Back to the Drawing Board

Following the flurry of events during the last few weeks the diary is quiet again for a while and that gives me a chance to look ahead to the summer and do some preparation for events yet to come.

Specifically I have two shows that need some work, so for me it is back to the drawing board, or more specifially to the blank screen of my laptop.

In July I am returning to the Market Theatre in Hitchin and will be performing The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby.  Although NickNick is a familiar show to me, and indeed I performed it in Rochester just a few weeks ago, this year I am extending it and adding some passages.  The show itself currently runs at about an hour and a quarter meaning that the first act has to be padded out with a lot of background information.  I am keen to lose the blurb and to include more of the novel itself.

The first passage I am adding is a brief description of Nicholas’s job interview with the Member of Parliament Mr Gregsbury.  On answering the question what should a secretary do Nicholas muses that he should write lettrs, take dictation and send copies of the great man’s speeches to various periodicals and journals.

Mr Gregsbury concurs but proceeds to add a whole raft of other jobs:

‘This is all very well, Mr Nickleby, and very proper, so far as it goes — so far as it goes, but it doesn’t go far enough. There are other duties, Mr Nickleby, which a secretary to a parliamentary gentleman must never lose sight of. I should require to be crammed, sir.’ ‘My secretary would have to make himself master of the foreign policy of the world, as it is mirrored in the newspapers; to run his eye over all accounts of public meetings, all leading articles, and accounts of the proceedings of public bodies; and to make notes of anything which it appeared to him might be made a point of, in any little speech upon the question of some petition lying on the table, or anything of that kind. Do you understand?’

‘I think I do, sir,’

‘Then,’ said Mr Gregsbury, ‘it would be necessary for him to make himself acquainted, from day to day, with newspaper paragraphs on passing events; such as “Mysterious disappearance, and supposed suicide of a potboy,” or anything of that sort, upon which I might found a question to the Secretary of State for the Home Department. Then, he would have to copy the question, and as much as I remembered of the answer (including a little compliment about independence and good sense); and to send the manuscript in a frank to the local paper, with perhaps half-a-dozen lines of leader, to the effect, that I was always to be found in my place in parliament, and never shrunk from the responsible and arduous duties, and so forth. You see?’

‘Besides which,’ continued Mr Gregsbury, ‘I should expect him, now and then, to go through a few figures in the printed tables, and to pick out a few results, so that I might come out pretty well on timber duty questions, and finance questions, and so on; and I should like him to get up a few little arguments about the disastrous effects of a return to cash payments and a metallic currency, with a touch now and then about the exportation of bullion, and the Emperor of Russia, and bank notes, and all that kind of thing, which it’s only necessary to talk fluently about, because nobody understands it.

This is a hasty outline of the chief things you’d have to do, except waiting in the lobby every night, in case I forgot anything, and should want fresh cramming; and, now and then, during great debates, sitting in the front row of the gallery, and saying to the people about —‘You see that gentleman, with his hand to his face, and his arm twisted round the pillar — that’s Mr Gregsbury — the celebrated Mr Gregsbury,’— with any other little eulogium that might strike you at the moment. And for salary,’ said Mr Gregsbury, winding up with great rapidity; for he was out of breath —‘and for salary, I don’t mind saying at once in round numbers, to prevent any dissatisfaction — though it’s more than I’ve been accustomed to give — fifteen shillings a week, and find yourself. There!’

Goodness!  I’d want more than 15 shillings just to learn that lot.  Nicholas certainly didn’t  think that 15 shillings was adequate and turned down Mr Gregsbury’s kind offer of employment and returned to Smike, before the two headed to Portsmouth and a chance meeting with Mr Crummles (thus returning to my original script).

Charles Dickens of course worked in parliament as a reporter and his disdain for all things political is evident in this scene.

The other passages I need to work in, to make the end of the plot make more sense, are to explain the sudden appearance of Mr Brooker, who confronts Ralph Nickleby with the truth about Smike, thereby leading to remorse, suicide and conclusion.  In the script’s current form Brooker is suddenly produced by the Cheeryble brothers with no explanation.

In the novel when our heroes  are on the road to Portsouth Smike tells Nicholas about a ‘man – a dark, withered man’ who had taken him to Yorkshire when he was young.  Later towards the end of the book when Smike is desperately ill he tells Nicholas that he saw that man once more, behind a tree, watching.

By gently weaving those two instances into the current script Brooker’s revelations to Ralph will make much more sense.

So Nickleby is undergoing a stretching exercise but another show is being written from the ground up, and it is really going to be a very special one for me.

For my annual appearance in Llandrindod Wells this year I will be performing a double bill of The Signalman and Sikes and Nancy, so no work needed on those, but for the next day I suggested that it would be fun to perform a short play written by an American actress based on the only meeting between Charles Dickens and Queen Victoria.

Ann Hamilton portrayed Queen Victoria at a Dickens festival in Galveston, Texas and worked closely with my mother and father during the years that they attended.   Ann took her role as the Queen very seriously and did as much research as she could, pressing dad for any information he had to offer, and so began a fascinating correspondence between the two.

The play was called The Queen and the Commoner and as the script developed so Ann wrote to dad with questions of fact and etiquette.  My father would read each draft of the script and send his comments back, and all of the time the letters crossing the Atlantic were beautifully written, as you would expect from two wordsmiths.

In 2010 , almost 10 years after Ann and my parents first met, she published both the play and the letters in charming volume called ‘Walking with Dickens’.  When I read it my father came alive once more.

In Llandrindod there is an actress who portrays the Queen and last year I suggested that we get together to perform The Queen and the Commoner as a rehearsed (or non-rehearsed probably) show.  But the play is short, little more than fifteen minutes, so it would need more to justify a place in the programme.  I went back to Ann’s book and realised that the letters themselves were so perfect that they had become part of the story.

One of my favourite books (and later the film it spawned) is 84 Charing Cross Road by Helene Hanff in which a sassy New York author corresponds with an outwardly stuffy, rather formal antiquarian bookseller in London.  The letters that follow bespeak an intimacy and understanding between two people who would never meet.

To recreate that feeling I have immersed myself in the letters trying to edit them (which is difficult for I want to include every word!) so that the audience will fully understand how the play arrived at its finished state and also get to know my father and Ann more fully.

In my mind the set on the stage will be in two halves, one a dressing room in which the character of Ann is sitting at a desk, her Queen Victoria dress hanging on a rail ready to be worn; the other my dad’s study with a typewriter.  As the letters progress and the script develops so Ann slowly takes on the character of Victoria, and my dad (who looked more like Charles than Charles did) eventually dons a frock coat and cane to become his great grandfather, ready to be received by his monarch at Buckingham Palace.

It is an exciting project!  I hope it works, for next year marks the 150th anniversary of the meeting and it would be amazing to mark it with special performance of the play – possibly with Ann playing herself.

The best part of this script?  It gives me a chance to play my dad and that will be an experiences such as I have never had!

I shall keep you updated on the progress of both projects over the coming weeks.

