Mrs Joseph Porter

The second of the Sketches written by Charles Dickens for The Monthly Magazine describes a wonderful amateur theatrical, and was quite prophetic, for over twenty years later Dickens himself would convert his London house into a theatre to stage a grand production of ‘The Frozen Deep.  The description of the dining room being ‘…dismantled of its furniture, and ornaments’ could just as easily applied to the reality of Tavistock House as to the fictitious Rose Villa.  Dickens, or Boz, was in his element!

 

Mrs Joseph Porter

 

Most extensive were the preparations at Rose Villa, Clapham Rise, in the occupation of Mr. Gattleton (a stock-broker in especially comfortable circumstances), and great was the anxiety of Mr. Gattleton’s interesting family, as the day fixed for the representation of the Private Play which had been ‘many months in preparation,’ approached. The whole family was infected with the mania for Private Theatricals; the house, usually so clean and tidy, was, to use Mr. Gattleton’s expressive description, ‘regularly turned out o’ windows;’ the large dining-room, dismantled of its furniture, and ornaments, presented a strange jumble of flats, flies, wings, lamps, bridges, clouds, thunder and lightning, festoons and flowers, daggers and foil, and various other messes in theatrical slang included under the comprehensive name of ‘properties.’ The bedrooms were crowded with scenery, the kitchen was occupied by carpenters. Rehearsals took place every other night in the drawing-room, and every sofa in the house was more or less damaged by the perseverance and spirit with which Mr. Sempronius Gattleton, and Miss Lucina, rehearsed the smothering scene in ‘Othello’—it having been determined that that tragedy should form the first portion of the evening’s entertainments.

 
‘When we’re a leetle more perfect, I think it will go admirably,’ said Mr. Sempronius, addressing his corps dramatique, at the conclusion of the hundred and fiftieth rehearsal. In consideration of his sustaining the trifling inconvenience of bearing all the expenses of the play, Mr. Sempronius had been, in the most handsome manner, unanimously elected stage-manager. ‘Evans,’ continued Mr. Gattleton, the younger, addressing a tall, thin, pale young gentleman, with extensive whiskers—‘Evans, you play Roderigo beautifully.’

 
‘Beautifully,’ echoed the three Miss Gattletons; for Mr. Evans was pronounced by all his lady friends to be ‘quite a dear.’ He looked so interesting, and had such lovely whiskers: to say nothing of his talent for writing verses in albums and playing the flute! Roderigo simpered and bowed.

 
‘But I think,’ added the manager, ‘you are hardly perfect in the—fall—in the fencing-scene, where you are—you understand?’

 
‘It’s very difficult,’ said Mr. Evans, thoughtfully; ‘I’ve fallen about, a good deal, in our counting-house lately, for practice, only I find it hurts one so. Being obliged to fall backward you see, it bruises one’s head a good deal.’

 
‘But you must take care you don’t knock a wing down,’ said Mr. Gattleton, the elder, who had been appointed prompter, and who took as much interest in the play as the youngest of the company. ‘The stage is very narrow, you know.’

 
‘Oh! don’t be afraid,’ said Mr. Evans, with a very self-satisfied air; ‘I shall fall with my head “off,” and then I can’t do any harm.’

 
‘But, egad,’ said the manager, rubbing his hands, ‘we shall make a decided hit in “Masaniello.” Harleigh sings that music admirably.’

 
Everybody echoed the sentiment. Mr. Harleigh smiled, and looked foolish—not an unusual thing with him—hummed’ Behold how brightly breaks the morning,’ and blushed as red as the fisherman’s nightcap he was trying on.

 
‘Let’s see,’ resumed the manager, telling the number on his fingers, ‘we shall have three dancing female peasants, besides Fenella, and four fishermen. Then, there’s our man Tom; he can have a pair of ducks of mine, and a check shirt of Bob’s, and a red nightcap, and he’ll do for another—that’s five. In the choruses, of course, we can sing at the sides; and in the market-scene we can walk about in cloaks and things. When the revolt takes place, Tom must keep rushing in on one side and out on the other, with a pickaxe, as fast as he can. The effect will be electrical; it will look exactly as if there were an immense number of ’em. And in the eruption-scene we must burn the red fire, and upset the tea-trays, and make all sorts of noises—and it’s sure to do.’

 
‘Sure! sure!’ cried all the performers unâ voce—and away hurried Mr. Sempronius Gattleton to wash the burnt cork off his face, and superintend the ‘setting up’ of some of the amateur-painted, but never-sufficiently-to-be-admired, scenery.

 
Mrs. Gattleton was a kind, good-tempered, vulgar soul, exceedingly fond of her husband and children, and entertaining only three dislikes. In the first place, she had a natural antipathy to anybody else’s unmarried daughters; in the second, she was in bodily fear of anything in the shape of ridicule; lastly—almost a necessary consequence of this feeling—she regarded, with feelings of the utmost horror, one Mrs. Joseph Porter over the way. However, the good folks of Clapham and its vicinity stood very much in awe of scandal and sarcasm; and thus Mrs. Joseph Porter was courted, and flattered, and caressed, and invited, for much the same reason that induces a poor author, without a farthing in his pocket, to behave with extraordinary civility to a twopenny postman.

 
‘Never mind, ma,’ said Miss Emma Porter, in colloquy with her respected relative, and trying to look unconcerned; ‘if they had invited me, you know that neither you nor pa would have allowed me to take part in such an exhibition.’

 
‘Just what I should have thought from your high sense of propriety,’ returned the mother. ‘I am glad to see, Emma, you know how to designate the proceeding.’ Miss P., by-the-bye, had only the week before made ‘an exhibition’ of herself for four days, behind a counter at a fancy fair, to all and every of her Majesty’s liege subjects who were disposed to pay a shilling each for the privilege of seeing some four dozen girls flirting with strangers, and playing at shop.

 
‘There!’ said Mrs. Porter, looking out of window; ‘there are two rounds of beef and a ham going in—clearly for sandwiches; and Thomas, the pastry-cook, says, there have been twelve dozen tarts ordered, besides blancmange and jellies. Upon my word! think of the Miss Gattletons in fancy dresses, too!’

 
‘Oh, it’s too ridiculous!’ said Miss Porter, hysterically.
‘I’ll manage to put them a little out of conceit with the business, however,’ said Mrs. Porter; and out she went on her charitable errand.

 
‘Well, my dear Mrs. Gattleton,’ said Mrs. Joseph Porter, after they had been closeted for some time, and when, by dint of indefatigable pumping, she had managed to extract all the news about the play, ‘well, my dear, people may say what they please; indeed we know they will, for some folks are so ill-natured. Ah, my dear Miss Lucina, how d’ye do? I was just telling your mamma that I have heard it said, that—’

 
‘What?’

 
‘Mrs. Porter is alluding to the play, my dear,’ said Mrs. Gattleton; ‘she was, I am sorry to say, just informing me that—’

 
‘Oh, now pray don’t mention it,’ interrupted Mrs. Porter; ‘it’s most absurd—quite as absurd as young What’s-his-name saying he wondered how Miss Caroline, with such a foot and ankle, could have the vanity to play Fenella.’

