Dickens on Ice

It is one of those mornings when I have no idea where I am when I wake.  I peer both ways until I find a clock that informs me that it is already 6.45 which is remarkably late for me.

I get the blog written and shower, then take the lift down to the lobby for breakfast.  The Parker House is an elegant, expensive and exclusive hotel but the buffet still consists of fruit, cereal, eggs, bacon and sausages.

I take a seat at a table, laid with crisp linen and no sooner have I sat than a server approaches with coffee and orange juice.  The food is deliciously cooked, and every time I return to the buffet my napkin is folded for me and laid over the chair – you don’t get that in a Hampton Inn!

I return to my room, but don’t rush as I want to allow the rush hour traffic to clear before I get on the road.  I don’t have much packing to do, so I just pass the time writing emails and watching TV.

At 10 o’clock I close my cases and start to leave the room, until I remember that I had left my costume hanging in the walk in wardrobe, phew! that was a close thing.

I had entrusted my car to the valet parking service last night and so I have a bit of a wait until it is retrieved from heaven knows where.  The charge is $50 per night – I’m glad that I’m not paying

It is another clear, crisp cold morning, and I put my sunglasses on as I navigate away from the busy city centre.  Bond is up to his old tricks (this time taking on Dr No, in the company of Quarrel and Honychile Rider), and keeps me company as I head for Nashua in New Hampshire.  In less than an hour I cross the state line and am soon making my way to the Nashua Senior Center, where I am to perform.

Although my main show in Nashua is the evening performance of A Christmas Carol, the organisers have asked me to appear with one of my shorter shows at the Senior Center for the last five years, and it has become quite a tradition.  I am warmly welcomed by staff and shown to my dressing room, which is in one of the administrative offices.  There is a plate of fruit, crackers and cheese laid out for me.  I never eat cheese before a show, or any dairy item, as they constrict my throat and make it hard to project, but the rest I devour gratefully.

The audience starts to build early, and there must be around 150 in the hall as showtime approaches.  I chat to Jill Gage (the sponsor of me events here), and Judy from the center, who will be introducing me.  For some reason over the years she has taken to calling me Gerry, which always sounds odd from a non-family member (equally being called Gerald from within the family circle sounds strange too).

When everyone is gathered Judy makes a short announcement (introducing me as Gerald), and I walk to the front of the room, to perform A Child’s Journey With Dickens once again.  It is strange how this little story has kept me company during this leg of the trip and as I recite it I am thinking of the streets and buildings back in Portland.

It is very well received, and my revelation that my book arrived signed by Kate gets the usual gasp of delight.  Jill has set up a table for me to sign at, but not many people buy products, although a lot want to chat and have pictures taken.  They are always an appreciative audience here.

When I return to the office I have some of the cheese and crackers, and then change back into my normal clothes.  Unfortunately Jill is nowhere to be seen, so I am unable to say goodbye and thank her for the hospitality she has shown me.

From the Senior Center I set my SatNav to guide me to the home of a dear friend in Nashua, Sandy Belknap, who used to work on my events in the city, and generally looked after me.  We haven’t caught up for a couple of years, so it was with much delight that I accepted her invitation to meet for coffee.  Sandy knows my routine well, and offers to do a load of washing as we chat, which is a godsend as none of the hotels since I left Omaha have had guest laundries, and I am getting rather short of regular clothes.

Sandy is a keen gardener and proudly shows me around her ‘yard’ (that never sounds right!  In England a yard is a neglected untended area, usually laid with concrete. What Sandy has created is certainly NOT a yard!).

We go back into the house and have coffee and cookies, and chat about all sorts of things, until the washing is ready to be dried. Sandy’s mother comes home too, and it is nice to catch up with her also. The afternoon is a very relaxing one and a nice antidote to hotel living.

However time is getting on, and I do need to check in at the Crowne Plaza, so I thank Sandy for her hospitality, grab my bag of washing, and drive the short distance to the hotel.

In the past my performances have been in the main ballroom at the hotel but this year I am to do the show in a nearby community college, so there is not the usual bustle of preparation when I arrive.  I am given a room on the ‘executive level’ which means I have to use my room key in a special slot in the lift, and am welcomed back with genuine warmth by the reception staff.

I have about an hour before I need to leave for the sound check so, inspired by Sandy’s gardening exploits, I go online and read Liz’s gardening blogs – they are so beautifully written and as I read her words it is as if I am listening to her voice.  It is a lovely moment, but one that makes me feel a little homesick too.

The drive to the Nashua Community College is only a short one, but the campus is huge, so it takes me quite a while to find the auditorium, and even longer to find a parking space for the college has a full programme of evening classes which are apparently very well attended.

Jill and her colleagues are waiting for me, and in no time I am being shown onto the stage by the resident techie, Doug.  It is a lovely auditorium, with three rows of seats at floor level and thereafter stadium seating creating a capacity of 350.  My set of a fireplace, chair and hat stand looks a little lost on the large stage, but Doug has focussed the lights well, so as to concentrate the audience’s view.  Behind the set there is a London street scene projected, which is rather fun.

The sound check goes well, and now it is a question of waiting for show time.  I change in a small room just off the stage and can hear the enthusiasm and excitement of the audience as they arrive, which is one of the best sounds an actor can hear.

We delay the start of the show slightly, as many people have also struggled to find parking spaces, but at around 7.10 I am in the wings ready to start.  I thoroughly enjoy myself in the large space available to me, although I do have to be rather careful of a rug which is a bit slippery – any quick changes of direction have to be made on the wood of the floor, otherwise I would go skating across the stage: Dickens on Ice.

The audience are a loyal group and have dutifully followed the show from the Crowne Plaza to here, meaning that they all know when to shout out, and when not to.

Everything runs very smoothly and effectively, the sound is great and there no pops or bangs from the little microphone. At the end the audience stands up and claps loudly and I take my bows to the strains of Percy Faith’s rousing rendition of Deck the Halls With Boughs of Holly.

Having changed I go to the lobby and sign for a while, and greet many audience members who have become close friends over the course of my 9 years coming to Nashua.  The signing line isn’t as long as it sometimes has been at the hotel (Jill usually does a huge display of merchandise there, whereas here she has not had time to prepare anything so grand), so my duties are done quite early.

I change and collect all of my belongings and thank Doug for all of his help and expertise – he is brimming with excitement about the show and tells me all the things he wanted to do with lighting, sound and back projection: maybe if we return to the auditorium we can think about those ideas in more depth!

I drive back to the hotel and go to the bar, where Jill and her colleague Cindy are waiting for me for our traditional post-show celebration.  I order a dessert and we toast to our successes.

The bar is noisy and friendly and soon Jill is telling everyone about the ‘celebrity’ in their midst, which is all rather embarrassing really: actors love the attention, but are inherently a shy race of creatures.

I get back to my room and switch out the lights.  Tomorrow I move on again – another city in another state.

 

 

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Back to the Parker House

I wake at a decent time and can reflect on a good evening and a job well done.  The Maine Historical Society are particularly active on social media and there are a good many comments swirling around Twitter and Instagram.

In the restaurant I am greeted by a young man checking guests in, so give him my room number: 403.  I must have mumbled because he asks for confirmation.  ‘403’, I repeat.  He looks a bit confused, but picks up a menu and leads me to a big table.  This seems a bit strange, considering there is a small one right next to it, so I ask which one he actually wants me to sit at.  ‘The large one’, his expression seems to suggest that as far as he is concerned I have lost my marbles.  And then I realise: we have both been stuck in our own conversation, hearing and saying what we each believe is expected.  I was giving my room number, he was asking how many guests (‘4 or 3, doesn’t he know?),

Confusion cleared up I sit at the small table and enjoy a delicious plate of eggs (sunny side up), bacon and potatoes.

I have quite a relaxing day today, as I don’t have to be in Boston for my next event until 6pm.  I do have some work to do this morning, though, as two journalists have sent me lists of questions relating to events later in the tour.  I sit at my desk and try to compose answers that are informative and entertaining, which all takes quite a bit of time.

The next job is to decide what I am going to read at this evening’s event in Boston.  I am to be guest of honour at a swanky dinner in the Parker House Hotel (which was Charles’ home in Boston during his reading tour of 67-68), and they would like me to read an extract from the story lasting around 15 minutes.  The event is being held to raise money for a hunger charity based in the city, so somehow I want to reflect that issue in what I perform.  In a somewhat selfish way I chose one of my favourite passages from the book, that doesn’t appear in the show, and that is when the Ghost of Christmas Present first takes Ebenezer into the London streets on Christmas morning, and together they observe the bustle:

‘The poulterers’ shops were still half open, and the fruiterers’ were radiant in their glory. There were great, round, round, pot-bellied baskets of chestnuts, shaped like the waistcoats of jolly old gentlemen, lolling at the doors, and tumbling out into the street in their apoplectic opulence. There were ruddy, brown-faced, broad-girthed Spanish onions, shining in the fatness of their growth like Spanish Friars, and winking from their shelves in wanton slyness at the girls as they went by, and glanced demurely at the hung-up mistletoe. There were pears and apples, clustered high in blooming pyramids; there were bunches of grapes, made, in the shopkeepers’ benevolence, to dangle from conspicuous hooks, that people’s mouths might water gratis as they passed’

I decide to read from where the spirit first booms ‘Touch my robe!’ to Scrooge, all the way to the moment that they stand at Bob Cratchit’s house.  I read it through aloud a couple of times, before saving the passage to be printed when I get to Boston.

