Following in the Footsteps of CD

Tags

A Christmas Carol, American Notes, Boston, Charles Dickens, Dune, Hartford, London, Long Island, New Haven, NYC, Stephen Spielberg, Worcester

Monday was to be a day of travel, with no performing commitments at all as I moved from Worcester to Long Island. I had only stayed at The Beechwood for three nights but it was beginning to feel like a permanent base and I would have to sweep the room a number of times to ensure that I had left nothing behind.

After breakfast (a simple continental which to avoid providing a large buffet table which would encourage people to congregate, the kitchen had plated up selections of pastries, yoghurt, cereal and fruit), I returned to the room, finished writing and began to pack. Because my costumes and props were hanging in the car, the case was a lot lighter than usual, which added to the feeling that I must have left something behind, but I checked and checked and re-checked until I was certain that I had every charger, lead, pen, document, book and magazine, before finally closing up my bags and leaving.

It was a clear but cold morning and I was soon on the road heading south. There was a dusting of snow in the woods and on the fields as I drove which sparkled in the morning sun and gave a very festive feel to the journey. Through the car’s audio system, which I had paired to my phone, I was listening to the audio book recording of Peter Ackroyd’s brilliant biography of the city of London, recorded by fellow Dickens one man performer, Simon Callow. It was strange to listen to, actually, for Ackroyd was responsible for one of the most comprehensive biographies of Charles Dickens and Callow has become the voice of Charles over the years, so it was very difficult to remember that this was not a book about Dickens! However, the story of London is a fascinating one and the miles passed by easily.

As I drove, I pondered my route south, taking me from Worcester to Hartford, New Haven and on to New York, which would take up a little over three hours of my day, and I suddenly realised that I would be travelling in the footsteps, or at least in the rail tracks and wake, of Charles Dickens in 1842 when he made exactly the same journey. He had arrived in Boston after a particularly rough sea crossing from Liverpool, and had spent plenty of time there, visiting the mills of Lowell and meeting lots of friends before preparing to travel. Early in February he set off by railroad from Boston to Worster, which he described in American Notes as being ‘a very pretty New England town’. He stayed in the city with the State Governor for two days, before continuing on the railroad to Springfield.

On my journey my thoughts were less on the beauty of the scenery, but more on the sight that filled my mirror, for it felt like I was being terrorised by a truck, as if I had stepped into Stephen Spielberg’s movie Dune. For a while I had been driving in the company of a huge black Peterbilt truck, the faceless driver of which was being incredibly agressive (not just with me, he was trying to own the entire freeway). In my mirror the two towering exhaust pipes on either side of the cab looked like the horns of a devil (the effect enhanced by the black and red livery), whilst the great square radiator grill, looked as it were opening in preparation to devour my little red car. Every time that traffic contrived to separate us, I breathed a sigh of relief, but in no time I would hear the deep gutteral growl as the diesel engine revved and he swept back by me again.

We left Massachusetts and drove on into Connecticut and soon I could see the unmistakable skyline of Hartford to my right. On Charles Dickens’ journey in February1842 he had left the railroad at Springfield and, as The Connecticut River was relatively free of ice, he would continue to Hartford by water.

‘The captain of a small steamboat was going to make his first trip for the season that day (the second February trip, I believe, within the memory of man), and only waited for us to go on board. Accordingly, we went on board, with as little delay as might be. He was as good as his word, and started directly.

It certainly was not called a small steamboat without reason. I omitted to ask the question, but I should think it must have been of about half a pony power. Mr. Paap, the celebrated Dwarf, might have lived and died happily in the cabin…’

‘I am afraid to tell how many feet short this vessel was, or how many feet narrow: to apply the words length and width to such measurement would be a contradiction in terms. But I may state that we all kept the middle of the deck, lest the boat should unexpectedly tip over.’

In contrast to the lovely clear winter’s day on which I was travelling, Dickens also pointed out that ‘It rained all day as I once thought it never did rain anywhere, but in the Highlands of Scotland.’

Having reached Hartford Charles enjoyed the space of a comfortable hotel and continued towards New York that night by railroad again

I think that, even despite the predatory truck which still stalked me, I was happier in my little cherry red Rogue, than Charles had been on his tiny steam boat!

