I step into
the street from The Old Curiosity Shop and, when all twelve of the group have gathered
on the pavement outside, I address them.
‘Our next stop is a building a few minutes away in Lincoln’s Inn
Fields.’
They follow me in a single file down the busy, narrow street which I
have walked down more often than I care to remember. As usual, most of them are
complete ignoramuses when it comes to Dickens and his works, and have only signed
up because the tour is on ‘must do’ lists for visitors.
Arriving at our destination, I point to a grand white house with
decorative columns and a semicircular porch.
‘We are outside the home of John Forster, Dickens' biographer and
close friend. He lived here between 1834 and 1856. and Dickens was a regular
visitor. It appears in Bleak House in which Dickens was at his
lawyer-bashing best when he wrote the following.’
I put on a deep voice.
‘Here, in a large house, formerly a house of state,
lives Mr.Tulkinghorn. It is let off in sets of chambers now, and in those
shrunken fragments of its greatness, lawyers lie like maggots in nuts.’
I say the last few words with great relish.
‘Attorneys are just the same today, Tom,’ laughs a
North American gentleman wearing a baseball cap.
Leeches would be a more accurate description. When I
employed a lawyer to secure my share of father’s will, the so-and-so left me
with less than half of the money once his charges were deducted.
I tell them more about the sinister, obsessive
character and his demise at the hands of Mademoiselle Hortense, and invite them
to take pictures.
‘Our next stop is a setting from Bleak House.’
I stride ahead as I don’t want to get into conversation with any of
them. I’m still bridling over the text I
got this morning from Rex.
‘Sorry, but we’ve decided not to offer you the role. We prefer someone
younger. Hope something else comes up.’
He’ll reach his own sell-by date sooner than he thinks.
We arrive within a few minutes and I stop and turn to the group.
‘We are
outside of Gresham College which stands in front of the building that was, in
Dickens’ time, Barnard’s Inn Hall, one of only a handful of buildings in the
City to survive both the Great Fire and the Blitz. The hero of the novel Great Expectations, Pip, lodged in
Barnard's Inn with Herbert Pocket for a number of years following his arrival
in London. When he first saw the building, he was crestfallen by what he found,
as he said in the book.’
I clutch the lapels on my jacket and address them in a slow and
measured tone.
‘I had supposed that establishment to be a hotel kept by Mr Barnard,
whereas I now found Barnard to be a disembodied spirit, or a fiction, and his
inn the dingiest collection of shabby buildings ever squeezed together, in a
rank corner, as a club for Tom-cats.’
I get blank looks from the philistines.
The quote always reminds me of my mould- ridden bedsit. If the landlord
follows through with his threat to put up my rent, I’ll have to find somewhere
else to live. A flatshare will be the only affordable option – not a position I
want to end up in as a fortysomething.
‘We will now go down the alley to my left and visit the Hall.’
After showing them around, I’m asked to pose in the courtyard for one
of the dreaded photos of me in my outfit, a silk bow tie and a velvet red black
Paisley waistcoat which stands out against my black tailored jacket. It cost me nearly a week’s wages in a vintage
clothes shop.
‘Cheese,’ says a diminutive lady wearing a floppy orange sun hat. But
I put on a solemn look befitting a Victorian gentleman.
Just as I’m about to speak, a voice pipes up.’
‘Will we be taking in Marshalsea prison, Tom?’ asks a red-faced man. ‘I
read that’s where Dickens’ father was locked up when he fell into debt.’
At least this guy knows some history.
‘Alas, no. It was demolished over a hundred and fifty years ago and
only a boundary wall remains displaying a commemorative plaque. Dickens’ father
was jailed for having an unpaid debt of forty pounds and ten shillings – about
five thousand pounds in today’s money - and drew on the experience in Little
Dorrit. Amy Dorrit had this to say about the place.’ I beckon them to come
closer before speaking in a loud whisper.
‘We are quiet here; we don’t get badgered here; there’s no knocker,
sir, to be hammered at by creditors and bring a man’s heart into his mouth.
Nobody comes here to ask if a man is at home, and to say he’ll stand on the
door mat till he is. Nobody writes threatening letters about money to this
place. It’s freedom, sir, it’s freedom!’
