Sunday, 27 November 2011

Artful Chapter 1 Judgement Day

The sun climbed up the London sky like an invalid part way through convalescence. If it could have wheezed it would have wheezed. If it could have coughed it would have coughed. It would have been a thick, phlegm-heavy cough which would struggle to clear the stinking, oily airs which lay like a sodden blanket upon the city.

In the streets below, a line of torches escorted a column of men towards the river. Their legs shuffled due to the heavy chains which linked them together. The men were of all sizes: short and wiry, short and fat, tall and fat, tall and thin and all sizes in between. They were of all ages: men in their twenties and men in their sixties. All except one. Bringing up the rear was a boy of perhaps twelve years old, dressed in men’s clothing which hung upon him loosely.
Whereas the others in the line looked beaten and despairing to a man, the young boy gave a huge grin. He swaggered along, jaunty as possible, whistling tunelessly.

‘Good luck, Dodger,’ came a call from the gathering crowd.

‘You show ‘em, Dodger,’ cried another.

‘I’m off to be Her Majesty’s High Ambassador to the New South Welsh,’ he said, flourishing his hat. ‘When I’ve sorted everyfink out I’ll be back. Fourteen years in the diplomatic service is nothing to a young gentleman like me.’

‘Shut it back there,’ called one of the guards.

The boy turned towards the crowd. ‘You’d have thought that Vicky would have given me a less common guard of honour,’ he said.

He started to whistle once more and acknowledged the applause and cheers of the crowd.
One small part of the crowd looked very out of place. Most of the spectators were obviously members of the East End community, poor, shabbily dressed and grimy with dirt. Half a dozen, however, were very different and these caught Dodger's eye.

They were a family which had got caught up in the throng and looked very nervous to have done so. The father was a man in his late thirties, tall and upright with fine mutton-chop whiskers. His wife was small and very slight and he held her close to him as if to protect her from the crowd. The steely look upon her face, however, suggested that any protection which he might offer would be quite redundant.

The parents held tight hold on three children. The mother kept hold of the eldest girl who was aged about fifteen and had a sharp face fixed with little eyes which darted here and there with great suspicion. A toddler of perhaps two or three was cradled in her mother's arms, looking with great anxiety not at the crowd but at her eldest sister.

It was the middle daughter who held Dodger's gaze transfixed. She appeared to be a couple of years younger than he but upright in posture and well nourished. She was very pale and her face held a scatter of freckles as close to each other as stars in the night sky. Her eyes were wide and agog at the sight of the criminals. She wore a straw hat but this seemed perched upon her head. The reason for this was that her hair was a mass or wayward curls which seemed to frolic about her head. Her head turned from side to side, staring at each of the convicts as they passed. She looked as though she was about to burst into tears.

When Dodger came up beside her she turned and stared directly at him. Her eyes opened wide, so wide that they made her hat jiggle slightly upon her head.

He gave her a grin and waved his hand at her. She waved back and was roundly told to stay still by her sister.

As he turned the corner, Dodger glanced back. The little girl was still staring at him. She raised her hand but he could not for the life of him tell whether it was to say farewell or hello.

While they marched along, Jack became aware that one of the convicts kept sneaking glances towards him. He was a little man, skinny as a gutter-cat, with one sharp, nervous eye. The other was hidden by a ragged black patch. He stroked his mouth as he walked, with a hand which had both middle fingers hacked from it.

The line of convicts got jumbled up and they were forced to halt. The skinny man took the opportunity to sidle up towards Jack and jabbed him in the ribs. ‘Do you recognise me?’ he asked. His voice was a low sneer.

Jack shook his head.

‘Well you should do. You’re one of Fagin’s boys ain’t you? In fact, you’re his prime boy, the pick of the bunch, so it’s said.’

‘You may know me, but I don’t know you,’ Jack said. The man made him shiver, as if an icy blast had sneaked in through a crack in the door.

‘You should know me,’ said the man. Flecks of spittle bubbled on his lips and he wiped them ineffectively. ‘My name's Crimp and you should know me because Fagin's the reason I'm convicted and being sent off to the ends of the earth. And I expect you had a hand in it as well.’