As I had no particular time agenda, I decided that it might be fun to do a little exploring, and when I saw signs for the town of Wallingford, I decided to leave the main route and see what I could see.

I had chosen this particular town because it bears the same name as a small town close to us in Oxfordshire, and it felt like a nice way to make a connection with home. I found a parking spot outside a small grocery stop close to the railroad which passes through the town, and as I alighted from the car, I was rewarded with that most American of all sounds, the clanging of a crossing bell and the hooting of a train as it approached the crossing, actually two trains, and my senses were assulted as they passed each other.

I walked around the streets of what was obviously a very close-knit community, and eventually found a large and very old cemetery, the notice at the gate informing me that it had been opened circa 1683. I am always fascinated by the stories that a cemetery has to tell and spent quite a while just walking along the rows of old stones, picking out particular family names that spread across generations: relations who had never known each other in life but who were now united in that place.

One thing that I always look for for among grave stones is for someone who shared my birthday, and I almost found it in Wallingford, but on close investigation the date was a day out – the gentleman in question having been born on October 10 1818, whereas I was born on October 9, it was close enough though and imagine my surpise when I stepped back and looked at the family name: Jeralds.

It was getting a bit cold now and I walked back to the car to continue my journey towards New York, passing signs to New Haven, where Dickens had stopped for a night, commenting on the beautiful old Elm Trees that abounded in the city.

As I got closer to New York, entering The Bronx, I hit traffic. Heavy traffic. Stationary traffic. I looked at my phone and managed to find an alternative route, but I was very glad that I did not have a show scheduled for that evening, for I would be beginning to feel very nervous. My new route took me through some elegant neighbourhoods, where Christmas decorations were hung and sacks of leaves were waiting to be taken away, which was a very nice, albeit brief, constrast to the strip malls and factories that line the main routes. Traffic cleared, I motored on and now it was time to leave Charles’ journey, for he had headed into the heart of New York City whereas I turned to the east and follwed signs for the Throgs Neck Bridge which took me onto Long Island, and it was as I crossed the great green suspension bridge that I caught my first glimpse of the Manhatten skyline, almost ghost like as the winter sun was low in the sky behind it. It was an amazing view of an amazing city.

I continued on until I reached my destination, a large Marriott hotel in the town of Uniondale.

On Tuesday I will be performing A Christmas Carol at the nearby Public Library, but during the day I will have the opportunity to explore Long Island and maybe make a literary pilgrimage!

Bonus Blog: Dickens at the Parker House

Tags

A Christmas Carol, Boston, Charles Dickens, The Boston Globe, The Tremont Theatre

Shortly before I left England to fly to Boston I received a tweet asking me if I had ever performed at The Omni Parker House in the city? The answer is yes and I have had some very pleasant times there.

When Charles Dickens travelled to America in 1867 to perform his readings of A Christmas Carol it was at The Parker House Hotel on the corner of Tremont Street and School Street where he stayed. In fact he made it his base for the five months duration of his stay in the country, taking a suite of rooms to which he would return having travelled to New York, Washington DC, Philadelphia and the other cities where he performed. On his arrival he wrote to his daughter Mary, telling her that ‘This is an immense hotel, with all manner of white marble public passages and public rooms. I live in a corner high up, and have a hot and cold bath in my bed-room (communicating with the sitting-room), and comforts not in existence when I was here before. The cost of living is enormous, but happily we can afford it’

The Parker House, circa 1855

The situation of The Parker House was perfect for Dickens’s purposes because it was situated right next door to the Tremont Theatre where he would perform when in Boston. He could remain in the comfort of his rooms until the last moment before making the short walk to the venue and delighting the audiences.

