After travelling back from Wales on Friday, I had less than a day to recover before I was on the road once more, although this drive would be rather less arduous. I was due to return to The Sharnbrook Mill Theatre in Bedfordshire, to perform my double bill of The Signalman and Doctor Marigold, which meant carefully loading the car with the contents of the signal box, as well as the simple representation of a Victorian showman’s caravan.
The drive to Bedfordshire took a little under two hours, and I had left time to get to my hotel first, so that I could rest a little, still being quite tired from the long drives to and from Wales. When I first visited Sharnbrook, I stayed in a hotel right next door to the theatre, but that closed so on my second visit I stayed just five minutes up the road, and this year I discovered that that hotel had also closed, forcing me yet further away, to the Woodland Manor Hotel in Bedford, some 15 minutes drive from the theatre. I hope that when I return in the future I wont have been responsible for that one closing down too!
I arrived at around 3pm and as I checked in at reception I was momentarily taken way back into my past, when the receptionist asked ‘are you here for the murder mystery evening?’ I almost burst out laughing, for at around the time that I began performing Dickens, in the early ’90s, I was an actor in a murder mystery company, and went to many such hotels to perform. On one occasion I remember that we had a scenario set in a castle in deepest darkest Transylvania, and the plot hinged on whether the Count was really a vampire or not. So involved did the audience get that one lady got her make up mirror out to see if there actually was a reflection of the character. Fortunately for us the Count was indeed an imposter, so DID appear in her mirror, but it said a lot about how well we had created the scene that she believed that maybe we had cast a genuine vampire for the evening. Happy days!
At around five I set off for the theatre, which is built into an old water mill on the River Ouse. The auditorium is built onto the first floor (that translates as second floor in American) and the technical access to the stage is via a steep set of stairs, so I reversed the car as close as I could and unloaded all of the furniture at the bottom of the steps, before parking in the main car park, a short distance away.
Once in the theatre I was greeted by Brenda Stafford, who ‘found’ me three years ago and has been responsible for bringing me back to Sharnbrook, and she instantly mobilised various volunteers to assist me getting my furniture in, which we achieved quickly and efficiently. I was introduced to my teach team, Mark on sound and David on lights, and together we made sure that everything was in place for The Signalman, including a stage light packed with red gel to represent the danger light at the mouth of the tunnel. Soon the set was ready, and I took the opportunity to undertake a short rehearsal, getting the feel of the stage and auditorium, and I instantly felt completely at home.
With my rehearsal done I retired to the large dressing room behind the stage, which was prepared for the theatre’s forthcoming production of Little Women. Branda had very kindly made me a salmon salad, which was perfect, as well as leaving a gift bag for me containing a lovely looking box of chocolates, and an amaryllis bulb for our house – so very kind.
As 7 o’clock came around I got into my all black costume and paced around the dressing room going over my lines, until I received the call that the audience were in their seats and it was time to start. I walked onto the stage to be greeted with a very generous round of applause. I started by talking about Staplehurst, and the reason for Dickens’ writing his ghost story, and then began with ‘Halloa! Below there!’ The show was going well, and I was building up the atmosphere effectively, when I became aware of a disturbance in the audience. I couldn’t quite work out what was going on, not being able to much due to the theatre lights, so I continued but soon it was obvious that somebody had been taken ill, and needed to be tended by first aiders. As other audience members and theatre volunteers started moving to help, I announced that we needed to pause the performance for a short while. I simply stood quietly at the back of the stage as the poor lady was helped out of the auditorium. When the emergency had been dealt with I said a simple ‘thank you’ to the audience for their patience, moved back towards the danger light, and picked up the script from the line that I had stopped on.
The break could have broken my concentration and negatively effected my performance, but actually the opposite was true and I came back with even more intensity than before.
When the interval arrived, I changed into my Doctor Marigold costume and then returned to the stage to remove all of The Signalman furniture, and replace it with Marigold’s props. Most of the audience had gone to the bar, but a few were still in the auditorium and watched as I and Mark changed the set around. When our work was done, I returned to the dressing room and paced around between the rails where Jo, Meg, Amy and Beth’s costumes hung, and performed a few passages to slough the Signalman’s skin and get into that of the cheeky fairground salesman instead.