 
‘Highly impertinent, whoever said it,’ said Mrs. Gattleton, bridling up.

 
‘Certainly, my dear,’ chimed in the delighted Mrs. Porter; ‘most undoubtedly! Because, as I said, if Miss Caroline does play Fenella, it doesn’t follow, as a matter of course, that she should think she has a pretty foot;—and then—such puppies as these young men are—he had the impudence to say, that—’

 
How far the amiable Mrs. Porter might have succeeded in her pleasant purpose, it is impossible to say, had not the entrance of Mr. Thomas Balderstone, Mrs. Gattleton’s brother, familiarly called in the family ‘Uncle Tom,’ changed the course of conversation, and suggested to her mind an excellent plan of operation on the evening of the play.

 
Uncle Tom was very rich, and exceedingly fond of his nephews and nieces: as a matter of course, therefore, he was an object of great importance in his own family. He was one of the best-hearted men in existence: always in a good temper, and always talking. It was his boast that he wore top-boots on all occasions, and had never worn a black silk neckerchief; and it was his pride that he remembered all the principal plays of Shakspeare from beginning to end—and so he did. The result of this parrot-like accomplishment was, that he was not only perpetually quoting himself, but that he could never sit by, and hear a misquotation from the ‘Swan of Avon’ without setting the unfortunate delinquent right. He was also something of a wag; never missed an opportunity of saying what he considered a good thing, and invariably laughed until he cried at anything that appeared to him mirth-moving or ridiculous.

 
‘Well, girls!’ said Uncle Tom, after the preparatory ceremony of kissing and how-d’ye-do-ing had been gone through—‘how d’ye get on? Know your parts, eh?—Lucina, my dear, act II., scene I—place, left-cue—“Unknown fate,”—What’s next, eh?—Go on—“The Heavens—”’

 
‘Oh, yes,’ said Miss Lucina, ‘I recollect –  “The heavens forbid But that our loves and comforts should increase Even as our days do grow!”’

 
‘Make a pause here and there,’ said the old gentleman, who was a great critic. ‘“But that our loves and comforts should increase”—emphasis on the last syllable, “crease,”—loud “even,”—one, two, three, four; then loud again, “as our days do grow;” emphasis on days. That’s the way, my dear; trust to your uncle for emphasis. Ah! Sem, my boy, how are you?’

 
‘Very well, thankee, uncle,’ returned Mr. Sempronius, who had just appeared, looking something like a ringdove, with a small circle round each eye: the result of his constant corking. ‘Of course we see you on Thursday.’

 
‘Of course, of course, my dear boy.’

 
‘What a pity it is your nephew didn’t think of making you prompter, Mr. Balderstone!’ whispered Mrs. Joseph Porter; ‘you would have been invaluable.’

 
‘Well, I flatter myself, I should have been tolerably up to the thing,’ responded Uncle Tom.

 
‘I must bespeak sitting next you on the night,’ resumed Mrs. Porter; ‘and then, if our dear young friends here, should be at all wrong, you will be able to enlighten me. I shall be so interested.’

 
‘I am sure I shall be most happy to give you any assistance in my power’
‘Mind, it’s a bargain.’

 
‘Certainly.’

 
‘I don’t know how it is,’ said Mrs. Gattleton to her daughters, as they were sitting round the fire in the evening, looking over their parts, ‘but I really very much wish Mrs. Joseph Porter wasn’t coming on Thursday. I am sure she’s scheming something.’

 
‘She can’t make us ridiculous, however,’ observed Mr. Sempronius Gattleton, haughtily.

 
The long-looked-for Thursday arrived in due course, and brought with it, as Mr. Gattleton, senior, philosophically observed, ‘no disappointments, to speak of.’ True, it was yet a matter of doubt whether Cassio would be enabled to get into the dress which had been sent for him from the masquerade warehouse. It was equally uncertain whether the principal female singer would be sufficiently recovered from the influenza to make her appearance; Mr. Harleigh, the Masaniello of the night, was hoarse, and rather unwell, in consequence of the great quantity of lemon and sugar-candy he had eaten to improve his voice; and two flutes and a violoncello had pleaded severe colds.

 

 

What of that? the audience were all coming. Everybody knew his part: the dresses were covered with tinsel and spangles; the white plumes looked beautiful; Mr. Evans had practised falling until he was bruised from head to foot and quite perfect; Iago was sure that, in the stabbing-scene, he should make ‘a decided hit.’ A self-taught deaf gentleman, who had kindly offered to bring his flute, would be a most valuable addition to the orchestra; Miss Jenkins’s talent for the piano was too well known to be doubted for an instant; Mr. Cape had practised the violin accompaniment with her frequently; and Mr. Brown, who had kindly undertaken, at a few hours’ notice, to bring his violoncello, would, no doubt, manage extremely well.

 
Seven o’clock came, and so did the audience; all the rank and fashion of Clapham and its vicinity was fast filling the theatre. There were the Smiths, the Gubbinses, the Nixons, the Dixons, the Hicksons, people with all sorts of names, two aldermen, a sheriff in perspective, Sir Thomas Glumper (who had been knighted in the last reign for carrying up an address on somebody’s escaping from nothing); and last, not least, there were Mrs. Joseph Porter and Uncle Tom, seated in the centre of the third row from the stage; Mrs. P. amusing Uncle Tom with all sorts of stories, and Uncle Tom amusing every one else by laughing most immoderately.

 
Ting, ting, ting! went the prompter’s bell at eight o’clock precisely, and dash went the orchestra into the overture to ‘The Men of Prometheus.’ The pianoforte player hammered away with laudable perseverance; and the violoncello, which struck in at intervals, ‘sounded very well, considering.’ The unfortunate individual, however, who had undertaken to play the flute accompaniment ‘at sight,’ found, from fatal experience, the perfect truth of the old adage, ‘ought of sight, out of mind;’ for being very near-sighted, and being placed at a considerable distance from his music-book, all he had an opportunity of doing was to play a bar now and then in the wrong place, and put the other performers out. It is, however, but justice to Mr. Brown to say that he did this to admiration. The overture, in fact, was not unlike a race between the different instruments; the piano came in first by several bars, and the violoncello next, quite distancing the poor flute; for the deaf gentleman too-too’d away, quite unconscious that he was at all wrong, until apprised, by the applause of the audience, that the overture was concluded. A considerable bustle and shuffling of feet was then heard upon the stage, accompanied by whispers of ‘Here’s a pretty go!—what’s to be done?’ &c. The audience applauded again, by way of raising the spirits of the performers; and then Mr. Sempronius desired the prompter, in a very audible voice, to ‘clear the stage, and ring up.’

 
Ting, ting, ting! went the bell again. Everybody sat down; the curtain shook; rose sufficiently high to display several pair of yellow boots paddling about; and there remained.