By 1867 Charles Dickens was in poor health and the winter in the North East of America was a particularly harsh one, with freezing rain, strong winds and heavy snow all combining to keep him suffering a permanent cold in the head as well as infections to his feet that he would complain of up to the time of his death. In 1869, two years after his stay in Boston, he wrote in answer to a social invitation:

‘I am very sorry that I cannot have the pleasure of accepting your kind invitation. But I am occasionally
subject to a Neuralgic (or whatever else it may be) attack in the foot, which originated a few years ago, in over-walking in deep snow, and was revived by a very hard winter in America; and it has so plagued me, under the dinings and other engagements of this London Season, that I have been lame these three weeks, and have resolved on an absolute rest in Kent here, and an avoidance of hot rooms, and an unbroken quiet training, for some months’

During his first visit to America in 1842 Charles had been rushing about everywhere, seeing everything, but by 1867 he largely remained in his hotel unless travelling or performing, so the comfort and ‘excellent cuisine’ was important to him.

The Parker House that Dickens stayed in was actually not the one that stands on the same site now, as it was demolished and rebuilt in the 1920s, so his actual suite doesn’t exist any more, but the hotel were sensible enough to save the door to his rooms, as well as a large wall mirror in which it was reputed that the great man would rehearse; this assumption is probably correct as Dickens always used mirrors to check his facial expressions whether as part of his rehearsal regime or even when writing his novels.

I have been fortunate to visit, and stay in the Parker House on a number of occasions, the most memorable occasion being in 1999, for that was the year in which I was booked to perform in the same Tremont Theatre that Charles himself had graced 132 years before. The show was presented by a collective involving some leading lights in Boston’s professional theatre scene, and was very well promoted. My first duty was to host a press conference in ‘The Dickens Suite’, and having regaled the journalists for half an hour or so, I was passed into the hands of their photographers. I don’t remember how many there were, but they all wanted me gazing far into mirror, as if I were somehow connecting with my ancestor. One photographer, from The Globe, I think waited until last and confided in me that he didn’t want to do the mirror shot, as every one else was using it, so he took me to somewhere else in the hotel and did his own thing. The day had gone well and I returned to my room to relax, but within the hour my phone rang, it was the photographer from The Globe, who had been told in no uncertain terms that the paper MUST have the mirror shot, so could he come back and pose me as all the others had?

Looking on line now it is strange that non of the mirror pictures seem to have been archived, whereas the first one that the Globe photographer had taken, still exists showing a VERY young Gerald Dickens being looked over by a huge portrait of Charles.

The day of the show at The Tremont was extraordinary, it was a huge crowd. As Charles had done I remained in my Parker House room until shortly before the show and just as I was about to leave the phone rang, it was one of the journalists ‘How are you feeling about the show, hey, you must be REALLY nervous!’ Well, if I hadn’t been before, I certainly was now!

The performance itself was one of those events that will stay in my memory for ever. I watched the audience fill the hall, from a little niche near to the stage, and the atmosphere was infectious and remarkable. When everyone was seated the lights dimmed and I walked onto the same stage that Charles Dickens had walked onto, and looked at the same auditorium that Charles Dickens had looked at. I paused, and then said the same words that Charles Dickens had said: ‘Marley was dead to begin with…..’

I would love to repeat that experience, for my performance is now more suited to a large theatre and I think it would be an amazing event, and if I did do it again I would certainly make sure that I stayed at The Omni Parker House!

Escalate or Elevate

Tags

A Christmas Carol, Beechwood Hotel, Boston, British Airways, Charles Dickens, Disney, Ebenezer Scrooge, Hertz Car Rental, Hetahrow Airport, Nissan, Vaillancourt Folk Art

After two shows at opposite ends of Great Britain, and less than a day at home, Friday saw me resume my United States tour as I prepared to fly from London to Boston.

My alarm was set for 6am, but I woke an hour earlier than that remembering that I hadn’t packed or updated my SatNav unit. Of course, such a trifling matter was completely unimportant – I could pack it before I was due to leave at 8, and even if I didn’t, I would have my phone to assist me along the way, but in those dark, early hours, everything takes on levels of global importance.  As soon as I got up I found the small, and rather old, unit in a drawer and packed it into my case, the updating would have to be done at the airport.

Goodbyes are always difficult and this one was no different albeit wrapped up and foreshortened by the complications of getting the children dressed and out of the door ready for school. My taxi arrived on the stroke of 8 and soon I was on the way to Heathrow airport, as I had been 3 weeks previously – this was almost turning into a commute. 

