By The Wayside

Today marks the start of the most intense week of the tour.  For the next 6 days I am in a different venue every day, constantly on the move, living out of a suitcase as I dip into communities and straight out again.  My six days in The Beechwood will seem like a luxury indeed, when I look back on it next weekend!

My next performance is in Marlborough, Massachusetts which actually is not far from here, so I can take my time in the morning.  After breakfast I return to my room and catch up on a little sewing (a back seam on one of my frock coats has come loose and needs repairing), before trawling back through my email inbox, and replying to a few people in the UK about future events.

And now it is time to pack: 6 days have seen me spread myself out through the room, so I am very diligent as I check every drawer, every surface, every wardrobe and every electrical outlet to make sure I don’t leave anything.

I leave the hotel at 11 and begin my drive to Marlborough, which is actually not much further than the drive to the Vaillancourts.  I listen to a new Bond audiobook – On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, which is the second of the Blofeld trilogy, and follows on from Thunderball.

The weather is grey and it is raining; the temperature is low and it feels that it doesn’t need much of a drop to change the rain into snow, which would be festive but not very helpful.

I find my way to Marlborough, and out the other side on the road to Sudbury, until I pull up at The Wayside Country Store, and the Anthony and Joseph Restaurant where I am to perform.  I have visited this venue in the past, although not for the last couple of years, and it has always been fun (although very hard work). 

The whole venue is made up of four businesses, spread through three buildings:  the main country store is based in a wonderful old wooden house which as far as I know has always served the same purpose.  Attached to the old shop (it should be an olde shoppe, really),  is a candy store filled with luridly-coloured confectionary that would make Willy Wonka’s mouth water.  To the right of the main store is a low building, which used to be an antiques barn, but which is now a small function room, where I will be doing my show.  The function room is attached to an ice cream parlour.  Finally there is the Stephen Anthony restaurant which serves fine hearty home-cooked food to wayfarers and townsfolk alike.  There is something wonderfully nostalgic about the whole scene.

I get out of my car and go straight to the function room where I will do my show.  Immediately I can tell that I am in for a busy day, for the room is packed with tables and chairs ready for lunch.  There is nobody to be found there, so I go next door into the country store, where Deborah Eagar is busily re-stocking some candy jars.  We greet each other as if I perform at the Wayside every week, as old friends, and spend some time chatting, before going back to the function room, to wait for Deb’s brother Anthony, who is the owner and chef at the restaurant.

Anthony is always busy, always in a rush, and when he arrives it is as if a strong wind has blown the door open.  Another hug and I get caught up in his energy too:  it is time to prepare for the show.

The format and layout here is unique, and I have to take some time to remind myself how it all works.  My ‘set’ consists of a chair and table placed in the centre of the narrow, long room, surrounded by the dinner tables. I have to make sure that I move a lot around the room, so that those guests at the far extremes do not feel left out.  I will be performing chapters one and two of the story, and then breaking so that the main course can be served, before continuing (while the guests are eating), with chapters three and four: another break to clear the plates and serve dessert, before finishing the story with chapter five.  It is difficult to keep the audience’s attention, and so there is not a lot of subtlety in the performance – no long intense pauses, or carefully staged positons.

The only space to change in is the public loo, and as that will be busy when the guests arrive, I change early into my costume, placing my new watch on its chain for the first time. I am delighted to see that it is running steadily, and accurately.

The team of servers are swarming around the room now, filling water glasses, and placing bread rolls.  Systems are being discussed so that the service element of the event will be quick and efficient – we do not have much time to spare.

The crowd is beginning to arrive, and are huddling outside in the cold rain.  Final preparations are made, and the doors are opened.  The welcoming of guests is quite an operation in itself: tickets have to be checked against a master list, and then each guest is given a slip denoting what their main course choice is (blue for sirloin steak, yellow for haddock); A server then leads them to their table.

There is still an hour before the show starts so I drift around the room chatting to the guests, some of who have seen the show before, others who are here for the first time.  I meet a lady originally from Canterbury in Kent (the county of my birth); she has been in Massachusetts since 1964 and her English accent is still impeccable!

There is a lively atmosphere in the room, as everyone settles down.  The bar is doing a good trade, and Anthony and his wife Sarah are controlling the whole thing efficiently. 

The time ticks on (literally, as my new watch has a very satisfying tick to it), and soon we are ready to begin.  Poor Deb has been given the job of announcing me, and she is very scared at the prospect – but she does a fine job, capturing the attention of the crowd and reading the introductory notes clearly.  I am welcomed to my stage – my space – with a generous round of applause, and begin to perform.

As I mentioned before, the staging and subtlety of my usual show goes out of the window, but what I lose from that, I gain by being able to involve the audience much more closely in the show.  For example, I can pick on a gentleman to represent Scrooge, a young girl for the Ghost of Christmas Past, A white-haired man for Fezziwig.  I can trip over someone’s foot in the city street, and can use a whole table to be the Cratchit family: it is hard and hot work, but great fun.

I also have to keep an eye on practical matters too: the rest room is situated at the back of the room, but to the right-hand side, which means anyone sitting at the left end of the room needs to walk through the stage area to reach it.  When this happens, I try to move the action away to another part of the room, so that the individual doesn’t feel as if they are interrupting too much.  During the afternoon performance it seems as a lot of people to the left need to pay a visit, so I am roaming around among tables a great deal of the time.

I successfully negotiate the first section of the show, and the dinner service starts: lots of bustle, lots of noise, lots of congratulations about the show.  I hover at the side of the room waiting for the signal from Anthony to start again.  The second session is more difficult, because people’s attention is divided between their food and me, but the story continues well, until it is time to break once more, for dessert.

A look at my watch tells me that I really should have edited the story more: it is nudging towards five o’clock as I perform the last chapter, and the evening group is due to be seated at six!  I finish the show and take the applause, before sitting down to sign (no opportunity to change out of my damp costume today).  As I chat and pose, the servers are frantically clearing the tables, stripping them of their linen cloths, replacing them with new ones and re-setting for dinner – it is a truly impressive operation.

The afternoon audience finally drifts away into a wet evening and I immediately get changed into my dry costume, ready to do the whole thing again.  Of course, I have a little time, as there is an hour between welcoming the guests and the start of the show, so I go next door to the restaurant and have a crab cake salad, which helps to boost my sagging energy levels.

The evening crowd are energetic and lively, and more of a dinner-theatre crowd, than the afternoon group.  They are smartly dressed and definitely out for an evening’s entertainment.  The reaction to the show backs up that impression, and they are right there in the story, and pull a very physical (and hot) performance from me.

The applause at each break is as long and loud as if it were at the end of a show, and lots of audience members come and talk to me and say how much they are enjoying the evening, which just spurs me on all the more.  One interesting and  recurring comment is that I don’t seem to have an accent when I perform.  Of course, as far as I am concerned, I don’t have an accent anyway, but the audience is from Mass, and mean I sound like them.  Curious.  It is a lovely show and at the end everyone joins in with ‘God Bless Us, Every One!’

Once again I am consigned to my signing table in a damp (rather more than damp) costume, and I just have to hope that I don’t get a chill.  People are so generous in their praise, but I am beginning to feel the effects of a very hectic afternoon and evening and the adrenaline is running low.

Finally the audience leaves, and I am able to change into my street clothes.  The staff have waved their magic wands and the room is clear; we all sit around (everyone has worked so hard today, and we are all tired) and chat, as Anthony works out their wages and tips.

I am really flagging now, so say good bye to everybody and drive the short distance to my hotel, where I check in.  It is 10.30, and as soon as I get to my room I slump onto the bed and almost instantly I am asleep.

 

 

 

 

Another Life

Today is a day off, but I am still staying at the Beechwood, so everything is familiar and somewhat routine.  Following the misfire with the dry cleaning on Friday, I will try again today.  I bag up all of my costume items and take them to the front desk, where once more I am cheerfully promised that they will be ready this evening.

I have my breakfast and then continue the routine by collecting all of the shirts that I have used over the last two days, and drive back to The Shrewsbury Laundry, where I feed the machine (which has a voracious appetite for quarters).  I sit and wait for the washing cycle to finish, transfer everything to the drier, and then drive back to the hotel, which is only 5 minutes away, to finish my blog.