Ever since my first visit to The Sharnbrook Mill Theatre in 2020 I have wanted to perform Doctor Marigold there – the size and layout of the stage and auditorium could have designed for this particular show with a real sense of intimacy. I was certainly not disappointed by the experience, for everything worked perfectly. I performed well, and the audience were completely caught up in the adventures and experiences of one of my best literary friends. The best way to know how well Marigold has gone is the volume of the gasp at the end, and at Sharnbrook on Saturday evening that gasp was impressive to be sure. The applause at the end was truly heartening and I felt, as I always do after performing Doctor Marigold, very emotional.
Back in my dressing room I breathed deeply, drank water and slowly allowed myself to calm down, before making my way to the foyer where I signed copies of ‘Dickens and Staplehurst’ and chatted to audience members, many of whom were visibly as effected by the second half as I had been.
When the audience left I changed and with the help of Brenda and Gerry loaded up my car, before saying goodbye and thanks. I feel very much at home in The Sharnbrook Mill Theatre, and Brenda was pleading with me to bring A Christmas Carol back next year, so I will certainly have to see if I can find a date in the 2024 tour. The beautiful theatre is certainly a home from home for me.
For now, however, my 2023 tour continues, and my next show will be on Thursday afternoon….in Missouri.
Many of the shows that I perform are at venues I have visited before, and who have invited me back. This is a very flattering thing to be able to say, and I greatly enjoy working with people that I count as friends as well as colleagues. Of course, my repertoire of shows is finite too, so naturally when I am describing my various adventures within this forum, there is naturally a degree of repetition. Occasionally, however, I am invited to a new venue and am asked to perform a very different piece, so that every moment of the experience is fresh and exciting, and maybe slightly nerve-wracking.
Thursday 26th October was one such day.
A year or so ago I had been contacted by a gentleman called Vaughan Evans, who lives on the Island of Anglesey in Wales. He had invited me to to perform a reading at an event commemorating the day on which the ship The Royal Charter sank in 1859. Vaughan has dived on the wreck many times and, like many others, has become fascinated, maybe even obsessed, with the story. So why was I invited to attend the meeting? Well, Charles Dickens also heard about the story of the Royal Charter and had made a trip to Anglesey to survey the scene for himself, and specifically to talk to one of the local people involved. Following his visit he wrote an essay about his experience and published it in his volume ‘The Uncommercial Traveller’, and Vaughan wanted me to read that piece for his audience.
Anglesey lies off the north west coast of Wales, and my drive would be a long one. It was strange to set out for an event without needing to load the car with props and furniture, and I had a terrible feeling of having forgotten something as I drove away. All I needed, though, was my costume and my reading script, and I had checked that I had both over and over throughout the morning. My journey took me north towards Liverpool, before turning west along the north coast of Wales. As I drove I passed road signs to many previous venues (Birmingham, Liverpool, Chester, Frodsham, Porthmadog among others), and happy memories filled my mind as I reflected on how lucky I have been to do what I do. Passing the coastal towns of Conwy and Llandudno the road makes its way through a series of tunnels blasted through the cliffs and for a while it was as if I were driving away from Logan airport in Boston, weaving my way through the labyrinth of that city’s subterranean road system. I imagine it is rare for Conwy to have been compared with Boston.
Soon the Island of Anglesey lay to my right, and to my left the soaring peaks of the Snowdonia National Park. The weather was squally and although heavy wet clouds hung low over the scenery, the occasional shaft of bright sunlight broke the gloom, and as I looked towards the island a vivid shaft of rainbow linked sky to land. Surely it was fanciful to imagine that on the 26th October, the anniversary of the Royal Charter tragedy, the gods should chose to make their own commemoration, but the atmospheric phenomenon certainly took my mind back 164 years to that fateful day.
The Tragedy of The Royal Charter
The Royal Charter was a steam clipper, and had been launched in 1855 to take passengers and freight between Liverpool and Australia. The sleek design of her hull, as well as the hybrid of steam and sail, made her a very fast ship, and luxurious berths aboard her were much sought after.