Jack shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen you before, guvnor, honest.’ Jack was a good judge of people. Crimp did not look much of a man but Jack guessed that he meant a lot of trouble.

He spat on Jack's foot. 'If it weren't for the big boss I've had swung no doubt. And all because Fagin did the dirty on the boss and me.'

'So where's your boss? Is he going on the ship?'

Crimp gave a high-pitched laugh. 'Don't be so stupid. He's safe from the law, being as how he is the law.'

Jack eyed him narrowly, hoping that the line would start up again so that he could get away.

The man leaned closer. ‘Do you know how long this voyage lasts?’

Jack shook his head.

‘Seven months,' Crimp said, 'eight months, sometimes more.' He grabbed hold of Jack’s chin and jerked his head around.

‘So there’s plenty of time for us to get better acquainted, Jack Dawkins. And plenty of time for me to remind you of how the old Jew did for me.’

A big man with curly hair stood watching the incident. He scratched his head thoughtfully, shrugged his shoulders and turned away.

The skinny man slid away from Jack but remained watching him with narrowed eyes.

As the line of convicts shuffled down the road towards the river they saw long masts rearing from the decks of countless ships which lay berthed against the banks of the Thames.

'The Transportation Fleet,' said the old man beside him.

'We're not going on them, are we?' Jack asked, his eyes widening. 'Them hulks, all round the world?'

'That's the plan, son.'

'Well it's a blooming nonsensical plan if you ask me. I doubt any of 'em would cross to Southwark without sinking.

'Shut up,' called one of the guards.

In surly, grumbling silence, the convicts trudged up the gangway of the first ship. As he neared the deck the young boy saw three rats bolt down the plank towards land.

The man behind him sucked in air in a loud, horrified gasp. 'They know it's cursed,' he cried.
'Not half as much as you are,' cried one of the sailors, making his friends laugh at the jest.
The ship Jack had been assigned to was called 'The Hornet.' It was already ancient when it had been pressed into service to supply the fleet at Trafalgar. Before that, or so it was rumoured, it had been a slave ship running from Bristol to Africa and the West Indies. As the men were shoved below decks to the damp and fetid cages awaiting them they well believed the rumours to be true.

One elderly man who had spent his years tramping the highways became wild-eyed with terror at the sight of the pent up, noisome gloom and began to emit a fearsome howl of distress which only ended when two guards knocked him unconscious.

'The bastards,' said the young boy but not so loud that they could hear him.

'Let's hope they've killed him,' said a huge man with a sprawling, knotted beard. 'It'll mean more grub for us.'

'Don't believe it, Trench,' said Crimp pushing himself into the large man's shadow. 'They'll eat his grub themselves or sell it to us, what's starving.'

'Shut yer mouth, Crimp,' said the bearded man. 'I'm sick of the sound of yer already.'

Crimp laughed but it was a laugh devoid of humour. He turned his eyes towards Jack. 'What you looking at?' he growled.

'Nothing, honest.'

Crimp grabbed him by the throat. 'Well see you don't look at me in future. Not unless I tells yer to. It's me who will do the looking, and the catching.'

'Leave him be,’ said the big curly haired man who Jack had noticed earlier in the day. 'He's only a boy.'

'I can guess yer interest, so I can,' Crimp sneered at him.

The man did not answer but gave a quick glance towards the guards and saw they were looking elsewhere. He took a step towards Crimp and seized him by the hair. He twisted it violently, causing the little man's back to arch over, exposing a scrawny throat. The big man ran his fingers slowly from one side of the throat to the other.

'See here boy,' the big man said to Jack, turning Crimp as though he were a doll. 'This neck is little stronger than a rabbit's.' He jabbed his finger at Crimp's gulping Adam's Apple making him squeal. 'One chop and we'll be eating his grub.'

'Enough,' said Trench. He squared up and gave a belligerent stare. 'What's your name, friend?'

The man released his hold upon Crimp's hair and sized Trench up and down. 'Beresford. Want to make something of it?'