After 45 minutes I return, and the drier tumbles its final revolution as I walk up to it (good timing is so important to an actor).  I unload the machine and go back to my car.  It is a beautiful, clear, bright New England day today, and the colours are vivid and sharp.  It is a perfect day for a road trip.  I have decided to drive back to Plymouth and to buy the pocket watch that I saw last week.  You may remember I had concerns about not knowing how to change the time?   Well, I received a message from an old friend, and fellow-actor, John Huston, who gave me complete instructions how to access the hidden lever.  (incidentally, it was John who many years ago proudly announced that he had the best edited version of A Christmas Carol ever written: ‘Scrooge  was an old, miserly, mean man.  But he lightened up, so that was OK!’)

I connect my Kindle to the car’s radio and enjoy the continuing adventures of James Bond in Thunderball, as the miles are swallowed up.  In no time I am pulling up on the Plymouth seafront, and the sea glistens in the sun, and one red-hulled boat provides a splash of colour against the deep blue.

I walk to the antique store, where the watch is still in its cabinet.  I follow John’s instructions and sure enough I am able to access the hidden leaver and the hands move.  I have brought my watch chain, and a waistcoat with me just to check that everything fits (it is a much larger watch than my current one), and am pleased to find that it does.  With that the purchase is made and I become the proud owner of a lovely old watch, for a very reasonable price.

From Plymouth I drive south towards Newport, which is one of the most elegant (and needless to say expensive) New England towns.  As I get closer there are some beautiful views across bays, all of which are dotted with marinas.  Newport is certainly the playground of the rich.

I am headed for The Breakers – one of the summer cottages which were owned by the great Millionaires of the early 20^th Century; in this case by Vanderbilt, the railroad magnate.

Summer cottages?  To me, and probably you, a cottage is a tiny little quaint, low-ceilinged, cosy nook of a house, with roses round the door and a log burning merrily in the fireplace.  A busy lady bakes fresh bread in the kitchen as a busy man cuts the grass and tends to the garden.  Maybe a little dog scampers around their feet.  Yes, that is a cottage.  What I see before me, as I walk through the gate of The Breakers is definitely NOT a cottage!

Unfortunately, I have arrived just behind a huge coach group, and as the house tour is via an audio headset, I am destined to be stuck behind them for the whole time, but with some strategic fast-forwarding, while they chat and take pictures, and with some surreptitious overtaking, I manage to get into free air as I arrive at the Billiard Room.

Thoughts on The Breakers?  Well, it is certainly impressive, it is certainly on a grand scale, it certainly displays wealth (which I suppose was the idea), but it is vulgar, tasteless and a pastiche.  It is as if Vanderbilt toured Versailles and said ‘I want THAT!  Build it for me!’  No, give me the cozy cottage with baking bread any day.

I finish the tour and walk into the gardens, which overlook the ocean.  The sun is setting and casting a lovely golden glow on the house, which looks beautiful, and with only a little imagination the lawn is filled with the ghosts of the Newport elite, sipping champagne, laughing merrily as the strains of a jazz band come from the house.  A completely different world.

I go back to my mundane little VW and set the SatNav for home.  My route takes me through the centre of Newport, and the reflections of the setting sun on some of the buildings, suggest that there is quite a sight to be seen.  I park the car and make my way to the seafront, where the sky is the most remarkable colour.  Maybe Vanderbilt and the others paid for impressive sunsets too, for this is a display the like of which I have rarely seen.

I return to the car and head back to my own life in Worcester.  Thunderball finishes and the radio tunes itself to a Worcester based station, and it is with great pride that I hear an advertisement for the Vaillancourts. My route home actually takes me right past the turn off to the Manchaug Mills, and I am on familiar roads back to The Beechwood.

I go to my room and find, with relief, that my dry cleaning HAS been done and is hanging in my wardrobe.  I spend a bit of time catching up with some paperwork, and emailing Liz (who is having a very busy week, and I wish I were at home to look after her properly), before going to the restaurant where I have a simple, but delicious pizza.

Tomorrow I move on, but not until late morning, so I don’t need to pack tonight. The Beechwood has been a good home to me for almost a week and I shall be sorry to leave, but the tour moves inexorably on and there are many more friends to meet and audiences to perform for.  It is a good life!

 

 

[GD1]

Halloa! Bellow There!

Today has a similar shape to yesterday, in that I don’t have to be in Sutton until 12.30, so have the morning to myself.  The first job is to get breakfast out of the way before the Grand Prix starts at 8am.  I get up and am down at the restaurant by 7.15, only to discover that at weekends they don’t open until 7.30, which means I run the risk of missing the start of the race.  Instead of sitting at a table I therefore load a plate up with pastries and fruit and take it back to my room.

The race itself is tense and fascinating.  To win the world championship Lewis Hamilton has to win the race with his team-mate, Nico Rosberg finishing lower than third place.  Hamilton duly gets into the lead, and as the race nears its conclusion starts to go slower and slower, thereby letting all of the other cars catch up and heap pressure on Rosberg.  The Mercedes team management don’t seem impressed, and their team orders get stronger and stronger, but Hamilton persists in his tactics:  to me it is perfectly legitimate, as it is the only way that he can influence the championship result. He doesn’t drive dirty, just slowly.  In the end it is irrelevant anyway, for Rosberg holds the second place and secures his first championship win.

Once the race is finished, I turn off the TV and complete a full run-through of The Signalman, before getting ready for the day’s performances, and driving towards Sutton.

The gang are all there to welcome me: Gary, Judi, Karen, Bob, Luke, Anna and of course Nate who is once more the centre of attention on stage. 

Before getting ready for the first show, I turn my attention to the staging of the evening performance.  When Judi puts the stage together for a Christmas Carol, she creates a wonderful warm set, complete with a fireplace, window, curtains, Christmas decorations, and a chandelier.  However, The Signalman is set in an austere, cold signal box, with sparse furniture and functional telegraphic equipment, so everything needs to be re-thought.

I look at the stage with Judi, and we begin to make our plans.  Firstly, we will rid the set of all the decorations; the plushly-furnished chair will go, although the plain wooden stool will stay. The chandelier can come down.  Next, Judi will cover the light blue curtains with long black drapes, to suggest the sombre entrance to a railway tunnel.  Having made the decisions, I walk around the store, which is an Aladdin’s cave of props, and find a bizarre mechanical brass item, with a clock on a stem – this will serve as the ‘telegraphic instrument with its dial, face and needles’.  An upturned pewter bowl will represent the ‘little electric bell’ and a beautifully bound copy of Punch magazine can become the ‘official book.’  Improvisation is a wonderful thing!

With a bit of time in hand, I decide to do a complete run through of the show, which is useful.

When my rehearsal is finished, I turn my attentions back to A Christmas Carol.  The audience for the 2pm show are starting to arrive, and I go to my dressing room to get ready.  The crowd sounds good, and the burble of conversation from the hall is loud.  I wait at the door until Gary has made his introduction, and then make my entrance.

For some reason it is a very difficult show to get going.  This audience don’t seem to respond to the script as some others do, and the hall is quiet.  I have learned over the years not to panic in situations like this, for that leads to trying too hard, which in turn destroys the rhythm of the show.  I maintain my composure, but it is quite nerve-wracking nonetheless. 

Slowly, gradually, the tide turns and from the arrival of the Ghost of Christmas Present, the reactions become more vocal and spontaneous and the show becomes more intense again right to the end.  Phew! That was hard work.

I change and go to my signing table, where there is a good long queue waiting for me.  Everyone is enthusiastic about the show, which is a relief.  Finally, at the end of the line is my old friend Robin McFee, who comes every year and who always furnishes me with a goody-bag for the road: this year it contains Walnut Whips, and mint Humbugs (very apt!). She is also clutching a copy of The Signalman, which makes me think that I need to rehearse again – I must get it right!

I change into regular clothes and Judi, Luke and I work to convert the set, and soon we are in a wooden hut, rather than a sumptuous parlour.  I put the props in place, and everything is ready for the evening.