During the early 1850s gold had been discovered in Australia and many prospectors, encouraged by the Californian gold rush of ’48 and ’49, headed south to try their luck. In October 1859 The Royal Charter prepared to depart from Melbourne with around 370 passengers and over 100 crew on board, Many of the passengers were miners who travelled with the the golden spoils of their efforts. The ship made good speed and was on course to break the magic 60 day record for the journey to Liverpool. Indeed, one newspaper of the day actually reported that she had arrived in Liverpool on the 25th October, having made superb time. The truth was tragically different.
During the night of the 25th a storm began to develop and it was suggested that Captain Thomas Taylor should seek safe haven at Holyhead, but he pushed on, for the home port was so close. The winds increased, rising to storm force 12, and as they did they swung from the east to the north east, naturally driving shipping towards the coast of Anglesey. Captain Taylor dropped the anchors to try and secure his ship, but both chains broke and she was pushed towards sandbanks off the small village of Moelfre, Masts were cut, in an effort to decrease the effect of the howling winds, but it was to no avail, as The Royal Charter was driven onto the rocks where she broke into three, spilling both passengers and gold into the waves. The alarm was raised on shore, but there was little to be done, even though the wreck was but a few yards away. On board, a Maltese seaman of immense bravery tied a rope around his waist and successfully swam for land, where with the aid of villagers he was able to construct a bosun’s chair and rescued around 40 souls.
The death toll was huge, around 450 (although the exact number is not known for the passenger manifest was lost in the sea) and to this day represents that largest single loss of life on Welsh shores. In the aftermath of the wreck gold sovereigns washed up unto the beach ‘like seashells’ as Dickens reported, and of course a few locals collected this bounty, but on the whole rescue and recovery were what mattered to the villagers, and the awful job of retrieving the dead became uppermost in their minds. Even when Charles Dickens visited, two months later, bodies were still being washed ashore, or released by divers from the tangled mass of iron and timber.
Anglesey
At Bangor I turned left across the Britannia Bridge over the Menai Straits and drove to the hotel where I was to stay, a converted turnpike cottage, and having checked in I drove to the venue, The Oriel Gallery in the county town of Llangefni, and in no time I was meeting Vaughan for the first time, as we shook hands heartily. Vaughan is in the construction industry, and has been for many years. He is a powerful man, and a proud Welshman, speaking in his native language as he bought me a coffee from the cafe. He showed me where we would be holding the evening, a large gallery space, and he had spent the day creating an amazing exhibit featuring some of the items that he had retrieved from the wreck – child’s leather shoes, silver forks, combs, pieces of wood and coal. He had dressed the exhibition with pieces of Victoriana that he had collected over the years, such as travelling trunks, top hats and all sorts of other bits and pieces. The effect was completed by recently collected sea weed, rope and driftwood.
Soon various other characters who would be contributing to the evening arrived: Ian Gibbons is a radio presenter who would be talking on the building and early years of The Royal Charter. He obviously gives a lot of lectures and seemed very organised and knowledgeable. Next to arrive was Raymond Agius, a professor from Manchester who has a very personal connection to the story, for it was his ancestor who was the Maltese seaman who had swum ashore and rescued 40 people.
Ian and Raymond would be speaking from a lectern and using their laptops to show slides on a giant TV screen, so they spent time making sure that all of the technology was working, whilst I tried some of my reading, trying to work out if i could do it without a microphone. Vaughan’s Idea was to sit me at a desk, complete with candles and a quill pen and perform from there, but I thought it may be better to start there (as if CD was at home transcribing his memories), and then stand as if he was actually standing on the beach witnessing the scene for himself. Ian stood at the back of the room and said that my volume and clarity was OK, so it should be fine not to use the microphone.
When we had all made our preparations Vaughan took us back to the cafe and brought us an early supper: delicious bowls of Lobscouse – a hearty stew made of vegetables, potatoes and meat. The programme was due to begin at 6.30, and as various audience members were beginning to arrive, we retreated to the gallery and continued to prepare for the evening ahead. Vaughan was delighted that his event had attracted so much local attention, and there had pre bookings of over 100, which would pretty well fill the hall.