 
Ting, ting, ting! went the bell again. The curtain was violently convulsed, but rose no higher; the audience tittered; Mrs. Porter looked at Uncle Tom; Uncle Tom looked at everybody, rubbing his hands, and laughing with perfect rapture. After as much ringing with the little bell as a muffin-boy would make in going down a tolerably long street, and a vast deal of whispering, hammering, and calling for nails and cord, the curtain at length rose, and discovered Mr. Sempronius Gattleton solus, and decked for Othello. After three distinct rounds of applause, during which Mr. Sempronius applied his right hand to his left breast, and bowed in the most approved manner, the manager advanced and said:

 
‘Ladies and Gentlemen—I assure you it is with sincere regret, that I regret to be compelled to inform you, that Iago who was to have played Mr. Wilson—I beg your pardon, Ladies and Gentlemen, but I am naturally somewhat agitated (applause)—I mean, Mr. Wilson, who was to have played Iago, is—that is, has been—or, in other words, Ladies and Gentlemen, the fact is, that I have just received a note, in which I am informed that Iago is unavoidably detained at the Post-office this evening. Under these circumstances, I trust—a—a—amateur performance—a—another gentleman undertaken to read the part—request indulgence for a short time—courtesy and kindness of a British audience.’ Overwhelming applause. Exit Mr. Sempronius Gattleton, and curtain falls.

 
The audience were, of course, exceedingly good-humoured; the whole business was a joke; and accordingly they waited for an hour with the utmost patience, being enlivened by an interlude of rout-cakes and lemonade. It appeared by Mr. Sempronius’s subsequent explanation, that the delay would not have been so great, had it not so happened that when the substitute Iago had finished dressing, and just as the play was on the point of commencing, the original Iago unexpectedly arrived. The former was therefore compelled to undress, and the latter to dress for his part; which, as he found some difficulty in getting into his clothes, occupied no inconsiderable time. At last, the tragedy began in real earnest. It went off well enough, until the third scene of the first act, in which Othello addresses the Senate: the only remarkable circumstance being, that as Iago could not get on any of the stage boots, in consequence of his feet being violently swelled with the heat and excitement, he was under the necessity of playing the part in a pair of Wellingtons, which contrasted rather oddly with his richly embroidered pantaloons. When Othello started with his address to the Senate (whose dignity was represented by, the Duke, a carpenter, two men engaged on the recommendation of the gardener, and a boy), Mrs. Porter found the opportunity she so anxiously sought.
Mr. Sempronius proceeded:

 
‘“Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors, My very noble and approv’d good masters, That I have ta’en away this old man’s daughter, It is most true;—rude am I in my speech—”’

 
‘Is that right?’ whispered Mrs. Porter to Uncle Tom.

 
‘No.’

 
‘Tell him so, then.’

 
‘I will. Sem!’ called out Uncle Tom, ‘that’s wrong, my boy.’

 
‘What’s wrong, uncle?’ demanded Othello, quite forgetting the dignity of his situation.

 

 
‘You’ve left out something. “True I have married—”’

 

 
‘Oh, ah!’ said Mr. Sempronius, endeavouring to hide his confusion as much and as ineffectually as the audience attempted to conceal their half-suppressed tittering, by coughing with extraordinary violence –

 

 
– ‘“true I have married her; – The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent; no more.”

 
(Aside) Why don’t you prompt, father?’

 
‘Because I’ve mislaid my spectacles,’ said poor Mr. Gattleton, almost dead with the heat and bustle.

 
‘There, now it’s “rude am I,”’ said Uncle Tom.

 
‘Yes, I know it is,’ returned the unfortunate manager, proceeding with his part.
It would be useless and tiresome to quote the number of instances in which Uncle Tom, now completely in his element, and instigated by the mischievous Mrs. Porter, corrected the mistakes of the performers; suffice it to say, that having mounted his hobby, nothing could induce him to dismount; so, during the whole remainder of the play, he performed a kind of running accompaniment, by muttering everybody’s part as it was being delivered, in an under-tone. The audience were highly amused, Mrs. Porter delighted, the performers embarrassed; Uncle Tom never was better pleased in all his life; and Uncle Tom’s nephews and nieces had never, although the declared heirs to his large property, so heartily wished him gathered to his fathers as on that memorable occasion.

 
Several other minor causes, too, united to damp the ardour of the dramatis personae. None of the performers could walk in their tights, or move their arms in their jackets; the pantaloons were too small, the boots too large, and the swords of all shapes and sizes. Mr. Evans, naturally too tall for the scenery, wore a black velvet hat with immense white plumes, the glory of which was lost in ‘the flies;’ and the only other inconvenience of which was, that when it was off his head he could not put it on, and when it was on he could not take it off. Notwithstanding all his practice, too, he fell with his head and shoulders as neatly through one of the side scenes, as a harlequin would jump through a panel in a Christmas pantomime. The pianoforte player, overpowered by the extreme heat of the room, fainted away at the commencement of the entertainments, leaving the music of ‘Masaniello’ to the flute and violoncello. The orchestra complained that Mr. Harleigh put them out, and Mr. Harleigh declared that the orchestra prevented his singing a note. The fishermen, who were hired for the occasion, revolted to the very life, positively refusing to play without an increased allowance of spirits; and, their demand being complied with, getting drunk in the eruption-scene as naturally as possible. The red fire, which was burnt at the conclusion of the second act, not only nearly suffocated the audience, but nearly set the house on fire into the bargain; and, as it was, the remainder of the piece was acted in a thick fog.

 
In short, the whole affair was, as Mrs. Joseph Porter triumphantly told everybody, ‘a complete failure.’ The audience went home at four o’clock in the morning, exhausted with laughter, suffering from severe headaches, and smelling terribly of brimstone and gunpowder. The Messrs. Gattleton, senior and junior, retired to rest, with the vague idea of emigrating to Swan River early in the ensuing week.

 
Rose Villa has once again resumed its wonted appearance; the dining-room furniture has been replaced; the tables are as nicely polished as formerly; the horsehair chairs are ranged against the wall, as regularly as ever; Venetian blinds have been fitted to every window in the house to intercept the prying gaze of Mrs. Joseph Porter. The subject of theatricals is never mentioned in the Gattleton family, unless, indeed, by Uncle Tom, who cannot refrain from sometimes expressing his surprise and regret at finding that his nephews and nieces appear to have lost the relish they once possessed for the beauties of Shakspeare, and quotations from the works of that immortal bard.

A Dinner at Poplar Walk (Mr Minns And His Cousin)

In 1833 a young reporter by the name of Charles Dickens posted a manuscript through the letterbox of The Monthly Magazine.  The story was called A Dinner at Poplar Walk and beneath the title was written the pen name of Boz.

This was the first of the famous ‘Sketches’ and was also the first published work of the author whose works would go on to influence not only his own generations but also those that followed.