 

Secondary 1st Garden Party

June 9. Fonthill
Having returned from the Wirral on the 6th I had a three day wait for my next event which was in Dorset.
The 9th of June is a very important day in the Dickens calendar as it is the day on which Charles Dickens died, and if I can perform at a particularly special event on the anniversary then it is a bonus – this year was very special indeed.
The story dates back many many years when my brother Ian worked as the Marketing Director for Olympus Cameras He often used a husband and wife team of graphic designers to assist in some of his memorable advertising campaigns. Graham and Diane May then decided to forgo the rat race and to continue their freelance work in Dorset.
Three years ago when Ian and I were planning our Souvenir Brochures (still on sale via my website, by the way) it was to Graham and Diane that Ian turned. We all had a lovely meeting in London and they went to work and anyone who has seen the finished products will know it was a job superbly done.
Last year Diane got in touch with me and asked me if I would attend a special fundraising garden party at a country pile called Fonthill Park near Salisbury. There would be other entertainers throughout the day and we would all be strutting our stuff in a ‘performance marquee’ situated in the grounds. After discussion we decided that Doctor Marigold would be the perfect piece for the event and June 9th, 2019 was firmly in the diary.
The charity in question was one very personal to Diane, it was Secondary 1st which is committed to find a cure for secondary breast cancer. To understand the ethos and passion behind the fundraising efforts I can do no better than to quote the website http://www.www.secondary1st.org.uk:
‘We want to put secondary breast cancer first. Front of mind. Top of the list. This is a disease that has spread to the rest of the body. It affects men and women everywhere. Finding a cure means a diagnosis is no longer the end. It means people will have more days doing what matters most. It means daughters, mothers, fathers and sons will go on living a life they love’
Secondary 1st is not one of the popular ‘sexy’ cancer charities but it is every bit as important and needs every penny that can be raised to allow the valuable research to forge ahead. The event at Fonthill would not only raise funds but also to raise awareness of the work being done.
Fonthill is owned by Lord Margadale and he generously donated his house and gardens for the event which hopefully would be graced by fine weather. Although my show was not due to take place until 2.30 proceedings would kick off at 11 with a champagne and canapes reception hosted by his Lordship. Always a nosy soul the chance to peek inside the big house was too good to miss and I set off from home at 9.30.
The drive west was fine and took me passed Stonehenge which appeared to be surrounded by an ant’s nest of tourists, and just beyond there was the most extraordinary field of poppies. This wasn’t the usual corn field speckled with red, this was a plush carpet of poppies the brightness of which was astounding. Further along the road was another carpet, but this one was only half-dyed, the vibrant red fading into green as if it were a watercolour painting.
Turning off the main trunk road I found myself winding through country lanes before turning through the magnificent stone arch that forms the entrance to the Fonthill estate. The scene couldn’t have been more English, the driveway took me past a small cricket pitch with its boundaries marked and stumps placed ready for the contest to come later that afternoon.
I followed the road over a bridge that crossed a lake and then the drive wound uphill until I arrived at the house itself which, considering the grounds it presided over, was quite modest (listen to me! Modest!)
It was around 10.45 so I just had time to unload the car and parking it in one of the nearby fields before the drinks reception began. The performance marquee was in the lower part of the garden, in a paddock beyond the formal gardens and the swimming pool. The word ‘marquee’ maybe slightly oversold the venue, but it looked as if it would be a lovely space in which to perform Marigold.

Under canvas was a stage with some speakers and cables waiting to be plugged in for various bands who would be performing throughout the day. There was some audience seating inside, but most of the chairs were in the open air beneath the warm sun which was trying its best to join the party.

 

Surrounding the tent were lots of stalls all manned by folk adorned in the Secondary 1st T-shirts, resplendent in white pink and purple. There were tombola stalls and craft stalls and clothing stalls and a raffle and a silent auction, each waiting to plead with the public to support this most worthy and admirable charity, and in the middle of all the bustle were Diane and Mary busily checking and organising everything.

 

11 o’clock was approaching so we all made our way up the steep garden and into the house. What a civilised way to begin an event, I rather think that this should be in the rider to all of my contracts – ‘the artiste will be entertained by a member of the British aristocracy no less than three hours before the performance’

We sipped champagne nibbled on elegant canapes and chatted to strangers – in my case a gentleman who was providing a hot air balloon ride as a raffle prize. I asked him if he had ever been here before and he replied that the only thing he knew about the estate came from a colleague who had inadvertently landed his balloon in the grounds thus raising the anger and ire of Lord Margadale!
On the current day however his Lordship was all smiles and bonhomie, welcoming us to his home and pledging his support to the fundraising efforts ahead, and with that we made our way into the gardens to begin the day’s fun.

 

I wandered through the gardens looking at the stalls, buying raffle tickets (Liz and I would LOVE to go up in balloon!) and soaking up the atmosphere.
Down in the performance marquee there was due to be a short performance of a scene from The Importance of Being Ernest and I made my way down to get a seat. The excerpt was the splendidly catty meeting between Gwendoline Fairfax and Cecily Cardew, both of whom are of the opinion that they are engaged to Jack Worthing.
Actors Helena Payne and Marie Fortune gave brilliantly funny performances getting every ounce of humour from the scene and the audience revelled in it. I enjoyed it as much as the rest but I got even more from the experience for it was a chance for me to listen and judge how easily I could hear the words (very easily as it happened for Helena and Marie had superb voices) and study the site lines – all of this would be invaluable when I took to the stage later.
With the show over I found a quiet bit of garden and went through my lines for a while (I only had a 45 minute slot, rather than the full hour that Marigold normally takes, so it was another of those times when I had to go through the process of remembering which lines to un-learn.)
A particular bonus of the day was that Liz was coming down with the children to join me, and at around 12.30 I got a message that she was making the ascent from the cricket pitch, over the bridge and into the car park. We all met up and made our way to the refreshment tent where we bought sandwiches and cake. I didn’t have much time to linger over lunch though as the time for my show was getting closer and I needed to get changed, which I was able to do in a Portaloo just behind the marquee (such glamour).
When I reemerged into the sunlight quite a reasonable audience was gathering which was reassuring. At 2.30 I walked onto the stage, gave my little history of Marigold and then launched into the show.
It was a strange experience, for the audience were very much divided into two camps, firstly there were those sat at the front, under canvas, who were watching and listening intently and laughing at Doctor’s rapid sales patter and one liners, then there were those further out who maybe stopped by out of curiosity but were not so fully involved, maybe chatting to friends, or just watching for a few minutes before moving on to another part of the gardens. Through it all Doctor Marigold bared his soul and told his story to half committed and half transient crowd as he would have done in fairgrounds up and down the country.

