Nobody Puts Mrs F In a Corner

Tags

A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens, Dickens and Staplehurst. A Biogrpahy of a Rail Crash, Ebenezer Scrooge, Leeds, Leeds Library, National Rail Museum, The Met Hotel, The Shambles, The Signalman, York, York Minster

Usually when I wake up in the Sleeperz hotel in Newcastle I have to get on the road early, but on Friday I had a fairly leisurely day ahead of me, with no commitment until the evening, and that was to be in the city of Leeds which was not a huge drive. I had my breakfast at around 8.00, an extensive buffet with plenty of choice, and then returned to my room ready to be on the road by 9am, for, although I had nowhere to be professionally for several hours, I did have a plan for my day. I had decided to drive to the city of York and visit the National Rail Museum, as I had been in touch with them a few times during the research for my book. The drive was about an hour and a half, and I was able to finish the final two episodes of my Formula 1 podcast series, before listening to live coverage of the opening practice sessions from Abu Dhabi.

The start of my journey took me down the busy A1/M trunk road, but soon my Satnav began suggesting alternative turnings across country, and as I had no specific timetable to follow, I thought I would take them. I wound through small market towns and villages, through farmland, passed flooded meadows and across rivers. It was much more fun than maintaining a constant 75 mph (oh, I’m sorry officer, I meant 69.5 mph) on a very busy road.

Eventually I arrived on the outskirts of York and was directed to the Rail Museum’s car park. The National Railway Museum is part of a network across the country under the umbrella of London’s Science Museum, and as such is free (although I did note that the car park would cost me £10!). It is magnificent, you walk into a huge hall, set up with a series of platforms, each with an impressive train (locomotive and carriages) spread out: these are all Royal Trains, with carriages belonging to Victoria, Edward, George and Queen Elizabeth II. Also in this shed is the original Stephenson’s Rocket, one of the most influential of the early locomotives, and which generally settled the standard design for decades to come. From The Station Hall one walks through an underpass and to The Great Hall, and this is where the magnificent collection of giant locomotives are shown off. A giant steam train is a thing of sheer mechanical beauty, I adore them, and looking up at them from ground level, rather than from platform level, reminds you of the sheer scale and power of these beasts, the quality of engineering and design is simply breathtaking. Most prominently displayed in this hall, and quite rightly too, for it has a place in the British psyche alongside the Spitfire, Concorde and the Mini, is the jaw-droppingly elegant and beautiful Mallard. The Mallard was built in1938, using advanced streamlining techniques to make it faster and more efficient. In the year of its launch, it achieved a speed of 126 mph, a record which has never been beaten by any other steam locomotive. Of course, to a petrol-head like me, the streamlining and blue paintwork evoke the record-breaking achievements of Malcolm and Donald Campbell in their Bluebird cars and boats.

One other exhibit which fascinated me was tucked to the side of the hall, and of course was somewhat in the shadow of the great locos, and it was in a very tatty condition, not beautifully restored and painted – it was a passenger carriage dating from 1851, and from the various engravings and photographs from the Staplehurst rail crash, this was the sort of carriage that Charles Dickens, Ellen Ternan and her mother were travelling in on June 9, 1865. I felt quite moved looking at it, imagining Charles clambering from the door, down the embankment to assist his fellow passengers as they lay wounded and dying in the river Beault.

From the Great Hall I returned to the main building and took a look around the gift shop, where I was astounded, nay horrified, to discover that although there were a couple of books relating to Charles Dickens (Tony Williams’ ‘Dickens on Railways’, and A small copy of ‘The Signalman’), there was no copy of ‘Dickens and Staplehurst, A Biography of a Rail Crash’. I immediately sought out the shop manager, who promised to forward my details to the buying team, as she thought it would be an excellent book to sell: well, durr!