With all of this extra time on your hands you may enjoy going back to where it all began:

 

A Dinner at Poplar Walk.  By Boz:

Mr. Augustus Minns was a bachelor, of about forty as he said—of about eight-and-forty as his friends said. He was always exceedingly clean, precise, and tidy; perhaps somewhat priggish, and the most retiring man in the world. He usually wore a brown frock-coat without a wrinkle, light inexplicables without a spot, a neat neckerchief with a remarkably neat tie, and boots without a fault; moreover, he always carried a brown silk umbrella with an ivory handle. He was a clerk in Somerset-house, or, as he said himself, he held ‘a responsible situation under Government.’ He had a good and increasing salary, in addition to some 10,000l. of his own (invested in the funds), and he occupied a first floor in Tavistock-street, Covent-garden, where he had resided for twenty years, having been in the habit of quarrelling with his landlord the whole time: regularly giving notice of his intention to quit on the first day of every quarter, and as regularly countermanding it on the second. There were two classes of created objects which he held in the deepest and most unmingled horror; these were dogs, and children. He was not unamiable, but he could, at any time, have viewed the execution of a dog, or the assassination of an infant, with the liveliest satisfaction. Their habits were at variance with his love of order; and his love of order was as powerful as his love of life. Mr. Augustus Minns had no relations, in or near London, with the exception of his cousin, Mr. Octavius Budden, to whose son, whom he had never seen (for he disliked the father), he had consented to become godfather by proxy. Mr. Budden having realised a moderate fortune by exercising the trade or calling of a corn-chandler, and having a great predilection for the country, had purchased a cottage in the vicinity of Stamford-hill, whither he retired with the wife of his bosom, and his only son, Master Alexander Augustus Budden. One evening, as Mr. and Mrs. B. were admiring their son, discussing his various merits, talking over his education, and disputing whether the classics should be made an essential part thereof, the lady pressed so strongly upon her husband the propriety of cultivating the friendship of Mr. Minns in behalf of their son, that Mr. Budden at last made up his mind, that it should not be his fault if he and his cousin were not in future more intimate.

 
‘I’ll break the ice, my love,’ said Mr. Budden, stirring up the sugar at the bottom of his glass of brandy-and-water, and casting a sidelong look at his spouse to see the effect of the announcement of his determination, ‘by asking Minns down to dine with us, on Sunday.’

 
‘Then pray, Budden, write to your cousin at once,’ replied Mrs. Budden. ‘Who knows, if we could only get him down here, but he might take a fancy to our Alexander, and leave him his property?—Alick, my dear, take your legs off the rail of the chair!’

 
‘Very true,’ said Mr. Budden, musing, ‘very true indeed, my love!’ On the following morning, as Mr. Minns was sitting at his breakfast-table, alternately biting his dry toast and casting a look upon the columns of his morning paper, which he always read from the title to the printer’s name, he heard a loud knock at the street-door; which was shortly afterwards followed by the entrance of his servant, who put into his hands a particularly small card, on which was engraven in immense letters, ‘Mr. Octavius Budden, Amelia Cottage (Mrs. B.’s name was Amelia), Poplar-walk, Stamford-hill.’

 
‘Budden!’ ejaculated Minns, ‘what can bring that vulgar man here!—say I’m asleep—say I’m out, and shall never be home again—anything to keep him down-stairs.’

 
‘But please, sir, the gentleman’s coming up,’ replied the servant, and the fact was made evident, by an appalling creaking of boots on the staircase accompanied by a pattering noise; the cause of which, Minns could not, for the life of him, divine.

 
‘Hem—show the gentleman in,’ said the unfortunate bachelor. Exit servant, and enter Octavius preceded by a large white dog, dressed in a suit of fleecy hosiery, with pink eyes, large ears, and no perceptible tail.

 
The cause of the pattering on the stairs was but too plain. Mr. Augustus Minns staggered beneath the shock of the dog’s appearance.

 
‘My dear fellow, how are you?’ said Budden, as he entered.

 
He always spoke at the top of his voice, and always said the same thing half-a-dozen times.

 
‘How are you, my hearty?’

 
‘How do you do, Mr. Budden?—pray take a chair!’ politely stammered the discomfited Minns.

 
‘Thank you—thank you—well—how are you, eh?’

 
‘Uncommonly well, thank you,’ said Minns, casting a diabolical look at the dog, who, with his hind legs on the floor, and his fore paws resting on the table, was dragging a bit of bread and butter out of a plate, preparatory to devouring it, with the buttered side next the carpet.

 
‘Ah, you rogue!’ said Budden to his dog; ‘you see, Minns, he’s like me, always at home, eh, my boy!—Egad, I’m precious hot and hungry! I’ve walked all the way from Stamford-hill this morning.’

 
‘Have you breakfasted?’ inquired Minns.

 
‘Oh, no!—came to breakfast with you; so ring the bell, my dear fellow, will you? and let’s have another cup and saucer, and the cold ham.—Make myself at home, you see!’ continued Budden, dusting his boots with a table-napkin. ‘Ha!—ha!—ha!—’pon my life, I’m hungry.’

 
Minns rang the bell, and tried to smile.

 
‘I decidedly never was so hot in my life,’ continued Octavius, wiping his forehead; ‘well, but how are you, Minns? ‘Pon my soul, you wear capitally!’

 
‘D’ye think so?’ said Minns; and he tried another smile.

 
‘’Pon my life, I do!’

 
‘Mrs. B. and—what’s his name—quite well?’

 
‘Alick—my son, you mean; never better—never better. But at such a place as we’ve got at Poplar-walk, you know, he couldn’t be ill if he tried. When I first saw it, by Jove! it looked so knowing, with the front garden, and the green railings and the brass knocker, and all that—I really thought it was a cut above me.’

 
‘Don’t you think you’d like the ham better,’ interrupted Minns, ‘if you cut it the other way?’ He saw, with feelings which it is impossible to describe, that his visitor was cutting or rather maiming the ham, in utter violation of all established rules.

 
‘No, thank ye,’ returned Budden, with the most barbarous indifference to crime, ‘I prefer it this way, it eats short. But I say, Minns, when will you come down and see us? You will be delighted with the place; I know you will. Amelia and I were talking about you the other night, and Amelia said—another lump of sugar, please; thank ye—she said, don’t you think you could contrive, my dear, to say to Mr. Minns, in a friendly way—come down, sir—damn the dog! he’s spoiling your curtains, Minns—ha!—ha!—ha!’ Minns leaped from his seat as though he had received the discharge from a galvanic battery.

 
‘Come out, sir!—go out, hoo!’ cried poor Augustus, keeping, nevertheless, at a very respectful distance from the dog; having read of a case of hydrophobia in the paper of that morning. By dint of great exertion, much shouting, and a marvellous deal of poking under the tables with a stick and umbrella, the dog was at last dislodged, and placed on the landing outside the door, where he immediately commenced a most appalling howling; at the same time vehemently scratching the paint off the two nicely-varnished bottom panels, until they resembled the interior of a backgammon-board.