At exactly 6.30 pm Vaughan stood to the microphone and welcomed everyone, and introduced Ian, the first speaker, who began with a cheerful ‘can you hear me right at the back?’ Unfortunately, the answer was in the negative, so we turned the volume up on the speaker system, and I rethought my plans of doing the reading unplugged.
Ian spoke of the background to the Royal Charter, and its inauspicious beginnings: the original owners went bankrupt, she didn’t launch properly and got stuck in silt on the River Dee, during initial trials the engine failed and she sat so low in the water that the decks were continually awash. The worst portent of doom, however, was the fact that a sailor shot an albatross from the ship, thereby effectively damming The Royal Charter forever in the eyes of seafaring folk.
As interesting as Ian’s talk was, I was mainly involved in gauging how well the audience could hear and see and thinking how best to present my reading. After Ian had finished he handed over to Raymond, who gave a fascinating account of his relative which took us to the interval. By this time I had made up my mind to abandon any thoughts of performing without the microphone – the room’s acoustics had deadened somewhat with a room full, and the audience’s ears had become accustomed to amplified speech. The only problem was that the single mic was on a stand, so I wouldn’t be able to dramatize the piece by adding movement, but I was sure that Charles Dickens’ words would hold the attention of the crowd.
The audience spent the interval looking at the various exhibits in the hall, before they were called to their seats again, and Vaughan introduced me, and I introduced ‘The Shipwreck’.
The Shipwreckby Charles Dickens
Dickens visited Moelfre 2 months after the Royal Charter went down and wrote an account of his visit, which he published the following year as the second chapter of The Uncommercial Traveller. The piece begins very gently, as he describes the calm scene before him, before he brutally moves on to recall the events of October 26th. His real reason for visiting, however, was to meet the local Reverend, Stephen Roose Hughes, who took it upon himself to tend to the dead and the families of the dead.
Dickens wrote about the church:
‘Forty-four shipwrecked men and women lay here at one time, awaiting burial. Here, with weeping and wailing in every room of his house, my companion worked alone for hours, solemnly surrounded by eyes that could not see him, and by lips that could not speak to him, patiently examining the tattered clothing, cutting off buttons, hair, marks from linen, anything that might lead to subsequent identification, studying faces, looking for a scar, a bent finger, a crooked toe, comparing letters sent to him with the ruin about him. ‘My dearest brother had bright grey eyes and a pleasant smile,’ one sister wrote. O poor sister! well for you to be far from here, and keep that as your last remembrance of him!’
And
‘He had buried them, when not identified, in graves containing four each. He had numbered each body in a register describing it, and had placed a corresponding number on each coffin, and over each grave. Identified bodies he had buried singly, in private graves, in another part of the church-yard. Several bodies had been exhumed from the graves of four, as relatives had come from a distance and seen his register; and, when recognised, these have been reburied in private graves, so that the mourners might erect separate headstones over the remains. In all such cases he had performed the funeral service a second time, and the ladies of his house had attended.’
It is a very moving account, to which the audience listened attentively and quietly, and applauded warmly when I had finished. As I sat down Ian gave me a warm handshake and congratulated me, and I took a deep breath and relaxed! The evening finished with a talk by Geraint Williams, an old friend to Vaughan, who owns a commercial diving business, and spoke about his career beneath the waves. To accompany his speech Geraint had brought along some diving equipment, including a helmet and boots which dated back to the Victorian era, and therefore were similar to those worn by the divers who were working on the wreck when Dickens visited.
Judging by the response of the audience, the evening had been a great success, and Vaughan must surely have been happy and very satisfied by what he had presented. For my part, I was invited back (by another former diver and expert) to attend the 165th anniversary events in 2024, and it feels as if I have been accepted by this merry band who are fascinated and inspired by the great story.
Usually I would finish a blog post by saying something like ‘I went back to the hotel and fell asleep…’ but there is a final part of the story to tell. After an early breakfast on Friday morning I drove to the tiny village of Moelfre, and stood on the rocks looking towards the sea. It was a beautiful, calm morning, with the morning sun rising over the distant peaks of Snowdonia. I walked to the small memorial which has been erected next to the lifeboat station (the coast is still a treacherous one when the gales blow). There, just 50 yards from where I now stood, lay the wreck of The Royal Charter.