 

With about a quarter of the monologue still to go I began to hear pitter patter on the canvas over my head and it was like being a child lying in a tent on a rainy afternoon. As I continued I could see people huddling under coats, and putting umbrellas up. Doctor Marigold thought ‘my poor audience’ whilst Gerald Dickens thought ‘Damn! I left my linen suit laying on a table outside!’ Doctor Marigold however was the stronger of us and in the middle of his recitation said, ‘come on, get out of the rain, bring your seats in here, shuffle forward, plenty of room for all, in you come’
I (he) paused as everyone huddled into the small tent, and when pretty well everyone who wanted to be thus accommodated was, I continued the story in a much more intimate setting.
The final lines of the grandchild speaking drew the usual gasp and sobs from the audience and I took my bows to lovely applause. Diane was in the front row and I gave her a great big hug and thanked her for inviting me to be part of this amazing afternoon.
The rain was still falling outside, and I was delighted to discover that someone had seen my suit and moved it under cover. I changed into it, and made my way back to the tent where Helena, one of the actors from earlier, was now performing a beautiful operatic aria as the rain fell hard.
Once she had finished and taken her bows the drones of a bagpipe sounded in the distance and soon the members of the Clayesmore School Pipe Band marched damply into the space between all of the Secondary 1st stalls. An appreciative audience stayed in the tents and watched as the stoic performers shivered and dripped in the teeming rain. I wished I could have poured a little bubble mixture into the pipes, which would have made quite a spectacle!

 

The band finished their set and as they marched away they received huge applause both for their musical ability and their great resilience. As we stood the rain passed and the sun came out again shining brightly onto the old house which looked spectacular against the retreating black clouds.

 

It was now time to perform my final duty of the day which was to assist in the drawing of the raffle. Wouldn’t you just believe it, but the rain had got into the electrical connections rendering the PA system useless. There was nothing for it but to bring out my biggest, boomiest voice and to announce each of the winning tickets to the damp, dripping, expectant crowd.
Lord Margadale drew the tickets, handed them to me and I bellowed the colour, the number and the name on the back and waited for an excited cry from the audience as the lucky soul went scurrying to the table to choose their prize. Unfortunately Liz and I were not victorious so our hot air balloon trip will have to wait for another day.
And so the event came to an end and I fetched the car and packed up all of my belongings. I said good bye to Diane, Mary, Lord Margadale, Helena and Marie before leaving the beauty of Fonthill behind me. I’d spent an am amazing day in fantastic surroundings, but the most important thing was that we had all raised lots of funds for Secondary 1st.
But they always need more, and I would strongly encourage you to visit their site and donate even a little – every penny helps.
This is the link to the donations page:
https://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/donation-web/charity?charityId=1015524&stop_mobi=yes

Two Beautiful Houses

Shows can be like London busses, you wait for ages and then three come along at once, and so it has been for me at the beginning of June.

 

June 5  Hillbark

Following my busy weekend in Rochester I had 2 days to relax before loading up the car again and heading off to the Wirral peninsular to perform at The West Kirby Literary Festival.

The booking was a good lesson in never knowing what might, as Mr Micawber may say, ‘turn up’.  In November last year I agreed to attend a product launch in Liverpool.  I was working with Owen Drew Luxury candles and the lavish event in the heart of the Albert Dock had been planned by the company’s PR guru, Paula.  I hadn’t been called upon to perform, or even to speak at the event, but the new candle had been inspired by A Christmas Carol and was called the 1843, so my job was just to smile and be photographed, which I did to the best of my abilities.

In my mind this was a one off event which I greatly enjoyed but never for a moment did I expect anything would come from it, however earlier this year Paula got in touch to ask would I be available to perform at a brand new literary festival on the weekend of June 8th and 9th; this proved impossible due to a prior engagement (more of which later), however the week proceeding would be fine and we settled on Wednesday 5th.

The festival had grown from an idea suggested at a West Kirby book club based in the Wro Bar where the members  discussed the finer points of literature in a convivial surrounding, sipping chilled white wine.

What show to perform?  I suggested Mr Dickens is Coming which is always a a good ice-breaker at a new venue.  It is fun, varied, not too challenging and always works well but how about the second half?  My first choice was my favourite Doctor Marigold (and I would be performing it a few days later too, meaning it would be fully brushed up and ready), or the Signalman, but Paula asked me if I had anything from Oliver Twist?  Oliver is a novel that I have never adapted for a show – the 1960 stage musical is so popular that it is difficult to tell the story without the audience expecting you to plunge your thumbs into your braces and break into song.  There is one passage, though, that would fulfil the brief.  The murder.  Sikes and Nancy.

I made sure that Paula knew that the piece was delivered as a reading (that’s ironic considering that in my last post,  I was ranting about my shows being billed as readings, when they plainly are not!) and when she expressed satisfaction with the choice, everything was confirmed.

I set off on Wednesday afternoon and for once the journey was problem free and easy.  The drive is now familiar to me for over the last few years I have found myself performing more and more often on Merseyside thanks mainly to my good friend Lynne Hamilton who has done a fabulous job promoting me in this corner of the world.

As I peeled off west onto the peninsula I passed the impressive hillside looking down on the town of Frodsham,where I performed at another literary festival a few years ago.

On past the huge Vauxhall factory at Ellesmere Port and then I left the Mersey behind me as I headed towards West Kirby and the Hillbark Hotel where I was to stay for the night.

Hillbark was quite a surprise!  I am used to pulling up at Premier Inns or Travelodges, maybe something better, but usually corporate, bland and sensible.  Hillbark was certainly none of those things.  I drove up the long  serpentine driveway and among the trees and shrubs I noticed impressive equine sculptures fashioned out of old horseshoes.  Around the final corner and the majesty of Hillbark house welcomed me.  The half-timbered black and white building looked welcoming and a lively fountain bubbled energetically in the courtyard to the front.  My Renault looked rather out of place for parked to one side was a pearlescent puce Bentley.

I unloaded my bags and was met at the door by a young man who took them from me with the deference of a butler and ushered me in.  In the ‘reception area’, which was in fact the main hall beneath the impressive wooden staircase, was Paula, Lynne and members of the hotel staff.   I greeted the former two with hugs and was greeted by the others, one of whom positively gushed at meeting a relative of Charles Dickens, ‘if Brad Pitt was here I couldn’t be more excited!’

We had about an hour before we needed to leave for the show’s venue, but Lynne wanted to shoot a few short videos that she could use to promote my Christmas shows in Liverpool, so I needed to change into my costume.

I was shown up to my room and was informed that I would be sleeping in the same bed as Beyonce.  I was startled at this revelation until it was explained that this was the best suite and all of the VIPs who visited stayed here, even Take That.  I was once more startled: all of them?

It was a magnificent room with views across the Dee estuary to the hills of Wales beyond, and it was with regret that I surveyed it for I would only be in it for a few hours, as I had to leave early the next morning.

I changed into my costume and then went back down to the bar where coffee was served, and I joined Lynne and Paula who filled me in about the history of this wonderful place.  It had originally been built in 1891 and stood proudly on Bidston Hill.

In 1921 the house was owned by Sir Ernest Bland Royden and his wife but unfortunately she suffered from ill health and desired better views to  aid her recovery, so Ernest decided to move.  He knew the perfect site but the house that stood there was not what he and Rachel wanted, they were very happy with what they had, thank you very much!  What a conundrum, so what they did was to demolish the old Hillbark House and then moved their own beautiful home brick by brick, panel by panel to its new position.

The project took two years, so one presumes that Rachel’s illness was not too serious…..

Apparently today if you remove the panelling that dominates the interior you can still see the handwritten numbers that ensured the house was re-assembled correctly.