 
‘A good dog for the country that!’ coolly observed Budden to the distracted Minns, ‘but he’s not much used to confinement. But now, Minns, when will you come down? I’ll take no denial, positively. Let’s see, to-day’s Thursday.—Will you come on Sunday? We dine at five, don’t say no—do.’

 
After a great deal of pressing, Mr. Augustus Minns, driven to despair, accepted the invitation, and promised to be at Poplar-walk on the ensuing Sunday, at a quarter before five to the minute.

 
‘Now mind the direction,’ said Budden: ‘the coach goes from the Flower-pot, in Bishopsgate-street, every half hour. When the coach stops at the Swan, you’ll see, immediately opposite you, a white house.’

 
‘Which is your house—I understand,’ said Minns, wishing to cut short the visit, and the story, at the same time.

 
‘No, no, that’s not mine; that’s Grogus’s, the great ironmonger’s. I was going to say—you turn down by the side of the white house till you can’t go another step further—mind that!—and then you turn to your right, by some stables—well; close to you, you’ll see a wall with “Beware of the Dog” written on it in large letters—(Minns shuddered)—go along by the side of that wall for about a quarter of a mile—and anybody will show you which is my place.’

 
‘Very well—thank ye—good-bye.’

 
‘Be punctual.’

 
‘Certainly: good morning.’

 
‘I say, Minns, you’ve got a card.’

 
‘Yes, I have; thank ye.’ And Mr. Octavius Budden departed, leaving his cousin looking forward to his visit on the following Sunday, with the feelings of a penniless poet to the weekly visit of his Scotch landlady.

 
Sunday arrived; the sky was bright and clear; crowds of people were hurrying along the streets, intent on their different schemes of pleasure for the day; everything and everybody looked cheerful and happy except Mr. Augustus Minns.

 
The day was fine, but the heat was considerable; when Mr. Minns had fagged up the shady side of Fleet-street, Cheapside, and Threadneedle-street, he had become pretty warm, tolerably dusty, and it was getting late into the bargain. By the most extraordinary good fortune, however, a coach was waiting at the Flower-pot, into which Mr. Augustus Minns got, on the solemn assurance of the cad that the vehicle would start in three minutes—that being the very utmost extremity of time it was allowed to wait by Act of Parliament. A quarter of an hour elapsed, and there were no signs of moving. Minns looked at his watch for the sixth time.

 
‘Coachman, are you going or not?’ bawled Mr. Minns, with his head and half his body out of the coach window.

 
‘Di-rectly, sir,’ said the coachman, with his hands in his pockets, looking as much unlike a man in a hurry as possible.

 
‘Bill, take them cloths off.’ Five minutes more elapsed: at the end of which time the coachman mounted the box, from whence he looked down the street, and up the street, and hailed all the pedestrians for another five minutes.

 
‘Coachman! if you don’t go this moment, I shall get out,’ said Mr. Minns, rendered desperate by the lateness of the hour, and the impossibility of being in Poplar-walk at the appointed time.

 
‘Going this minute, sir,’ was the reply;—and, accordingly, the machine trundled on for a couple of hundred yards, and then stopped again. Minns doubled himself up in a corner of the coach, and abandoned himself to his fate, as a child, a mother, a bandbox and a parasol, became his fellow-passengers.

 
The child was an affectionate and an amiable infant; the little dear mistook Minns for his other parent, and screamed to embrace him.

 
‘Be quiet, dear,’ said the mamma, restraining the impetuosity of the darling, whose little fat legs were kicking, and stamping, and twining themselves into the most complicated forms, in an ecstasy of impatience. ‘Be quiet, dear, that’s not your papa.’
‘Thank Heaven I am not!’ thought Minns, as the first gleam of pleasure he had experienced that morning shone like a meteor through his wretchedness.

 
Playfulness was agreeably mingled with affection in the disposition of the boy. When satisfied that Mr. Minns was not his parent, he endeavoured to attract his notice by scraping his drab trousers with his dirty shoes, poking his chest with his mamma’s parasol, and other nameless endearments peculiar to infancy, with which he beguiled the tediousness of the ride, apparently very much to his own satisfaction.

 
When the unfortunate gentleman arrived at the Swan, he found to his great dismay, that it was a quarter past five. The white house, the stables, the ‘Beware of the Dog,’—every landmark was passed, with a rapidity not unusual to a gentleman of a certain age when too late for dinner. After the lapse of a few minutes, Mr. Minns found himself opposite a yellow brick house with a green door, brass knocker, and door-plate, green window-frames and ditto railings, with ‘a garden’ in front, that is to say, a small loose bit of gravelled ground, with one round and two scalene triangular beds, containing a fir-tree, twenty or thirty bulbs, and an unlimited number of marigolds. The taste of Mr. and Mrs. Budden was further displayed by the appearance of a Cupid on each side of the door, perched upon a heap of large chalk flints, variegated with pink conch-shells. His knock at the door was answered by a stumpy boy, in drab livery, cotton stockings and high-lows, who, after hanging his hat on one of the dozen brass pegs which ornamented the passage, denominated by courtesy ‘The Hall,’ ushered him into a front drawing-room commanding a very extensive view of the backs of the neighbouring houses. The usual ceremony of introduction, and so forth, over, Mr. Minns took his seat: not a little agitated at finding that he was the last comer, and, somehow or other, the Lion of about a dozen people, sitting together in a small drawing-room, getting rid of that most tedious of all time, the time preceding dinner.

 
‘Well, Brogson,’ said Budden, addressing an elderly gentleman in a black coat, drab knee-breeches, and long gaiters, who, under pretence of inspecting the prints in an Annual, had been engaged in satisfying himself on the subject of Mr. Minns’s general appearance, by looking at him over the tops of the leaves—‘Well, Brogson, what do ministers mean to do? Will they go out, or what?’

 
‘Oh—why—really, you know, I’m the last person in the world to ask for news. Your cousin, from his situation, is the most likely person to answer the question.’

 
Mr. Minns assured the last speaker, that although he was in Somerset-house, he possessed no official communication relative to the projects of his Majesty’s Ministers. But his remark was evidently received incredulously; and no further conjectures being hazarded on the subject, a long pause ensued, during which the company occupied themselves in coughing and blowing their noses, until the entrance of Mrs. Budden caused a general rise.

 
The ceremony of introduction being over, dinner was announced, and down-stairs the party proceeded accordingly—Mr. Minns escorting Mrs. Budden as far as the drawing-room door, but being prevented, by the narrowness of the staircase, from extending his gallantry any farther. The dinner passed off as such dinners usually do. Ever and anon, amidst the clatter of knives and forks, and the hum of conversation, Mr. B.’s voice might be heard, asking a friend to take wine, and assuring him he was glad to see him; and a great deal of by-play took place between Mrs. B. and the servants, respecting the removal of the dishes, during which her countenance assumed all the variations of a weather-glass, from ‘stormy’ to ‘set fair.’