By this time, I had exhausted my interest in railwayana and as the city centre was very close, I thought I’d spend a little time strolling up to York Minster. My walk took me right passed the mainline railway station, and this brought back so many very happy childhood memories. In the early 1970s my parents would take us on our summer holidays to a small, remote village in the northeast of Scotland, and there we would spend time as a family swimming, exploring, playing, climbing and just having the most idyllic summers. The village is called Cromarty and still has a grip over me, so much so that when Liz and I married in 2015 it was in the gardens of Cromarty courthouse where we made our vows. We try to return as often as we can, and it is just as beautiful and relaxing as it was when I was a child. So, what does this have to do with York railway station? Back in my days of childhood my father liked to pack the car up with all of our belongings and take an overnight sleeper train to Inverness, whilst the car was loaded onto trucks behind, as part of British Rail’s Motorail service. I am guessing that the Motorail part of the equation didn’t run from London, for we would drive for 5 hours to York and board the train there. The start of the summer holidays coincided with either my mother’s or father’s birthdays (July 29 and August 6 respectively), and there were occasions when we decorated our compartments on the train and had a celebratory picnic before the great diesel engines (one of which had been on display at the museum), began hauling us north. We would settle into our bunk beds as the gentle rhythm of the train lulled us to sleep, and when we woke, answering a deferential knock on the door from the train steward, who left a tray of morning tea and biscuits (always Rich Tea biscuits, and I am sure that’s why I have an enduring love of those very plain items today), we would look out of the window to see moors covered with heather, slashed at points with dark almost black peaty streams, and shining white waterfalls. That blue/purple hue of the terrain can be seen nowhere else and meant that we were in the Highlands. All of that came back to me, as I stood on the busy ring road in York and looked back at the steel arches of the station.

I continued my walk to The Minster and was a little disappointed that would not be able to go inside, as there was a graduation ceremony in full swing, but I strolled around the precincts and admired the fine old building from every angle.

Next, I thought I would continue my walk to The Shambles, a collection of narrow Medieval streets, which are very much a part of York’s appeal to tourists. Indeed, the Shambles were packed, and as I stood at the end looking down the lanes, I thought how this must have been an inspiration for JK Rowling when she hit upon the idea of Diagon Alley in the Harry Potter books. I walked in, and to my dismay discovered that I was not the only one to have had this thought, for rather than the quirky antique shops and small businesses that used to be in The Shambles, there were now Ollivander Wand Shops, outlets to buy Butterbeer and just Potter tat shops. Rather sad.

I was getting hungry by this time and decided to walk back to the Railway Museum and have lunch in the cafe there (the centre of York was so busy, I could imagine myself having to wait an age). The Cafe is set on the Platform in the Station Hall, and the seating is in booths, using carriage benches and tables, as if you were sat on your train setting out on a long journey.

With lunch finished it was time to get back in the car and head to Leeds, where I would be performing that evening. I had booked a hotel in the city centre, an older looking property – The Metropole, or ‘The Met’ as it is currently branded. I thought that I had read online that the hotel had no parking, so I made my way to the nearest public parking garage I could find, attached to Leeds Railway station, and walked the short distance back. Actually, there was a small parking garage, but the desk clerk told me it was full, and there was no guarantee that there would be spaces whenever I returned, so I decided to leave the car where it was.

I had two hours to watch some television and relax on the bed, until it was time to rouse myself and decide how best to get my things from the car to The Leeds Library, the issue being that the venue is in a pedestrianised street, and the nearest parking was a multi-story serving the huge shopping centres nearby. This being the second time that I had performed at the Library I knew that it was difficult to lug pieces of heavy furniture into lifts and through busy shopping streets, so I had asked if the library could provide the set – a chair, a table and a hatstand (I would bring my own stool, as I knock on it with my cane, and didn’t want to damage theirs). But even so I still needed to carry two costumes, a top hat, a scarf, my roller case, and a box of merchandise. I looked at the map on my phone and realised that my best bet was simply to leave the car at the station and make two trips, the walk being only about 6 minutes each way.

I arrived at the library at about 4.45 with my first load and was met by Ian Harker and Carl Hutton, who have been my contacts there. I said a quick hello and then disappeared into the busy streets to bring the remainder of my things, before settling in for the evening. The Leeds Library is an amazing old building which has stood in Commercial Street since 1808 and featuring the most amazing galleried central room, in which I would perform. A small stage had been set up at one end of the long room, and shelves of books towered above on all sides. The centre of the hall was filled with as many chairs as could be squeezed in, for once again the event was a sell-out. I arranged my furniture and stood for a while taking in the majesty of my office for the evening.