The current owners Craig and Lisa took over the business in 2002 and have made it a stylish, elegant hotel which celebrates the craftsmanship and design of the original, yet with spectacular splashes of modernity and style.  It has five stars and is the smallest hotel in the UK to have been afforded that honour.

Paula left us to go and start preparing the hall for the evening and Lynne and I started recording a few short video clips:

‘Hello, I am Gerald Dickens, great great grandson to Charles Dickens, come and join me at the St George’s Hall in Liverpool for my one man dramatisation of A Christmas Carol….’

That was the gist of it, but some versions had a ‘Bah! Humbug!’ or a ‘God bless us, every one!’ thrown in for good measure.

When we were finished we got into our respective cars and I followed Lynne to the Westbourne Hall in West Kirby where I was to perform. The stage was impressive and soon I was illuminated by a fine array of theatrical lights as I arranged my furniture for Mr Dickens is Coming!  I have to say that the set looked rather good.

The show was due to start at 7 but at 6 there was a VIP reception to thank all of the festival’s sponsors and supporters so having finished my preparations I spent some time chatting and posing for pictures.  A local bookshop had copies of Oliver Twist to sell, and I flicked through until I found the illustration of Noah Claypole eavesdropping on Nancy and Mr Brownlow, a scene that features heavily in The Murder.  The picture was on page 498 and I tucked that information away for later.

As the reception continued, and I continually declined glasses of wine and canapes which came around with great regularity, the main audience started to arrive and a goodly crowd it was.  Paula and the festival team had done a brilliant job marketing my show with repeated online posts bigging me up (on one occasion mentioning that I would be performing my ‘multi award-winning show’.  I am not sure WHICH awards I have won, but I am delighted to hear about them anyway)

The clock ticked towards 7 and I absented myself from the reception and went back to my dressing room to sit quietly until the show began.  As in all such events there were a few words said by the organiser of the festival in this case Sally from the Wro Bar, and when she had finished thanking everyone who had to be thanked, and announcing the various other events, I was away.

I have performed Mr Dickens is Coming a few times recently, so it flowed freely and easily with good timing.  I had a slight issue about the end of the act as I usually finish up with a description about Sikes and Nancy, but on this occasion I would be doing that as a precursor to my second act.  Once again I used the Great Expectations passage, which seems to have found a permanent home now, and finished off with a teaser for The Murder, finishing off by saying that if during the interval the audience wanted to do some research they should buy a copy of the book from the table at the back of the hall and refer to page 498!  Hopefully that would generate a few extra sales.

I went back to my dressing room and changed from garish gold waistcoat to sombre black and then went to the stage to remove most of the furniture, leaving just the reading desk and the red screen – the set that Charles used for his readings.

Our 20 minute interval inevitably turned into a 30 minute one, but eventually everyone was encouraged back to their seats and it was time to kill.

I introduced the piece and stepped up to the desk and began to read.

Right, the reading thing:  In my last blog post I wrote  ‘The other thing that ALWAYS happens when there is a change of leadership is that my shows are billed as ‘readings’ which is always a source of great frustration to me.  Anyone who has seen me perform will no that the one thing I do not do is ‘read!’  One week on and I am reading, why? The truth of the matter is that I believe Sikes and Nancy works best in this format, that is how Charles Dickens envisioned it and that is how he adapted it to be performed.  Whilst something such as Marigold or The Signalman lend themselves to an off the book performance, Sikes and Nancy would be confusing and clunky if performed in that way.

The characterisations (Fagin and Sikes in particular) are brought into sharper focus by the fact that the audiences attention is concentrated on one spot –  the reading desk which can also be used as a prop.  Illustrations of Dickens himself performing as Fagin show him crouched low over the desk, chin jutting forward gesturing wildly with his hand.

Just because Sikes and Nancy is performed with a book in hand it is by no means a dull, dry, monotone recitation, quite the opposite indeed for it is electrifying, violent, terrifying and brilliant.

The script is very cleverly conceived -it is divided into three scenes the first of which sees Fagin engage Noah Claypole to spy on Nancy and bring back all of the information he can.  As an audience we are privy to only to Fagin and Noah’s conversations, we know nothing of Nancy’s movements or motives, thereby placing us firmly in the villain’s camp.  Scene 2 and once again we are placed with Noah as he tries to listen to Nancy as she tells her story.  The most important line here is ‘After receiving an assurance from both that she might safely do so she proceeded in a voice so low that it was often difficult for the listener to discover even the purport of what she said, to describe the means by which this one man Monks might be found and taken.  But nothing would have induced her to compromise one of her own companions; little reason she had, poor wretch! to spare them’

So we are still alongside Noah, we as an audience have now become complicit in the crime to come.  We are helpless to stop the inevitably tragedy, and even if we could stop it we have no idea what Nancy actually said to Mr Brownlow, it is a clever device and raises the tension in the audience.

The final scene sees the entrance of Bill Sikes and we watch as Fagin very very carefully pulls his strings, making him angrier and more violent by the second before he rushes through the streets to find Nancy half dressed on their bed, he pulls her up by the hair, has the presence of mind to realise that a gunshot will attract attention, and bludgeons her to the floor.

Having assured himself that she is quite dead he rushes into the countryside but is haunted by the memory of what he has done and is driven back to London where he is discovered by a raging mob.  He climbs to a rooftop and as he is fixing a noose around himself to escape he has a vision of Nancy’s dead eyes, slips and is hung.

It is all shocking, but Dickens wanted to outrage his audience more, so to finish off he had Sikes’ dog leaping for his master’s shoulders, missing his aim and tumbling down into the ditch…‘turning over as he went, and striking his head against a stone, dashed out his brains!’

It is truly shocking and brutal and always leaves the audience in stunned silence.  Such was the case last week, I became more and more intensely involved in the scene, and smashed my fist into the reading folder (newly made for this event and making its professional debut), imagining Nancy’s upturned face was there before she staggered and fell to the floor.

It was a really good performance, I may say enjoyable if that is not too disturbing and as the applause started to come in I stood on the stage panting, exhausted, trying to come back to the present moment in the Westbourne Community Hall.

We had a few minutes of Q&A on the stage and then I went to the book shop’s table to sign copies of Oliver Twist, as well as one of Monica Dickens’ ‘An Open Book’ which the owner had proudly brought to the event.

I was tired and when the audience had left and the members of the book club sat drinking wine and discussing the evening I wasn’t fully engaged in the conversation, but floating away somewhere else.

I needed to get back to the hotel and Lisa, the owner of Hillbark, suggested that I give her a lift.  I gratefully acquiesced to this idea and soon the props were loaded into the car and we were on our way.

Even then the evening was not quite over for we joined Lisa’s husband Craig in the bar and had a nightcap as they told me more about the building and its history.  We also talked about cars – their Bentley and an Ascari, whilst I rather meekly told them about my old Lotus!

Eventually the rigours of the Murder began to tell and I had to absent myself.  I went to my room, set the alarm for 6am, as I had an early start in the morning, and slipped wearily under the covers.

 

June 9.  Fonthill

Having returned from the Wirral on the 6th I had a three day wait until the next bus arrived, and this one would take me to Dorset.