Trench shook his head. 'No, I won't make anything of it. But just remember one thing,' he said, indicating the skinny man. 'I can hit Crimp, I can punish him, but you can't.'

Beresford stared at Trench for a moment. 'Fair enough,' he said. 'And the same goes for the boy. I can punish him, but neither you or your creature touch him.'

Trench nodded. 'It's a bargain. The same goes for the boy.'

He stalked off, Crimp running after him.

Jack grinned up at his protector. 'Thanks very much, mister. My name's Jack Dawkins.'

'Mine's Beresford.'

'Just Beresford? Ain't you got a first name?'

'If I ever had, I've forgotten it.'

Jack nodded sagely. 'I think Beresford is right enough for you.'

The big man grinned and ruffled his hair.

A whistle sounded and a platoon of Marines hurried down the steps and took up position, muskets cocked and pointing at the convicts. They were followed by a skinny navel officer of about forty years of age. He glanced about him sourly and stood to one side of the stairs.

'Convicts rise for Captain Flowers,' he cried. His voice was every bit as sour as his glance.
A portly figure came down the stairs and gazed upon them. He looked bluff and genial, but there was something in the way that the posture of the Marines changed which suggested that it might be best not to take him for granted.

'My name is Captain Flowers,' he said in a voice as genial as his looks. 'I am charged with the duty of transporting you to New South Wales. What you choose to make of your life there is up to you. It will not be easy for you. Transportation is a punishment and you do well to remember this.'

He glanced around at the convicts who shuffled in their chains. Not a man of them seemed in any doubt that they were being punished.

'However,' Flowers continued, 'for those of you who repent of your wickedness, obey the laws of the colony and work hard, you may perhaps find some opportunity which would not be made available to you in England. In truth you may take this one last chance to redeem yourselves and make your lives anew.'

He paused again as if expecting some sign of appreciation, applause perhaps or three cheers. There was none. With a sigh he resumed.

'Until we reach shore, however, you will find no such opportunities. My only advice to you is to bend your spirits to the arduous journey ahead of you, to keep up your strength and health, to follow the regulations of my officers and crew and to avoid bad company.'

One of the Marines chuckled at the thought of this. The Captain glared at him. He nodded to the sergeant who instantly frog-marched the man up the stairs.

Some of the convicts grinned at the look of fear upon the Marine's face. The more intelligent of them took note of the Captain's swift and summary punishment. He may have looked a soft touch but in his case looks were clearly deceiving.

'You will probably not see me again,' the Captain continued, 'until we dock in New South Wales in seven months' time. If you do see me it will be because you have been brought before me for some misdemeanour. For your sakes I hope that this does not occur. Good day gentlemen.'

'Silly old fool,' muttered Crimp.

Beresford looked at him and shook his head as if wearied by the foolishness of mankind.

The sour, skinny officer had remained behind when the Captain left. He stood there still, nodding his head as if acknowledging to himself that he had been correct about something all along yet regretted that he had been.

The convicts eyed him expectantly.

'My name is Lieutenant Case,' he said. 'I am second-in-command of the ship. When the Captain sleeps, I remain awake. What he proposes, I dispose. Where he leads Sunday Prayers, Lieutenant Case leads the daily curses.

'For all intents and purposes there will never be occasion for you to see Captain Flowers, not unless you've done something that will only be answered by the cat, the keel-haul or the rope. But you will see more of me. And some of you may even come to prefer the thought of the cat.'

He gave one last, lingering look at the convicts then padded up the stairs.

At that moment there sounded a dreadful clamour above their heads. The convicts stared up fearfully as if their eyes could pierce both dark and deck. The noise continued, a gallop of feet, a clatter of wood and metal.

'It's the crew getting the ship ready to sail,' one of the convicts explained.

'How do you know?' asked Crimp.

'I was a sailor for twenty years, you oaf. I know everything there is to know about ships.'

'Will this one get us to New South Wales?' asked a young man anxiously.

'Some of us,' said the sailor. 'But not all.'

They heard the slow rasp of the anchor being weighed, the thunder and slap of the sails being lowered and then the ship lurched, bellied over and began to wallow its way into the river.