By the time I have finished all my work it is time to leave pack my scarcely disturbed bags and leave Portland, headed to The Parker House in Boston (exactly as Dickens himself had done on the morning of March 31st 1868.

I am still in no rush so I eschew the main Interstate, and amble down route 1 which is a much nicer drive (although the lady deep within my SatNav unit gets very frustrated with me).  The road is beautiful and the small communities along the way could have come from a previous age – motels the like of which you never see now, with their single storied cabins, are numerous, and they have wonderful non-corporate names: ‘Woodside motel’, ‘Shore view cabins’ and the like.  Perfect New England Churches stand proudly over every town, their slender white needle-like spires piercing the blue sky.

I drive through the busy but charming town of Saco and on (confusingly) to Arundel via Biddeford.  Soon I see a sign to Kennebunk and as I am still in very good time deviate again from my route.

The coastal town is beautiful, almost too much so, and it sort of reminds me of Amity in Jaws- it doesn’t seem quite real.  Elegant and no doubt very expensive houses teeter on the cliffs overlooking the vast dark expanse of the Atlantic ocean.

I stop to fill up the car with fuel and to buy a sandwich for lunch before heading on towards Boston.  The sun is low in the sky as I arrive in the city, and I appear to be driving west which makes navigating through the busy streets of the city very difficult.  However with a combination of my own memories and the assistance of the SatNav (I’m sure that I can still detect a tone of  grumpiness in her voice), I guide the car to School Street and the Parker House Hotel.

It is lovely to walk back into the lobby and I instantly feel at home, even though I have stayed here for maybe 20 years or so.  The Parker House is one of the great Historic Hotels of America, and celebrates its connection with Charles Dickens vigourously.

Having checked in to my suite (they are spoiling me), I call the front desk and ask if they have a business centre where I can print out my reading.  ‘Sure, Mr Dickens, lower lobby, next to the gift store.’  I take the memory stick and return to the busy lobby, only to find that to use the computers you need to swipe a credit card – the charge cannot be billed to your room.  I get back in the elevator and suddenly realise that I have no idea what room I am in (the curse of the frequent traveller).  I think it may be 406?  I go to the 4th floor….no. Key doesn’t work.  403?  No.  Maybe third floor?  Take lift down one.  303?  No.  Try to remember where I walked when I checked in.  306?  YES! phew.  I imagine that the front desk is fielding calls from worried guests ‘someone just tried to get into our room!’

I collect my wallet (and the little card sleeve with my room number written onto it) and return to the business centre, where I put in my card details and gain access to the system.  I open the document and click print, but the printer is not working!  I go to the front desk and ask if they can help me, and they direct me to the concierge, who says ‘of course we can print, but not from a memory stick, you will have to email it to us’.  Once more I return to my room and send the file, before returning to the lobby to collect it.  Never has the printing of 5 pages taken so much time and energy!

I am due to meet the various staff in the rooftop ballroom at 6, so I shower and get into costume ready for the evening and take the lift to the 14th floor, where I am greeted by Lori, in the marketing department, and John Murtha the general manager of the hotel, who greets me warmly as if welcoming me home.  Also present is Susan Wilson who is the official historian at the hotel, and who has written a fabulous book which of course features Dickens’s visits.

The guests are arriving and soon I am posing for photographs, and signing copies of the book, before dinner is served.  Susan and I are at the same table and she is able to tell me many fascinating anecdotes about the hotel.  The current building was actually only built in the 20s, on the site of the original structure that Dickens knew.  During the demolition they managed to keep a tiny annexe with just a few rooms open, so that it can be truthfully claimed that this is the longest continually running hotel in America!

Dinner has been created by the Executive chef and is inspired by the kind of fare that Charles Dickens would have known during the winter of 1867.  WE start with a delicious soup or celeriac and bacon, with apple lending a delicious sweet crunch, followed by a small plate of goose breast before the main course of beef in a rich mushroom gravy.

My other dinner companions are George Montillo and his wife.  George is a baker, who supplies the hotel with pastries.  A baker is rather an inadequate description, actually, as George’s company has supplied cakes to almost every celebrity and politician in Boston – including the Kennedy’s wedding cake, George Bush’s inauguration cake, and a huge creation that was presented to the Queen when she visited in 1977.

They are good company and have just returned from a visit to Ireland.  ‘Where did you go?’  ‘Oh, a little south of Dublin.;  ‘Did you happen to visit Kilkenny?’  George’s wife’s eyes light up ‘Yes! my favourite place!’  ‘My sister Nicky happens to own a bar in the middle of the city: Kyteler’s Inn, maybe you saw it?’  Eyes light up even more: ‘We went there, twice.  We loved it!’ and in no time her mobile phone is out showing me pictures of Kyteler’s, where I have spent so many happy hours.  Nicky – you are truly international!

Soon it is time for the performance aspect of the evening to start.   Susan is first up and gives a short speech about Dickens’ time in Boston.  The evening of the dinner is the 150th anniversary of the very first reading by Dickens of A Christmas Carol in America (maybe a little tenuous, this one, as it is documented that Charles read it to his close friends in the hotel, before his first public reading on the 2nd December).  When Susan has finished I walk to the podium and read my passage, which is very well received, and even gets a standing ovation, which I wasn’t quite prepared for.

Dinner is over (although my duo of Christmas pudding inspired deserts is waiting for me), and lots of guests come up to have their books or menus signed, and to have photographs taken.  I say good night to my new friends, and soon am going back to my room (306!).  I take a slight detour to the Mezzanine level where the mirror that originally hung in Dickens’ suite is located.  It is imagined that he would have stood in front of this mirror rehearsing before making his way to the theatre next door.

These past two days have well and truly seen me walk in Dickens’ tracks, and they have been very emotional and moving.

The sounds of Boston outside my window lull me to sleep.

 

 

 

The Duelling Dickenses

Sadly it is time to leave my grand and spacious room at The Beechwood Hotel, which has been a very comfortable home for the last couple of days.  After a good breakfast of bacon and eggs I pack up everything and haul my cases down to the front desk and, after a brief hiatus to check out, from there to the car.

The weather has changes and there is a definite chill to the air this morning.  In fact I can see tiny flurries of snow against the grey clouds – OK, maybe one flake, possibly two, not enough to justify my four wheel drive SUV, but there is a feel of winter now.

I set the SatNav for Portland and start to drive.  My route takes me past the signs to many familiar places, and it strikes me that on this journey Charles Dickens’ trips and mine merge: I pass Marlboro (me), Lowell (both of us), Boston, (both), Salem (me), Portsmouth (me) and on towards Portland, which at the moment is Charles’ preserve but will soon be added to my list too.

I listen to the end of Goldfinger and then start to play my Christmas playlist and remember Liz’s complete hatred of Johnny Mathis’s rendering of Winter Wonderland with its soaring modulations and quivering, lingering vocals.  It is almost as if she is sat next to me in the car and I smile at the memory.

When I was writing my James Bond spoof the other day there was one thing that I did not include, and that was the name of a Bond girl, in the Pussy Galore, Kissy Suzuki, Mary Goodnight mould: I couldn’t think of a name that would be suitable for my tender readership, but that would capture Fleming’s sense of the sexually ridiculous.  Well, as I drive this morning I receive inspiration from a truck belonging to a noodle bar that is based in Veranda Street, Portland: it is the company’s website address that gives me the name.  Back to my new book:

The beautiful slender figure of a girl walked towards him, flicking a strand of blonde hair from her face.  This must be the agent that M had sent to help him in the field.  She looked up at him and introduced  herself in husky tones ‘Good morning, my name is Veranda Noodlebar!’

The journey is a little over two hours and soon I am leaving Massachusetts and driving into the state of Maine, where I enter the county of York, as mentioned by Kate Douglas Wiggin as her county in A Child’s Journey with Dickens.  A railroad track runs parallel to the road for a while and I wonder if those were the rails that guided Dickens and Kate to Boston in 1868.

I am soon driving through the outskirts of Portland and follow the directions to The Press Hotel, where an early check-in should have been organised for me.  The Press is so called because it is situated in the building formally used as the offices of the largest newspaper in the area, The Press and Herald, and the owners have gone to great length to theme the hotel in tribute to the newsmen who worked here.

At the main reception desk a wall is covered with a large artwork consisting of old manual typewriters, and another wall has a similar installation constructed out of typewriter cases.  Even the modern computers that the staff use feature retro-styled typewriter keyboards propped up on old books.  It is wonderful, and the staff are so friendly and cheerful.

I go to my room, marvelling at the corridor carpets with tiny typewritten letters woven in, and drop my bags off before walking into the streets of Portland.  I am very anxious to find the various places mentioned in A Child’s Journey, and to follow in the footsteps of Dickens.  I do not have a long walk, for right opposite the hotel is the City Hall, the site of Dickens’ reading on March 30th 1868 (this is actually a slightly newer City Hall, but it is on the same spot).