From Moelfre I drove up the hill to Llanallgo and to the church where Stephen Roose Hughes had been the Reverend. I stood in the church yard and solemnly viewed the graves of the those he had cared for in death. I found the church door unlocked and went in. It is a tiny church, and the thought of forty four bodies being laid on the floor as the good vicar tried to look for identifying features was an awful one.
I left the church and drove away from Anglesey and towards home. I had been on the island for less than a day, but that day had had a profound effect on me. I had read Charles’ account before, but now I had actually seen items from the wreck, now I knew more of the history, now I had stood on the rocks and in the church, I feel a very deep connection to the area and to those who will never allow the victims of The Royal Charter to be forgotten.
On Thursday morning I woke without any idea where I was. In the darkness I could not fathom the geography of the room until I gradually remembered that I was in The Conningbrook Hotel in Ashford.
I had no need to get up quickly, as I had the whole day ahead of me, before I had to present myself at The Guildhall in Bury St Edmunds, for a performance that night. My biggest concern was my voice, and I tried to talk a bit in my room, but I couldn’t really attempt any projection at that time of the morning, so I satisfied by making myself a cup of coffee instead.
I put on the BBC Breakfast programme, and much of the news was about huge storms that were due to sweep the country that day, especially badly effected would be the North East of Scotland, and as ever at such times a miserable reporter was placed in front of a raging river telling everyone to stay away from such places (in which case, if it is so dangerous to be there, why does the broadcaster think it is a sensible idea to send a reporter, cameraman and sound engineer to that very spot? I suppose it is thought that the poor populous can’t possibly have the imagination to know what a rainy day looks like….)
At around 8 O’clock I made my way along the labyrinth of corridors and down the flight of stairs to the dining room for breakfast. It was a quiet morning, with only one other table occupied. The building is quite an old one, and in the middle of the bar area were two buckets, and a notice saying ‘Wet Floor’. Apparently during the previous night’s rain the roof had sprung a leak. I sat at a table near to the window and ordered a good English breakfast, while I read the latest edition of MotorSport Magazine.
Back in my room I watched some more TV, began writing the previous day’s blog post, and slowly passing the time until 11 am, when it was time to check out. Outside the ground was covered with leaves, small branches and conker cases, blown down by the storm. A young man was using a leaf blower in an attempt to clear the carpark, but it had as much effect as King Cnut trying to turn the tide.
The drive to Bury St Edmunds would take me from Kent, across, or to be more accurate under the River Thames, through Essex and into the East Anglian county of Suffolk. As I drove, my brother Ian called me for a chat about his wonderful plans to celebrate the 175th anniversary of Charles Dickens’ holiday on the Isle of Wight. Many events are planned, including an island-wide story writing competition, which has been eagerly embraced by a huge amount of schools, thanks to Ian talking to and inspiring a new generation of authors. I myself will be reading the winning entries next year. As we talked it was to my dismay I discovered that my voice really wasn’t much better (thus far I’d only used it to say ‘A full English please, without the mushroom or beans’, a great oration which hadn’t really tested it to its full capacity).
Ian and I chatted for a short while, but he soon realised that I was struggling, and that I would need to preserve my voice, and kindly brought the conversation to an early close.
The journey to Suffolk lasted only little more than two hours, which left me with plenty of time to kill before the evening’s events began, so I had checked my National Trust app, to see if there any nearby properties open, and had decided to visit the Ickworth Estate just outside Bury St Edmunds. It is a fun thing to randomly visit a property about which you know nothing, rather than carefully planning a day out, and it was with a pleasant sense of anticipation that I turned into the gates, followed the long drive, and was cheerfully met by a young lady who scanned my NT membership card and directed me to the car park.
It was passed 1 o’clock by the time I arrived, so I decided that my first port of call would be the cafe,. I looked at the map of the property that I had been handed, and took a path through some trees to the main house. Goodness! What a surprise I had in store, for how incongruous was the building before my eyes! Ickworth House was the dream of the 4th Earl of Bristol, who wanted an appropriate building to display his collection of treasures gathered during his Grand Tour of Europe. The architect produced a design for an Italianate rotunda and building began in 1795, however the Earl died in 1803 and the 5th Earl then took over the project, deciding that he would rather like some living quarters also, and an east wing was added for that purpose. The house would have looked very odd with just the one wing, so another was included, although it served no purpose other than for storage. Nowadays the previously unloved west wing contains a fine example of a National Trust cafe, and it was there that I headed to enjoy a pasty, cake and coffee, before entering the rotunda and admiring the superb collection of artwork and silverware contained within.