The journey was flawless which was perhaps surprising during a Friday morning rush hour, and I checked in and cleared security at Heathrow Airport with very little delay, leaving me with over an hour to check the navigation unit. I logged on and sure enough the American map needed updating. Having purchased the upgrade and set the download to begin I discovered that apparently the USA has grown in the last 2 years for the new map was too large to fit onto the little device. I was given the option to select a portion of the country, and as this trip is going to focus entirely on the North East corridor, that suited me just fine.  As the updated content downloaded so my flight flashed up on the screens confirming that it would departing from gate B36, and I should make my way there.  The B gates at Heathrow Terminal 5 are separated from the main building, and to get to them you have to descend the longest escalator you have ever seen, board a shuttle train and then rise to ground level once more.  The train was extremely busy and as the crowd was disgorged, we all made for the escalator that would take us up again. There were lifts available, but everyone avoided them, presumably not wanting to be squashed into such a confined space in these Covid days, meaning that instead we were all squashed together on the escalator whilst the elevators remained empty, and therefore much safer: the apparently more risky alternative had proved itself to be the sensible option: to escalate or elevate?

At the gate I took a seat and waited for the boarding to begin, and sure enough soon a recorded female voice informed us that she invited Group 1 to board. A few expensive suits with their brief cases ambled through the priority lane but the bulk of the crowd remain unmoved, until the same voice came over the PA for a second time and told us that Group 6 was now being invited.  This was a surprise but a large bunch of us stood, gathered our bags and made for the gate, until we realised that the same voice recording was being used for the Chicago flight at the next gate, in fact the flight that I had taken a few weeks before, so we all sat sheepishly down again.

While I was preparing to board I had a message from Liz at home that will appeal to all who laugh at Mrs Cratchit’s panic-stricken antics with her Christmas pudding. Last year Liz made two puddings, one of which we steamed and ate as part of our Chritsmas lunch whilst the other remained sealed in the cool dark cupboard, where it had been ever since Liz mad made the mixture sometime in the autumn of 2020. Yesterday Liz decided to investigate to see if we would be able to eat it on Christmas day this year and to her dismay found that the entire thing had grown an outer fur of blue mould – ‘Supposin’…..supposin’…..’

Back at the gate Groups 2, 3, 4 and 5 were called and at last when ‘our’ group 6 was called I could take my rightful seat on the starboard side of the plane. 

On the last flight from Heathrow I calculated that we flew pretty well over the top of my home town, but I had been in the wrong side to get a view, so this time I had selected seat K instead of A to see if my hunch was correct.  Although there had been heavy rain and low cloud through the morning, by the time we took off the sky had cleared and I tracked our progress with interest:  There was Windsor Castle (easy to spot), the M4 and Reading. The Thames meandered around beneath us: was that the bridge at Marlowe that was the subject of a painting that used to hang in my parents’ bedroom? And then I could see the Wittenham Clumps, a favourite walking spot for us, the site of the old Didcot Power Station and then yes, there was Abingdon with the river running through it.  I could clearly see the all-weather sports stadium where my daughter goes for her football training, and the ring road around the town. There was the new housing development, and the roundabout at which the ring road intersects The Oxford Road. From there it was easy to see my own neighbourhood and I waved to Liz and the girls, as I had promised that I would.

We soared ever higher into the sky, leaving Oxfordshire behind us, and headed towards Boston. To while away the time, as the British Airways flight attendants diligently served me with a lunch of Lemon Thyme Chicken, I watched Bohemian Rhapsody again and as on the previous two occasions a tear came to my eye during the Live Aid sequence.  Following that I selected Joker, the extremely bleak prequel to the Batman franchise, and after that the joyful Disney film Moana – just to cheer me up a bit, although in fact it sent me to sleep for a while.  When I woke we had just under two hours to go and were making ‘landfall’ over the Gulf of St Lawrence. We began our long slow descent into Boston and as the cloud was very low by the time I could see the land below us we were skimming over the many little islands that lie just off the Massachusetts coast. A little bump, a skip and we were taxiing to our gate, ready to set foot on American soil once more.