From the hall I walk up Congress Street, past the beautiful First Parish Church, where I will perform later this evening, and Longfellow’s childhood home.  Dickens and Longfellow were good friends and corresponded for years over many issues.  I get to the junction of Congress and Preble Street and try to guess which corner of the intersection was the site of the Preble Hotel, where Dickens stayed.

Kate says, in her memoir, that she ‘gazed at all of the windows and all of the entrances of both buildings, without beholding any trace of my hero.’ and as I stand in the cold I can almost see her little figure running up and down Congress Street, as the ‘..throng of excited, happy, lucky people crowded into the City Hall’

It is difficult to explain but I feel closer to Dickens here than ever before and it is a very moving emotion.  I continue my walk and find that Portland is a thriving, bustling, artistic city with a vibrant culinary scene.

I return to The Press where I relax for a while but it is not long before the telephone is ringing and the front desk informs me that Kate McBrien is here to meet me.  Kate is the chief curator of the Maine Historical Society, who have brought me into town, and although I have only one evening show today, my afternoon is busy doing various media events to promote the visit.

My first interview is in the hotel itself and having briefly shaken hands with Kate, I am sat in front of a camera answering questions put to me by the reporter.  The interview is a brief one, and soon I am sat in Kate’s car as we drive to the local Public Radio station.

As we drive I quiz Kate for further details of Dickens’ visit (after all if the curator of a Historical Society doesn’t know then who does?).  She shows me the site of the Preble House (roughly where I guessed it would be), and informs me that Charles had been very critical of the hotel, which may come up in some of the interviews….

The Radio interview goes well, but is over in a flash, and we have time for some lunch before heading to a TV station to record a slightly longer slot.  As we wait in the greenroom Kate tells me a great story concerning my visit: for the past couple of years the Historic society has staged a performance of a short play based around the meeting of Longfellow and Dickens.  The show features two actors who do a very good job.  Well, because of my performance this show isn’t happening this year, and before the Historic Society knew it, a rival venue, a grand Victorian mansion, have ‘stolen’ Dickens and set up their own Christmas event.  Kate refers to it as ‘the Duelling Dickenses’ and is confident that we will emerge victorious!

When the final interview of the day has been completed, Kate drops me off at the hotel, where I have a couple of hours to rest before my sound check at the First Parish Church.

The Church is stunning and the acoustics sound amazing.  I do a sound check and Kate walks to all corners of the hall to see if she can hear me with no amplification.  The final decision is made for me when we discover that the only microphone available is one of those head things, that always fall off when I use them.  It will be a good old fashioned unplugged performance tonight.

The audience are already arriving to get the best seats in the large hall, so I retreat to my ‘changing room’ (actually  a Grade 4/5 classroom), to prepare.

After twenty minutes or so Kate pops her head round the door and says that Jeff and Elaine O’Donal have arrived and would like to say hello.  Jeff and Elaine have been following my shows for more years than any of us would care to remember, and it is thanks to them that I am in Portland this year.  We chat for a while and they tell me that they would like to take me to dinner after the show, to feature the local speciality – lobster.

The audience is really building now, so I go back to my room to change into costume and watch as the minutes tick by towards 7.

The hall is very full when I return, certainly over 300 I would guess, both on the floor and in the gallery too.  Just as I am waiting to start a TV crew arrives to record some of the show, and the cameraman lays a mic on the stage to capture my words.

Steve Bromage, the society’s Executive Director, makes my introduction and then I begin the long walk down the central aisle of the church, until I reach the stage.

It is always interesting to perform to a group who have never seen the show before, and initially they are quiet, yet respectful (the event had been marketed as a reading, which creates a certain perception for the audience), but as the show goes on so the crowd begins to relax and join in a little more; they ooh and ahhh over Mrs Cratchit’s goose and chime in with ‘NO BOB!’ loudly.

The reaction at the end of the show is superb and the audience are on their feet and shouting out with enormous enthusiasm, in the same way that I am sure their ancestors hailed Charles just down the street.

The Historic Society has no merchandise to sell, but I have told Kate that after changing I will come back to the lobby and chat for a while.  Well, when I return to the Sanctuary most of the audience are still seated in the pews, and I receive another loud ovation, before conducing a Q&A session from the stage, which is  fun.

Time is pushing on however, and the restaurant where Elaine and Jeff want to take me stops serving at 9, so I wrap things up and to even more applause leave the stage for the final time.

I pack up all of my costumes, and return to the hall where I say goodbye to Kate, who has looked after me so well today, and hopefully we can work together in the future (in the meantime, I have left her with some more research to do on my behalf!).

Ellaine has hurried over to the restaurant to try and order our lobster before the kitchen closes, and Jeff walks with me through the chill of a Portland night.  Unfortunately all that Elaine could get the kitchen to prepare were lobster rolls and fries, but they are delicious, and we munch our way through them as we chat about the various venues where they have seen me in the past, and how they arranged for me to come to Portland after many years of trying.

Plates cleared and glasses drained it is time to leave (the waiting staff in the restaurant have been conspicuously stacking chairs on tables), and we say final goodbyes before I return to the Press and they drive home.

It has been a great day, in so many ways and I am fairly confident that our opening salvo will have won the Duel of the Dickenses before it has even started.

 

 

 

 

A Prelude to Portland

Once again my first show at the Vaillancourts is not until 2, so once again I have the morning to myself.  I go to the restaurant and this morning decide to ‘upgrade’ and have two eggs, sunny side up and a couple of rashers of bacon thrown in (protein, as advised by my marathon-running friend Chris!).

When I am finished I return to my room, pull a large armchair and footstool in front of the TV and settle down to watch the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, the final Formula One race of the 2017 season.  It is dull. Nothing very much happens during the entire race and the finishing order is exactly the same as the starting order.  The only exciting battle that the cameras can find is that over 12th and 13th place, and even that petered out in the end.  Not a great advert for the sport.

When the race is over, and the NBCsN team have somehow managed to fill an hour discussing it, I start to get ready for my day’s work.  I pack fresh shirts, and also my ‘A Child’s Journey’ waistcoat, before driving off towards Sutton.  There is a huge Wal-Mart on the way and I dive into there to buy a few supplies, as well as a tube of extra strong glue to repair my cufflink (although the Dickens Fellowship in London have been mobilised to send me a new pair as soon as possible.)

No sooner do I arrive at the Vaillancourt’s store, than Gary says ‘Have you ever cut your own Christmas Tree?  Here, I want to show you an American Christmas tree farm’, so before I know it I am sat in his truck and off we go.  The farm in question is very close to the old mill, and each year I drive past the gate and see cars pulling out with trussed up trees carefully tied to their roofs.  It as always been a rather lovely subliminal indication that Christmas is on the way.

Spread over a huge site of gently rolling hills, rocky outcrops and inky black ponds, the farm is swarming with families.  It is many people’s tradition to make an excursion to the farm, arm themselves with a saw and walk until they find the perfect tree.  There are different sizes and different species (trees, not families, that is), so there is something for everyone – including some tiny ‘Charlie Brown’ trees.  There is a barbecue, and a huge vat over a fire in which popcorn colonels of corn are heaped, which soon start to pop.  Hot chocolate is grasped in young mittened-hands, and many families are posing for their official Christmas pictures.  It is a happy, festive scene and a complete antidote to the teeming commercialism of Black Friday.

We drive back to the mill and I go into the theatre to check that everything is where it should be.  While I am there Luke and Anna brig their two sons to visit: Nate I met last year, but there is a new edition to the Vaillancourt clan, and I get to meet Charles for the first time.  Whilst the older brother takes to the stage and runs around with an energy that I can only dream of, Charles sits and stares curiously.  They are great boys obviously the apples of their parents’ eyes (and of their grandparents’ too, of which there is a full complement of four present today).

 

Nate, Luke and Charles

 

With ‘uncle’ Gerald!

 

 

With show time approaching I say good bye and Nate gives me a huge hug, which is lovely, before I have to go and change into my costume.  I can hear the audience gathering and they certainly sound as if they have come out to enjoy themselves, for there is lots of noise and laughter.

The show routine is well grooved now, and Gary stands on the stage and talks about my souvenir programme before instructing the audience to check under their seats for the lucky tickets.  Three people are delighted, and the proud owners of prize ornaments.

As we had all suspected, the audience are in great spirits, and are a joy to perform for.  I get off to a slightly slow start today, but soon am drawing energy from the crowd and really get into my stride as the story progresses.  As I leave the stage everyone stands and cheers once more – they are always such enthusiastic audiences here in Sutton.

By the time I have changed, the signing line is winding all around the store, so I sit down to talk to everyone.  My old friend Robin is in line, and as is her tradition, she presents me with a large bag of goodies to take on the road with me, including a large variety tin of English biscuits, which is perfect as I have almost finished the delicious cookies made for me in Kansas City.

During the lull between shows I change into my regular clothes and re-arrange the stage for the night’s performance of A Child’s Journey With Dickens.  The little story of Kate Douglas Wiggin’s meeting with Dickens is still fresh in my mind from Omaha, but I take the opportunity to rehearse it once more anyway.

Supper is served in the office, and everyone gathers to eat and chat as if they were one large family, which in a way we are.