A Sparser Set

 

Improvised Props (the audience cannot see the white rim on the bowl)

 

With that it is time for supper – another amazing spread provided by Mary and her family – and then a short time relaxing (more accurately going over certain passages in The Signalman), before getting into costume and preparing for the show.  Luke wants to take a couple of pictures, so I start rehearsing the story again on the stage, as he shoots away.  This impromptu run through also allows Randy to tweak the sound levels to suit the different style of delivery.

The audience has gathered, so I leave the stage and let them take their places.  It is an audience of around 80, and almost all of them have seen my shows before (many over the last two days), so are hardened fans.

I begin by explain the circumstances of the great Staplehurst rail disaster of 1865, and the effect it had on Dickens, who was one of the only survivors.  He wrote his dark ghost story the following year, and it has a personal intensity which bespeaks the truth of his trauma.

There is such a wonderful atmosphere in the room and the whole story is played out in an almost breathless silence. 

I finish the tale itself and then go onto to explain the ghostly coincidence that, while he was not killed in the Staplehurst crash, Dickens did die at the same time of day, on the very same date, exactly five years later.  There is an audible gasp, before the applause begins.

It has been a very satisfying show, and as we have a bit of time, we turn the hall lights on, and have a question and answer session, which is great fun.

I go back to the table, where there are a surprising amount of programmes to be signed (we assumed that almost all of this audience would have bought theirs earlier in the weekend).  In fact at the end of the signing Gary only has a few left, which he has me sign to sell in the next week – or to offer them next year, so that people who want to have a complete collection, but missed out in year one, can purchase them next year – at a premium, I am sure!

And so the Vaillancourt weekend has come to an end.  I change and collect up all my belongings, before saying good bye to all of the staff in the store.

Gary and Judi are taking me to dinner in Worcester, and I drive away from the mill for the last time this year.

The three of us meet up at Via on Shrewsbury Street, and order light snacks from the bar menu.  All of the male employees at Via are sporting impressive beards and moustaches, growing them for charity, and include a particularly impressively waxed Dali-esque moustache, curling around into two little Os.

We chat over the events of the weekend, and the impressive audience numbers to all of the shows.  The conversation turns to next year, and what show I should do in the Sunday-night slot:  the feeling being that Gary and Judi would like me to perform A Child’s Journey with Dickens once more.  As we talk, the chat takes a somewhat maudlin turn: what if one of us is not here next year, what if……  Oh, my, The Signalman has certainly left its mark on us all.

We say our fond farewells, and hug on the street and I head once more for The Beechwood Hotel, and to my bed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Izzy’s Day

Although today is a busy day, with two performances of A Christmas Carol, I don’t have to be anywhere until 12.30, so I have a nice long relaxing morning in store.

I start working on my blog, and on checking the stats notice that hits from the UK are down this morning, and there is a good reason for that:  my niece Isobel is getting married in Leicester today and clan Dickens are gathering to send her away on her new life.  So, have a wonderful day Isobel and I wish I were there to help you celebrate!

Another event is also taking place in faraway Abu Dhabi, and that is qualifying for the final Formula One Grand Prix of the year.  Tomorrow one of two drivers will be crowned World Champion, and I enjoy watching the opening salvos in their battle for supremacy: Lewis Hamilton comes out on top and will start tomorrow’s race from pole position.

The morning drifts on, and I do some rehearsing The Signalman for tomorrow’s performance, and watch the latest antics of Messrs Clarkson, Hammond and May on The Grand Tour.

At last it is time to get ready, so I gather everything that I will need for two days of performing and carry it all to my little Quebecois VW.

The drive to Manchaug Mills, where the Vaillancourts store is located, is a twenty-minute drive and I know the route well l as this is my 9^th year performing for them.  The roads are relatively quiet (maybe everybody is resting after their Black Friday adventures) and I arrive at the empty car park at around 12.00.

Gary is there to meet me, and we take all of my things directly to the theatre.  Vaillancourt Folk Art is based in a Victorian mill building and for one weekend each year one of the rooms is turned into an auditorium.  160 seats are arranged around a wide stage which is well lit with theatre lighting.

Luke and Anna appear, along with little Nate, who takes to the stage like a natural.  He parades left to right, forward and back; and has even perfected the Ghost of Christmas yet to Come point!

Understudy Nate

As we all chat (and applaud Nate), Randy the sound engineer arrives.  He is probably the best engineer I work with on tour, and spends so much time making sure that the levels are absolutely perfect.  The greatest compliment I can pay to Randy is to say that it doesn’t sound as if I am using a microphone here.

With all of the checks done I go into the store, which is a true wonderland.  The Vaillancourts make plaster Santa figures, cast from historic chocolate moulds.  The decoration of each piece is originally designed and painted by Judi, and then re-created by her small team of painters.  They are beautiful pieces and I am fortunate to own my own collection.

There are two hours to go before the show starts, and the first members of the audience are already beginning to arrive, so I retire to my dressing room to relax.

By 1.45 I can hear the audience being admitted and I have a little peek to watch them filing in.  It is a strange thing that actors always need to see the audience arrive.  I remember as a young boy crouching behind curtains and trying to peek into the auditorium.  It isn’t just me either:  in Nicholas Nickleby our hero has been engaged by the theatre troupe run by Mr Crummles, and the cast is preparing for their opening night:

Behind the scenes, the same unwonted excitement prevailed. Miss Snevellicci was in such a perspiration that the paint would scarcely stay on her face. Mrs Crummles was so nervous that she could hardly remember her part. Miss Bravassa’s ringlets came out of curl with the heat and anxiety; even Mr Crummles himself kept peeping through the hole in the curtain, and running back, every now and then, to announce that another man had come into the pit.

Soon the hall is filled to capacity, and I am delighted to see that many in the audiences are clutching the programme.  Here we have given Anna’s mother Karen the sole job of selling programmes to the audience as they arrive, and I am convinced that this is the best strategy.

Gary makes his way through the crowds and welcomes his guests, many of whom are old friends who have attended every event.  He talks about the history of the mills, the history of the Vaillancourt company, and about our 9-year relationship.  He plugs the programme, holding a copy up for everyone to see and then announces that, in the spirit of Christmas, four lucky guests have been selected to receive a free gift from the store.  Red tickets have been attached to the underside of four seats, and when Gary says ‘so look under your seats’ the whole audience seems to fold flat before my eyes!  Everyone bends forward and then, unable to believe that they haven’t got a ticket, people start kneeling, then picking their chairs up, before resignedly sitting down again.  Eventually the four prize-winners are found and everything returns to order again.

Gary welcomes

Gary finishes his introduction, and welcomes me to the stage.

Because the room is quite small because the ceiling is quite low, because there are full-fledged theatre lights very close, this is one of the hottest shows I do on tour (I concede that 90F in California probably scoops it!), and it is a real workout.   The audience are superb, very involved and vocal.  The whole show is great fun and the ovation at the end is amazing.  I leave the stage and walk through the audience (I feel rather like a boxer after a particularly hard fight).  Luke is waiting for me at the door with a bottle of water, and as soon as I get back to my dressing room I gulp it straight down.

I take quite a long time to change and calm down, before walking through the store, ready to meet the audience.  The line is long (Karen has done a great job with the programmes, as almost everybody has one), and it takes quite a while to sign and pose for everyone, but I don’t mind it all as many have come to multiple shows and are almost friends.

When the signing finishes I go back to my dressing room and change back into regular clothes, wrapping a scarf around my throat to make sure that it doesn’t become affected by the chill air-conditioning in the mill.

The time between shows is relaxed and I chat to Gary, Judi, Luke, Karen and Bob about the first show and the audience’s reaction to it.  Bob (Anna’s father), has become somewhat a student of my audiences, watching them carefully during the show and seeing what they respond to.

It is traditional for us to all have dinner together and soon a table is laid in the office and a magnificent spread of soups, sandwiches and pies are produced, into which all of the staff delve.

These moments are wonderfully relaxing and friendly, but we are here for a reason and soon it is time to get ready again.  Luke and Bob take up their positions at the door to collect tickets, Karen arms herself with programmes, Gary works the crowd and I disappear to my dressing room.