For once the lines in the immigration hall were minimal and apart from trying to explain how I alone do 30 different characters in my show, the interview with the agent was not difficult and in no time I was walking towards the carousel to await the arrival of my large blue case, and in one of those rare moments of triumph as I arrived so did my case – perfect timing!

To collect a rental car at Boston airport you have to get on a shuttle bus so before I braved the cold windy and wet weather, I popped into a rest room, before dragging my cases to the curb side and waiting for a bus on route 33. Eventually once arrived and a large group piled in, loading our luggage onto the various racks, and just as we pulled away I discovered that I didn’t have my phone with me – in a horrible moment of clarity I realised that I had left it in the rest room, on a small shelf.

There was nothing to do than to stay on the bus and do the whole lap of the airport again, until I was back at Terminal E, with no great hope of being united with my phone. However the arrivals lounge was very empty, obviously with no other flights having landed since mine, and I hurried back to the rest room, looked at the metal shelf and had my faith in human nature restored, for there lay my phone.

I once more waited for bus 33 and once more was taken to the rental car center, where I was due to pick up a vehicle from Hertz. At the desk I asked for a four wheel drive car, as I will be using this vehicle throughout the trip and there maybe snow and ice along the way. After a little while of computer tapping, the Hertz agent said that she had an All Wheel Drive car, if that was ok? She said it rather apologetically as if she was truly sorry that she didn’t have a 4-wheel drive, only an all wheel drive one, and I confirmed that it would be fine, mentally chastising myself for the lapse in my conversational American language skills.

The paperwork completed I made my way into the garage to discover who would be my friend, protector and companion for the next three weeks and found a rather smart deep metallic red Nissan Rogue. I loaded my cases, set the satnav unit which came to life instantly and informed me that the journey to Worcester would take just under an hour. I sped through the subterranean road system of Boston and then passed Fenway Park on my left before leaving the city behind me. The drive seemed reassuringly familiar and certainly not as if it had been two years before I last made it. The newly downloaded map still requested that I turn the wrong way at the intersection where the hotel sat, and as I have done for so many years, I ignored it and drove to the car park of the Beechwood Hotel.

Having checked in I had a little time to unpack and hang my costumes so that the worst of the travelling wrinkles would be gone by Saturday’s performances, and then had a short rest before meeting up with Gary and Judi Vaillancourt for a ‘welcome home’ dinner. It was lovely to be with my old friends again, and once more it hardly seemed as if it had been two years since last we gathered.

Outside the windows snow began to fall, and it really seemed as if Christmas was coming back to life.

Mass, Maine and Christmas Begins

Tags

Boston, Charles Dickens, Kate Douglas Wiggin, Maine, Massachusetts, Portland, Portland Press and Herald, Press Hotel, Santa Claus, Vaillancourt Folk Art

It has been a week or since last I reminisced on my American adventures as prompted by my phone and Facebook, because this has coincided with a period when traditionally I could spend a few days at home with Liz and my family.

But now the great memory generators have cranked back into life again and provided me with a series of images from Massachusetts and Maine. For the last 12 or so years the second part of my tour has begun in Sutton Mass. at the wonderful premises of Vaillancourt Folk Art where the senses are assaulted by Christmas! As you walk into the store every inch is utilised to display a variety of Christmas gifts but mainly the beautifully hand-painted chalkware Santa Claus figures which are cast from antique chocolate moulds.

The company was formed by Judi and Gary Vaillancourt in 1984. Originally based in their house, the demand for the collectables soon outstripped the confines of a kitchen, dining room and bedrooms and over the following years the business expanded until it eventually landed in its present home the Manchaug Mills in Sutton. The buildings date back to 1826 and are a perfect venue for the Vaillancourt family to promote tradition.

Gary and Judi are justifiably proud that they are one of a very few Christmas businesses which are truly American, and it was their connection with Byers’ Choice, another genuinely American Christmas company (it feels so right to be writing about both businesses on Thanksgiving Day), which led to my performing in the mill.

For my first visit The Vaillancourts made an arrangement with the owners of the mill to convert an empty space next to the store into a theatre, which they named Blaxton Hall. With Judi’s artistic flare a stage set was created surrounded by 200 seats, and over the years my performances of A Christmas Carol have become as much a Christmas tradition for me as they have for the audiences who return every year.