Having enjoyed the house, I ambled into the gardens, through the Victorian stumpery and eventually back to the car park, from which I drove into the centre of Bury St Edmunds.
It was only 3 o’clock, and I still had a couple of hours to kill, so I strolled around Bury St Edmunds, gave a reverent nod to the Angel hotel, where Charles Dickens had stayed when he visited the town, and to the Atheneum hall in which he had performed, before visiting the impressive cathedral. At 4pm on a Thursday afternoon there were not many visitors, and as I admired the beautiful decorations on the roof I was also entertained by an organ lesson taking place in the loft. Strangely, the sound of a teacher making comments, followed by a brief piece of imperfect playing was very moving, maybe more so than a full-blown (rather proud of that bit of organ imagery!) concert.
And now it was time to make my way to the Guildhall and get ready for the evening’s events. Last year I had parked in a small area to the rear of the building, which had meant carrying all of the furniture and props through various hallways and up various stairs, so this year Jill, the manager at The Guildhall, had suggested that I park on double yellow lines outside the front door, and load directly into the room where I would be performing. Actually, there was a genuine parking space right opposite the door which made things even easier.
The job of unloading was made more complicated by the fact that I had to unpack all of The Signalman and and Marigold stuff to get to the red reading desk required for Mr Dickens is Coming, and as I piled various pieces of furniture onto the pavement, a lady asked me if I was involved with the show, and that she thought she had booked tickets online, but wasn’t sure if payment had gone through, and she hadn’t received a notification, so could she check if she and her husband were actually on the list. I was pondering how best I could answer her query, when the door opened and Jill’s face appeared to welcome me in. As I carried my bits and bobs into the hall Jill sorted out the ticketing enquiry: the lady wasn’t on the list, but there happened to be 2 seats left and by the time I had carried everything in, the evening was an official sell-out.
The Guildhall is licenced for an audience of 80, and the stage and seats were set out in a ‘landscape’ format, meaning that everyone was close to the stage and I wouldn’t have to project too much, whcih was a relief for I was still worried about my throat.
More and more volunteers began to arrive, and also the first members of the audience, so I retired to my dressing room (actually the old kitchen complete with range and spits), and drank tea and honey. The show was due to start at 7, but we delayed for a few minutes as not all of the audience had arrived, but soon the hall’s capacity was reached and I walked onto the stage to begin Mr Dickens is Coming!
My voice was awful. As soon as I began the show I was really worried, for all of the words came out in a very husky whisper and I was really worried that I would make it through the evening at all. After the opening salvos, delivered in my own voice, I got to the performance of Mrs Micawber and bizarrely as I shifted to a falsetto voice, which usually puts even more strain on my voice, I suddenly discovered more power, volume and clarity, and as the first half continued things improved no end. I reached the interval and announced that in the second act I would be recreating Dickens’ own reading of Sikes and Nancy – the Murder from Oliver Twist.
Back in my room I made another tea and honey and sucked on another throat lozenge, before going to the hall to move my red screen and reading desk to the centre of the stage in preparation for the dramatic reading. Unfortunately as I tried to move the frame holding the red fabric, the whole lot collapsed, but I was assisted by some kindly audience members, and soon things were ready for Act 2.
Sikes and Nancy is VERY vocal, a real strain on the vocal chords, but amazingly by this time my voice was, if not perfect, certainly very much better, and the reading continued towards it’s devastating conclusion with all of the power and drama I could have wished for. The reaction at the end was amazing – a stunned silence, followed by loud and long applause. After such a shaky start to the show, the evening had gone very well indeed. I spent some time chatting to audience members and signing my books, before I changed and loaded up the car as well, before driving to Jill’s house, for she had kindly offered to host me for the night,
When I arrived Jill had laid out a wonderful cheese board and some fruit, and put a glass of cold white wine in my hand. She had invited her neighbours to join us, for one of their daughters is studying A Christmas Carol for GCSE, and we had a lovely relaxing evening chatting about this and that, until the adrenaline which had been surging freely after the rigours of the murder, began to subside, and I felt a weariness begin to descend. The guests and Jill obviously noticed this, and the party wound down, and having said my goodbyes, I excused myself and was quickly falling into a sound sleep.