The 9th of June is a very important day in the Dickens calendar as it is the day on which Charles Dickens died, and if I can perform at a particularly special event on the anniversary then it is a bonus – this year was very special indeed.

The story dates back many many years when my brother Ian worked as the Marketing Director for Olympus Cameras  He often used a husband and wife team of graphic designers to assist in some of his memorable advertising campaigns.  Graham and Diane May then decided to forgo the rat race and to continue their freelance work in Dorset.

Three years ago when Ian and I were planning our Souvenir Brochures (still on sale via my website, by the way) it was to Graham and Diane that Ian turned.  We all had a lovely meeting in London and they went to work and anyone who has seen the finished products will know it was a job superbly done.

Last year Diane got in touch with me and asked me if I would attend a special fundraising garden party at a country pile called Fonthill Park near Salisbury.  There would be other entertainers throughout the day and we would all be strutting our stuff in a ‘performance marquee’ situated in the grounds.  After discussion we decided that Doctor Marigold would be the perfect piece for the event and June 9th, 2019 was firmly in the diary.

The charity in question was one very personal to Diane, it was Secondary 1st which is committed to find a cure for secondary breast cancer.  To understand the ethos and passion behind the fundraising efforts I can do no better than to quote the website http://www.www.secondary1st.org.uk:

‘We want to put secondary breast cancer first. Front of mind. Top of the list.  This is a disease that has spread to the rest of the body. It affects men and women everywhere. Finding a cure means a diagnosis is no longer the end. It means people will have more days doing what matters most. It means daughters, mothers, fathers and sons will go on living a life they love’

Secondary 1st is not one of the popular ‘sexy’ cancer charities but it is every bit as important and needs every penny that can be raised to allow the valuable research to forge ahead.  The event at Fonthill would not only raise funds but also to raise awareness of the work being done.

Fonthill is owned by Lord Margadale and he generously donated his house and gardens for the event which hopefully would be graced by fine weather.  Although my show was not due to take place until 2.30 proceedings would kick off at 11 with a champagne and canapes reception hosted by his Lordship.  Always a nosy soul the chance to peek inside the big house was too good to miss and I set off from home at 9.30.

The drive west was fine and took me passed Stonehenge which appeared to be surrounded by an ant’s nest of tourists, and just beyond there was the most extraordinary field of poppies.  This wasn’t the usual corn field speckled with red, this was a plush carpet of poppies the brightness of which was astounding.  Further along the road was another carpet, but this one was only half-dyed, the vibrant red fading into green as if it were a watercolour painting.

Turning off the main trunk road I found myself winding through country lanes before turning through the magnificent stone arch that forms the entrance to the Fonthill estate.  The scene couldn’t have been more English, the driveway took me past a small cricket pitch with its boundaries marked and stumps placed ready for the contest to come later that afternoon.

I followed the road over a bridge that crossed a lake and then the drive wound uphill until I arrived at the house itself which, considering the grounds it presided over, was quite modest (listen to me!  Modest!)

It was around 10.45 so I just had time to unload the car and parking it in one of the nearby fields before the drinks reception began.  The performance marquee was in the lower part of the garden, in a paddock beyond the formal gardens and the swimming pool.  The word ‘marquee’ maybe slightly oversold the venue, but it looked as if it would be a lovely space in which to perform Marigold.

Under canvas was a stage with some speakers and cables waiting to be plugged in for various bands who would be performing throughout the day. There was some audience seating inside, but most of the chairs were in the open air beneath the warm sun which was trying its best to join the party.

Surrounding the tent were lots of stalls all manned by folk adorned in the Secondary 1st T-shirts, resplendent in white pink and purple.  There were tombola stalls and craft stalls and clothing stalls and a raffle and a silent auction, each waiting to plead with the public to support this most worthy and admirable charity, and in the middle of all the bustle were Diane and Mary busily checking and organising everything.

11 o’clock was approaching so we all made our way up the steep garden and into the house.  What a civilised way to begin an event, I rather think that this should be in the rider to all of my contracts – ‘the artiste will be entertained by a member of the British aristocracy no less than three hours before the performance’

 

We sipped champagne nibbled on elegant canapes and chatted to strangers – in my case a gentleman who was providing a hot air balloon ride as a raffle prize.  I asked him if he had ever been here before and he replied that the only thing he knew about the estate came from a colleague who had inadvertently landed his balloon in the grounds thus raising the anger and ire of Lord Margadale!

On the current day however his Lordship was all smiles and bonhomie, welcoming us to his home and pledging his support to the fundraising efforts ahead, and with that we made our way into the gardens to begin the day’s fun.

I wandered through the gardens looking at the stalls, buying raffle tickets (Liz and I would LOVE to go up in balloon!) and soaking up the atmosphere.

Down in the performance marquee there was due to be a short performance of a scene from The Importance of Being Ernest and I made my way down to get a seat.  The excerpt was the splendidly catty meeting between Gwendoline Fairfax and Cecily Cardew, both of whom are of the opinion that they are engaged to Jack Worthing.

Actors Helena Payne and Marie Fortune gave brilliantly funny performances getting every ounce of humour from the scene and the audience revelled in it.  I enjoyed it as much as the rest but I got even more from the experience for it was a chance for me to listen and  judge how easily I could hear the words (very easily as it happened for Helena and Marie had superb voices) and study the site lines – all of this would be invaluable when I took to the stage later.

With the show over I found a quiet bit of garden and went through my lines for a while (I only had a 45 minute slot, rather than the full hour that Marigold normally takes, so it was another of those times when I had to go through the process of remembering which lines to un-learn.)

A particular bonus of the day was that Liz was coming down with the children to join me, and at around 12.30 I got a message that she was making the ascent from the cricket pitch, over the bridge and into the car park.  We all met up and made our way to the refreshment tent where we bought sandwiches and cake.  I didn’t have much time to linger over lunch though as the time for my show was getting closer and I needed to get changed, which I was able to do in a Portaloo just behind the marquee (such glamour).

When I reemerged into the sunlight quite a reasonable audience was gathering which was reassuring.  At 2.30 I walked onto the stage, gave my little history of Marigold and then launched into the show.

It was a strange experience, for the audience were very much divided into two camps, firstly there were those sat at the front, under canvas, who were watching and listening intently and laughing at Doctor’s rapid sales patter and one liners, then there were those further out who maybe stopped by out of curiosity but were not so fully involved, maybe chatting to friends, or just watching for a few minutes before moving on to another part of the gardens.  Through it all Doctor Marigold bared his soul and told his story to half committed and half transient crowd as he would have done in fairgrounds up and down the country.

With about a quarter of the monologue still to go I began to hear pitter patter on the canvas over my head and it was like being a child lying in a tent on a rainy afternoon.  As I continued I could see people huddling under coats, and putting umbrellas up.  Doctor Marigold thought ‘my poor audience’ whilst Gerald Dickens thought ‘Damn!  I left my linen suit laying on a table outside!’  Doctor Marigold however was the stronger of us and in the middle of his recitation said, ‘come on, get out of the rain, bring your seats in here, shuffle forward, plenty of room for all, in you come’

I (he) paused as everyone huddled into the small tent, and when pretty well everyone who wanted to be thus accommodated was, I continued the story in a much more intimate setting.