Carl would be looking after the sound effects and had stationed himself at a small table stage right. He was a little nervous about taking on this responsibility, but we ran through the cues a few times and I assured him that I had the utmost confidence in his abilities!

When all was ready, I retired to the Committee Room which was behind the stage and busied myself by going through the extra lines required for the two-act show (this being the first of the year in this format). I heard the audience arriving, and relished in that murmur of expectation and excitement, which is one of my favourite sounds in a theatre.

At 7, Carl knocked on the door and said that we were ready to start. I would make my way to the back of the auditorium, and when I was there Carl would start the first music cue. I walked through the more modern part of the building, through a passageway and there I was behind the audience who sat in silence. To quote the show, they were quiet. Very quiet, and then there was a degree of shuffling and looking around. The horrible thought came to me that perhaps Carl had already played the sound effect when I was not there, and now the audience were wondering what should happen next. I was wracked by indecision – should I just march up to the front and begin, or should I wait? I didn’t think that there would have been time for the effect to play all the way through without my hearing it, but what if it had? How long dared I wait? My confusion was relieved when Carl’s head popped his head around the wooden pillar that marked the edge of the stage, nodded, and started the sound effect, meaning I could begin in the usual style.

The Leeds audience were as enthusiastic and engaged as the Newcastle one had been and the first half was filled with fun and laughter. The extra passages slotted into the script easily, which was a relief and the whole thing moved on at a great pace. The most enjoyable part was Fezziwig’s party, as I had a little idea that I wanted to try. Rather than confining Mr F’s dance moves to the stage, I decided to utilise the central aisle in the hall, galloping all the way down and then all the way back, as the fiddle music of Sir Roger de Coverly played. As I came back, I gestured to an imaginary Mrs Fezziwig, standing on the stage, that she should join me in my dance, crouching slightly as I moved forward and beckoning to her, thereby recreating the iconic final scene from Dirty Dancing: Swayze and Grey had nothing on us. Nobody puts Mrs Fezziwig in a corner! The whole scene even merited a very small moment of applause from an audience member. Shortly after the Fezziwig scene had faded away there was a loud noise from the streets outside, a large dumpster being emptied of what sounded to be hundreds of used bottles. The Fezziwig’s ball had been quite an event, obviously.

Fortunately, I remembered to stop after the Ghost of Christmas Past had vanished, for it would have been so easy just to carry on as I have been for the last few weeks, but that is the point of the show where the interval comes, and I returned to the Commitee Room to change shirt and drink lots of water,

The second half was as fun as the second, and the whole show was a great success with another great ovation from the audience.

Once again lots of people remained afterwards to chat, and have merchandise signed – audience members of all ages, which was really gratifying. It was just after 9 o’clock when I started getting changed. I had asked if I could leave my things at the library, so that I could collect them in the morning, and with that I returned to the hotel, without needing to divert to the railway car park, and discovered to my delight that the restaurant was still open, meaning that I was able to finish my day with a fine plate of fish, chips and mushy peas.

Charles Dickens had not particularly liked Leeds, calling it rather unkindly ‘an odious place’. Well, I am sorry that he didn’t enjoy his time there, but for me it is a wonderful city and one that I hope to continue to visit for many years to come

Happy Birthday

Tags

A Christmas Carol, Bob Cratchit, Charles Dickens, Dickens and Staplehurst. A Biogrpahy of a Rail Crash, Ebenezer Scrooge, Jacob Marley, Mr Fezziwig, Saddleworth Moor, St George's Hall, The Custom House, The Tyne, The Word, York

Sunday19 December was a birthday. A 178th birthday. Charles Dickens first introduced the characters of Ebenezer Scrooge, Jacob Marley, Bob Cratchit and his family, the various ghosts, Belle, Fred and all of the others to the world on that date in 1843 and so began one of the most extraordinary literary success stories of all time, for the book has never been out of print from that day on.

My birthday celebrations began with an early breakfast at The Shankly Hotel in Liverpool, as I had to get onto the road by 9am for a drive across the country and north to Tynseside, leaving one great shipbuilding city on The Mersey and travelling to another on The Tyne.

The morning was a foggy one, a very foggy one, and all of the cars on that Sunday morning had both front and rear high intensity lights shining so that they glowed like, as Charles Dickens says, ‘ruddy smears on the palpable brown air’.