I always have a wonderful time with the Vaillancourts and we have had our fair share of adventures over the years. On one occasion my flight from Philadelphia was delayed by thick fog and it quickly became apparent that I wouldn’t get to the store in time for the show. After a flurry of panic, phone calls and emails were exchanged and a plan was hatched: Luke Vaillancourt (Gary and Judi’s son, now very much a part of the team) was dispatched to wait for my arrival at Logan airport ready to drive me back as fast as was legally possible, whilst his father-in-law Bob was placed on the Blaxton Hall stage with his guitar in hand to entertain the crowd until I could take over: that warm-up performance is still spoken of in Sutton to this day! When I eventually arrived and relieved Bob, whose repertoire was beginning to get rather stretched, the atmosphere in the room was fantastic: a real sense of camaraderie among friends, and when Scrooge woke up on Christmas morning and discovered that there was ‘no mist, no fog….’ there was a great ironic cheer.

Vaillancourt Folk Art is more than a venue to me, I count the family as close personal friends and it feels most odd not to see them this year.

The other memory that my phone provided me with this week was from Portland, Maine. Portland is a more recent addition to my tour but the city has a special resonance for me. Many years ago when my father David was the President of the International Dickens Fellowship organisation (a post that I was greatly honoured to hold a few years later and one that my brother Ian now undertakes with a great sense of duty, wit and professionalism), he asked me to perform with him a short story that he had discovered. The ‘show’ was based on a piece of writing titled ‘A Child’s Journey With Dickens’ and recounted the childhood memories of Kate Douglas Wiggin, the author of Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. In 1868 Charles Dickens was touring America, performing his readings in cities along the Eastern seaboard. Most of the events were in Boston and New York but there were other venues too, one of which was in Portland. The young Kate, 10 years old at the time, was a huge fan of Dickens and devoured his works, even naming her pets and belongings after his characters – her dog was named Pip whilst her red sled was christened ‘The Artful Dodger.’

Dickens’ reading was one of the biggest events ever seen in the city and the tickets sold out in no time. Of course there was no possibility for a ten year old girl to attend and so Kate simply lingered outside the hall hoping to catch a glimpse of her hero. Sadly she did not.

The next day Kate and her mother were due to take the train to Boston and during the journey the little girl discovered that Charles Dickens was actually sitting in the next carriage and in a moment of Victorian infant chutzpah she plucked up courage to run up and sit down next to the great author! Once he overcame his surprise Dickens fell into conversation with Kate, asking her about her favourite books and characters. She told him that she’d read all of his books and he questioned her, ‘those great thick long books and you such a slip of a thing?’ She simply replied that she skipped the dull bits – ‘not the short dull bits, just the long ones!’

A Child’s Journey with Dickens is a charmingly beautiful account of the meeting and a visit to Portland always brings it to mind. When I was in the city I performed on behalf of the Maine Historical Society and as well as staging a lovely evening in a beautiful venue, they were extremely generous with their research resources and enabled me to build a complete picture of Charles’ visit.

As a final observation when last I was in Portland, two years ago, I stayed at The Press Hotel on Exchange Street which is housed in the old offices of The Portland Press and Herald (formally the largest newspaper in the State and mentioned by Kate in A Child’s Journey). The owners of The Press have honoured the newspaper trade in the décor and dressing of the rooms and it is a fabulous change to the many identikit boxes that proliferate.

My main memory however was the breakfast I ate there – a Fruit and Quinoa Bowl, which comprised of: Pineapple, Banana, Blueberry, Black Quinoa, Basil, Orange Blossom Ricotta and Local Honey. It was quite simply one of the most delicious things I have ever eaten and won my award for ‘Breakfast of the Tour’!

Back in England in 2020. 26 November has really felt like the beginning of Christmas. We have spent the day listening to Christmas songs and driving through neighbourhoods looking at Christmas lights. I even bought myself a Christmas sweater!

What else happened on 26th November? The film has finally been unleased upon the world!

Happy Thanksgiving to all of my readers in America

http://www.geralddickens.com/films.html

#achristmascarol2020