The final lines of the grandchild speaking drew the usual gasp and sobs from the audience and I took my bows to lovely applause.  Diane was in the front row and I gave her a great big hug and thanked her for inviting me to be part of this amazing afternoon.

The rain was still falling outside, and I was delighted to discover that someone had seen my suit and moved it under cover.  I changed into it, and made my way back to the tent where Helena, one of the actors from earlier, was now performing a beautiful operatic aria as the rain fell hard.

Once she had finished and taken her bows the drones of a bagpipe sounded in the distance and soon the members of the  Clayesmore School Pipe Band marched damply into the space between all of the Secondary 1st stalls.  An appreciative audience stayed in the tents and watched as the stoic performers shivered and dripped in the teeming rain.  I wished I could have poured a little bubble mixture into the pipes, which would have made quite a spectacle!

The band finished their set and as they marched away they received huge applause both for their musical ability and their great resilience. As we stood the rain passed and the sun came out again shining brightly onto the old house which looked spectacular against the retreating black clouds.

It was now time to perform my final duty of the day which was to assist in the drawing of the raffle.  Wouldn’t you just believe it, but the rain had got into the electrical connections rendering the PA system useless.  There was nothing for it but to bring out my biggest, boomiest voice and to announce each of the winning tickets to the damp, dripping, expectant crowd.

Lord Margadale drew the tickets, handed them to me and I bellowed the colour, the number and the name on the back and waited for an excited cry from the audience as the lucky soul went scurrying to the table to choose their prize.  Unfortunately Liz and I were not victorious so our hot air balloon trip will have to wait for another day.

And so the event came to an end and I fetched the car and packed up all of my belongings.  I said good bye to Diane, Mary, Lord Margadale, Helena and Marie before leaving the beauty of Fonthill behind me.  I’d spent an am amazing day in fantastic surroundings, but the most important thing was that we had all raised lots of funds for Secondary 1st.

But they always need more, and I would strongly encourage you to visit their site and donate even a little – every penny helps.

This is the link to the donations page:

https://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/donation-web/charity?charityId=1015524&stop_mobi=yes

 

 

 

Rochester 2019

In 1863 Charles Dickens’ hall clock stopped striking.  In an effort to effect a speedy repair the great man wrote a brilliant letter to his clock mender:

‘Since my hall clock was sent to your establishment to be cleaned it has gone (as indeed it always has) perfectly well, but has struck the hours with great reluctance, and after enduring internal agonies of a most distressing nature, it has now ceased striking altogether. Though a happy release for the clock, this is not convenient to the household. If you can send down any confidential person with whom the clock can confer, I think it may have something on its works it would be glad to make a clean breast of, 

Faithfully yours, 

Charles Dickens’

Last week my laptop also lapsed into an electronic stupor and without the same wit I similarly approached my local computer repairer.

For this reason I am slightly behind on my blog posts, but the laptop is now back to rude health and so here are my recent musings:

 

 

There are certain events throughout my performing year that are set fixtures, stalwarts, old friends.  The Summer Dickens Festival is one such.

I must have been travelling to Rochester for about 35 years or so, initially as a punter, accompanying my dad who would inevitably have been be called upon to give a talk or maybe the annual oration at the memorial service in the cathedral.  I used to watch him with a sense of awe at the ease with which he spoke and of his great knowledge (both of which were the result of immense amounts of work and rehearsal, of course)

As my career as a performer of Dickens’ work took off in the mid 1990’s so our roles reversed and it was I who became the artiste and it was dad who watched proudly on.

After a show in Rochester

This year’s Rochester Festival took place over the weekend of the 1 and 2 June and I set out from home on Friday afternoon so that I could settle in to my hotel and be ready for a pressure-free start to Saturday.   I had left in good time and had in mind that I may even manage to squeeze a few holes of golf in before my supper, the car park that is the M25 on a Friday night would put paid to that, though.

Driving from Oxford I have a choice as to which way I can go around the orbital motorway to get to Kent.  On this occasion my phone suggested  I go north, avoiding the bottle neck around Heathrow Airport, but running the risk of being held up at the Dartford river crossing, although in reality on Friday 31 May the entire circle was crawling.

As I joined the M25 the SatNav told me that my journey would last for a further 2 hours, which would get me to the hotel for about 6pm and allow me a little twilight round of golf.  Perfect.

I sat in traffic.  I edged forward.  I sat in the same traffic.  And however much I edged in 1st gear, or even surged forward in 2nd, the journey time stayed resolutely at 2 hours – it never went up strangely, but never decreased either.  My arrival time became 7 (maybe just 9 holes then), 7.30, 8 (5 holes?) and then finally 8.30.  There would be no golf that night, then.

At one point as I sat musing I noticed an aeroplane lumbering towards me, with its unpainted fuselage glinting in the evening sun.  It was obviously something historic and I opened the window so that I could fully appreciate and enjoy the wonderful sound of its engines as it flew directly overhead.  As it came closer I saw it to be a Dakota and I now realise that it must have been arriving in readiness for the following week’s D Day celebrations.

Finally I reached the Dartford crossing and soared up high over the river having my usual melancholy and reflective thoughts as I did so.  To my right the skyline of the city of London shimmered in the lowering sun and I passed from Essex into Kent.

Finally freed from the M25 my journey sped up considerably and soon I was driving past the village of Cobham on my right, meaning that the only house that Charles Dickens ever owned, Gad’s Hill Place, was somewhere in the woodland to my left.  I gave a reverential nod to the old place and drove on my way.  Soon the M2 reached the river Medway and from huge span of the bridge I  could look downstream to see the ancient castle and cathedral of Rochester.  At this point the river meanders around a long bend and it was on these banks that the Short Brothers Flying boats were built.  Maybe it was having seen the Dakota earlier but as I looked at the view I could quite clearly imagine one of the great lumbering Sunderlands throwing up spray as its throttles were opened and, defying the natural laws of physics, take to the sky.

After a little more driving I was  pulling up outside my hotel in Gillingham, the golf clubs remained firmly in the car and I was soon enjoying a steak pie and mash for my dinner.

 

Saturday

Over my years attending the festival there have been many changes at the organisational helm as personnel at the City Council are moved on, move on of their own volition or retire , and after a period of relative stability this year marked one such change.

Of course a new hand on the tiller means new ideas and the main one for this year was that we would only have one grand parade each day, instead of the two in previous years. Personally I think that this was a good innovation for the second parade of the day was always a bit of a damp squib, but I had no doubt that lots of the regular Victorian characters would complain most vociferously!

The other thing that ALWAYS happens when there is a change of leadership is that my shows are billed as ‘readings’ which is always a source of great frustration to me.  Anyone who has seen me perform will no that the one thing I do not do is ‘read!’

After breakfast I got into my Victorian costume and drove into the heart of Rochester to set up for my show at 12.  With the change to the parade timetable my performance  was earlier in the day than in the past, so I had to make sure that all of my furniture and props were in place in good time.  As a performer I had been allocated a free parking place in the city’s ‘park and walk’ facility, but that would mean dropping off the props, driving to the car park (about a mile away), walking back to the Guildhall, setting up and being ready for the audience at 11.30.