As the morning went on my route took me eastwards on the M62 and gradually the fog began to clear, and a bright morning sun shone to my right. I was listening to the coverage of the second cricket test match from Adelaide (a day-night match), and it was extraordinary to hear the commentators describe the sun setting in the west, while I watched the same celestial body rising in the east. The clearing of the weather had less to do with the fog lifting but more to do with my climbing to a greater altitude. Various signs informed me that I was crossing Saddleworth Moor, a name which strikes repulsion and loathing into British minds, but which is also one of the most beautiful tracts of countryside I have ever seen. The low-lying fog nestled in the valleys whilst the hills were illuminated in a golden morning glow. I drove onwards and upwards until another notice proclaimed that I was at the highest point on the UK motorway network meaning, inevitably, that I was soon descending back into the thick fog once more.

Eventually I joined the A1-M road, one of the main North-South routes, and I was back on familiar territory as I headed towards the North East.

I was due to perform at The Word – the National Centre of the Written Word, in South Shields, where I had last appeared at the end of October, just before my A Christmas Carol tour commenced. At that time I had been talking about my new book, Dickens and Staplehurst, as well as performing The Signalman, but I hadn’t yet received copies of the book from my publishers, so had none to sell. Even though the book had sold so well in Liverpool, I had kept a few back so that any audience members in South Shields who had seen my previous performance could buy them.

The journey took around three hours and I pulled up outside the extraordinary circular building at the edge of the market square on the stroke of 12. I called June, who was looking after this event, and soon all of the furniture for A Christmas Carol had been unloaded and was being taken up to the third floor, while I took the car to a nearby car park next to the large theatre in the town, The Custom House.

The room where I perform at The Word is not a theatre, it does not have great stage lighting, and doesn’t have any of the history or atmosphere of St George’s Hall, but somehow performing A Christmas Carol in a venue dedicated to the written word was the perfect way to celebrate the birthday and honour Charles Dickens, so the room was excellent!

While I prepared the stage I chatted with June who admitted that she wasn’t sure how many people would actually attend – the library had received a few cancellations, due to the growing fear of the spread of the Omicron variant of Covid 19. I was also worried about the effect of the virus on my final week of shows and fully expected some cancellations along the way, either due to stricter government regulations, or simply because audience members would make their own decisions based on their levels of caution or fear.

At 1.30 the doors were opened and the audience began to arrive, all masked, and by 2 everyone who was expected had arrived. June formally welcomed them and when she mentioned the fact that we were honouring 178 years of A Christmas Carol there was a loud gasp of excitement.

The show itself was very different from those in Liverpool, as I didn’t have the same space to roam, and with the bright fluorescent lights shining brightly, I could see the audience clearly, but the effect of that amazing story was every bit as powerful as ever. The audience laughed, and sobbed and shouted and clapped with every bit as much enthusiasm as their Merseyside cousins and when I took my bows they stood and called out their appreciation. When the applause had died down I returned to the stage and spoke briefly about Dickens’s writing process of A Christmas Carol, and how it came to be published on the 19th December.

When I had finished I pulled on my mask (the Christmas Carol one that I had been given in Pennsylvania a week before) and went to the little merchandise table with its scanty stock of books. Soon they were all sold and signed, and the audience made their way to their homes, while I changed and packed up again. I walked to the car park to retrieve the car and noticed that at The Custom House it was interval time. I could tell this because huddled in the cold outside the front door was a group of audience members smoking, while on the other side of the building, at the stage door, were huddled a gropu of actors smoking! On the pavement outside The Word June helped me to load up my props and a little after 4pm I was driving again, this time heading south through drizzly rail towards the city of York, where I would break my journey home to Oxfordshire, with an overnight stay at The Elmbank Hotel, which has become my traditional staging post for this journey.

I had spent a great deal of the day driving to perform for a small audience in the far north eastern corner of Britain, but it had been well worth it, for in that little room at the very top of The Word we had given ‘A Christmas Carol’ a very good birthday party!