The evening show is another sell-out and once again 163 people file their way into ‘Blaxton Hall’, ready to be transported into the past, present and future.   We get off to rather a clumsy start, as there is some confusion over seating (one couple has arrived a day early, whilst others have duplicate tickets and people are sat in their seats).  Luke is so busy trying to sort that out, that he is not able to switch the theatre lighting on when I make my entry; not only that, but Gary has left the souvenir programme on Bob Cratchit’s stool on stage: all a bit awkward.  Neither issue is a real problem however, as Luke makes it to the switches quickly, and I can surreptitiously move the programme to a table, without breaking the narrative.

Once again it is a physically exhausting show and once again the audience is amazing (more intense than this afternoon), and give me a rousing ovation.

The aftermath of the show is a repeat of the afternoon, and I gulp an entire bottle of water down before slowly changing ready to sign.

The queue is shorter than this afternoon, and sales have been less (50% less across all products), which is interesting, but there are still plenty of pictures to be posed for and names to be scrawled.

When everyone has left, I go back to the dressing room, hang up my costumes ready for tomorrow and get ready to drive back into Worcester.  Gary, Judi and Luke drive into town too and we all meet up in the Beechwood’s bar, where we have a very relaxing time chatting about this and that, until the strains of the day take their toll.  I am lucky as I only have to walk as far as the lift; the others have to drive home through the night.

It is not long before I am in bed, and not much longer before I am asleep.

 

But the day belongs to Izzy and her new husband Dan:  please join me in sending them both every happiness for their future life together.

Izzy and Dan Tutcher

 

A Trip To Where It All Began

Black Friday: the day that America goes retail crazy.  Twenty-four hours after families have given thanks for all that they have – so they now want MORE!  Black Friday: a day that has spawned a little jokey aside in my performance, and a day to avoid the shopping malls at all costs.

I have a free day today, and I start by gathering together momentous amounts of laundry.  I have decided that I shall have both of my costumes dry-cleaned today, as I have been on the road for roughly three weeks and have roughly the same to go.  I stuff two frock coats, two waistcoats, and two pairs of striped trousers into the Beechwood Hotel laundry bag, ready to drop off at the front desk. 

Then there is the regular laundry:  I seem to have collected a very large amount (for some reason I didn’t do any in Kansas City), and it is really too much to send to the hotel’s service.  Unfortunately, The Beechwood is one of the few hotels that doesn’t have a guest laundry, so I look online and discover The Shrewsbury Laundromat, which is nearby.  Their website proclaims that they will happily take a load at the start of the day, wash it, dry it and fold it, and have it ready by the evening: perfect.  I fill two more laundry bags ready to take to Shrewsbury.

And now, as I look around the room, I realise that I can actually unpack here, which is a rare luxury.  I empty my case and lay my clothes (albeit not many of them, as almost everything is in the plastic bags), into the generous chest of drawers. 

I take the dry cleaning to the front desk, ascertain that it will be ready for collection this evening, and go on to the restaurant for a delicious pancake-based breakfast.

At 9 o’clock I leave the hotel and drive the five minutes to the Laudromat in Shrewsbury, where the promised cheerful staff are absent.  There is nothing for it than to settle in for the duration.  When two machines are loaded, I get my script for The Signalman from the car and start to go through some lines, in preparation for a performance of the ghost story on Sunday evening.

The whole process takes around an hour and a half, and it is useful rehearsal time.  Outside, the weather is misty and incessant rain falls.

My plan today, on this Thanksgiving weekend, is to drive to Plymouth Rock and see the spot where the Pilgrims landed in The Mayflower, and where the first Thanksgiving took place in 1621.

I drive from Shrewsbury (in the UK, the George C Scott A Christmas Carol was filmed in Shrewsbury), via Uxbridge (mentioned in Doctor Marigold), passed Oxford (where I live) and on towards Medway (where Charles Dickens grew up and also lived at the end of his life).

During the journey I pass the turn for the Wrentham Shopping Village, and the cars are queued right back onto the main carriageway:  Black Friday is in full swing.

The Black Friday queue

The drive to Plymouth (Liz was born in the UK city) takes about 90 minutes and I find a parking place which looks out to sea – the very sea over which The Mayflower sailed almost 400 years ago.

My parking space is near to the mooring of The Mayflower II, which is unfortunately absent; undergoing a complete renovation, presumably in preparation for the 2021 celebrations.  The smell of the seaside is gorgeous as I walk towards the rock itself.

Now, American readers lease forgive me for my lack of knowledge, but I had rather assumed that The Plymouth Rock was at the tip of wild coastline.  In my mind, I had an image akin to Pride Rock, in the Lion King. 

Not Plymouth Rock….

I had imagined a towering edifice welcoming the weary seafarers to the new world, as the Statue of Liberty would welcome future generations of travellers.  So, I was a little surprised, and somewhat disappointed to discover that the rock itself is rather small.  Very small, if truth be told.  The Palladian edifice that covers it is much more impressive than the rock itself.  If the stone itself is a bit of a let-down (and there is no factual guarantee that this was even the spot where the Pilgrims first set foot on American soil), what it represents is extraordinary.

The Rock

 

The Edifice

 

Having taken the obligatory pictures, I walk into the town itself, passing beautiful old New England houses, which remind me of those in Salem, not far to the North.

I look around a tiny antiquarian book store, that has some wonderful Dickens volumes on its shelves, before continuing my walk. It is 1.30 now and I am quite hungry, so am on the lookout for a good restaurant. It is an extraordinary thing that so many businesses are closed up today – cafes, bars, restaurants all firmly locked up.  You would have thought that Plymouth would have its arms open in welcome on this weekend, of all others.

There are a couple of antiques malls open and in one I spy a beautiful old pocket watch. It is in working condition, and is priced at $105, but all items sold by this particular dealer have a 25% discount.  I am very tempted.

I have the case unlocked, and study the watch.  I wind it, and yes, the second hand starts to sweep around.  However, the shop assistant and I can find no way of changing the time, and I reluctantly decide against making the purchase.  It is a beautiful watch though!

The Nearly Watch

Finally I find a tavern that is open, appropriately called The New World Tavern, and order some lunch.

I think that I have seen all that Plymouth has to offer on this Friday, so I go back to my car and start the drive back to Worcester.  During the drive I am caught in a 40-minute traffic delay.  Far ahead, across the sea of red tail-lights, I cans see the flashing blues and reds of police cars and assume that there must have been a terrible accident, but no, it just more traffic queuing for the Wrentham Shopping Village.  Black Friday still has its tight grip on the shoppers of Massachusetts.  I wonder what those first pilgrims would make of this?

I get back to the hotel and go to collect my dry cleaning from the front desk.  The girl is very apologetic, but the dry cleaning isn’t ready, as the company they use was not open today after all.  Fortunately my bag is still behind the counter, so I will have costumes for tomorrow’s shows, but they have been scrunched up all day long, and are a sorry sight when I hang them in my wardrobe.

I spend the first part of the evening folding all of my shirts and rolling all of my socks, and carefully placing them in the drawers (I am never this organised at home), and then go to the restaurant for supper.

I have enjoyed my day off – it is always fun to explore – but tomorrow the next leg of the tour begins, and it will be back to work for me.

 

 

 

 

Thanksgiving

Today is Thanksgiving Day, and a chance for Americans to reflect within their own family circles, and to be thankful for all they have.  It is a wonderful holiday, without the overt commercialism of Christmas.  It is always fun to be here to share it.

I start slowly, by drinking coffee and writing my blog, before going to the restaurant for a simple breakfast of fruit and pastries.    In a booth next to my table is a father with three young sons, and they have TRASHED their table which is hidden beneath a covering of Cheerios.  Bagels have been picked into tiny crumbs, which have become mixed with the cereal.  The whole mess is spilling over the edge and onto the floor where it is being ground into the carpet by sneakered feet.  The strange thing is that nobody (father, or staff), seem the slightest bit perturbed by this.  When the family leave, trailing Cheerios in their wake, the server comes to clear away and says, ‘ahh, what cute kids’.