I pulled up in front of the large iron gates that form the entrance to the Guildhall’s car park, pushed them open and drove in.   I started to unload my stuff and in no time the museum’s staff were helping me. I was secretly hoping that an offer may be forthcoming to leave my car in the little courtyard but I wasn’t hopeful as it seemed to be rather full, however the offer was made, so long as I could free the other cars I would be blocking by 4.45 – that wouldn’t be a problem – and I was thus saved the long walk in blisteringly hot weather.

In the grand Guildhall chamber (in which Pip was formally apprenticed to Joe Gargery in Great Expectations) I arranged my set and when all was done I took a stroll into the High Street to meet and greet as many old friends as possible.

The 2019 Summer Dickens was rather a special one for me because a photograph of me smiling and waving had been selected to be the main poster image for the event: quite the ego boost.  My grinning mug was on the front of every programme of events and even more alarmingly ‘I’ looked down upon the massed crowds from a huge banner on the castle wall

Having soaked up the atmosphere I went back to the Guildhall where an audience were already gathering for my show, which is always a relief.  On the street outside the  Guildhall there was a Punch and Judy show in full swing and a crowd of children from a generation that apparently only care about ‘screen time’ and video games cheered, laughed and shouted at Mr and Mrs Punch, not to mention the crocodile, the policeman and the string of sausages.

It was a scene that could have come from any fair or fete since 1662 when Samuel Pepys first witnessed a puppet show featuring Mr Punch in front of St Paul’s Church. Charles Dickens himself wrote about Mr Codlin and Mr Short who toured a Punch and Judy show in The Old Curiosity Shop.

It was a lovely sight.

Back upstairs in the main Council chamber the audience were gathering and I started gathering my thoughts for the show to come.  This year I was performing my 1 hour version of Nicholas Nickleby. and on the stroke of 12 I walked to the front of the room (accompanied by a most agreeable round of applause).  I always start Nickleby by talking about the Royal Shakespeare Company’s epic 8 hour adaptation of the novel which opened my eyes to the brilliance of Charles Dickens, and having finished that little preamble I launched into the show.  I begin by apparently reading the opening lines of the novel from a huge book:

‘There once lived, in a sequestered part of the county of Devonshire, one Mr Godfrey Nickleby….’

And from there launch into the multi-character show.

My Nickleby is a rush through the novel taking the basic plot of  Nicholas’s antagonistic relationship with his evil uncle Ralph who visits the family in meagre lodgings kept by a painter of miniatures Miss La Creevey Ralph grudgingly organises employment for his nephew by sending him to work at the Yorkshire school of Wackford Squeers where he meets the young, beaten, malnourished pupil Smike.  Having witnessed terrible cruelty in the school and beaten the schoolmaster Nicholas flees to London (with Smike in tow) and from there to Portsmouth, thereby creating the model for the charity walk which Ian and I undertook in 2012.

Whilst in Portsmouth Nicholas meets up with the outrageously theatrical Vincent Crummles and the members of his troupe, before he is called back to London to look after his mother and sister Kate, who has been used by Ralph as a sweetener for some underhand financial deals with a group of unsavoury business men.  Realising that he has to support his family Nicholas is employed by the ever-smiling and beneficent Cheeryble Brothers and their long serving elderly clerk Tim Linkinwater.

But, evil plots are afoot and Ralph colludes with Squeers to recapture Smike, which they do but he is then set free by the bluff Yorkshireman John Browdie.

Smike returns to Nicholas but becomes ill and has to be removed from the city.  The family return to Nicholas’ childhood county of Devon where Smike dies in a very perfect and Dickensian manner.

Meanwhile in London Ralph is confronted by his past – Smike was his son!  Overwhelmed with remorse Ralph runs back to his house rushes up to a garret room, where Smile slept as a child, and hangs himself.

The plot is wrapped up as we are told that Nicholas, Kate, Miss La Creevey and Tim Linkinwater all married and that their offspring bowed their heads and spoke softly of their poor dead cousin.

Phew!

It’s a fun show with lots of characters and action, and in the heat of Saturday 1 June I worked up quite a sweat.  The audience applause lasted a gratifyingly long time and I took my bows thankfully.  When the clapping finally died down I returned to the reading desk, turned a page of the book and said ‘Chapter 2’, which got a huge laugh.

I spent quite a long time chatting to some of the audience members and signing a few copies of the event programme until eventually everyone left and headed to different parts of the city-wide festival to seek their fun.

I had time for a brief bite of lunch (a hog roast sandwich with apple sauce) in the performer’s green room, which was located in a large marquee nestled in the dried up moat of the Norman Castle.  I chatted to some of the other performers until we all started gathering our things to join the parade.  In my case this involved picking up my top hat and walking cane, but for two of the others it meant dressing themselves as Mr Philleas Fogg and partner from ‘Around the World in Eighty Days and then  installing themselves into two hot air balloons which were built on Segways meaning they appeared to float along the street.  Although not Dickensian these two added a fabulous flavour to the whole event.

I made my way to the far end of the High Street where I joined the fabulous collection of characters, a few Nancys, a couple of Miss Havishams, a Fagin or two.  Our venerable Mr Pickwick had retired last year, and the character was now being portrayed by a gentleman who used to be Mr Bumble, which was all very confusing.

Before we started I was introduced to the new Mayor of Medway, Councillor Habib Tejan and the Mayoress Bridget.  The Rochester festival is always the first event that a new Mayor attends and I have ushered a few of them through the excitements of the parades.  Cllr Tejan was smiley, full of laughter and confident and I had no doubts that he would have  a great weekend.

At 2pm the bagpipes and drums of the Rochester Pipe Band droned into life and off we went waving to the crowds.  The parade is always fun and the crowds, although slightly smaller than years past, were in fine form.   At the front the Mayor and Mayoress were chaperoned and flanked by two huge security guards but after about ten minutes the Mayor broke ranks to start high fiving some children in the crowd and I thought to myself ‘he will make a very good Mayor!’

The parade ran its course and on the stage between the castle and cathedral crowds were welcomed (in English, French, German, Spanish, Japanese and Cantonese – the Mayor was REALLY trying hard to impress!), before we all drifted away again to continue entertaining the thousands of people who had taken the time and trouble to attend.

I made my way into the castle grounds which surround the keep and strolled around perusing the entertainment on offer.  Alongside the garish modern fairground rides from which came flirtatious teenage screams, there was of course the magnificent carousel which is always a favourite, but this year there were a few stalls that really captured the essence of a Victorian fairground.

For a few years The Amazing Camera Obscura has set up its little tent, but this year it was joined by The Insect Museum and Mr Aexander’s Travelling Show both of which utilised large truck trailers to create their sets: they were perfect and if this is the direction that the festival is heading then things look good.

