Gabe leaned over to me and said, “Um . . . what is happening right now?”
“I’m not sure, but you better behave, mister, ’cause it seems I have cheeky Reginald here waiting in the wings, ready to step in if you get out of line.” I gestured toward Reginald with my thumbs and winked playfully at Gabe.
“I’ll be sure to be on my best behavior.”
Reginald continued briefing our group about the former home of the beloved English author and outlined a few other stops we’d be checking out before the tour was through.
“We start here at the Dickens Museum, and then we will make our way to an inn where Pip first lodged when he arrived in London in Great Expectations. We’ll then head to a prefire building Dickens visited as a boy and thusly set part of his novel David Copperfield in as a result. We’ll also pop into an old pub featured in A Tale of Two Cities—I do accept tips in the form of pints, in case you were wondering—and we’ll end the tour at the Cratchit House, known to be a quintessential setting in Dickens’s most notable and most often performed work, A Christmas Carol.”
“Ooh, speaking of,” he continued, “have any of you had a chance to see the new adaptation Marley Is Dead here on the West End? Splendid, truly splendid, it is.”
Gabe nudged me jovially and smiled at the reference.
Reginald handed us our admission tickets to the house, now turned into a museum, and continued, “You will have the next hour to explore the five floors of Charles Dickens’s former residence. The museum, which spans from the basement all the way up to the servants’ quarters, is all open and houses over a hundred thousand artifacts from Dickens’s personal life. I will remain in the lobby if you have any questions, but if you’re ready then let’s step back in time and begin our adventure!” He waved his hand flamboyantly.
Entering the house was like entering a time machine to the Victorian age, everything perfectly preserved—from the dark-red and brown leather-bound books that lined the study walls to the mahogany desk with curved legs Dickens used to write at.
“Do you smell that?” I asked Gabe.
He took a few sniffs around the room. “It kinda smells like my grandmother’s apartment in the Bronx.”
I swatted him with my museum pamphlet. “No, it’s the paraffin wax that would be used in lanterns to make the light last longer. Oliver Twist is what? Like eight hundred pages? Written by hand? That’s a lot of wax.”
“You could not possibly still smell two-hundred-year-old wax,” Gabe ribbed.
“This room is incredible. This day is incredible. Thank you,” I said, kissing him squarely on the lips.
Gabe leaned down and whispered in my ear, “And it’s only just beginning.” He stood up straight and clapped his hands together. “Come now, chop chop, lots to see. Must move along, Hurry now,” he said in his worst Dick Van Dyke from Mary Poppins British accent.
We finished walking through the house and then went outside where most of the tour group was already gathered and waiting for us. Spotting me, Reginald extended his arms and said, “The pain of parting is nothing to the joy of meeting again.”
“Great Expectations?” I guessed.
“Nicholas Nickleby,” he corrected. “Okay, everyone, as Dickens once said, ‘It is required of every man, that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellowmen, and travel far and wide . . .’ so off we go to travel just a bit wider.”
I scrunched up my nose. “David Copperfield?”
“My dear, it’s so obviously A Christmas Carol,” he remarked with a twirl of his cane as he led the way down the steep cobblestone street.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Over the next few hours, we strolled through streets of the city that, we were told, had hardly changed since the days Dickens roamed them, mostly at night, chasing an elusive muse. Amid old brick buildings with angled gables and curved archways that led to narrow corridors, the sense of being transported back in time was a strange comfort after the last few days touring around Paris at warp speed. London, though busy, felt more like a comforting escape, and I couldn’t help but absorb the city’s charm into my skin, breathing in the sights and smells of what I imagined the city emitted in the 1800s.
My favorite part so far, aside from exploring the nooks and crannies of Dickens’s home, was our stop at a pub named The Boot, which had been standing on-site since 1724. Reginald explained it was often included in many Dickens walking tours and pub crawls since it was mentioned as a “house of interesting repute” in Barnaby Rudge.
As members of our group continued to tip Reginald in pints of amber ale, his stories became more exaggerated, his cane gesturing wildly, knocking over empty glasses and “accidentally” whacking into inattentive bystanders. Reginald regaled the crowd with stories of Dickens the showman, much like himself, and explained that his works had always been meant to be read aloud, which is exactly what Dickens did in many pubs around the city.
I listened attentively and tried to embody the character of Marley as I listened. Would Dickens be delighted or offended by the modern adaptation of Marley Is Dead? I really wasn’t sure, but I did take comfort in knowing that in both his original tale and in the West End’s newest version, the moral of the story remained true—the protagonist was ultimately changed for the better through righting their mistakes of the past.
Gabe drained the last of his Guinness and licked the foam from his top lip. He leaned in close and asked, “I’m going to get another. Do you want one?”
“Meh, I’m not loving the room temperature style of this,” I said, gesturing with my half-finished golden pint. “I mean, who drinks beer at room temperature? Bleh.” I handed him the glass and asked, “Could you get me a cider instead? Anything cold would be great. Thank you.”
He wove his way through the crowd still enraptured by Reginald’s recitation of Bleak House excerpts and returned a few minutes later, handing me a frosty glass sweating with cool condensation. “Ahh yes. Now that’s more like it.” I took a long gulp, the crisp, sweet currents of apple cold and refreshing as the little bubbles tickled my tongue. “Oh my God, I love this. It’s delicious. Do you know what it is so that I can order it again later if we hit another pub?”
Speaking in a hushed voice, Gabe’s expression turned a bit unsure. “Well, the bartender said it kinda quickly and obviously has an accent, but what I heard him say was ‘ass balls.’”
I practically spit my cider out in a spray, certain I’d misheard him. “Wait, you got me a cider called ‘Ass Balls’？！”
“I think so?” he answered.
“I will never be able to rest until I know for sure if this cider is in fact named ‘Ass Balls.’ Be right back.” I made my way over to the same bartender, who was mopping up the counter with a kitchen cloth. “Excuse me, sir, but my boyfriend over there”—I pointed to Gabe with my pinkie finger—“just ordered me this cider and it is delicious. Can you tell me the name of it?”
“Of course,” he said in more of a Scottish brogue than an English lilt. “Ass Balls.”