 
Upon the dessert and wine being placed on the table, the servant, in compliance with a significant look from Mrs. B., brought down ‘Master Alexander,’ habited in a sky-blue suit with silver buttons; and possessing hair of nearly the same colour as the metal. After sundry praises from his mother, and various admonitions as to his behaviour from his father, he was introduced to his godfather.

 
‘Well, my little fellow—you are a fine boy, ain’t you?’ said Mr. Minns, as happy as a tomtit on birdlime.

 
‘Yes.’

 
‘How old are you?’

 
‘Eight, next We’nsday. How old are you?’

 
‘Alexander,’ interrupted his mother, ‘how dare you ask Mr. Minns how old he is!’
‘He asked me how old I was,’ said the precocious child, to whom Minns had from that moment internally resolved that he never would bequeath one shilling. As soon as the titter occasioned by the observation had subsided, a little smirking man with red whiskers, sitting at the bottom of the table, who during the whole of dinner had been endeavouring to obtain a listener to some stories about Sheridan, called, out, with a very patronising air, ‘Alick, what part of speech is be.’

 
‘A verb.’
‘That’s a good boy,’ said Mrs. Budden, with all a mother’s pride.
‘Now, you know what a verb is?’
‘A verb is a word which signifies to be, to do, or to suffer; as, I am—I rule—I am ruled. Give me an apple, Ma.’

 
‘I’ll give you an apple,’ replied the man with the red whiskers, who was an established friend of the family, or in other words was always invited by Mrs. Budden, whether Mr. Budden liked it or not, ‘if you’ll tell me what is the meaning of be.’

 
‘Be?’ said the prodigy, after a little hesitation—‘an insect that gathers honey.’
‘No, dear,’ frowned Mrs. Budden; ‘B double E is the substantive.’

 
‘I don’t think he knows much yet about common substantives,’ said the smirking gentleman, who thought this an admirable opportunity for letting off a joke. ‘It’s clear he’s not very well acquainted with proper names. He! he! he!’

 
‘Gentlemen,’ called out Mr. Budden, from the end of the table, in a stentorian voice, and with a very important air, ‘will you have the goodness to charge your glasses? I have a toast to propose.’

 
‘Hear! hear!’ cried the gentlemen, passing the decanters. After they had made the round of the table, Mr. Budden proceeded—‘Gentlemen; there is an individual present—’
‘Hear! hear!’ said the little man with red whiskers.

 
‘Pray be quiet, Jones,’ remonstrated Budden.

 
‘I say, gentlemen, there is an individual present,’ resumed the host, ‘in whose society, I am sure we must take great delight—and—and—the conversation of that individual must have afforded to every one present, the utmost pleasure.’ [‘Thank Heaven, he does not mean me!’ thought Minns, conscious that his diffidence and exclusiveness had prevented his saying above a dozen words since he entered the house.] ‘Gentlemen, I am but a humble individual myself, and I perhaps ought to apologise for allowing any individual feeling of friendship and affection for the person I allude to, to induce me to venture to rise, to propose the health of that person—a person that, I am sure—that is to say, a person whose virtues must endear him to those who know him—and those who have not the pleasure of knowing him, cannot dislike him.’

 
‘Hear! hear!’ said the company, in a tone of encouragement and approval.

 
‘Gentlemen,’ continued Budden, ‘my cousin is a man who—who is a relation of my own.’ (Hear! hear!) Minns groaned audibly. ‘Who I am most happy to see here, and who, if he were not here, would certainly have deprived us of the great pleasure we all feel in seeing him. (Loud cries of hear!) Gentlemen, I feel that I have already trespassed on your attention for too long a time. With every feeling—of—with every sentiment of—of—’
‘Gratification’—suggested the friend of the family.

 
‘—Of gratification, I beg to propose the health of Mr. Minns.’

 
‘Standing, gentlemen!’ shouted the indefatigable little man with the whiskers—‘and with the honours. Take your time from me, if you please. Hip! hip! hip!—Za!—Hip! hip! hip!—Za!—Hip hip!—Za-a-a!’

 
All eyes were now fixed on the subject of the toast, who by gulping down port wine at the imminent hazard of suffocation, endeavoured to conceal his confusion. After as long a pause as decency would admit, he rose, but, as the newspapers sometimes say in their reports, ‘we regret that we are quite unable to give even the substance of the honourable gentleman’s observations.’ The words ‘present company—honour—present occasion,’ and ‘great happiness’—heard occasionally, and repeated at intervals, with a countenance expressive of the utmost confusion and misery, convinced the company that he was making an excellent speech; and, accordingly, on his resuming his seat, they cried ‘Bravo!’ and manifested tumultuous applause. Jones, who had been long watching his opportunity, then darted up.

 
‘Budden,’ said he, ‘will you allow me to propose a toast?’

 
‘Certainly,’ replied Budden, adding in an under-tone to Minns right across the table, ‘Devilish sharp fellow that: you’ll be very much pleased with his speech. He talks equally well on any subject.’ Minns bowed, and Mr. Jones proceeded: ‘It has on several occasions, in various instances, under many circumstances, and in different companies, fallen to my lot to propose a toast to those by whom, at the time, I have had the honour to be surrounded, I have sometimes, I will cheerfully own—for why should I deny it?—felt the overwhelming nature of the task I have undertaken, and my own utter incapability to do justice to the subject. If such have been my feelings, however, on former occasions, what must they be now—now—under the extraordinary circumstances in which I am placed. (Hear! hear!) To describe my feelings accurately, would be impossible; but I cannot give you a better idea of them, gentlemen, than by referring to a circumstance which happens, oddly enough, to occur to my mind at the moment. On one occasion, when that truly great and illustrious man, Sheridan, was—’

 
Now, there is no knowing what new villainy in the form of a joke would have been heaped on the grave of that very ill-used man, Mr. Sheridan, if the boy in drab had not at that moment entered the room in a breathless state, to report that, as it was a very wet night, the nine o’clock stage had come round, to know whether there was anybody going to town, as, in that case, he (the nine o’clock) had room for one inside.

 
Mr. Minns started up; and, despite countless exclamations of surprise, and entreaties to stay, persisted in his determination to accept the vacant place. But, the brown silk umbrella was nowhere to be found; and as the coachman couldn’t wait, he drove back to the Swan, leaving word for Mr. Minns to ‘run round’ and catch him. However, as it did not occur to Mr. Minns for some ten minutes or so, that he had left the brown silk umbrella with the ivory handle in the other coach, coming down; and, moreover, as he was by no means remarkable for speed, it is no matter of surprise that when he accomplished the feat of ‘running round’ to the Swan, the coach—the last coach—had gone without him.

 
It was somewhere about three o’clock in the morning, when Mr. Augustus Minns knocked feebly at the street-door of his lodgings in Tavistock-street, cold, wet, cross, and miserable. He made his will next morning, and his professional man informs us, in that strict confidence in which we inform the public, that neither the name of Mr. Octavius Budden, nor of Mrs. Amelia Budden, nor of Master Alexander Augustus Budden, appears therein.