I get a couple of nods of appreciation this time.
‘We will now head to our final stop, Ye Old Cheshire Cheese pub in
Fleet Street.’
Thank God the tour is almost finished. I can’t wait for the break at
the end of the month when I can be myself again.
Striding down Chancery Lane, a long-legged lady catches up with me.
‘Is it true that Dickens was friends with Shakespeare?’ she asks.
Give me strength! I need to be
polite and creative here.
‘Yes, in a metaphorical sense.” She frowns. “Dickens was born two
hundred years after Shakespeare’s death but he frequently quoted, referenced,
and drew inspiration from his plays, using them to shape his characters and
plotlines. Furthermore, he was a passionate amateur actor himself.’
She mutters something suggesting she’s happy with my reply.
Once we’re inside the dark interior of the establishment, I lead them
through the labyrinth of rooms with oak-panelled walls until we reach a seat
with a plaque on the back.
‘This is the table where Dickens liked to sit and entertain his
friends. In A Tale Of Two Cities, the pub was the first place that
Charles Darnay visited to enjoy a simple supper and a few fine wines after
escaping trial for high treason in the Old Bailey.’ I give them a moment to
take in the scene before finishing. ‘I am going to leave you now. I hope you
have enjoyed the tour and will leave a review on the company’s website.’
I receive a smattering of applause.
I need a drink. That’s the second tour I’ve done today and I didn’t
get to bed until two as I did an extra shift at the club last night. Before I
can get my wallet out, someone taps me on the shoulder and I turn around to
find myself face to face with the Marshalsea guy.
‘Can I buy you a pint of ale?’
‘I never say no to a drink!’
When he returns from the bar, we clink glasses before supping.
‘I must say for a tour guide you brought the world of Dickens to life
with a certain flamboyance.’
I loathe being typecast like this and empty my glass in one go.
‘Thanks for the beer. I’ve just remembered I need to be somewhere
else.’
I’m gone before the poor chap can open his mouth.
When I close the front door, I pick up an
official-looking letter off the mat and collapse on the sofa and put my feet
up. I wish the company would increase the price of the tour. They’ve been
charging twenty quid a head for years and I only get half of that. Most of the
people who go on it could easily afford to pay another fiver judging by the
clothes and jewellery they wear.
After a few
minutes, I rouse myself as I’m feeling hungry but tear open the letter before
getting up. My appetite quickly disappears as I scan the contents.
‘Dear Mr.Marshall, I am writing with reference to our previous reminders regarding the
outstanding debt of £2,958.75 which has remained due for payment since 11
January 2026 despite our previous reminders. Please pay this amount in
full by 11 May 2026. If we do not receive payment by that date, we
will have no option but to instruct certified bailiffs to recover this debt.
Please be advised that we will also claim interest and recovery costs, which
will significantly increase the total amount you owe.’
That’s
going to wipe out the savings I have left. I’d hoped to treat my boy in the autumn when
his mother is performing in a play here and I’ll be looking after him but
that’s not going to happen now. Once upon a time, she and I were a wonderful Romeo
and Juliet together on the stage.
I’ll be
glad when I make my annual pilgrimage to Edinburgh in a few weeks. A re-run of
my old show at the Fringe should generate some much-needed cash. The critics
have been very generous when I’ve I performed there in the past. A few quotes
stand out in my mind.
‘The
performance brilliantly re-imagines Dickens’ public readings, bringing the
writer to life and many of the characters he created, causing audiences to
laugh with joy and cry with sorrow.’
‘A tour de
force. Tom Marshall wows the audience as he acts out Dickens’ great works just
as the author did himself on his famous reading tours.’
‘The
multi-talented Marshall has a great future ahead.’
I wish the
last comment had been more prophetic.
The stage
props are ready: the maroon backdrop, the lights and the waist-high desk with a
block for resting my elbow on, just like the master did. As he said, there's nothing in the world equal to
seeing the house rise at you, one sea of delightful faces and one hurrah of
applause. It can’t come soon enough.
about the author
ob lives in Edinburgh started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had several tales published by Cafe Lit and others in various anthologies. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing.
Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.