It had been a fascinating day, which despite my initial fears, had ended with an excellent show. I hope that I will return to Bury St Edmunds again next year, for it is a lovely town with a lovely audience.
On Wednesday morning I was due to drive to Ashford, in Kent, to perform at the Revelation Arts Centre – a favourite venue of mine, and one for which I am an ambassador. The whole process actually began on Tuesday, for the packing my car with furniture and props proved to be quite a complex puzzle. The problem was that on Thursday I was due to drive on to Bury St Edmunds, and the variety of shows that I had committed to over the two days would stretch my Renault Kadjar to the very limit.
in Ashford I was due to give a lunchtime talk about my 30 years of performing A Christmas Carol ( the original idea was for the session to be a literary talk, promoting my latest book: ‘Gerald Dickens: My Life on the Road With A Christmas Carol’, but unfortunately my publishers, Olympia, have not yet managed to get the volume to print, so I had nothing to sell). Of course the talk didn’t require any set, but in the evening I would be performing The Signalman (a two part clerk’s desk with a large box representing a railway signalling system, a stool, a chair, a table and a red signalling flag) and Doctor Marigold (bulky wooden steps, a small stool, a wooden box with a metal bucket, a teapot and a rolled up blanket), and along side all of that I had to pack the facsimile Charles Dickens reading desk, a frame to drape a red screen over and the large prop box containing various items necessary for all of the shows. This particular combination of shows represent a perfect storm for packing and I had to put our holiday roof box onto the car to give me the extra storage space that I needed.
During Tuesday afternoon I was aware of a slight cold coming on and as the evening progressed I felt my voice become more croaky, which was a worry to say the least.
On Wednesday morning I finished the packing, including all of my costumes, and set off at around 8.30. The drive south was calm, with no particular traffic issues or delays along the way and I arrived at St Mary The Virgin Church in plenty of time to set up for the lunchtime talk. Over the last few years I have performed in Ashford later in the season, between my two American tours, often just before I fly over for the Thanksgiving weekend, but this year our calendars refused to align, so my visit this year was much earlier, hence the performance of my Double Bill rather than The Carol.
The Revelation Arts Centre is an amazing venue, housed within the magnificent church which dates back to the 13th or 14th Century and which was extended in the 15th and again in the 19th. Revelation is an independent arts centre which is not managed by the church itself, but which shares the space. A low stage area is situated at the end of the nave, in front of the choir, and when performing is going on the towering stone arch is filled with a black drape, creating a perfect performance space that is well lit by a state of the art LED system.
As I arrived the venue was being converted into its theatrical guise, and as it was all very familiar to me I sorted myself out in the dressing room (the vestry) without bothering the team who were hauling curtains and lighting gantries. When the stage was prepared I could prepare for my presentation, and John the tech guy set up a laptop so that I could show various images from my career as I spoke.
The doors were due to open at 12.30, for a 1.00 start, and as the audience arrived I stood up in the sound and lighting booth with John, looking down on the auditorium.. It was lovely to see many familiar faces in the crowd, as well as a group of students from a local school. Just before 1 I went back down to the dressing room and waited to be given the go ahead from the front of house manager, and bang on time I walked onto the stage and introduced myself, before launching into an hour of my favourite anecdotes and memories from my lifetime on the stage. I didn’t work from a script, just a sheet of topics I wished to talk about, and even though I hadn’t really timed the talk, I was greatly relieved to discover that as I opened the floor to questions it was around 1.45 and I had paced things to perfection.
Talking (and writing) about my life and career is a very therapeutic thing, and it is amazing to reflect on how far I have come over the last three decades.