Within minutes the ground was awash with the vomit or men who had never before travelled on anything other than their own two feet.

Jack was one of them. He tried to reach a bucket but never made it. But he saw a more useful receptacle. He consoled himself that the contents of his stomach drenched Crimp from waist to feet.

He spent the whole of the first week being sick. Some of the convicts had been in the navy and guessed that they were now crossing the Bay of Biscay, the worst stretch of water in the world for rolling seas and erupting stomachs. But eventually they rounded the northern edge of Spain and headed out to the comparative calm of the Atlantic Ocean.

Jack was never sea-sick again but became gripped by a fierce hunger for food, any food, no matter how rank and unpalatable. Fortunately, there was sufficient as most of the convicts had little appetite for the scraps put in front of them.

The ship crossed the Atlantic, docked for a few days in Brazil for fresh water and provisions, then tacked south-east towards the southern tip of Africa. They remained a week at Cape Town, cramming every last shelf, cupboard, hidey-hole and piece of deck with food and water before beginning the last, terrible leg of their voyage to the forsaken continent of the south.

This is the first chapter of my new novel, Artful. It will be published soon so look out for it on most ebook platforms.

Wednesday, 23 November 2011

Like a wet rag

Don't mistake me. My wife and I are moving to the Cote d'Azur, the famous Riviera of the South of France, the haunt of Russian aristocrats, English gentry and the fabled artists and writers of the Jazz Age. I shall be living in a town which has welcomed Robert Louis Stevenston, Katherine Mansfield, Maupassant, Jean Cocteau and, I'm certain, numerous other writers and poets. I am over the moon at the thought of it. And we are flying out in just over a week.

However, I am absolutely shattered. The amount of work and emotional impact of making such a move is draining. There is the sheer amount of clearing out and getting rid of years of possessions. We must have got rid of over six hundred books, many of them long treasured. They've all gone to good homes, principally because of the charitable work of Toni at the Wellington Bookshop.

Then there is the bitter-sweet experience of saying farewell to so many friends and discovering just how much we like them and they like us.

I feel like I have gone twenty rounds with Yogi Bear. Bruised and cuddled in equal measure.
But in a week we will be ensconced in a hotel and in a week and a day flying like the birds south for the winter. It will be the best of bon voyages. In the meanwhile, however, I am like a wet rag.

Tuesday, 22 November 2011

Who might I want to be?

Although I spent much of my youth dreaming up intricate day-dreams where I was some intrepid hero or plucky adventurer I have actually always been rather comfortable in my own skin.
However, I sometimes wonder who I might want to be if, by some chance, I woke up and was no longer myself.

After long deliberation I have decided that the only other person I would want to be is Gene Kelly. I love his films, particularly 'On the Town' and am captivated by his creative and inventive dance style.

He was a great choreographer as well as dancer although it seems that his perfectionism may have sometimes made him a tyrant.

I also like his liberal views and, especially, his opposition to the excesses of the McCarthy investigations.

I'm glad I'm not him, of course, and my dance style leaves much to be deserved. However, rather pleasingly, I can emulate Kelly's shuffle while looking contentedly up in the air. It's the closest I get to his genius.

If you weren't you, who would you want to be?

Sunday, 20 November 2011

First World War Story #Samplesunday


Mitchell had not meant to desert. It was a June morning and he was taking a message to B Company. He was highly regarded by his officers, an intelligent and trustworthy man, steady under fire. He trudged along the pitted earth then stopped in surprise. In a gash in the earth a butterfly was sipping from a tiny flower. At that moment he started to run.

He saw a line of trees on the horizon. He swerved and headed for them. He was panting by the time he reached them and tumbled into the long, protective grass. He lay there for a moment, dazed by what he had done. The sunlight glittered through the branches. I must go back, he thought. If I go back now no-one will realise I've been missing. Then his eyes closed.
When he awoke there was the faint smudge of dawn above the German lines. He had slept for twenty hours. His stomach rippled with fear. The officers would think he had deserted.