A few years ago Gary, Judi and Luke decided to use the Sunday night show (always a difficult one to sell) to stage one of my other programmes.  Over the years I have performed The Signalman and Doctor Marigold in this slot, and the audience is made up from my most loyal fans.  The first year saw an audience of only 18, but the event is gathering a following and a momentum so that this year sales have been much better.

The performance of ‘A Child’s Journey with Dickens’ has an added poignancy this evening for tomorrow I am driving to Portland, Maine to perform A Christmas Carol in the city.  The little story is based around a reading of the Carol that Dickens himself gave in Portland in March 1868, before he boarded a train to return to his hotel inBoston.  In 24 hours I will be walking in the same streets and hopefully will visit the railroad station, as well as the sites of the Old City Hall (where CD performed) and the Preble House (where he stayed).  On the following day I too will be returning to Boston, to stay in the Parker House Hotel.

The show is a short one and we have plenty of time afterwards to conduct a lovely Q&A session, which is always fun and gives an extra sense of intimacy to the evening.  I talk about Henry Fielding Dickens (not forgetting to display his photograph in the souvenir programme which has sold extreme well here), and also the gestation of my version of A Christmas Carol.

The signing session is not long, as most of the audience have been to other events this weekend, and have already purchased their books and programmes, but there is much handshaking and smiling.

I return to the dressing room and collect all of my belongings (as usual I have spread myself out throughout the room, so have to carefully check every surface), before joining Gary and Judi at their new house, which I am keen to see as it was not finished last year.

Judi designed the home based on one of the colonial cottages in Wilimasburg and it is truly beautiful.  Multiple Christmas trees throw and festive glow throughout the rooms, and it is added to by a roaring fire in the huge grate.

Luke joins us and we sit down to drink wine and eat cheese, and reflect on another successful weekend.

The Vaillancourts are genuinely nice people and it is always a shame to leave them, but leave I must.  I say goodbye for another year and drive back to the hotel, admiring many beautifully decorated houses along the way: Christmas is definitely coming.

A Little Bit of Home

Today the tour leaps into life again, but not until this afternoon, so I have morning to potter.

Breakfast in the Beechwood is an impressive Continental buffet, with plenty of choice of fruit, cereals and pastries, although I could opt for the ‘enhancement package’ which would allow me to order eggs and meats.  I decide to stay healthy this morning, however.

I am back I my room by 8 in order to watch the qualifying session from the final Grand Prix of the year which is being held in Abu Dhabi.  The cars look so impressive as night falls and the floodlights come on.  It looks as if the weekend could be a bit of a Mercedes rout though.

Once qualifying is over I set to doing a few running repairs on the costume – one pair of trousers has a sliding clip at the waist which doesn’t grip any more, meaning that when I am leaping around the waistband suddenly expands.  I have been meaning to sew it into place for months, but have only gotten round to it today.  The other repair is to replace two buttons (purely for show) to the cuff of one of my coats.

Sewing complete I assemble all that I will need for two shows and get ready to make the drive from Worcester to Sutton.  If I were travelling between the same towns in the UK the drive would take me over two hours, but in New England it is a matter of twenty minutes.  The sky is beautiful this morning – Wedgewood blue with the dappling of cirrocumulus, overlaid with feathery cirrus high in the atmosphere.  It is stunning.

In no time I pull into the parking lot of Vaillancourt Folk art, my home for the next two days.  I make quite an entrance, as I accidentally press the door lock button on my key fob before I get out, thereby setting off the alarm – the horn of the car sounds long, regular hoots until I can re-press the button.  Dickens is here!

The store at the Vaillancourts is situated in a beautiful old mill building, and is a wonderland of Christmas.  Obviously prominent are the Santa figures which are at the heart of the operation – made of chalkware poured into vintage chocolate moulds and then hand painted.  It is a true family success story built on the foundations of Judi’s passion for the antique moulds and her superb artistic talents in both design and painting.  The business nous for the operation originally came from Gary, and now they are ably assisted by their son Luke.

I greet all of my old friends, before going to the theatre, in another part of the mill, to do a sound check with Randy, who is expert.  We spend plenty of time on the stage and walking through the ‘audience’, until he is satisfied that everything works well, and then we repeat the operation with a back-up mic just in case.

The only way to play my opening music effect is for Randy to plug my phone into his system, so we test that too.

Randy has not been in good health this year, but points out that three of the best hospitals are located nearby, and he is in expert hands.

The audience are already arriving, and shopping, so I retire to my little dressing room and relax until it is time to change.  The auditorium holds around 200 and this is a near sell-out.  There is plenty of noise and a real sense of excitement as the crowd take their seats.

At 2 o’clock Gary walks to the stage and welcomes everyone, before announcing that lucky tickets have been fixed to the bottom of three chairs and immediately there is a frenzy as everyone stands, and turns their chairs upside down hoping that they will be the winners of various the Christmas ornaments being offered as prizes.  When the winners have been found, and everyone has settled down again, it is time for the show.

Gary introduces me and to great applause I walk to the stage in character.  The Saturday afternoon show always boasts a good audience (maybe recovering from the rigours of Thanksgiving and Black Friday), and they respond enthusiastically all of the way through the performance/

Sadly, however, there is a casualty during the show – as I fall to my knees at Scrooge’s graveside I crush one of my geranium cufflinks against the stage and the little red flower pops off.  I manage to retrieve it so that I do not step on it, but in no time the actual cufflink piece drops out of the shirt, meaning that I play the whole scene with a flapping French cuff which is rather distracting.Finally Scrooge gets dressed all in his best, and the frock coat hides the loose shirt until the end of the show, which is greeted by loud applause and a lovely standing ovation.

I am drenched as I come off stage (the theatre lights are very close to the stage and make the shows here a real workout), but Luke is waiting at the door with a bottle of iced water for me, which I gulp down.

I change as quickly as I can, and then go into the store where there is a long line waiting for me, the majority of whom are clutching my souvenir programmes, which Gary has done a great job in hawking as the audience leaves.

It is a cheerful signing session, with many familiar faces of loyal followers beaming their thanks.  The ‘like a good wine, you get better with age’ analogy is made more than once.

Finally the audience drift away into the early evening and the store is quiet once more.

I go to my dressing and change, before studying the remains of my cufflink – I could try to glue it, but the break is where the head was brazed to the link, and I don’t think that glue will give it enough strength.  There is only one thing for it, and I put an emergency message through to the Dickens Fellowship for a replacements!  Of course I travel with other cufflinks, so I will not be without in the meantime, but wearing the geranium is an important tribute to CD, who sported the flower in his buttonhole whenever he performed.

Between the shows a delicious dinner is brought in by Mary and her husband, who are local dairy farmers and caterers, and we all sit in Gary’s office tucking into turkey, mashed potatoes and asparagus and talking about nothing in particular.

Dinner finished, I have some time to lay on the little sofa in my room, and relax, getting ready for the evening’s show.

With around 45 minutes to go I get into my costume and go into the store to mingle with the gathering audience.  I don’t normally do this, but I want to be there when a particular group arrives:  Liz’s sister’s husband’s brother (are you following), and his wife are visiting their daughter in Connecticut at the moment, and have generously made the two hour drive to come and see me at home.  Sure enough Dave and Sue, and the rest of the party arrive and a little English reunion takes place in the heart of Massachusetts.

I introduce them to Gary and give them a quick tour of the mill, explaining the history of the Vaillancourt company, before ending up in the theatre where we pose for a group photograph.

Showtime is approaching, and everyone starts to take their seats.  Once more Gary does the hidden ticket routine and more winners are announced, before it is my turn to take the stage.

It is a strange fact that the Saturday night audience here are always very quiet throughout the performance, which is always disconcerting.  It is also a fact that they tend to go berserk at the conclusion of the show, and I carry on through the script remembering that fact and not trying to impress them too  hard with silly business – just let the show do the work, (although I do permit myself one adlib – a gentleman’s phone rings just as Scrooge sees his ex fiancé Belle – it is too good an opportunity to miss)

I get to the last scene of the show and when the entire audience cry out ‘NO BOB!’ with no prompting from me, I know things are OK.  Sure enough as I leave the stage the whole room erupts into whistles and shouts and cries; the noise is terrific!  I cant imagine what my little English party must think – this is such an American reaction, most un-British!

I return to the stage to take my bows, and the cacophony continues.  I really do enjoy my work, you know……

Once more Luke has water for me, and once more I take plenty of time to change costume and towel down, before returning to sign.

I am able to spend some time with Dave and Sue, which is lovely, and we make arrangements to meet up in the new year, possibly to do a show in their village, which would be fun (Dave is also a keen golfer too, so any event will involve a few rounds, I am sure!).

At last the Mill, which has seen so much noise and excitement today, is quiet once more and it is time to leave.  I change, leaving all my costumes hanging neatly in my dressing room, and drive back to the Beechwood Hotel where Gary, Judi and Luke join me for a wind-down drink and desert, which is quite a tradition here.

It has been a tiring day, but a very successful one.  Tomorrow we do it all again.

 

 

 

The Platinum VIP

I am wakened early by the sound of a plane overhead, engines screaming at full power as it leaves Omaha airport, which is a perfect reminder that I have to be at the Eppley Field soon to move on to the next leg of my tour.