The most worrying thing about the talk was my voice, for it was husky and rather weak. Fortunately the acoustics at St Mary are very good, and the lunchtime audience was small, but I was aware that in the evening I would be doing the double bill to a much larger group, and I was quite concerned at the prospect.
After the audience had left, I returned to my car and drove the mile or so to my hotel, where I switched on the TV and relaxed for a couple of hours, even managing to get some sleep, which was good. At around 4.30 I had a shower to invigorate me, and I drove back to the theatre It was raining hard now, which was frustrating in that I had to unload all of my furniture for the two shows. I reversed the car into the small lane at the rear of the churchyard and unloaded as quickly as I could, getting very wet in the process.
Once I had everything inside the church, I drove my car to the small parking area, and then went back to set up. The first act was to be The Signalman, so I set up the clerk’s desk, the faux telegraph equipment, the table, chair and stool. All of this is over to the left of the stage and represents the signal box, while the right side is blank which represents the railway line and the mouth of the tunnel. The script calls for a red danger light and usually we make do with a stage light pointing out into the audience, but John had managed to procure a genuine railway light, which he had wired up to glow red as appropriate during the performance. It looked perfect.
There was plenty of time to spare before the audience would arrive, but the dressing room was not quite the relaxing oasis that it can be. There is a door that leads to the outside, but the lock had broken which meant that the building couldn’t be locked when the evening came to an end, so Debra, the manager, John, and photographer Phil were gathered around pondering the best course of action. Eventually Deb rushed off to the nearest DIY store and came back with a new lock, which John and Phil fitted, without the use of any suitable tools.
When the securing of the lock was complete it was time for me to get ready, and for John to get to the tech desk, as the audience were beginning to take their seats. Erstwhile locksmith Phil Hinton reverted to his role as Revelation’s resident show photographer, and we chatted for a while so that he knew where would be good places to shoot from, and decide if there were any particular poses that would be good. I took the opportunity to pop a Fisherman’s Friend lozenge into my mouth in the hope that it would help my evening along.
At 7.30 I walked onto the stage and introduced The Signalman. My fears about my voice were realised, as I was even more hoarse and croaky than at lunchtime. It was OK, and I was able to get through the show, but I had to become accustomed to the fact that I couldn’t give the performance I was used to: it sounded different, which for an audience who hadn’t heard it before was fine, but I was in danger of becoming distracted. I kept my concentration and arrived successfully at the end of the script. John had done an amazing job with the lights, as well as with the only sound effect in the show: an eerie recording of wind blowing through telegraph wires: when I talk to sound engineers I suggest that I don’t want the sound played so loudly that it becomes intrusive, but just so it makes the audience feel chilly and uncomfortable, without quite knowing why. John succeeded perfectly.
During the interval I changed into my Doctor Marigold costume, and then stood back stage telling John what needed to be removed (he had very kindly offered to be stage crew, as well as everything else), and then I took on the bits and pieces required for the second half, in the character of Marigold himself (although this fell a bit flat, as a member of the audience came up to me and shared the fact that he was a genuine signalman, and would be having nightmares from now on! Even though Marigold wouldn’t have had any idea why a man was telling him this fact, he gave a great big grin in reply anyway. It was actually a very kind and complimentary thing to say, and it made me feel very good about how the first half had gone).
I began Marigold and once more I had to get used to the fact that one of my favourite characters had a very different voice tonight, but the story delighted, shocked and astounded as it always does, and I took my bows to lovely applause.
Back in the dressing room I drank a lot of water and sucked on throat sweets, before going back to the auditorium where there was quite a queue of people waiting to purchase copies of ‘Dickens and Staplehurst’ (carefully and unsubtly plugged at the start of The Signalman), and pose for photos.
When the last of the audience members had left I changed back into my normal clothes, while John and the team converted theatre back to church. I retrieved my car and began the process of rebuilding the Tetris block that allowed all of the props to fit into the boot.
I said goodbye to all of the team, but especially John, who had done an amazing job for me during the day, and drove away from Revelation for another year. On the way back to my hotel I stopped at a Domino’s Pizza outlet (discovered on previous visits) and took a spicy meatball concoction back to my room, where I ate while I watched a film and then drifted away to sleep, hoping my voice would miraculously recover, as I had another day of performing on the next day.