A Miracle Under the Christmas Tree. Jennifer Sander Basye

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      DICKENS IN THE DARK

      JENNIFER ALDRICH

      It seemed like a good idea at the time. “Come to the Great Dickens Christmas Fair with me,” he had said. “You will be able to dress in a beautiful costume.” And here I stood, in a plain, twill, button-down dress, watching the rain pounding the steel roof, the sound louder on the inside than outside. How did I get here?

      Daniel, my husband of three months at that point, and I were spending our Christmas season working at the largest Dickensian festival in California. San Francisco’s Cow Palace becomes London as Dickens saw it for four or five weekends each year.

      Charles Dickens’s characters are here: all the ones you would expect for this time of year (Mr. Scrooge and Tiny Tim) and others you may not expect to see at Christmas (Mr. Fagin and Bill Sikes), not to mention Mr. Charles Dickens himself. In addition to the Dickens characters, there are historical characters of the Victorian Era (Queen Victoria and Prince Albert) and even some fictional characters known to all at the time (Father Christmas, Sherlock Holmes and Mr. Punch).

      Rounding out this eclectic collection of characters is the family of Charles Dickens himself. That’s where we are: the Dickens’s Family Parlour. Daniel is Charley Dickens, the eldest and most ne’er-do-well of Dickens’s seven sons. I am Mrs. Cooper, the cook. I make a midday meal to feed the actors in our immediate cast of twelve.

      It was the last day of the Fair for the season, and I had been inside the building since 8 a.m. preparing a special tea for singing performers, getting water hot before everyone else arrived. By 10 a.m., my castmates were dressing in our environmental area, the carpeted Parlour floor a sea of hoopskirts and crinolines. We all dress in costumes appropriate to the period, with great care given to historical accuracy. As I was playing a servant, I did not have the hoops under my skirts that the other ladies of my household were wearing. But like them, I was in a laced-up corset, long dress and button-up boots; my pin bib apron and hair tucked under a mop cap completed my less than glamorous look.

      “I’m going to deliver teas now,” I said to Mamie, the eldest Dickens daughter and our director. “I’ll be back before opening.”

      “You okay, honey?” she asked concerned. “You look done.”

      “Stick a fork in me,” I replied. “I’m just glad it’s the last day of the season.”

      In truth, I was exhausted. There are some things which, even though you love to do them, can take a lot of effort. Working at the Dickens Fair was a lot of work, plus I had a full-time job on the weekdays. Also, it can be a very expensive hobby. This was the first year I worked at the Fair. I had only attended once before as a patron, watching Daniel perform in one of the stage shows.

      I have always loved the fantasy of time travel and have been an avid reader of historical novels for years. I had such a great time as a patron that I decided to join in, jumping into the deep end feet first. I could be, if only for a short time, somewhere and someone else, to live the fantasy. I could have asked to do something simpler to start, but I have a hard time asking for help, especially when it involves doing something I say I like doing.

      I walked out of the Parlour, near the entrance to the Fair, past the stalls and storefronts of the artisans who sell their wares of Christmas decorations, bonnets and wreaths, pewter goblets and jewelry. I headed into the breezeway, home of the London docks and the Paddy West School of Seamanship, which is in reality a band of very musical sailors who sing sea chanteys and nautical songs. I dropped off one air pot of tea, received a hug of thanks from one of the cabin “boys”(a lively woman with short hair) and headed down to Mad Sal’s Dockside Alehouse at the other end of the bay to drop off the rest. Mad Sal’s is where naughty music hall songs are performed and represents the seedy end of our London.

      The rain was really coming down, booming and loud against the roof, the occasional thunderclap joining in for good measure. Heading backstage, I dropped off the last air pots to Weasel, our chief chucker in the Music Hall. Short in stature but big in heart, he can get you to sing along with a music hall ditty faster than you can say “Burlington Bertie from Bow.”

      “Oy! Weasel!” I said, in my best Cockney accent. “Where’s Sal an’ everybody?”

      “Over by the door,” he replied, gesturing with his thumb. “I’m stayin’ in ’ere. Too bleedin’ cold for me near the door.”

      “Too right,” I said, nodding at the air pots. “I’ll pick ’em up afore the last show.”

      I turned away from the stage and headed back to the Parlour along the sidewall of the Concourse. I saw Mad Sal, Dr. Boddy, Molly Twitch, Polly Amory and a few others sitting and watching the rain. I gave a quick wave and continued walking.

      “Gee,” I heard someone say, “you think all this rain might affect attendance?”

      Suddenly, there was another loud thunderclap, and POP all the lights went out! The few exit lights in the building came on immediately after.

      “That might,” came the reply.

      We will not be opening the Fair on time today, I realized. The entire hall felt nearly pitch-black at first, with the exception of the exit signs. We wouldn’t be able to bring customers in until we could get the lights back on. I slowly made my way back to the Parlour, taking my time and stepping carefully, overhearing pieces of conversations as I went.

      “Somebody forgot to pay the electric bill!”

      At an ale stand: “I guess we have to drink all the champagne before it gets warm.”

      Someone talking to the dancing light of a cell phone screen: “What’s that, Tink? The pirates have captured Wendy?”

      I came back into the Paddy West area to see the whole group sitting on the stage, playing softly in the semidarkness. The side exit doors had been opened a crack to let in some light. I didn’t want to move another step back into the darkness of the next bay, so I sat down on one of the benches facing the stage.

      They started to play my favorite sea chanty, “Rolling Home.” The beauty of the music, my fatigue, the dark and the rain all came together and washed over me. I started to cry. Then I started to think.

      Do I really want to do this, year after year? “Rolling home, rolling home.” I am so wiped out, and it’s such a huge commitment. “Rolling home across the sea.” Is this something that Daniel and I should share? “Rolling home to dear old England.” What if we have kids? Will we bring them, too? “Rolling home, fair land to thee.”

      Our minutes in the dark stretched on past 11 a.m., our opening time. I returned to the Parlour at about 10:45. Daniel and I began to take the small, unlit candles off our Christmas tree, light them and set them in candelabras on the dining table. It gave a beautiful glow to our set, now a very realistic looking Victorian parlor.

      We sat down at the settee, and I told him about my little breakdown in the Paddy West area. He held my hand and said, “Okay, today is our last day.”

      “Yeah,” СКАЧАТЬ