North by North East

Tags

Dickens and Staplehurst, Gateshead Little Theatre, P&O Cruises, South Shields, Staplehurst, The Signalman, The Word, York

On Sunday morning, Hallowe’en, the winter tour continued to pick up pace as I was due to perform in the far North East of England. The booking marked a return to the magnificent ‘The Word – The National Centre for the Written Word’, and it was a poignant visit as my proposed performance of Great Expectations at the venue was the first show lost to the pandemic back in May 2020. The Word is set in the heart of South Shields, on the banks of the Tyne River and required a drive of around 5 hours to get there. As the show was an afternoon one, with the audience due to arrive at 1.30, it meant an early start.

I had loaded the car the pervious day and my alarm was set at 5.15am (allowing for the fact that the clocks had fallen back an hour over night). As the rest of the house slept I had some breakfast, showered and prepared to leave ready to drive through a rainy, windy, squally morning. A goodbye to Liz and it was time to hit the road. Having set the SatNav I was relieved to notice that the journey time was considerably less than it had intimated the day before, so I would have plenty of time to stop for coffee breaks on the way. I decided to run through the script of The Signalman as I was driving, and as I turned onto the A34 I began: ‘Halloa! Below there!’ But I was interrupted, my flow was destroyed by a very strange sound: ‘slap slap slap slap’. At first I thought it was coming from the props in the back, maybe something was badly stowed and was rattling, but no, it definitely was coming from the front wheel, although the steering felt fine and no warning lights were showing, it was very odd. I continued to drive and got back to the script, but the slap slap slap continued and it was very obvious that something was wrong. I pulled into a petrol station and in the pelting rain investigated the front right tyre of my car. Sure enough part of the tread on the inside shoulder of the tyre had failed, sort of peeled away, exposing the metal bands that form the construction of a tyre. The strip of rubber hadn’t actually come off but was whipping the car body with every revolution of the wheel. The tyre was close to complete and catastrophic failure, and if it happened when I was driving at 70 miles per hour through the driving rain the consequences were too awful to think of. There was nothing for it but to change wheels. A Renault Kadjar only has a space saver wheel, which is much narrower than a standard one, and can only be driven at relatively low speeds, but it would have to do as there would be no tyre centres open at that hour. The other issue was that the spare is stowed under the floor of the boot space, meaning that I had to unload all of my props before being able to get to it.

In the dark and the rain I performed a reasonably fast tyre stop (OK, not quite the 1.9 seconds that the Formula One teams manage, but pretty good nonetheless), loaded up the car again, and set off once more towards South Shields. In one way it was fortunate that the weather was so awful because it kept my speed down which, with the space saver tyre, was necessary. Really the skinny wheel isn’t designed to undertake such a long journey, but on Sunday I had no choice.

The traffic was light and I passed the time by continuing my rehearsal, as well as listening to various podcasts, including a couple of episodes of ‘You’re Dead To Me’, which is a light-hearted look at various historical figures and events. It is hosted by Greg Jenner, one of the team behind the brilliant Horrible Histories series, and each episode runs to a carefully formulated and regulated plan. Two guests, one an expert historian and the other a comedian, banter with Greg over the topic selected. One episode which accompanied me was based on the history of Ivan the Terrible who certainly did justify his terrifying moniker, for some of the details of his later activities were quite eye-watering. At one point during the episode the comedian for Olga Koch, who originates from Russia, was making a gag that involved the use of a passport and it suddenly flashed upon me the literal meaning of the word. It is not a document to travel, but a document to allow you into a foreign country: to allow you to pass through the port. A simple revelation, I know, but one that I rather liked that and I will remember it as I arrive in America next week.

The journey continued and I still had some time in hand to allow a coffee stop, and chance to send a message home to Liz to let her know that all was well.