After breakfast I return to my room in time to watch the coverage of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade from New York City, which is always fun.  The parade is a masterclass in stage management, with everything timed so tightly.  Broadway casts, school marching bands and troupes of dancers all move into the space in front of the grand old store, do their bit and then move on, as the tsunami of the parade follows inexorably on down 34^th Street.

At 11.30 I get into my car and drive to the nearby town of Sutton to meet Gary and Judi Vaillancourt for Thanksgiving lunch.  As I drive I discover another little quirk in my VW Tiguan – it is originally registered in Quebec, and so the speedometer reads only in kph, not mph: I wondered why I was going so slowly and yet seemed to be breaking the speed limit!  Fortunately the Garmin GPS unit shows the speed in mph, so I must rely on that for the rest of my journey.

I have been performing for the Vaillancourts for 7 years now, and my shows are always over this particular weekend.  As with so many people on tour (and this is something I am truly thankful for), I regard them as close friends, and it is always wonderful to see them again.

We are actually going to a restaurant for lunch, as the Vaillancourts are in the process of having a new house built, and are currently living in a tiny apartment.  We meet on the forecourt of the business, and I climb into their car for the relatively short drive to Providence, Rhode Island (I had never realised that we so close to the city|).  We spend the journey catching up on our news, and soon pull up outside Miller’s Tavern in the heart of downtown.

Millers is a fabulous place with a bustling and happy atmosphere (although if you can’t do bustling and happy on Thanksgiving, you are probably in the wrong business!).  We are shown to a table in the window, and offered cocktails. 

Gary with an eggnog Martini

As the server fusses around us he does something that I never seen before, but which shows great attention to detail:  the tables are set with crisp linen napkins, but Judi is dressed in dark colours, so the waiter takes her napkin and replaces it with a black one, so as not to leave lint on her clothes.

In a few minutes, we are joined by another Gary, who is the Vaillancourts German agent and lives in nearby Newport.  Gary, Gary and Judi are excellent dinner companions, and we chat about this and that, as our lunches are brought.  Gary (V) choses a swordfish dish, but Judi and I both plump for the traditional turkey and trimmings: it is as delicious, as you would expect from a restaurant that pays attention to the colour of its napkins.

We spend a good long time at Millers, and are not rushed by the staff. The restaurant is full with happy family groups and the sound of laughter is the prevalent one.

When we finally finish, it is time for our whole party to move back to Sutton and to join Gary and Judi’s son Luke for dessert.  Luke and his wife Anna built their own house three years ago, and it is elegantly decorated (last year it was featured in one of those Christmas lifestyle magazines which gives you some ideas as to their sense of style).

22 months ago, the Vaillancourt clan was joined by little Nathanial and it is he who has the centre of the attention.  Also watching little Nate are Anna’s parents Bob and Karen, and her brother Evan with his wife Stephanie.  It is exhausting to see the energy of an-almost-two-year-old, but he is surrounded by four grandparents, an uncle and aunt, not to mention a couple of strangers, and plays to his audience well!

This is lovely family time, and it is a pleasure and an honour to share it with Luke and Anna, who are generous hosts.

Afternoon drifts into evening and one by one the guests start to make their moves.  Gary and Judi are keen to show me their new house, which is actually right next door, so we make our way over the grass and in to the construction site.

Judi is a trained artist, and has designed the new home in the style of one of the Colonial Williamsburg Cottages.  So often a modern recreation of a historic home looks ever so slightly wrong, and becomes a mere pastiche, put the proportions of this house are perfect.

The construction is complete, but all of the interior has to be finished yet: electric light there is, plumbing there is not.  If the contractors really push ahead and there are no unforeseen delays, the new home should be occupied before Christmas.  It is going to be an amazing house and Judi’s vision is evident throughout.

I say my goodbyes on the doorstep (yes, Judi and Gary look just right waving to me from the porch), and drive back to Worcester and my hotel.  There is no need for any dinner this evening, so I go to my room and find a film to watch – Forest Gump gets the vote.

What a lovely day Thanksgiving is, and I am thankful to have been part of it once again, but on this day of family celebration I so miss being at home with Liz, and Cameron, and am thinking of them as I fall asleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Moving East

As I took the bows in the cavernous John Knox Pavillion last night, I metaphorically brought the curtains down on the first part of my 2016 tour.  From here I fly to the East coast, where I will remain almost to the end of the trip.  I have a gap of three days over the Thanksgiving celebrations before I perform again, and that gives me a chance to take stock (and to learn my new line properly!)

I have my alarm set early, so that I can pack my two cases, and that is quite a challenge this morning, as I am once again worried about weight.  I travel with a stock of business cards advertising this blog site, and Byers’ Choice have just sent me a new boxful to replenish my dwindling stocks.  My case was already perilously close to the weight limit and the new additions will definitely send me over the top.  I cram as much as I can into my little roller carry-on as I can, which I am sure will end up being checked at the gate anyway, for this is the busiest flying day of the year and overhead bin space will be quickly filled.

When everything is stashed away I weigh the large case in my hand, and make an estimate – it is going to be close I fear: I may have to ditch a few things at the airport.

Next there is time for a quick breakfast, and while I am downstairs I have to make arrangements to have an item that I left in Omaha, (and which was being sent here to Kansas City, but hasn’t arrived yet), to be shipped on to my next hotel in Massachusetts.  I leave the address, my credit card details to pay for the FedEx charges, my email and phone number and hope that this time things will work successfully.

I have left plenty of time for my journey this morning and even though my flight isn’t until 10, I leave the hotel at 7.  Actually, the traffic is lighter than I had expected and it only takes 20 minutes to reach the Kansas City International Airport.  I drop my Camry off and get the shuttle bus into the terminal, where the security lines are busy, but not gridlocked. 

There is a set of scales available to passengers to check the weight of their bags, and mine comes in at 50 lbs exactly!

I queue up for security and divest myself of various items of clothing, as directed, before re-vesting myself once I am cleared to fly.   There is still plenty of time, so I am able to settle down and relax for an hour or so.

Sure enough before boarding commences the agent makes an announcement:  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is a full flight today, so we are looking for volunteers to check  roller bags to their final destination’.  I dutifully take my very full, and very heavy, little bag to the counter, and as I wait to be dealt with another guy says ‘this is a great way of getting a second bag checked for free, I was counting on that!’  As am I – it is called playing the system.

The ground crew get the full flight boarded and away on time, which is impressive, and soon we are bursting through the low cloud and into the sunlight above.  I am sat next to a young soldier, who has his camouflaged kitbag on his lap.  For most of the trip he listens to music, as I listen to Thunderball, but as we start to make out final approach into Atlanta he begins to talk – about eggs (specifically hard-boiled ones).

‘Oh, man, I could do with a boiled egg now.  I love boiled eggs, can’t eat enough.  I love ‘em just soft, don’t like ‘em hard in the middle, oh no, just soft.  I like scrambled too, but man, boiled are the best!  I can’t wait till they’re cold, am too impatient.  Man, I burn my tongue on that yolk.  Folks on this flight could do with eating eggs, so healthy.’  He continues to evangelise about boiled eggs all the way to the gate.

Atlanta Airport is the home of Delta Airlines and almost every flight connects through here, so everyone is rushing around from gate to gate.  I arrive into terminal B and a quick check of the monitors informs me that my flight to Boston will depart from F, which means a long subterranean ride on the PlaneTrain, which, like everywhere else today, is absolutely full.  A few people are disgorged at terminal C, and more at D.  By the time we get to F only a few straggling dregs of society are left and we all shuffle off to our gates.

The crew here are not quite as efficient at boarding as their counterparts in Kansas City, and we end up leaving Atlanta 30 minutes late, but as nobody has connections now it doesn’t really make too much difference.

We are on a bright, modern 757 which has video screens and movies, which is very rare on a domestic flight.  I scroll through the menu and decide to watch The Lady in the Van (Liz and I have been planning to watch it for a long time, but somehow how never got around to it).  It is the most charming, and heart-breaking film, and is based on a true story written by Alan Bennet (who is brilliantly portrayed by Alex Jennings, whilst Maggie Smith is perfect as the titular character).