There is not much to prepare this morning as I had efficiently packed last night – so efficiently that I forgot to leave any clothes out to wear today.  I liberate a pair of jeans, a shirt and a sweater, before showering and getting myself ready for a day of travel.

As I drive through the dark deserted streets of Omaha I think that is remarkably like Worcester, Mass, which oddly is where my journey will take me today. The run to the airport is not a long one and in no time I am pulling into the car rental returns garage.  Suddenly, however, I realise that I have no memory of who I rented the Sonata from, and have to scrabble around for the little wallet of paperwork to find out.  Thrifty.

I pull up in the appropriate lane and, as there are no agents on duty at this hour of the morning, simply drop the key in a large bin provided for that purpose.  I walk to the little bus stop to in order wait for the shuttle that will take me into the terminal, but no wait is necessary as the bus pulls up instantly.

My check-in is swift, as is the security check and all of the extra time that I have built into my schedule to allow for potential delays is completely superfluous, meaning I have a long wait before boarding.

The first priority, of course, is breakfast and I go to the little café, where I have sat often in past years, and order a croissant and a muffin.

There is a beautiful sunrise outside the window, and the terminal has a golden glow to it as I eat.

When I have dragged out the meal for as long as possible I relocate a few yards to gate A3 and start to send a few emails home.

As the time for boarding approaches I realise that I am alone at the gate which means one of two things:  a) I am going to have a very quiet flight today, or b) the gate has been changed and I missed the announcement.  The latter seems more likely and a quick check on the departures board confirms the fact.  I have been wrapped up in my own little world, completely oblivious to what is going on around me.  Fortunately, though, I have not missed the flight!

The first leg of my journey takes me to Detroit, where after a long walk through Terminal A, I have a very short wait before boarding again to take me to Boston.  In one of those strange quirks of coincidence there are a lot of people on this second flight who had started their journey this morning in Omaha with me.  In fact I am sat across the aisle from a  family who were in the check-in line in front of me in the early hours of the morning.

The second flight takes us over Lake Erie, and then across up-state New York where I get to see the first dustings of snow on this year’s trip.  We fly over the finger lake region of the state, and somewhere beneath us, I imagine, is the Watkins Glenn race track that I visited a couple of years ago.  The journey takes us on towards Massachusetts and soon we are beginning our initial approach to Logan Airport, Boston.

The captain has been positively chatty during this flight, acting more like a tour guide than an airline pilot, but as we begin to descend over the sea he makes an announcement which I find rather alarming, for although we must still be over 10,000 feet in the air he informs us that ‘we will be on the ground momentarily!’

The airport at Boston is a familiar one to me, and as soon as I have collected my bags I am on the shuttle bus that takes me to the car rental plaza.  As I will be keeping this car for the next few weeks, and the potential for snow and ice during that period is high, I have asked to be furnished with an all wheel drive machine to keep me safe.  In the garage I am shown to a row of cars and told to take my pick – and the smartest among them is another Hyundai, a Tucson this time.   I pair my phone to the entertainment system, so that I can continue listening to Goldfinger as I drive, and then make my way into subterranean Boston (the city’s road system is made up of a vast network of tunnels).

Once back in the daylight I drive past the ramshackled stands of the Fenway Park baseball ground (home to the Red Sox), and see the signs to the Perkins School for the Blind, where Charles Dickens visited in 1843, and where I have performed on a number of occasions in the past.

The journey to Worcester takes less than an hour (although my ex-pat SatNav system takes me a rather strange route), and soon I pull up in the car park of the Beechwood Hotel with its circular tower reminiscent of a modern Windsor Castle.

My room is very large and grand, with a comfortable seating area in front of a fire, a coffee table and a work desk.

On one of the tables is a beautifully wrapped plate of fruit and cheese, accompanied by a bottle of wine.  A sticker on the wrapping proclaims that this amenity is for a ‘Platinum VIP’.  I feel very important!

I unpack my costumes and hang them in the wardrobe and nibble at the cheese and crackers as I didn’t have time for any lunch today, but soon the phone rings and I am chatting to a reporter from The Portland Press about a performance that I am giving in the city on Monday.

As soon as the interview is over I get changed and then wait for Gary Vaillancourt to arrive, as he has very kindly offered to take me to an early dinner this evening, and at 5.45 a call comes from the front desk informing me of his arrival.

It is good to back here for, like so many other event sponsors on the tour, Gary and his wife Judi have becomes close friends.

As we drive to the restaurant (111 in the heart of Worcester), Gary Judi and I catch up on each other’s news: they have now moved into their new house that was still being built to their own design last year, and they have a new grandson, Charles (what a good name!)

We talk about the film ‘The Man Who Invented Christmas’, which they also watched on the opening night, and greatly enjoyed, and about our upcoming events over the next two days..

The restaurant is superb, and I devour a delicious lamb shank, so perfectly cooked that the meat just falls from the bone.  The atmosphere is loud and buzzy and it is apparent that the season for Christmas parties (or possibly late Thanksgiving ones) is in full swing.

It is a lovely evening, and having finished our dinner we adjourn to the Beechwood where we have a nightcap before Gary and Judi leave to drive back to Sutton and I return to my room, where I watch a film, before realising that I am falling asleep.

I take myself to my Platinum VIP bathroom and from there to my Platinum VIP bed, where I drift off into a Platinum VIP night’s sleep.

 

 

 

Thanksgiving Day

For the first time since my first day of performance on the 3rd November I have no official duties today – no shows, and no travel.  In a schedule such as mine a day’s rest is something to be thankful for.

Having written my blog and posted it I go to breakfast and exchange greetings for the American holiday with staff and other guests.  I love being in America for Thanksgiving day, as it seems to me to be a particularly genuine holiday: it is not commercialised in the way that Christmas has become, and the sole reason for it is for families and friends to come together and share their blessings.

Back in my room  I watch the traditional Macy’s Parade from New York City, as I always do.  It is just so American – a pageant perfectly choreographed and which celebrates a way of life, an ethos, that is so easy to forget in these troubled times.

I cannot ignore the tour completely, as another mountain of laundry has built up, and I want everything to be ready for the next leg of my adventures.  Upon inquiring at the front desk I am informed that the guest laundry is on the 1st floor – and it is free!  Free!  No quarters required.  A Free laundry?  Now that is something that I can be very thankful for!

 

No Quarter Given

 

I spend the morning watching the TV and carefully packing my cases.  This will be the last time I have to fold my costumes and stuff my hat with socks for many weeks, for when I arrive in Boston tomorrow I will rent a car that I will keep until I leave Williamsburg on December 14.

I have been invited to share a Thanksgiving lunch at the home of my dear friends Susie and Lee Phillips, and I am very honoured to do so.  I drive to their home at 2pm, and complete the party of 7.

I don’t want to say too much about our lunch, as it is a private and personal memory, but the bonhomie and hospitality around the table is truly moving.

Susie and Lee have just had their house remodelled and there is not yet a stove in place with an oven large enough to take the huge turkey, but another of the guests has cooked it and it is a truly impressive bird.

We talk and we laugh and we pull Thanksgiving crackers and, yes, we are thankful.  I wish Liz were here to share the day, but we talk about her too, and raise our glasses to her.

It is dark when I leave the house, having said my goodbyes for another year and as I drive back to the Element Hotel (where I stayed last week), many houses are already bedecked in Christmas lights, and the neighbourhoods look cheerful and festive.

I check in and the guy in the front desk says ‘Ah, I don’t need your ID – I know you!’ and soon I am in a lovely small suite, made up of three rooms, which seems rather a waste for just one night.

I decide finally to watch Frost/Nixon, that I downloaded on the day that I had visited the Nixon Library in California, and thoroughly enjoy the superb performances by Michael Sheen and Frank Langella, as well as the stylish Ron Howard direction.  It is not a very festive film, it is true, but one that is well worth re-watching.

And so my time in the Midwest is coming to an end, for early tomorrow I leave Omaha and head to Boston.  The tour is about to burst into life once more, but for now I can sleep soundly after a truly happy day.

 

A New Novel. A New Film

This morning my alarm is set at 4.45, as I have to drive back to Omaha for two performances during the day.  My first sound check is at 9am, and as I will have to stop for breakfast en route, I need to get on the road very early.  I packed my cases last night, so it is just a question of having a quick shower and leaving the hotel.

To keep me company on the road I have downloaded the audio book of Goldfinger, read by Hugh Bonneville (he of Downton Abbey fame).

The James Bond novels are among my favourite, and I love the way that Ian Fleming wrote.  As I described the road from Omaha to Kansas City a few days ago, I thought that this morning I would treat you to a James Bond-style journey.  Here then, with apologies to the Ian Fleming Foundation, is the first chapter of a new novel:

 

Cocooned deep within the scarlet Hyundai, Dickens slipped his fingers sensually to the small hidden lever that would set the cruise control, and as the car surged towards the 70mph limit he relaxed and his mind wandered back to the events that had brought him to this moment.

Two hours earlier the sky had been inky black as he emerged from the hotel. The night manager had been attentive and confirmed that there were no charges on the account. It was of no consequence to Dickens, he knew that all of the charges had been picked up by his employer.