The weather was getting worse again as morning became day and traffic increased the visibility became less and less, It was not a nice drive at all. Somewhere in Derbyshire or Yorkshire, I am not quite certain where, the traffic ahead of me suddenly slowed, with cars putting on their hazard warning lights to alert drivers behind that there was a hold up. Looking ahead it became apparent that there was some sort of blockage in the left and centre lanes of the motorway as vehicles were moving across, and then I saw what had happened. Skid marks scribed a terrible slew to the left where the metal barrier had been bowed in and flat, creating a sort of launch pad, the two inside lines were covered with dirt and metal and plastic, and laying on its side in the middle of the road was the remains of a small blue car, the front end was smashed (presumably where it had hit the barrier) and the glass in the windows was crazed (although not shattered). The modern airbag system had deployed, meaning that the interior of the car was fortunately shrouded from view. A few other cars had pulled to the hard shoulder and the occupants stood shocked, chatting. No one was tending to the crashed car and I hoped, even maybe prayed, that one of those people was the very very fortunate driver of the blue car who had emerged unscathed from the horror ride. It was obvious that the crash had only just happened, probably the blue car had overtaken me just minutes maybe seconds before. There were no emergency crews on the scene yet and the rest of the traffic filed slowly by, before tentatively speeding up and continuing their journeys. For me the scene was particularly frightening as it brought to mind what could have happened if my tyre had failed at high speed, but I drove on, cautiously and thankfully.

Eventually, after one more rest stop, I arrived at South Shields where the heavy rain continued to batter down, moored on the northern banks of the Tyne was an old friend, the P&O cruise ship Arcadia, on which Liz and I enjoyed happy holidays and on which we both performed. Seeing Arcadia was a lovely welcome to the town. I pulled up outside The Word, at a little loading bay, and called my contact at the venue Pauline Martin who appeared and helped me unload all of the furniture ready to be taken up in a lift to the third floor where I would be performing.

The room in which I perform at The Word is not a theatre space as such, but it is a beautiful circular space with views across the river (dominated by Arcadia). A temporary stage was erected at one end, and chairs were laid out ready for the arrival of the audience. I was due to give a talk about the Staplehurst rail crash in the first half of the programme and then perform The Signalman in the second, so Pauline and I connected a laptop to the projector so that I could show the inevitable PowerPoint slides to accompany the lecture.

The original idea was to use this event as a sort of launch for my new, indeed my first, book: ‘Dickens and Staplehurst. A Biography of a Rail Crash’, but unfortunately the publishers hadn’t manage to send me any copies, so the merchandise table stood empty at the doorway. However, book or no book, the story is a fascinating one and a good tale to tell before the Signlaman.

When we were set up Pauline disappeared to grab some lunch and I got changed into my all black costume, and then sat down to a sandwich, It was 1 o’clock so I had plenty of time to eat before the audience were due to arrive in 30 minutes time. But as I embarked upon my tuna and sweetcorn feast the door opened and a lady ran in, she stopped with an air of great surprise, ‘where is everyone? I hope that more people than this come. It is raining and wild, I suppose, but still!’ and she sat down ready for the show – she certainly wanted to bag a good seat! We chatted a little, and I made a few notes on my script, and then it occurred to me what had happened, the lady had forgotten to put her clocks back that morning, and was convinced that it was showtime and that she would be the only audience member. Fortunately Pauline returned at that moment and politely pointed out that the audience were not going to be admitted until 1.30, at which point the mistake was realised!

When the correct hour arrived the room was filled with a capacity crowd, and many came to say hello (I was hovering at the back of the room), to say they had seen me previously at other venues, and were so excited to see me again, which is always very gratifying. On the stroke of 2 Pauline introduced me and I stepped up to a lectern to begin the talk. I am not altogether at home giving a lecture, but I have presented this one on a few occasions, so I know that it works. The talk follows the plot of the book, although without the biographical aspects of Dickens’ early life, concentrating on the train journey and the building works at Staplehurst, and the aftermath of the crash. Everything went well and bang on time I brought the first half to a close. The audience had a few minutes to stretch their legs, whilst I prepared the stage for The Signalman. When the set was complete, we encouraged everyone back into the room and I began. Naturally the introduction to the show was much shorter (most of it having been given in the first half), so in no time I was launching in to ‘Halloa! Below there!’