Not only is the film wonderful, but it is also the perfect length for a flight between Atlanta and Boston – the closing credits roll as we make our decent over the Atlantic Ocean.  It is a strange feeling, because I often arrive into Boston when I fly from London, and the fact that I am watching a film makes it feel even more as if I am just about to embark on my tour.

Logan airport is familiar and very crowded.  As I stand at the baggage carousel an announcement is made: ‘happy Thanksgiving to all our arriving passengers, and welcome to Boston, the home of the Pilgrims.’  There is a pause before the intercom clicks on again: ‘Gobble, gobble, gobble!’

My bags arrive quickly, and then I join the long queue for the shuttle bus that takes me to the car rental plaza, which also is heaving with humanity.  Here then I will be introduced to my companion for the next three weeks (I hope we like each other) – it is a shining white VW Tiguan.  I ease it out of the garage onto the airport perimeter roads and from there into the Boston tunnel system.  The car is light and perky, with a few quirks and I think we are going to get on just fine.

My drive takes me to the City of Worcester and to the Beechwood Hotel, which will be my home for the next six days.  I check in and go to a room I have stayed in before, and everything feels like home. 

Having hung my costumes up (they have been tightly compressed in my little case), I go down to the bar and have a salad and dessert for my dinner.  Thanksgiving celebrations are well underway, and large groups are laughing loudly.  I am sat at an end of the bar on my own, when an older gentleman from one of the groups comes up to me and says: ‘I hope you will not be alone for Thanksgiving?’  I assure him that I will be spending the day with friends, and will be well looked after.  But, what a kind thought: with everything that is going on in the World at the moment, this was one small gesture of friendship and kindness and, to me, really captured the spirit of the very first Thanksgiving at Plymouth Rock, not very far from where I sit.

I return to my room with a smile!

 

 

 

 

 

Ghosts From the Past

Yet another 4am, this is getting VERY annoying now.  As usual I sit up in bed and write the blog before getting ready for the day, and having breakfast. 

As I get costumes and things together I have the TV on, and am once more amazed at US advertisements – most especially those that feature disasters in the home that require urgent work (burst pipes, electrical fires and domestic appliance failures).  The advertisers always film the poor people who do not have the correct insurance coverage in grey hues, and they have furrowed brows and look very upset.  The contractors, who are taking handfuls of cash for doing emergency work, have stained overalls, thinning hair and look somewhat seedy; but those homeowners who have taken out the wonder-coverage are filmed in startling colour, and beam bright large white-toothed smiles, as the young fit, chiselled-jawed workmen wave away any offer of payment. 

Do advertisers really think that we are affected by such cheap ruses? 

Kimberly arrives at the door at 8, and we set off for a longer drive today, heading south to the Colbern Road library branch. We arrive in good time, and as we arrive the microphone system is being set up.  I am anxious to avoid the feedback problems of last night and want to get a sound check done as soon as possible.  Unfortunately, Sarah, who set up the system yesterday, is not here and none of us can work out how to get any sound from it.  We all prod and push and tweak to no effect, and Sarah cannot be tracked down.  The audience is arriving and things are not looking good.  At the last-minute Sarah is located and via phone she talks the library staff through the whole process and eventually we are able to get a sound check completed.

I retire to the office which has been set aside as a dressing room and busy myself re-sewing the loose button that I noticed last night:  I am becoming quite adept with the needle and thread.

When I am dressed, I go out to watch the audience arrive and as I stand chatting to Kimberly a young boy comes up and hands me a picture.  His mother says ‘tell him what it is of, Wesley dear’, but I don’t need him to tell me: it is Jacob Marley wrapped in chains, coloured blue, as a transparent ghost would be.  He is watched by Scrooge in a top hat and holding a cane (drawn in black).  He has been reading A Christmas Carol in preparation for seeing my show and has drawn the picture especially for me: I adore it!

Wesley’s Picture

It is another big crowd, around 140 or so, and they are a pleasure to perform for, although I am beginning to get a little frustrated by the 8×8 stage on which I perform in the libraries (the set is transported from venue to venue).  Here at Colbern Road the audience are sat very close to the stage, so I can’t even get down to floor level to increase my acting space.

Despite the lack of movement, it is a good show – probably the best of the bunch here so far – and I am pleased with my efforts as I take my bows.

My dressing room is right at the back of the room, and I am skirting through the bookshelves to get there, when I am accosted by a lady, who seems familiar: ‘Hello Gerald,  I knew your parents well.  I’m Colette’.

Suddenly the years fall away and I am back in 1992.  Back then my father made a few appearances in America, one of which was here in Kansas City.  He had been engaged to assist in creating a giant Dickens Christmas Fair, which would take place within a convention centre of downtown.  In 1992 he was in the City to promote the inaugural fair, which would take place the following year over which, of course, he would preside.  Colette was mum and dad’s contact and she looked after them during their two visits.

She says ‘let’s chat when you are finished here’, and then sits patiently waiting for me.  I change, and spend a long time with the signing line, the inhabitants of which have programmes to be personalised, and want lots of photos.  Eventually however I have finished, and go to sit on a small sofa chatting to Colette, and now the memories really begin to flow.  She has brought a folder of correspondence, which she would like the family to have back: letter’s carefully and accurately typewritten, with dad’s spidery signature at the bottom.  As I look at them it is if I am back in his little office at home, smelling of cigarette smoke (the office, not me), dad sat at his desk peering over his half-moon glasses, thinking hard about how to address a certain point or how to phrase a sentence in the most effective way.

And then there is Colette’s scrap book, with wonderful pre-digital pictures showing mum and dad in costume, integrating themselves into the festivities.  They were extremely popular in Kansas City and is so, so moving to see them: real, genuine Ghosts of Christmas Past.

I could chat to Colette for hours but unfortunately I have to get on.  We pose for pictures, and hug.  What a wonderful morning, and I feel intensely moved and proud of how cherished mum and dad were here, and what they achieved. 

With Colette

Dad would say: ‘don’t be so silly Gerry, you have a job to do, and you must do it well.  Now, get on with it!’  and so, my day falls back into its routine.

Kimberly drives me back towards the hotel, and as we ride we are in a nostalgic mood, unsurprisingly.  As we head towards Liberty the conversation comes around to Kimberly’s car, a rather wonderful burnt-orange Pontiac Grand Prix, which she has had for many years and which has ferried me to many events.  Kimberly says that recently little things have started going wrong, and she fears that it will soon be time to get a new car, and that she will so miss this one when it finally goes.

Alost on cue steam starts billowing from the bonnet, and the temperature gauge begins to creep towards the red. There is a smell of hot engine coolant, rather worryingly mixed with burnt oil.  As we get closer to the hotel the engine starts to die, and we are just able to make it into a parking lot, before it gives up for good.  We open the bonnet (hood), and peer at the steaming, wet, oily engine beneath.  It doesn’t look hopeful.

Kimberly calls for the roadside recovery service, and also a friend who is a mechanic, to come and rescue her.  We are only a few hundred yards from the hotel, so I unload all of my costumes and walk the rest of the way.

The afternoon passes, and I get bulletins from Kimberly:  the car has been towed to the friends; the alternator needs replacing; they don’t know if the engine received any irreparable damage yet.  The upshot of it all: can I drive to the event this evening?  Her friend will bring her to the hotel.  Poor Pontiac.  Poor Kimberly.

A Dying Pontiac Grand Prix

At 4.30 I get my things together and meet her in the lobby.  She has brought the various things that she needs for the evening performance (including boxes of programmes) and they are loaded on a luggage cart.  We pack everything into my Camry, and head off to The John Knox Pavilion in Lee’s Summit.  It is strange driving on these roads, with Kimberly watching; I feel rather nervous

It is about a forty-five minute drive through rush-hour traffic, but we reach our destination without any incident. 

The John Knox Pavillion is a huge pyramid venue, which can hold well over a thousand people if it is being used as a rock concert.  Tonight, they are expecting almost 600 people to attend.  That is an awful lot of chairs!

My technical needs are looked after by the resident crew headed up by Kent (I’d remembered his name as Clark…but he is definitely a Superman when it comes to AV).  We greet each other like old friends, and he shows me to the dressing room behind the stage.  I put on a costume shirt and waistcoat before returning to the stage for a sound check.  My words boom and echo trough the space, over 600 empty chairs.