The experiences spy never relaxes, to do so could mean the failure of a mission, or worse. So even in the early hours, with tiredness till wrapping itself around him, Dickens had naturally noticed that the manager’s name was Squire (the badge on his shirt had stolen his anonymity – a mistake that Dickens would never let himself make) . Squire had worn a striped shirt of royal blue and white, that may have been handmade in Saville Row. The tie had been a garish mixes of blues and pinks, and the combination proved that Squire was not a man driven by convention. Dickens approved of him, and the positive image was confirmed by a firm dry handshake and a conspiratorial smile.

‘Drive Safe!’ Dickens grunted a reply and wondered why the loss of the final syllable was now acceptable.

The Hyundai (the 2.4 litre, 4 cylinder model with the flattened tail pipe) burbled into life as Dickens flicked his fingers over the device that Q branch had provided for this mission. The ‘Tom Tom’ unit (jokingly named after Thomas Tom from the Quartermaster’s design office, who was responsible for producing this masterpiece) would give him precise directions to anywhere in the United States. Dickens sighed, he missed the days of an old-fashioned map, but knew that his survival relied upon such technology.

The readout informed him that the journey would take 2 hours and 56 minutes, and he sent a silent word of thanks to Tom. Before caressing the transmission to drive Dickens took a sip of the hot coffee in a paper mug. The drink was rich and strong and immediately the caffeine coursed through his veins. He smiled grimly and reflected that today he would need all of the help he could get. As he drained the last of the liquid he crushed the cup and lusted for his royal blue Minton china service, with the three gold rings around the rim, at home.

The ice was clearing from the windscreen now, and he swung the steering wheel to the left, guiding the beast onto the empty road. The low-profile Pirellis briefly objected, but Dickens was an expert and in no time the rubber gripped the tarmacadam surface and propelled him towards Omaha and his destiny.

In the darkness he caught a brief glimpse of his face reflected in the glass – a face ravaged by so many years of such missions. He grimaced at the memory of the young man who once would have gazed back at him with clear eyes, a cruel mouth and a comma of dark hair falling carelessly over his forehead. What would that young man think if he knew how soon that comma would be deleted, thought Dickens.

For a moment Dickens pulled himself back to the present, the Sonata was eating up the miles, but the road demanded his full attention. He had been driving with that built-in auto pilot that every high quality driver possesses, but now every fibre of his being was required to execute a dangerous and complicated manoeuvre: the i29 curved gently to the left, Dickens let his left hand drop, pulling the soft leather of the wheel down, simultaneously pushing his right hand higher.

Would the car respond? Dammit, turn dammit, TURN! On the edge of the road a carcass of an animal lay mutilated. If he couldn’t complete this turn he would become its eternal companion.

No! the car was not turning, and beads of sweat began to form, but Dickens lived for moments such as this, it was his reason for being, and all of the training had prepared him for split seconds of such danger. He was resolute, holding the wheel lightly (the less experienced agent would grip far too tightly, Dickens knew, and over commit the machine), and just as it seemed that the cossetting vehicle which had been his protector for that last two hours would become his metal coffin, the nose began to turn.

Dickens let out a long exhalation and as Mound City flashed by to his right, he let his thoughts return to the morning’s events.

The darkness had enveloped the car and was broken only by the twin shafts of light reaching out from either side of the curvaceous bonnet of the car (why did the Americans insist on changing the names of everything? What on earth was a hood? A hood was a criminal, a hoodlum, a crook.) There was not much traffic on the road and what there was ignored the red saloon that was being driven so purposefully.

The mission had been a successful one, three days in and out. He had been required to report at six locations and had performed his duties effectively and efficiently.

Now he had to tidy up the previous mission, which had been left hanging when he had left early in the morning, how many days ago was it? Two? Three?

He glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw that the sun was, if not rising, certainly making its presence felt. The narrow strip of glass appeared as a bronze bracelet, with a Verdigris substrata.

He drove on.

This had been over an hour ago, and as he once more flicked his steel eyes towards the mirror he noticed that the sky was now golden: the celestial alchemist had completed his work.

And now he was hungry. Thomas Tom’s electronic device showed him that he was fast approaching the old trading post of Rock City, there would be somewhere there for breakfast he mused. It would not be the perfectly cooked soft-boiled eggs, which he had delivered daily from the farm operated by an ex chief petty officer from the Royal Navy, and there would be no wholemeal toast, browned for exactly 3 minutes and 42 seconds. The butter would not be the rich jersey butter that he preferred and the coffee would be a watery liquid which would not deserve to be described in the same breath as the fine blend that he had made up by the Drury Coffee company in the heart of London, and who had been supplying his family for generations.

He knew he had to make many sacrifices in the line of duty, but this? A tall, yellow neon sign which appeared to represent two huge arches, reaching into the sky, was the only beacon of sustenance, and he guided the car into the car park which was filled by huge trucks. The hot metal of the tortured engine clicked as he strode towards the door.

He felt conspicuous in this environment, and wished he had worn a baseball cap this morning, as everyone else here was. He ignored the curious glances that greeted him, and studied the menu with amused interest.

When the waiter, who obstinately remained behind a counter, asked for his order, Dickens said ‘I will take one of your Sausage McMuffins, with Egg and you had better make that a meal, I don’t want to miss out on the hash brown. I want coffee, hot and strong, and freshly squeezed orange juice. Make it quick, and there will be an extra dollar in it for you!’

The waiter looked at him cautiously, ‘what is your name?’ he asked.

‘Dickens.  Gerald Dickens’
The order came speedily, and Dickens took a seat in a conservatory area and from where he studied the Truck Wash that was situated on a patch of rough ground to the west. From this vantage point he had a wide field of vison, which gave him the maximum opportunity to respond to danger.

The breakfast was surprisingly satisfying, and gave Dickens the boost he needed to face the day. When he had devoured the last scraps of meat and egg, and drained the coffee cup, he returned to the Sonata. Something about that car nagged at him: a memory. What was it? Of course! The Hyundai was made in Korea, and so many years ago he had come face to face with  one of his deadliest foes, the mighty force that had been the Oddjob, the Korean henchman of Auric Goldfinger…..

And we are back, listening to Hugh Bonneville!

Actually the journey is not bad and the audiobook keeps me entertained.  I arrive in Omaha bang on schedule and soon pull into the car park of The Arboretum Retirement community, where I am to perform.  The Arboretum is part of the Immanuel Group of retirement homes, and last year I performed at two other venues in Omaha.  The shows were so well received and such a success that this year I have been booked at two more of the sites.

Kathy and Roxanne from the Historical Society are there to meet me, and soon the furniture is in place and the microphone has been tested

.

The residents of the community make their way into the dining room and take their seats, and at 10 o’clock Kathy introduces me.  I am performing on floor level, which is nice because it means I can move about freely, which after the small stages in the libraries of Kansas City, and the narrow one at the Field Club here in Omaha, is very welcome.  I use the space as much as I can and re-introduce much of the blocking that establishes the various characters’ positions within the imaginary rooms.

The audience are a sprightly and enthusiastic bunch and love the show.  Most are residents, of course, but there are also a few younger family members who are visiting, and I use one such lady as Topper’s girl.  The lady is here with her son who squirms with extreme embarrassment as I flirt with his mother!

I feel quite strong and the effects of the early start do not really show, which is a relief.  When I am finished I answer a few questions from the floor, and then chat as the audience leaves.  It has been a nice show, I am in good spirits as I drive off to my hotel for the day, which is nearby.  Kathy has made sure that I can have an early check-in, and I am able to relax for an hour or two, and even cook a chicken stir fry (purchased from the little pantry next to the front desk) in the microwave oven, which will keep me going through the afternoon.

The second venue is just five minutes away, and is the Lakeside community.  It seems to be a larger facility, and the signs in the car park state that there are two entrances, one for independent living and one for assisted living.

Once more Kathy and Roxanne are there to look after me, and the set is already in place, laid out in an anteroom just off the main hallway.  The chairs are arranged in a huge semi circular sweep, which will give the space a nice, intimate feel.

I change into costume as the audience starts to arrive very early.  Because many are coming from the assisted living part of the centre, there are a great many wheelchairs and oxygen tanks that need to be placed.  The staff of course are expert at looking after all of the varying needs of their residents and in no time rows of chairs have been removed to make plenty of room.

At 2.30 the audience are in place and I begin.  Roxanne plays the intro music on an old CD player, and I walk through the audience in the character of Ebenezer Scrooge, scowling at the floor.  I am nearly at the stage, and am passing a lady in a white sweater who almost achieves the reformation of Scrooge in a second, by calling out in a loud and happy voice ‘WELL HOWDY!’  Scrooge almost laughs there and then!

The show here is more difficult it has to be said, the crow are more infirm than at The Arboretum, and many sleep through most of it  At one stage staff seem to watch one of the residents with a degree of alarm, and soon after, gently take her from the room whilst I am still performing, which makes concentration a bit difficult, especially as she is sat right in the middle of one of the rows, and her exit requires lots of shuffling and moving of wheelchairs and walking frames.

Also, I am beginning to fade slightly, and the show follows the actions of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, as it shrinks, collapses and dwindles down…towards the end.

Once more there are some lovely questions, and as I chat to the audience as they leave they all seem to have greatly enjoyed it, and that is the most important thing.

