gobo up, I would put the book down and resume the show as normal. Of course I didn’t need the book, but it was my nod to the start of it all.
The rest of the show went very well, I was soon into the swing of it, and Mr Fezziwig got a round of applause, which is always a good indication as to how things are going. Unfortunately the Top Hat didn’t land on my head – I thought the spirits above may be looking after me on that afternoon, but sadly not!
At the end of the show I picked up the book again for the final few lines, and took my bows to a very very long ovation. Bob came onto the stage we did a few questions, before he announced a special surprise. After thanking me for all of the joy and entertainment that I have brought to audiences over the years, which produced a tear or two in my eyes and a lump in my throat, a huge cake on a trolley was wheeled in, and the audience were invited to come and mingle and chat.
It wasn’t officially a signing session, but many people had books with them, and of course I was happy to chat and scribble. One gentleman even had a copy of the reading edition of the Carol that I had used, his had previously been signed by my father’s cousin Cedric.
It was a lovely time, but soon the reality of being a performer returned. The past was gone and it was time to look to the future, as I still needed to record the video soundbites for Jake. He set a camera up on stage, and I sat in the large armchair and answered his questions for twenty minutes or so. He will take little snippets of my remarks and they can be used in email marketing next year.
And then my day was over. I returned to the conference room where I packed up all of my belongings in the large suitcase and the roller bag, and when I was ready I went to find Bob and Dave, to say goodbye and thank you.
It had been a special day and I was glad that I was flying home straight away, rather than driving off to another venue, which would have seemed rather anti-climactic, I think. It was raining heavily as I drove away from Byers’ Choice and made my slow way to Newark airport, and there I said my final goodbye to my trusty Mitsubishi Outlander that had been my constant companion since I landed at Boston on Thanksgiving weekend. It had a few quirks, the GPS was tricky, the interior lights didn’t work, but those issues just made it more of a friend rather than a rental car (being the same colour as my car at home helped, too)
And so I sat in the departure lounge waiting for my flight home.
The only last thing to do is to say thank you to Bob Byers for being such a good friend and for putting another successful tour together for me, to Maura for managing the day to day logistics and keeping me up to date with interviews and changes of plan. Thank you to all of the event organisers, and finally, to all of the audience members for your amazing enthusiasm and support.
On the road with Gerald Dickens 