The passion and the mystery of the story worked well and I felt quite exhausted and elated as I brought the piece to its end. Having taken my bows, I opened the floor up to questions and the first was ‘what happened to Ellen?’ Ellen Ternan was Charles Dickens’ mistress and was travelling on the train with him. While he assisted with the rescue effort for 2 or 3 hours, Ellen and her mother Frances are conspicuous by their absence from any accounts. The press were ravenous and collected names of all of the passengers involved, but the Ternan name was absent from every one of those reports. Maybe a clue lies in a letter that Dickens wrote a few days after the crash. He described looking out of the carriage window and seeing two guards running beside the wreck, he called to them ‘Look at me. Do stop for an instant and look at me, and tell me whether you don’t know me.’ One of them answered, ‘we know you very well, Mr Dickens’. ‘Then,’ I said, ‘my good fellow, for God’s sake give me your key and send one of those labourers here and I ‘ll empty this carriage’….Charles Dickens ensured he had a few moments to get Ellen out of the train and away before he clambered down into the wreck and very visibly assisted in the rescue effort. In my book I suggest that although that his very public actionss were certainly not a cynical ploy to divert attention from his travelling companions, it was certainly a fortuitous opportunity to perform a sleight of hand as befitted a talented conjurer!

Some of the wounded were looked after in the village of Staplehurst itself whilst others were taken back to London on specially commissioned trains. I imagine that Dickens ensured that the Ternan’s were onboard one of the first trains to leave the scene.

Ellen appeared in London a few days later, for Dickens visited her there and wrote a letter to his manservant asking him to take her a fresh basket of foods and treats every day, so that she may be comfortable. He also wrote to the station master at Charing Cross station asking if a quantity of gold jewellery, engraved with the name Ellen, had been found, as his travelling companion had lost it during the crash. It was at this moment that the mystery of Ellen Ternan began to emerge.

Another question was in response to a comment I had made during my introduction to The Signalman about the fact that although Charles had prepared the story as a reading, he never actually performed it in public. I surmised that his reluctance to perform the piece may have been due to the mental trauma he suffered post Staplehurst, or the fact that being a relatively short reading it would only fit into the ‘comedy slot’ which typically came after a longer, more dramatic reading. The Signalman wouldn’t send an audience home with a cheery skip to their step.

Next came the Q&A ‘market place’: the local branch of The Dickens Fellowship promoted their meetings (I performed at their conference held in Durham a few years ago and they are a vibrant and enthusiastic bunch, indeed) and that was followed up by The Gateshead Little Theatre plugging their own performance of The Signalman which is due to open in a week’s time. I was very happy to give both groups the opportunity to ‘sell their wares’.

I then joined in the general commercial break by not only mentioning my book once more (Dickens & Staplehurst. A Biography of a Rail Crash. Published by Olympia Publishing), but also my return visit to The Word in December to perform A Christmas Carol, and then it was time for the audience to leave and for me to pack up my things.

Once the car was loaded I said my goodbyes and tentatively headed south as far as York, where I was due to stay overnight, thus breaking the long journey home.

I was staying in an elegant hotel called the Elmbank Lodge, although I had booked a ‘courtyard room’ rather than one of the more expensive rooms in the main building. Unfortunately I discovered that the restaurant would not be open to me, as they only had one chef on duty so the only guests who could dine were those who had booked a ‘dinner and breakfast’ package, However the young man at the front desk recommended Valentinos, an Italian restaurant just a 5 minute walk away, which took me past some beautiful Georgian town houses. I also walked past a branch of KwikFit tyre repairers which would be very uselful come the morning.

Dinner was superb, the restaurant was busy and vibrant, with one of the waiters breaking out into snatches of song with a fine baritone voice. I overheard him telling a neighbouring table that he came from Calabria, his house in the shadow of Stromboli. He certainly played the role of opera-singing Italian waiter to a tee, but I rather uncharitably wondered if in fact he came from Barnsley or somewhere similar! When I had finished my Sea Bass and was sipping a strong coffee he came to chat, noticing that I had been reading Motorsport Magazine: ‘Ahh! Motorsport, Ferrari – Ascari, Alboretto, Rossi!’ Yup, he was a genuine Italian!

I returned to the hotel and after a very long day retired early.

Postcript

On waking on Monday morning and watching the television news I saw the story of a train crash that had taken place on Sunday night, on Hallowe’en. A train had struck some debris on the line and derailed, knocking out the signalling equipment as it did so, therefore there was no warning to a following train which ploughed into the wreck. Fortunately there were no fatalities but seventeen were wounded. The news footage focussed on the scene of accident – the two entwined trains at the mouth of a dark, dismal tunnel deep down in a cutting……..