I pack up all of my costumes and once more say goodbye to Kathy and Roxanne and return to the hotel once more.  This time I have a longer break, but my day is not over yet, as this evening I have an exciting commitment.

Today marks the general release of the new Christmas Carol-inspired film The Man Who Invented Christmas, and I have been invited to a special screening here in Omaha.  The event has been put on by Boomer 104, the radio station that I visited a few days ago, with the support of The Douglas County Historical Society.

I arrive at the cinema at 6.20 and there are the ubiquitous Kathy and Roxanne, as well as the two radio presenters Patrick and Dave.  I am on hand to sign giant movie posters for anyone who wants them, and spend the 30 minutes before show time scrawling like a true Hollywood star!

Just before 7 we all go into the theatre itself, and Patrick introduces the evening, before handing over to Kathy, who hands over to Roxanne, who hands over to David, who hands over to me!   I say a few words, hoping that they relate to the plot of the film, and then we all take our seats for the big feature.

The Man Who Invented Christmas tells the story of Charles Dickens writing A Christmas Carol in 1843.  It concentrates on his ‘three flops’ (rather overstating the facts, but it is unquestionable that Martin Chuzzelwit was not selling as well as his previous novels), and the desperate need for a financial boost.  To add to Dickens’ woes his feckless father John is on the scene, generally running up further debts in a Micawberish sort of a way.

Charles is played as a dashing energetic young superstar by Dan Stevens (also of Downton fame), and his demeanour and looks are accurate, although I am not convinced by his voice, which sounds rather modern to my ear (of course that could just be sour grapes on my part!).  John Dickens is played by Jonathan Pryce, who is made up to look like the Charles Dickens that people will recognise, with goatee beard and wild hair.  It is almost as if the producers have thought that the public wont respond to a young Dickens, so we must have the ‘real’ one in it too.

So, there are two images of Charles Dickens floating around the screen, and then things get even more complicated when Simon Callow, who has made a career of playing CD, appears as John Leech, so now there seems to be three Dickenses in the show!

The subject matter is great, and the idea of the various characters of A Christmas Carol appearing to Dickens to assist him in the creation of the Ghostly Little Book, fully ties in with the mania in which he wrote it.  The visions of past, present and  future are not Scrooge’s however, they are Dickens’s own, and we see many flashbacks to Warren’s Blacking factory, and John’s imprisonment for debt.

The characters from the book, and the characters in his own life ensure that Dickens finishes the novel and becomes a better man in himself, taking his parents in for Christmas and re-engaging a kitchen maid whom he had curtly dismissed (even though she told him that the character of Tiny Tim should not die!)

It is all lovely, but somehow it doesn’t quite work for me.  I found myself getting very frustrated at the endless little nods to Dickens other works, and all of the shops in London are named after various characters – Spenlow, Brownlow and Trabbs among others.  Grip, the Raven flutters about for no real reason, other than the director wanting to tell us that Charles Dickens had a raven – it doesn’t add to the story.  Then right at the end a police constable says ‘Mr Dickens, I cant wait for your next book, what will it be called?  By the way my name is PC Copperfield’  STOP!!!!!! ENOUGH!!!

There is a rather nice relationship played out in the Garrick Club between Dickens and Thackeray, the latter always goading Dickens by quoting the terrible reviews of his recent flops. For those of us in the know, however, we are aware that Thackeray will write a glowing review of A Christmas Carol, which, by the way, is quoted in the 2017 souvenir programme, available at all my shows and via http://www.geralddickens.com!

So, for what they are worth, those are my views on the film.  I must say that everyone I spoke to after the event loved it, and that is important to include, for they are the target audience, not me.

It is 9.30 when I leave the cinema, and I have a brief supper in a nearby restaurant before returning to the hotel, and the prospect of a day off!

 

 

 

 

The Microphone Strikes Back

I wake up at 5.15 this morning and have the awful thought that this time tomorrow I will have to be on the road, heading back to Omaha.

I am expecting a telephone call from the UK at 7 am, so I make sure that the blog is written and posted  well before my Samsung begins to play ‘The Chain’ by Fleetwood Mac,  my current ringtone.

The call takes rather longer than I had anticipated, and I have only a brief amount of time to gather my costumes together and get down to grab a bit of breakfast before Kimberly arrives to ferry me to the first of the day’s performances at the Blue Springs North branch, which is a slightly longer drive than the other venues this year.

We arrive in good time and I am delighted to find that Sarah has been called in from headquarters to look after the microphone today.  Sarah is  Mid-Continent’s ‘microphone whisperer’ as the system  seems to respond only to her touch and nobody else’s.  Sure enough everything bursts into life and I am amplified once more.

The show this morning is open to the public, but the large majority of the audience will come from a neighbouring elementary school next door, leading to the rather disconcerting sight of 200 empty chairs with 15 minutes to go.  Soon however the doors open and the school children start pouring in.

It is a huge audience, but it is going to be an interesting challenge, as the show will be quite long and wordy for most of the crowd, but I cant really cut and simplify (as I would if it was exclusively for the school), as that would be unfair on those adults who have travelled to watch.  This will be a compromise.

I start and to their huge credit the students are very attentive and well behaved, although they do not respond to many of the lines that usually get good reactions.  The first big laugh comes when I plonk my top hat on one of their teacher’s head as Scrooge takes his usual melancholy dinner in his usual melancholy tavern.

Another rather helpful prop is a huge mural running along one wall, which depicts a winter scene with a river and a town, so when the Ghost of Christmas Past takes Scrooge to such a place I can almost play the scene with a cinematic quality.

As the show goes on the concentration levels start to drop away a little and the students become fidgety and tired, with a few yawns in evidence.  I cut a few passages from the script and don’t linger over moments that usually merit more attention in a full production, and push on towards the end, which is received with polite applause.  However at the very back of the crowd the adult audience stand as they clap!

I change in the head librarian’s office and then return to the signing table where I undertake the shortest signing session of the tour: 6 people!  Meanwhile all of the children flow through the door and head back to school.

The early start and the lack of signing means that I can get back to The Hampton Inn before midday.  I am keen to get as much rest as I can today, for tomorrow is going to be an incredibly intense one.  I spend time packing my case, so that I don’t need to do it late tonight, and then drive to Panera Bread where I have my favourite chicken noodle soup, served in a hollowed out bread bowl. The restaurant is full of people busily working on their laptops, which I suppose is the danger of offering free Wi-Fi to your customers.

With lunch finished I drive to WalMart because I want to replace the battery in my wrist watch, having noticed that at 6pm yesterday it was telling me it was 11.  I find the jewellery counter and ask the rather frightening lady behind the desk if she can replace watch batteries?  ‘That depends,’ she growls, ‘on how difficult it is to get the back off.’  She takes my Skagen watch and peers at it, then takes it to her work station.  She selects a sharp implement and then, almost as an afterthought, asks ‘is it an expensive watch?’  This is turning into one of those conjuring tricks where the magician takes a Rolex from an audience member, wraps it in a cloth and then hits it with a hammer.  I gulp ‘quite, yes’  The answer seems to change nothing and with a deft flick of the wrist the back of the watch is off.  The battery is replaced, before the watch is put into a kind of crushing machine, which apparently is necessary to re-attach the back plate.

It is with great relief that I finally receive my watch (a present from Liz a few years ago) back unharmed.  All of this cost me the grand total of $7.00

I return to the hotel and take the opportunity of having a free afternoon to phone home, and Liz and I catch up on our various adventures.  Of course we are in email contact every day, but there is nothing quite like hearing each other’s voices.

The afternoon is a relaxing one, and I have nothing to report until 5.45 when I meet Kimberly once more and head off to our next venue, the Raytown branch.  When I first travelled to the Kansas City area in 1994 the Raytown library was the first one I ever visited and I recall it was the night of a horrendous ice storm, something I had never seen before.

The weather today is better, although there is a keen wind blowing and I am very glad that I have my scarf  wrapped around my neck.  The staff at Raytown are all incredibly welcoming and it is lovely to be back.

Immediately I go to the stage where Sarah is busy whispering to the mic, and it answers her as it had earlier at Blue Springs.  As is always the way at the library branches, some of the audience have already arrived, and one lady tells me that she used to bring her baby daughters to see my show – they are now both in their mid twenties.  Ugh, I feel old!

I retreat to the Library’s staff room where I get ready for the evening, and play a little backgammon on my phone until it is time to head for the stage.  Carol singers (the same troupe as last night) are entertaining  the capacity crowd, who are in very good spirits.

Promptly at 7 I am introduced, and I start the show.  Instantly the microphone gets its own back – maybe it resents being coaxed into life by Sarah, but somewhere in the system a connection is loose and it crackles and pops throughout the rest of the show, which is rather distracting to me, and presumably the audience also.  Each time I am sat in the chair, or have a moment, I try to jiggle the lead in my pocket, with varying degrees of success.  Unfortunately the problem never goes away and the show is accompanied by most un-Victorian noises.  But this is a loyal audience of long-time supporters, and they wont let anything as mundane as a crackling microphone put them off: they laugh and cry and join in and all in all make the evening a thoroughly enjoyable one.