With over an hour to go before the show, the audience start to arrive, so I retire to my dressing room to relax.  As I sit, I decide to check something in the original text of a Christmas Carol: this year I have inserted a new line into the show, which ties two scenes together:  when Scrooge is shown the grave by the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, I have been saying: ‘Here, then, Scrooge was to learn the identity of the man who had lain upon the bed’.  But I know it is not correct.  I go online and search for the genuine quote which is: ‘Here, then, the wretched man whose name he had now to learn, lay underneath the ground.’   It’s OK, but it doesn’t quite work in the context of the performance.  Ah! How about Scrooge’s later line to the spirit when he actually sees his name on the grave:  ‘

‘Am I that man who lay upon the bed?’   Yes, that works, I will use that.

Time is passing and I get into costume ready for one of the biggest shows of the tour.  I stand at the edge of the stage as Dylan makes my introduction and then walk into the lit space to the strains of Manheim Steamroller.

It is so nice to be back on a large stage with so much room to move, and all of the audience’s attention focused on me, thanks to the dark auditorium, and bright stage lighting.  It is a wonderful feeling and I really feel as if I belong here.  The movements are crisp, and the lines flow.  I can hear giggles and sobs as the story progresses. 

And now I am in the Churchyard, and Scrooge falls to his knees: ‘Am I the man who lay upon the bed?’ And now I pay the price for poor and incomplete preparation.  Yes, I say the line correctly, but confuse myself as to where I am in the scene, and have no idea what comes next.  I fumble around and keep the speech going, but end up repeating a line.  It is a messy end to what has been an impressive show, and I am so angry with myself for not delaying the new piece without rehearsing it properly.  DAMN!

I get back on track, and bring the show to a close and the audience stand and applaud.  It has been a good evening’s work, but tinged with frustration.  I must make amends next time.

The signing line is waiting for me as I emerge from my dressing room, and I spend half an hour or so signing programmes, and chatting to audience, all the time feeling the energy and adrenaline deserting me steadily.  It has been an intense evening and I am definitely ready to relax.

I finish up, and return to the dressing room to get everything packed, not forgetting my scarf which is still on the stage.  The hall is almost empty when I re-emerge and I say good bye and thank you to Kent, before loading my things into the Camry.

Kimberly and her boss Dylan are coming to dinner with me and we chose a nearby Olive Garden restaurant.  I have a bowl of minestrone soup, followed by grilled salmon.

The restaurant is on the point of closing and the staff rather unsubtly let us know that we are not welcome anymore (much to the embarrassment, it must be said, of our young server).  We dutifully finish our meals and leave, and in the cold parking lot I say my goodbyes to Dylan and Kimberly, before driving the 45 minutes’ home to the hotel.

Another Mid Continent adventure has ended, and when I return next year it will be similar, but with a few changes, and some new faces (not least a new car for Kimberly).  One thing that will always remain however are the ghosts of Christmases Past, in the form of my parents.

Betty and David Dickens

 

 

 

 

As Seen on TV!

Today is an early start, although it doesn’t make much difference, as I am still generally waking at around 4 each morning.  For the next two days, I will be working with the Mid Continent Public Library Service, who are based in Independence, Missouri, and have branches across the Metro area.

In 1994 I made my very first trip to America, and Kansas City was one of the venues.  I performed in some of the library branches back then, and have done so on every year that I have toured, making this my longest continuous booking in the world.

I finish off my blog, having written most of it last night, and post it, before showering and getting ready to meet Kimberly Howard in the hotel lobby at 6.30.  The hotel is surprisingly busy at this hour, as there is a bus tour leaving soon and all of the passengers’ cases are being loaded up, while their owners all grab coffee and pastries from the little buffet.

In no time the automatic doors swish open and Kimberly arrives.  We have worked together for most of my visits here and are old friends.  We get into her car and drive the very short distance to the Woodneath Library, which is a modern facility built onto an historic farmhouse.

We are greeted at the door by members of library staff, including Kimberly’s colleagues Dylan, Emily and Mary: the latter two from the public relations department.  I sip my coffee and chat as we wait for the film crew from KMBC 9 to arrive, which they do before 7am.

The news reporter is Mike Augustine and we are to do four live spots over the next hour or so, as well as a few recorded pieces that he can insert into a feature that will be played through the day.  We chat informally and Mike is constantly searching for topics which may work during the broadcast.  As we talk Mike is getting instructions through his earpiece and punctuates our conversation with ’15 minutes out’; ‘in 5’; ‘Ok, ready to go….in 30.  Up in 15’

And then we are on TV, being beamed into thousands of Missouri homes.  In no time our slot is wrapped up and we all relax until the whole thing is repeated.

The morning drifts by until our last segment is completed and I can concentrate on preparing for the performance at 10.  More members of the library staff have arrived, and are preparing to meet the guests who generally turn up early.  There are boxes of souvenir programmes to be sold, and they are the only merchandise here, so it will be interesting to see how they go.

All of the events that Mid Continent put on are free, but people have to register online, so that there is some degree of control over numbers.  The first three shows will all be in library branches, and they are fully subscribed – I have some loyal fans here!

Having checked the microphone system, and rigged a large CD player up, we open the doors and let the public in.  I am delighted to see that most of them are holding programmes.  A school party arrive and are ushered into seats on the left-hand side of the room, whilst most of the audience sit on the right.  With five minutes to go there is still a large block of seats unfilled, and then the news comes through that another school group are not after all attending.  This is frustrating for everyone, as it leaves 75 seats unfilled – and there has been a long waiting list for tickets.

I start the show, walking through the audience from the back and reaching the stage as the bells toll long and low.  I turn to face the audience and begin.  Right from the start it is clear that this is a very lopsided audience: all of my loyal fans in one bank of seats, and a rather bored school party in the other.  I have to be very careful not to perform only to the good side, even though my best efforts are met with blank stares and large yawns from the students!

It is not a great performance, but everyone applauds generously when it is finished.

I change and when I emerge there is quite a line waiting at my table, the large majority of whom have the souvenir programme open at the autograph page: this is what Ian and I imagined back in the summer, when we first started planning.

Among  the guests are two very loyal fans, Don (who has been to pretty well every performance that I have given in Missouri), and Doug, who is equally committed.  I talk to both at length, and Doug very kindly presents me with some Banana loaf, baked by his wife.

The library clears until it is only the staff left, and I get changed into regular clothes for the first time today and pack up all of my costumes into Kimberly’s car.  There is a Panera Bread restaurant nearby, so we grab some lunch (I am famished having had no breakfast this morning) and tuck into a bowl of soup and a delicious salad.

After we have finished, Kimberly drops me back to the hotel where I have a few hours down time.

My first commitment is to call Erin, the journalist whomwell I forgot yesterday morning.  I make my sincere apologies, and we talk for twenty minutes or so, so that she can compile her piece, which is related to my appearance in Bethlehem PA: it is a lovely thought that by the time I am there Liz will be with me.

Talking to Erin, with banana loaf in the foreground

I have a coffee and eat some of Mrs Doug’s Banana bread as I relax, when a message comes in from Kimberly – there is a local radio station that wants to record an interview, can we meet in the hotel lobby at 4?

Down I go again, where Kimberly, Emily and the reporter Sarah are waiting.  We all sit around a little square table, as if we are settling down to a game of Bridge.  Sarah places a little digital microphone in the middle of the table and we chat for a few minutes, before it is all wrapped up.

There is still an hour before we have to leave, so I go back to my room for some more down time, and as I turn on the TV it is tuned to KMBC channel 9, who are still showing the clips that Mike Augustine filmed this morning.  His feature starts with a long shot of him walking down the main corridor at Woodneath holding the programme in his hand. Now we can truly say: ‘The new souvenir programme, as featured on TV!’