 

Researching Staplehurst

Life is confusing at the moment and across the globe there is a huge sense of uncertainty. Businesses are struggling as the effects of self isolating and social distancing take hold and many people (myself and Liz among them) who are self employed in the so-called ‘gig economy’ are fearful of what the future holds from a financial standpoint.

We know our friends and family are thinking of us just as we are thinking about them, and that includes our many friends across the globe.

I have been writing a blog post over the past couple of weeks, my first since Christmas, and although in the current situation it may seem trite to publish it, I hope that it may divert your fears and restore a sense of normality for a couple of minutes.

Here it is:

 

I have been quiet for a few weeks, for which I apologise, but that does not mean that I have been idle for I have been working to complete the manuscript of my first ever book – a feat that I was never certain I could achieve, so this winter has been a voyage of discovery.

Regular readers of my blog will remember that I have been investigating Charles Dickens’ involvement in the Staplehurst rail disaster of 1865, which occurred on June 9th – five years, to the very day, before he died.

Much of my research has taken place at my laptop, made possible by the fabulous resources available now, such as online census records, the amazing British Newspaper Archive, the complete collection of Charles’ letters.  Added to that cyber collection of information is the huge stack of Dickens biographies that I own, each of which takes a slightly different tack thereby sending me off down different avenues of exploration.  On the way I have become acquainted with others who boarded the tidal train from Folkestone to London on that day and have enjoyed discovering their histories as well as that of my illustrious forebear.

But there is only so much that can be done online and there came a time where good old fashioned legwork was required and it all started at a railway station.  We live in Oxfordshire and our nearest mainline station is Didcot Parkway from where we board the mighty Great Western Railway high speed trains that whisk us into London’s Paddington station.  Nestling behind the electric main lines is The Didcot Railway Centre where a remarkable collection of GWR locomotives and rolling stock is restored, preserved and displayed and it was here that I made my way on a chilly February afternoon to meet Kevin who had offered to explain how a steam locomotive is driven (in writing the book I wanted to take the reader onto the footplate, to feel the heat and hear the noise).

Kevin, wearing a dirty boiler suit made of natural fibres, welcomed me at the gate and gave me an extensive tour of the site, explaining how the locomotive involved in the crash would have looked (he had also been researching and had found out that it was number 199 and had a 2-2-2 configuration.  If you don’t know what any of that means you will just have to buy the book when it is published!).  We stood on footplates and he explained about regulators and valves, brakes and whistles, coal and water. He put up with my ignorance and patiently went through technicalities over and over until it began to make sense to me.

The highlight of the day was the moment that Kevin led me to the steaming panting Railmotor number 93 which was standing at a platform waiting to depart along the short stretch of line, and I was to drive it!  A Railmotor is basically just a carriage with a footplate at one end.  So although one does not get the sensation of riding a huge great locomotive, the manner of driving is the same and this is what Kevin wanted to demonstrate.  On the footplate was the boiler, the drive selector, with which you could select forward or reverse drive, and the huge red leaver attached to the boiler which opened the regulator valve, allowing the huge steam pressure to enter the cylinders and ultimately drive the wheels.

After a very brief lesson I pulled the cord to sound the whistle, and off we went: the sheer amount movement of the boiler suspended in the chassis surprised me and the feeling of such huge latent energy kept in check by purely by iron plates and rivets.  The heat of the furnace, the smell of the coal and steam, the sight of the tracks rushing beneath us, and all the time Kevin telling me to ease off on the regulator, or prepare to sound the whistle, or gently start braking until we came to a smooth stop next to another platform (a feat of which I was ludicrously proud!).

Having guided the coach back to our starting to point I bade farewell to my new friends taking with me the feeling that at the age of 56 I had driven a steam train, and as I walked back to my car Kevin’s parting words rattled around inside my head: ‘You must come back soon to drive a proper locomotive, so you can understand how limited the visibility is from a cab.’  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the manuscript will be finished before I can take him up on his offer, because it is one that I will be unable to refuse.

During the week following my visit to Didcot I embarked on my next journey of research when I drove down to the county of my birth, Kent.  I particularly wanted to visit three towns, all of which played an important part in the story.

On the first day I drove to Staplehurst itself, not so much to observe the scene of the crash for I have been there many times, but to board a train bound for Folkestone.  On 9th June 1865 Charles Dickens sailed across the English Channel from Boulogne to Folkestone where he boarded the ill-fated train to London.  I particularly wanted to understand the geography of the quayside, and how passengers would transfer from the steamer to the train.  During the kitchen table period of research I had been sent a few old photographs of the harbour station in Folkestone but I was keen to see it for myself, hence the journey.

At Staplehurst station I boarded an airy modern train and stood at the window so that I could judge the precise moment we passed over the little bridge crossing the river Beult, the spot at which the accident had occurred 155 years earlier.  Finding the location proved to be difficult as the surrounding fields were flooded obscuring the path of the stream.

The ride to Folkestone lasted around 45 minutes and I disembarked at the modern station to the north of the town and walked towards the harbour.  Folkestone is a typical modern south coast town, slightly down at heel and faded, although the centre is dominated by a huge modern supermarket.  To reach the sea I found myself walking down the ‘Old High Street’ a quaint cobbled lane lined with art galleries and gift shops most of which were closed up for the winter, although one defiantly had its doors open with an ‘A’ board on the pavement declaring that ‘No, this street isn’t closed.  Its just very artisan.’  The other side of the same board read. ‘Thank the Lord that the vapid commercial emptiness of Valentines Day is over.  MOTHER’S DAY IS 22 OF MARCH’

At the bottom of the steep hill I found myself at the harbour and everything I had read about it in my research began to make sense.  The Harbour Station has long been out of service but in recent years it has been restored and developed as a…I’m not quite sure what, really, a performance space, a gathering spot, who knows?

What is certain is that I could stand on the old platform and imagine the train waiting to take the passengers from the Victoria steamer.  The platform is built in a long arc stretching towards the end of the sea wall, and next to it there was originally a large custom house of which only the façade survived the war.

From the station itself the Victorian trains would have crossed a swing bridge over the harbour, then over a long viaduct originally built from timber, but now of brick, and then gradually uphill towards the main station in Folkestone at that time, Folkestone Junction, where the main journey to London would have commenced.

Today the old signal box which stands at the end of the platform, before the swing bridge, has been converted into a tiny café and I found a seat near the old signalling equipment where I did a little writing and enjoyed a ‘Kentish Rarebit’ for my lunch.