The signing line is very long when I come out from my dressing room, and everyone has lovely things to say about the show.  One girl asks to be photographed striking the ‘you have never seen the like of me before’ pose with me.  I agree to her request knowing full well that  a large can of worms is being prised open.  Sure enough in short order the request is repeated, and I am spending a lot of time balancing on one foot.

The final photographs with the library staff are taken and it is time to leave.  Kimberly drives me to an Applebee’s restaurant for a bite of supper before dropping me back to the hotel, where we say our goodbyes for another year.

My time in Kansas City has come to an end, and has been great fun as it always is.  Tomorrow morning I have to be on the road at around 5am for what could well be the toughest day of the tour, so I finish my packing, set the alarm and get into bed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Devouring The Space Anew

Monday morning, and a new week begins.  Today I have two shows in separate library branches, buy my day’s work will begin with a live TV interview to help promote the forthcoming events as well as getting some exposure for Mid-Continent Public Library.

I take the opportunity to load some costume shirts into the ground-floor laundry which can clean as I am eating my breakfast, so that I will have a good stock for the rest of my performances in the mid west .  I potter around in my room until it is time to get into costume and meet Kimberly in the lobby for the 20 minute drive into the heart of downtown Kansas City, and the studios of the local NBC affiliate KSHB-TV Chanel 41.

We make good time and arrive quite early, so sit in the lobby surrounded by posters of tanned, white-teethed presenters.

After a while some more of the team from the library service arrive: Dylan, a colleague of Kimberly’s who will be interviewed with me, Emily from the marketing team, and Tommy who looks after all of the company’s social media and who is already touting the camera on his phone in the way that the old pioneers touted their Smith and Wessons in the same neighbourhoods way back when.

Shortly after 11 we are ushered into a studio and as ever I am amazed to witness news television from behind the scenes.  These days there are is only one camera operator and he is sat behind a desk, controlling the whole fleet.  Suddenly, without warning, cameras will start to glide around the floor rather like the Daleks in Dr Who, bent on taking over the world.

After a bit of travel and a bit of weather Dylan and I are ushered onto the stage ready for our slot and we are joined by Cynthia Newsome who will be conducting the interview.  As is the way with these things it is all over in a flash, but goes very well – I talk about my long history with Mid-Continent, and Dylan gushes about how great it is to have me in town.  All of the event details are flashed up onto the screen over some video of me performing at Byers’ Choice a few years ago and everybody achieves what they wanted to achieve.

 

Dylan, myself and Cynthia

 

After our piece is over, and when the meteorologist on the far side of the studio is waving his arms around against a blank green screen, we pose for selfies on the set, before we leave and Cynthia returns to her desk.

There is still a little time before my first show, so Kimberly drops me at the hotel where I can relax for a while.

The first performance today is at the Parkville library branch, a drive of about 30 minutes.  When we arrive the audience is already filling up the rows of metal seats which have been arranged amongst the book shelves.  The set is the wrong way round (ie the armchair upstage left instead of right, and the stool on the opposite side).  I can easily flip that once our sound check has been completed.  Ah.  The microphone system resolutely refuses to produce any noise.  We check every connection, every dial, every volume control, every button, but from the speakers comes there nothing.  An occasional ‘pop’ or crackle, but no voice.

The audience are still gathering and our start time is getting ever closer.  Phone calls are made and instruction books are sought but without moving us on any further.

As we peer at the tangle of leads a snippet of conversation reaches me from the front row of the audience, and it is one of those moments when you wish you were privy to the whole tale:  a lady’s voice says ‘This T-shirt saved my life on Mount Rushmore….’ But I never hear the details of the story!  It would be a rather good title for an essay contest.

The head librarian at the branch is getting nervous as we are now running late, so the decision has to be taken to perform without amplification today.  I run back to my dressing room to finish getting ready, and am not in the best frame of mind to do a performance.  The frustrating thing is that we have had the same problem with this microphone system for the last 2 years, and we just can’t get to the bottom of it.  I am rather short and snippy with everyone as I stride to the stage.

In itself performing without a microphone isn’t really an issue (I did exactly that in Pigeon Forge and at The Hermitage, as well as at the High School in Riverside), but the issue here is the venue itself: it is a library.  Libraries are designed to be quiet, and to suck extraneous sound up.  I must not strain my voice, but will have to work much harder than usual to make sure that everyone can hear.

I start the show, gauging how much I need to project to include everyone in the audience and trying to adjust my output accordingly. Things are not helped by the fact that I never got around to switching the stage around and am trying to make my moves in reverse.  A couple of times I stride to a chair that is not there but on the whole I adapt pretty quickly.

The best part of this show is the audience who are completely onside and enthusiastic from the very start.  Perhaps they are extra supportive because they know of the technical difficulties (after all they watched them unfold before their very eyes), or perhaps it is just one of those days when a certain group of disparate individuals come together to form a positive mass, but they spur me on and bring out the best in me.

It is a good performance, and I am very pleased with the response, although worried about my throat and voice.  As soon as I have taken my bows I go back to my dressing room and drink lots of water and suck a Fisherman’s Friend lozenge.  I sign plenty of programmes and take the plaudits, whilst trying not to talk too much, having lapsed already into preservation mode.

When it is time to say goodbye I rebuild a few bridges, before getting into Kimberly’s car for the drive back to the hotel.  Kimberly is so apologetic and arrangements have already been made to bring a professional sound crew in for tonight’s big show, which is reassuring.

Back at the hotel I have a sandwich for lunch, even though it is 4pm, and soak in a hot bath, which is wonderful.  I do nothing until getting ready for the evening’s performance, which is at the nearby branch at Woodneath, a matter of 5 minutes up the road.  At 6 I am in the lobby and make myself a black tea with honey and wait for Kimberly, who as ever arrives on time.

Woodneath is one of my regular stops and I am greeted by the enthusiastic staff who always put on fantastic shows there.  In the past I have performed in their ‘program room’, but this year they have laid out the stage in the library itself, which allows a much larger audience, they are expecting around 350.  The seating is arranged in three banks: the largest one is straight out in front of me, the other two at 90 degrees to left and right, meaning that I must remember to include everyone in the show.

The sound guy is called Connor, and fits my microphone to my waistcoat before switching it on: and there is sound, wonderful, distorted, loud sound.  Connor adjusts everything from his hand held tablet, and will monitor the levels throughout the show and adjust them as necessary: oh, it is nice to have a pro on board!

The audience are arriving in their droves, the majority clutching our wonderful red souvenir programmes in their hands, for the staff on the door are doing a great job in selling them hard.

I have two interviews to conduct before the performance, one for a newspaper and one for a videographer who is filming some of the show on behalf of Mid-Continent so that they will have extra promotional material in the future.  Once the pre-show commitments are completed, I have another Fisherman’s Friend and stand at the back of the library listening to the fabulous carol singers, and watching the audience swell.

It is a BIG show!  A lovely show.  I work hard and the audience responds.  my movements are slightly hampered by the seating layout (in that if I walk into the main bank of the audience, the two side areas cannot see me), but it is not too much of a problem and I once again I adapt quickly.  Connor is hovering with tablet in hand listening intently and obviously enjoying the show.

One member of the audience catches my eye particularly – a tall bald-headed man with smiling eyes.  From my vantage point this gentleman is the spitting image of the actor Patrick Stewart, who of course toured his own one man production of A Christmas Carol for many years, in between flying around the universe in control of the star ship Enterprise.  Of course it is not Patrick Stewart (it seems unlikely), but the fact that I think it is, and that he is so obviously enjoying the show, gives me quite a confidence lift!

It is a great fun evening and I get that wonderful high of performing to such a large crowd.  The reactions are amazing and the cheers that accompany a long standing ovation are so welcome.  As Percy Faith’s rousing version of  ‘Deck the Halls with Boughs of Holly’ rings out through the library, I stride off to change.

My signing session is going to be back in the Program Room where I used to perform and the staff have laid on plenty of cookies and drinks for people to enjoy as they wait.  There is a long line waiting at my desk when I re-emerge from the little plant room that doubles as my dressing room, and in no time I am signing programmes and smiling at the backs of smart phones.

One lady arrives at my table and presents me with a bunch of flowers!  She reads my blog daily, and had responded to my remark in Riverside that I had never received flowers after a performance!  How very, very thoughtful.  Now, I need to say here that I have never been presented with a Ferrari after a show……..the ball is in your court blog lovers!

Not only does she give me a bunch of flowers, but also a can of freshly made choc-chip cookies to accompany me on my travels.  She has carefully decorated a Pringles canister, so that the cookies can remain fresh and will not get broken as I make my way East during the next few days.  Thank you so much, your generosity is very touching.

The evening winds down and the Library becomes quiet once more.  It is time to leave and as there is a Longhorn Steakhouse nearby, we decide to have dinner there (‘we’ being Kimberly, Dylan and myself.)

As we sit in our little booth Dylan talks about the shows and how I manage to adapt to different venues so easily.  Dylan always expresses himself in a fabulously literate way, and in making his point he comes up with a spectacular phrase, he says:  ‘It is amazing at every performance to watch you devouring the space anew.’

I like that!

I am tired, but the hotel is only 5 minutes away, so when dinner is over it is but a tiny hop back to my room.  A challenging day in some respects but ultimately a very satisfying one.