Time is pushing on, so I have a shower to wake myself up a little, and get ready for the evening show, which is in the Smithville branch some twenty minutes away.  Kimberly is in the lobby and we set off among the rush-hour traffic.  Actually, we arrive in good time and the 150 or so seats are still empty.  It is a small space but there is still a microphone system, because libraries are designed to soak up noise, and can be very hard work.  Unfortunately, the only microphone available is a small headset, which I have never got on well with: I must have strangely-shaped ears as such headsets always fall off with my leaping around the stage.

In the end, I hit upon the idea of sewing the headset inside my waistcoat, allowing the microphone to sit on the surface of the fabric, in the position where a normal lapel mic would be.  I sit in a little closet, on a chair made for a 5 year-old, knees high up round my shoulders, and carefully start to sew.  When it is finished, I am rather proud of my handiwork!

The audience is arriving by this time, and there is no time to check the sound for levels, but I am reassured that when we switch the system on there at least is a signal (I was worried that I may have put a needle straight through a vital wire).

I stand at the door and chat with the crowd as they arrive, some old friends (Doug is here again, with his wife and two sons), as well as some people who are seeing the show for the first time.

It is full crowd this time and at 7pm I start.  Immediately I know that the sound level is too high, and I have to be careful not to project too much (difficult for me to do), and there are occasional whistles of feedback when I stray too close to the speakers.  However, I modify my movements and delivery as the show goes on and settle down into a good rhythm.  It is hot in the room, and I am putting a great deal of energy into this performance.

At the end the audience stands and applauds as I gratefully take my rather damp bows.

Changing is more difficult this evening, as I am still attached to the microphone; so carefully have to unplug the leads, before taking my waistcoat off and hanging it up.  My sewing has proved up to the task, although I notice another button hanging loose, so that is a job for tomorrow.

There is a long line waiting for me, and I sign and pose for quite a while.  Doug and his family wait patiently until the end and then we take a picture for their official Christmas Card shot.

Finally, I change and pack up all my things, and say good bye to the librarians, who have been so welcoming here.

Kimberly drives me back towards my hotel and we have dinner in The Country Café, a good old fashioned country-style restaurant, where I have fried chicken and slaw, surrounded by old enamel advertising signs, and a wonderful vintage Indian motorcycle.

5am seems a long time ago and we are both very tired, so we drain the last of our sodas and Kimberly drops me back to the hotel where I have just enough time to air my costumes before falling asleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

[GD1]

Long and (not) Winding Road

Today is a free day, albeit with a bit of travel.  Very frustratingly I couldn’t sleep at all during the night, and was awake at 2am, when Liz, back in England was waking up, which meant we could have a chat online.

Eventually I managed to drop off and sleep until 7.30.  I don’t have to leave until 12, but I seem to have spread my belongings far and wide throughout the room, so there will be quite a long period of consolidation and packing to be done.

My first job is to get a little washing done (the two ‘Tale of Two Cities Shirts’ suffered from the green dye in the waistcoat so I want to get them cleaned as soon as possible.  Having done that I continue down to the lobby which is a seething mass of humanity.  There is not a chair to be found, so I decide to go out for my breakfast.

It is cold outside, but the sky is bright blue, with a smear of white cloud across it to break the monotony.

Between the radio station that I visited on Friday and the gift shop that I visited yesterday there is a little café called Delice, which looks promising.  I order a yoghurt and granola, as well as a croissant and sit near the window.  It is a typical Sunday-morning scene in a café, that is replicated throughout the world:  couples sit, sipping coffees, reading newspapers.  Some students study, with books, folders and papers spread over their tables, whilst others are sat with their ears plugged in to a laptop or tablet, watching a movie, or a streamed TV show.  At another table an actor checks his phone to see what the latest stats are for his blog site.  It is very quiet, but much more relaxing than The Element would have been.

When I have finished, I stroll back to the hotel and slowly begin to fold and pack, watching Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire on the TV as I do so.  It is very sad to see Alan Rickman and Roger Lloyd-Pack, both of whom died far too young.

As I am creating some semblance of order out of the chaos, a message comes in from Kimberly Howard in Kansas City, my next venue, saying that there is a live TV interview tomorrow morning and she will pick me up at 6.30am.  It is a reminder that even though today feels like an ending, it is actually just another link in the chain that is my complete tour.

I finish packing (remembering to recover my shirts from the laundry) and load my cases into my neglected Camry in the parking garage.  At midday, I leave The Element and follow the instructions that will lead me to Kansas City, a distance of some 161 miles.  These instructions, it should be said, are not complicated: ‘Get on Route 29.  Don’t steer for 3 hours.  Arrive.’

It is not an exciting journey by any sense, in fact it is mind-numbingly dull, but a few things catch my eye.  At one point I see a cemetery on a hill side, which does not appear to be anywhere near a community of any sort.  Possibly it is reserved for drivers who fell asleep along the way. 

On I drive.

I am overtaken by a 5 litre Mustang – what is the point of having one of those on roads like this?  He is doing around 75mph, so is probably using a fraction of the power available to him, he doesn’t need the immense amount of torque, for there is no rapid acceleration to be done, and he doesn’t need performance steering and braking because there are no corners, and nothing to stop for.  It looks nice though.

On I drive.

The only thing you can buy on this road are fireworks for the route is lined by countless Firework warehouses (when I stop for lunch I can see Shelby Fireworks, The Firework Emporium and Liberty Fireworks just from the restaurant window.)

A typical scene, although there is a slight curve ahead…

On I drive.

Some birds dive and swoop in magnificent murmurations, over the flat, dusty landscape.

On I drive.

A freight train rattles beside the road, travelling in the opposite direction, and I marvel at the length of it: three mighty diesel locomotives at the front and then well over a mile of trucks, before more locomotives bring up the rear.  I wish I could hear the hooter, or the bells at a crossing.

I drive from Nebraska, into Iowa and on into Missouri.  To keep me entertained I listen first to my Christmas playlist, in a vain attempt to feel Christmassy, before playing the original soundtrack recording of 42^nd Street.  Next April, Liz and I, along with her sister Sheila and brother-in-law Martin, are going to see the show in London’s West End.  I can’t wait to watch it again as its one of my favourite musicals.  Soon I am bellowing out the well-remembered words to all of the songs

After 42^nd street it is time for Liz, and I play her New York Connections CD and, as always when I hear her play, feel much closer to her.

Eventually I reach the Kansas City ‘City Limit’ sign and my journey is nearly over.  I am actually heading to Liberty, a suburb of KC, and to a Hampton Inn that I know well.  I have been coming here to perform on every single American tour that I have undertaken and have stayed in this hotel for the majority of those trips.  It is lovely and comforting to be back.

As I pull into the car park Liz is playing The Entertainer, and I wait in the car until she has finished (it would be rude to cut her off in her prime).

I check in without problem and once in my room get on line to watch the first episode of The Grand Tour (the Amazon Prime programme created out of the ashes of BBC’s Top Gear), which premiers in the USA today.  At once it is apparent that the production values are amazing, and it is great to see Clarkson, Hammond and May doing they do best.  It is also apparent how poor the BBC’s attempt to re-hash Top Gear was in comparison.

When signing on I also discover an email from Pam Byers, who books and coordinates the tour from Byers’ HQ in Pennsylvania, to mention that I was supposed to take an interview call this morning which I wasn’t in my room for.  I am so angry with myself: Pam had told me about the interview a week ago and I have no excuse other than plain forgetfulness.  It is unprofessional and not good.  Hopefully we will be able to arrange something tomorrow, instead.

At 7 go to dinner,  remembering to take the little card wallet with my room number on it.  For the past four days I have been in 620 and now I am in 230 -I am bound to get confused, so best to have a memory aid with me.

When I get in the car the Bluetooth connection catches my phone and instantly Liz is playing The Maple Leaf Rag to me, as I drive the short distance to the Longhorn Stake house, that I have frequented before.

I have my Kindle with me and read some more of ‘1606.  The Year of Lear’ as I enjoy a Ribeye and baked potato, accompanied by some asparagus in lemon butter.  It is a good dinner, but I am tired, thanks my relatively sleepless night.  I return to the hotel at 8.30 and settle in for the evening.  Hampton Inn has no Turner Classic, so it is back to a diet of CSI and NCIS, although it quite irrelevant for sleep takes me early tonight.