The rest of the afternoon I devoted to a walk around Folkestone, and thanks to the wonders of the internet and Google Maps found my way to an elegant home on the top of a cliff, Albion Villas, where Charles Dickens had stayed for a few months.  As I looked at the building and photographed it a rather frightening woman came out of the door, her head was bound against the chilly wind by a scarlet headscarf and she seemed to be a modern equivalent of Betsy Trotwood from David Copperfield, striding out to admonish me for trespassing on her land.  In reality she couldn’t have been kinder and was happy to tell me all about the house and its history.  We discussed the recent storms which had ravaged Britain and she pointed out an upstairs window which faced the sea: ‘my bedroom!  And, yes, I can confirm that the bed does move!’  With that rather startling revelation in my mind I made my way back to the station for the journey back to Staplehurst.  I made sure that I took in all of the scenery during the ride home so that I could recall exactly what Charles Dickens saw as he rattled through Kent in 1865.  The line of the North Downs to the right, the featureless farmland to the left.  Church spires and conical oast houses with their white cowls, woods and marshes flashed by until I once again crossed the flooded lake that had once been the River Beult and disembarked safely at Staplehurst.  As I drove away from the station I saw a building that had once been the Staplehurst Railway Hotel, which played an important part in the story, for not only were many of the wounded given beds there but the formal inquest was held in the large room downstairs.  It is a hotel no more but has been converted into flats or bedsits and a tiny plaque made of individual self-adhesive black letters on a gold background states that it is now called ‘Charles Dickens Court’, which is ironic for the great man made sure that he did NOT attend the formal proceedings there

 

Boulogne

The second day if my trip was devoted to a trip to France to investigate the city of Boulogne from where the steamer had begun its journey.  I arrived back in Folkestone in plenty of time to catch an early train through the tunnel and arrived in Calais on a beautiful morning.  The drive to Boulogne took a little over half an hour and soon I was searching for a parking space in the shadows of the great ramparts which surround the old town.  Our gold Renault seemed at home in the country of its birth.

My guide for the day was to be Janine Watrin the founder of the Boulogne branch of The Dickens Fellowship organisation and an absolute authority in the subject of Dickens and Boulogne (he had spent a few summers in the city holidaying with his family).  Janine was accompanied by another member of the Fellowship, Hazel, who had been born in Canterbury before marrying a Frenchman and moving to Condette, a few miles outside Boulogne.  Hazel therefore would play the role of translator for the day.

Our tour began with a stroll around the top of the ramparts, a walk that thanks to Janine has recently been named ‘Promenade Charles Dickens’.  Following our perambulations, and having seen a few of the old streets and sights that Dickens knew, we all piled into my car and drove to a large school in a neighbourhood on the edge of the town, set on a hillside.  Janine explained that this is where Charles Dickens and his family stayed when they were in the city.  The view over the docks was beautiful (and would have been more so in Charles’ day, before the proliferation of apartment blocks grew from the soil), and as the bell of the Basilica dully tolled midday I could quite imagine being there, standing on the hillside with great great grandad.

Lunch was next and we sat in a small café on the quay trying to work out quite where Dickens alighted from the train from Paris and where he boarded the steamer for Folkestone.  Lunch finished Janine (into her 90’s, by the way), led us to a tiny museum located in The Beurières.

This area of Boulogne was home to the fishermen and was built over 5 streets which were so steep that they form staircases rather than paved roads.  On each side were crammed three story houses, each floor of which was occupied by a single family living in two small rooms, and it was recorded during the 19th Century that 13,000 people lived within the neighbourhood. Children slept on rudimentary cots built into kitchen cupboards to save space, whilst the babies were put down to sleep and shut away in chests of drawers.

There was no running water to these houses, no drainage, no sanitation and the effluent would be disgorged into the street, cascading down the steps in a foul-smelling waterfall.  Rivalries and fights were commonplace, but these were people united in their profession and when a man was lost at sea (as often happened), the community came together to help the grieving family.

Today only one of the streets has survived and the tiny museum in one of the houses at the very top (to which Janine clambered without assistance) was fascinating.  On thing caught my eye particularly, in the background of one of the old photographs of the street there is very definitely a cowl similar to those found on an English Oast House, a design most peculiar to the county of Kent.  I asked our guide what it could be but he did not know.  He did however tell me that the residents of Boulogne traditionally had a much closer relationship with the people of Kent than they did with the citizens of Calais just a few miles up the coast, so the possibility of Kentish industrial architecture influencing the building of businesses in the city is quite understandable.

Our final stop of the day (having briefly stopped to admire Napoleon standing on top of his column, pointedly facing AWAY from England) was at the Archives where we ploughed through lots of images of Boulogne in the 1860s.  It was here that I was able to discover that the train from Paris came in on one side of the quay and the passengers either walked or took hansom cabs past the fish market to where the steamer waited, moored near to the fashionable casino.

After an hour huddled over a screen the scene that had greeted Charles Dickens in 1865 was a great deal clearer to me and I knew that I could now imbue the facts in my book with a little more local colour.

We all thanked the staff at the archives for their assistance, and then I bade farewell to Janine and Hazel before returning to England where I sat at the little desk in my hotel room and re-wrote the chapter pertaining to Boulogne while the memories were fresh in my mind.

 

Tenterden

Day three of my adventures had been earmarked for Staplehurst itself, possibly visiting the farmer who owns the field through which the railway runs so that I could revisit the scene of the accident once more, but the flooding made such a pilgrimage useless, so instead I decided to visit the Kent and East Sussex Railway in Tenterden to get a little more experience of steam.

When I arrived at the station a fully laden passenger train was getting ready to leave with plumes of white steam seeping from every part of her.  A uniformed guard made sure everyone was onboard, blew his whistle and displayed his flag and from deep within the belly of the great snake a guttural belch answered the actions of the driver and slowly and with great ceremony, the train began to inch forward.  I was positioned near the signal box and level crossing at the end of the platform and with my flat cap and camera I looked every inch a train spotter (I believe that ‘rail enthusiast’ is the correct term).

When the train had departed I spent a while looking round the site, although the main locomotive museum was sadly closed to visitors, until it was time for the next departure.  I found myself a private compartment and settled into my seat to enjoy the journey.  Having previously experienced the footplate itself, now I wanted to understand how Dickens felt in his carriage and as I looked out of the window it was as if I were rushing through the countryside approaching Staplehurst, crossing small bridges over shallow rivers.

I have been on many steam railways before but on this occasion I made every effort to remember the exact experience, I tried to analyse the damp smell. and watched how the view was obscured by whisps of steam in the slipstream of the train.  As we rushed towards Bodiam I worked on my laptop and asked the ticket collector to take a picture of me.  ‘Hmmm,’ he must have thought, ‘another train spotter, sorry, rail enthusiast’

My day ended with the return trip, and this time I walked through the train watching the various families who were spending the half term break together.  I noticed that, on the whole, it was the grandfathers who were enjoying the ride the most whereas the many children were gorging themselves on crisps and snacks as young mothers and fathers struggled to keep them occupied.

Back at Tenterden I left a bygone world behind me and returned to the quiet and comfort of my car and started the drive home.  For all of the factual information that I had previously packed into my manuscript those three days brought it all to life in my mind and now I have to make sure that I pass that on to the reader.

As yet I have no publication date in mind, and indeed do not have a publisher, although one company has shown interest and is currently reviewing my work.  I will let you know how things proceed over the coming months and maybe in the autumn when I am touring again I may have a little volume to sell and sign.

In the meantime, read lots and keep safe.