“Are you serious?! You guys seriously serve a cider called ‘Ass Balls,’ like that’s not a joke?!”
The bartender barked out a laugh so loud that it temporarily interrupted Reginald’s flow. “Not ‘Ass Balls,’ it’s called ‘Aspall.’ It’s pretty well known in the UK. But I can honestly say I have never heard anyone mistake it for ‘Ass Balls’ before. That may be the greatest thing I’ve ever heard.” He couldn’t stop laughing, and my cheeks grew redder than chapped Aspalls, knowing that I would now become a story he’d tell all of his bartender friends and frequent patrons for the rest of time.
Reginald announced it was time to settle tabs and that we’d be leaving shortly for the final stop on the tour, 16 Bayham Street, otherwise known as Dickens’s inspiration for the Cratchit House. Reginald shared tidbits of information as we followed him out of the pub to the northwest neighborhood of Camden Town, about a twenty-minute walk.
“Bayham Street was about the poorest part of the London suburbs back then, and the house we’re going to see is a very small, dilapidated tenement not uncommon for the lower class of the time who lived in disturbingly shabby conditions by today’s standards. Dickens was struck by this disparity of classes and spent most of his life trying to raise awareness of it in his novels as a means to evoke social change,” he explained.
“Hey”—I nudged Gabe’s side—“sounds like someone else I know.”
A smile crept across his face. “After everything we’ve learned today, I take that as the highest compliment,” he said, beaming from ear to ear. Though he booked it for me, it was clear Gabe had gotten a lot from this tour too, even if only the proper way to pronounce Aspall.
We’d finally arrived at the Cratchit House, and just in time, as the sun had already started to set and the temperatures were quickly dropping, the dampness of the air enhancing the eerie vibe of the shabby street.
Reginald ushered the group onto the house’s front steps and said, “‘I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach.’ Now,” he said, enthusiastically flinging open the red-painted front door, “let’s go inside and learn a bit more about Dickens’s most famous work, A Christmas Carol.”
Inside, the small living room warmed with a roaring fire within the wide stone hearth, and the house was staged to resemble Christmas Day at the Cratchits’， complete with full table setting, the iconic, sumptuous （artificial） turkey center stage, and even Tiny Tim’s crutches resting against the smallest chair. The mantel was adorned with winter greenery and （LED） candlelight, and the whole space, though tight, was a wonderful stage for Reginald’s final performance of the day.
Reginald rested his cane against the wall and then turned to face our group. “Shakespeare is undoubtedly England’s most notable writer, but Charles Dickens holds firmly as the second most famous, mainly because of the renowned success he garnered through his novella A Christmas Carol. Though he had earned fame and acclaim for his works up until 1843, as the year wound down, Dickens found himself in dire financial straits.”
Hmm, been there . . .
Reginald continued, “His last few novels were what we would call flops today, and his publisher had all but given up on him, and many believed he had all but given up on himself, one of the worst fates that can befall an artist.”
Also sounds familiar . . .
“In fact, in his most autobiographical novel, David Copperfield, he states, ‘I had no advice, no counsel, no encouragement, no consolation, no assistance, no support, of any kind, from anyone, that I can call to mind . . .’”
Reginald interrupted himself with a loud and boisterous “BUT,” startling the crap out of a young couple in front as they nearly tumbled backward into the plate of sticky toffee pudding resting beside the turkey. He stuck his index finger high into the air, further emphasizing the crescendo of his story. “This, ladies and gentlemen, was the very moment when Dickens needed to dig deep, and that he did, folks. And. That. He. Did. He produced A Christmas Carol in just six weeks’ time, crafting notably one of the most famous and well-loved works of fiction ever written. It is with this story that Dickens became a household name and changed forever the way the Western world celebrates the entire Christmas season—emphasizing generosity and love. And with that, don’t forget how much I too love generosity.”
He flipped his hat off his head and turned it into a makeshift collection plate. “Your tips are much appreciated, as are Yelp and Google reviews. Be sure to mention me by name, it’s Reginald, in case you forgot. Thank you all for coming!” he shouted to the room, and was met with a healthy round of applause from the enthusiastic and gracious group.
Gabe and I took a moment to peruse the details of the Cratchit House, all the decor and adornments they used to replicate the interior style of a typical lower-class Victorian home. I closed my eyes and breathed in the smell of the crackling fire behind us and the scent of pine from the furniture and beams. Who would have thought I would have such a strong connection with Dickens and his personal story? And even though this was not what I had in mind when I thought about how to prepare for my final audition, I was flooded with gratitude for the experience of it all. I had a brand-new perspective, one I knew I’d be able to uniquely draw from when portraying the character of Marley onstage.
I reached down for Gabe’s hand and squeezed it, hoping to convey my appreciation through my affectionate gesture. “This was so great, Gabe. Like so, so great.” I leaned against him and rested my head on his shoulder as we faced the wall looking at old photographs of Dickens and lithograph illustrations from his life’s works.
“Good,” he said, leaning his head to mine. “I’m glad.” He gave my hand another squeeze. “Are you hungry? ’Cause I am starving. I’ll be ready to eat that plastic turkey and the sticky toffee pudding on the table if we don’t get outta here soon.”
“Yes! Agreed! Let’s just say goodbye and thank you to Reginald, and then we can find somewhere close by for dinner.”
We waited in a short queue to say our goodbyes to our host as Gabe drew a ten-pound note from inside his coat pocket.
Reginald’s eyes twinkled as he watched Gabe place the bill into the hat. “Much appreciated, kind sir.”
Turning his attention from Gabe to me, he locked his eyes on mine and asked, “Dinner plans?”
“No, actually,” I said, hoping he was getting ready to suggest a nearby favorite.
“Wonderful. Would you be interested in joining me for the best fish and chips in town? The best spot’s just around the corner,” he asked as his eyebrows danced suggestively up and down.
Still holding Gabe’s hand, I couldn’t help but crack a smile. Gabe’s fingers squeezed mine as we shared the laugh inwardly. “I would love to join you, but unfortunately, I’m already spoken for.” I lifted our intertwined hands up to eye level, and Reginald met it with a dramatic pout.