 

As I ambled my attention was caught by the Great Kentspectations Steam Punk tent who were encouraging guests to try their hand at Familiar Flinging.  Over the last few years the Steampunk crowd have become more and more involved in the festival and have brought a colour and life to it that has been a joy to witness.  Familiar Flinging entails placing a soft toy into a large leather catapult hidden in a metal cannon and firing it at a distant target.  When I was spotted at the edge of the crowd I was hauled in to try my hand, unfortunately my shot was too big and my toy sailed over the target and landed in the grass beyond, allowing someone else to claim the prize.

I had one more engagement on Saturday afternoon, although I wasn’t convinced that anyone would turn up for it.  Q&A sessions after my shows have always proved popular and fun, so I had suggested that it may be an idea to have a specific session where people could ask me anything about Charles Dickens or myself.  Although no expert I can certainly get by and there would no doubt be ample opportunity to trot out a few funny stories and anecdotes from my years on the road.  Unfortunately I was scheduled to appear at 3.45 when most of the crowds would be wending their way home.

On my return to the Guildhall I was pleasantly surprised to find a goodly collection of people patiently waiting in their seats, many of whom had been at Nickleby earlier in the day.  As I stood at the back waiting for 3.45 to tick around I suddenly had a major pang of nerves – I was laying myself bare, completely unprepared and I wasn’t sure if I was up to it after all.

I took a deep breath and walked to the front of the room.  The ‘stage’ that had felt so safe earlier in the day when I had been performing Nickleby now suddenly felt claustrophobic and intimidating .  All of those feelings were irrelevant  I had to do it and that was that.

I opened proceedings by saying that this was a completely informal session and it would be driven purely by what came from the floor, and so let the questions commence.  There was a lull, as is usual at such moments, when everyone waits for everyone else to make the first move.  Eventually (actually it was probably only a couple of seconds) a gentleman at the back raised his hand.  Excellent, let’s hope for a nice, gentle, easy question to start:

‘Mr Dickens, thank you for being here this afternoon.  I assume that you are aware of the recent find of letters in the archives of Harvard University  relating to the relationship between Charles and his wife Catherine and that she suggested that he wanted to have her committed to an asylum?  What are your thoughts on this?’

OK, a nice, gentle, easy question to begin with then!

I am aware of the letters, but have not researched them in depth, but I gave the honest answer and that is that the thought of the suggestion made me profoundly sad for, as I pointed out, Catherine was my great great grandmother and therefore exactly the same to me emotionally and genetically as Charles and I hate the way he treated her during the period of their separation.

This answer proved an acceptable one and opened the way for others to chime in with their thoughts and opinions.

Soon the whole room was involved and other, less contentious, questions were being asked.  I loved every second of the session and my pre-show nerves were forgotten.  The time flew by,  fact it was only when I saw a member of the Guildhall staff nervously looking around the door that I remembered that I was supposed to be moving my car out of the way by 4.45 or no one would be able to get out!

I brought the session to a close and still chatting to a few of  the audience made my way down the magnificent staircase.  I said goodbye to my friends at the Guildhall and drove back to the hotel.

It was 5.15.  There was time for golf.

 

Sunday

So far as my shows were concerned Sunday was a repeat of Saturday:  Nickleby at 12, parade at 2, Q&A at 3.45, so I wont go over all that again, but there was a fun addition to proceedings and that was an interview with a children’s TV show who were filming at the festival.

I was due to meet them at 10am, so I set off  early and arrived at the Guildhall (which had rather become my own private green room) at 9.30.  Inside the staff were getting ready for a new day and one of the jobs was to vacuum the grand staircase.  The plush red pile was perfectly flat and as I walked up it I left the imprints of my shoes as if I was walking on virgin snow.

Having made sure that all of my props were in place for my first show I popped into the aptly named Quills coffee shop and had a cuppa, before heading to the castle at 10, where I found the film crew which comprised of a director, two camera operators and a sound technician busily getting ready.

On a low wall sat two costumed figures, apparently Scrooge and the Artful Dodger, concentrating hard on what appeared to be scripts.

The PR lady from Medway Council introduced me and  put me in the hands of the director who ran through the morning’s proceedings.  We were filming for a programme called ‘All Over the Place’ which airs on the CBBC channel, in which the presenters, Ed and Lauren, investigate various events around the country.

The scenario was as follows:

Ebenezer and Dodger (aka Ed and Lauren both of whom I recognised from a variety of other programmes on the BBC children’s networks) have arrived in the middle of the Dickens Festival and spotting me standing there with my top hat on come and chat:

 

Ebenezer:  ‘Ah, my good man, are you Mr Charles Dickens perchance?’

Me: ‘No, but I am his great great grandfather Gerald Dickens!’

Dodger:  ‘No way!  That’s amazing.  Why do people still like reading stories by your great great gramps?

I then explained how popular he was in his lifetime, his connection with Rochester, and the reason for the festival.  Ed then took up the script:

Ebenezer: We both want to be more Dickensian than the other, can you help us?’

Me: ‘I can, you will be visited by three judges…’

Ebenezer:  ‘Ah from the past, present and future, like in A Christmas Carol! You see I know my Dickens.’

Me: ‘No, all from the past you will talk to three Dickens characters and they will help you!’

Ebenezer: ‘Well, we’d better get on, what’s the time?’   As he fumbles for his watch he realises that the Dodger has stolen it and is running away.  The scene ended in a flurry of ‘Bah! Humbugs ‘ and off they went to explore.

We filmed the scene a few times from different angles and to avoid Cathedral bells ringing – alright it WAS Sunday morning, but didn’t they know this was for the BBC? – and various other extraneous noises.

Eventually we had the scene completed and we all moved on to another location in the High Street to film the end of the programme.

In the show Ed and Lauren had been amongst the characters all day and now came back to me to perform a short piece and I was to judge who had done the best job.  Quite a crowd gathered around us as we filmed, and other costumed folk heckled and joined in, all of which was great fun.

Ed went first and performed the ‘Christmas? What is Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills with no money….’ speech.

He needed a couple of takes but did well and remained in character throughout, obviously a serious contender!

Lauren was next up and she had the speech from Oliver Twist when the Dodger first offers to take Oliver back to Mr Fagin.  Lauren was great with the crowd and played the scene with huge fun, maybe not quite what Mr D had intended, but everyone enjoyed it immensely!  She used members of the audience (including one of the Fagins who had fortuitously stopped by to watch.)  Lauren’s more improvisational approach led her to repeatedly forgetting her lines and we did quite a few takes before the crew were satisfied.  All I had to do was to watch, nod, and stroke my beard thoughtfully.

And now it was down to me, who got the vote?

You had better watch ‘All Over the Place’ which will air in October to find out!

Rochester 2019 was great fun, as Rochester always is.  The crowds were lower than in years past and some naysayers put that down to there only being one parade each day, instead of two, which I don’t think was true.

Somehow the festival felt better for the lower numbers, in the past it has been noisy, unwieldy, rowdy and the reason for the celebration has felt lost, whereas this year there was a definite Victorian feel to the proceedings.

Next year will be a special one for 2020 marks 150 years since the death of Charles Dickens.  The festival itself will change dates so that events can be held over the anniversary itself and moves are afoot to mark Charles’ wishes to be buried in the grounds of Rochester Cathedral, which were ignored at the time so that he could take his place among the literary greats in Westminster Abbey.

It could be an emotional one!