He staggered up. The night was fading and, as he watched, the fragile lines of the trenches came into view. What had made him run? He should go back. If he went back now he could say he had got lost. If he delayed he would be shot as a deserter. He went fifty yards towards the lines and stopped. He would not fool Captain Bell. He darted back to the cover of the trees.
He had to think this out.

The sun had risen far above the horizon and the day was light and clear. He was not thinking at all but was listening to the sounds of birds chirping in a nest above his head. He had not heard sounds like this for years. Even when on leave the men were driven to fill the unfamiliar silence with their own clamour. The birds sounded sweet, and they paid no regard to the war and the killing and the waste.

He stood up and turned his back on the trenches. He plunged into the trees, walking fast to keep himself from thinking. He walked for hours and only gradually noticed that there was a sound following him. He reached a clearing and halted, feeling naked and vulnerable. Somebody was near. A snigger sounded close behind him. He spun round but no-one was there. It must be a madman hiding in the trees. Again, the laugh came loud and clear and he spun around once again to find nothing. Then his hand reached up and touched his mouth. It was working furiously, jabbering a mad, crazed cackle in a voice he could not recognise as his own. He shuddered and willed himself to stop. He failed. For an hour he stood rooted in the clearing, his mouth giving out great gusts and whoops of laughter, his eyes raining tears of anguish and fear.

At last the clearing fell quiet. He was exhausted. He looked around with dull eyes. He knew he had to think but three years of noise and slaughter and the swift obeying of orders had left his brain stale and weary. He banged his forehead as if he could pummel his mind into functioning.

Gradually, his thoughts began to clear. He had been away for thirty hours now. No-one would believe he had been lost for so long. Could he have been captured? He imagined himself telling the tale to the officers and their praise for his escape. But then he thought of their questions and the report he would have to write and knew that he could not pull it off.
He looked around wearily. He could not stay here for ever. There were rumours of mutineers' camps in the forests but he guessed they would soon be discovered. Or perhaps he could find some peaceful village where they would shelter him. But no Frenchwoman would hide a British soldier when her own men were dying at the Front.

The long hours passed and night fell. He wondered what his mates would think of him. Perhaps he should go back. But if he did he was certain to face the long silent walk with the firing squad, the click of the rifles as they were readied. Only a madman would return. Then he thought back to his laughter in the clearing and shuddered.

He looked up at the stars and as he did when a child he asked them for the answer. But they were far away and silent. Finally, on the edge of sleep an answer came, yet one so lunatic that he truly did begin to think himself mad.

The following evening he knocked at Captain Bell's door.

'Mitchell,' Bell cried. 'Where the hell have you been?'

'I ran, sir,' he replied, calmly.

The captain looked at him in astonishment. Every deserter they caught claimed he had got lost or captured.

'Surely, Mitchell, you mean you got lost?'

'I wasn't lost. I was running from all this.'

The captain leaned back in his chair. 'You do know the penalty for desertion?'

'I do, sir.'

'So why on earth did you come back?'

Mitchell shrugged.

'Because of King and Country?’ Bell said. ‘Or not to let your mates down?'

Mitchell realised that Bell was trying to give him a way out.

'I came back because I'm not a deserter,' he answered.

The captain stared at him, his eyes giving nothing away.

'You did desert,' he said finally.

'I ran. But I'm not a deserter.'

A candle began to gutter, causing the shadows of the two men to shudder then to shrink and to grow.

'I don't know whether you're a hero or a fool, Mitchell,' said the captain quietly.

'A fool, I suspect, sir.'

'You're certainly an honest one.'

Bell stood up and stared at Mitchell. 'Get some rest,' he said.

Mitchell's eyes narrowed, cautiously, uncertain. 'Is that all sir?'

'That's all.'

Mitchell did not move.

'That's all. Believe me, that's all.'

Mitchell saluted and left.

Saturday, 19 November 2011

Republishing out of print books

Now that ebooks are becoming so well established I've begun to muse on the books which are now out of print which I would love to see republished. My current suggestion would be Alf's Button by W.A. Darlington.

This concerns two soldiers in the Great War who discover that one of their tunic buttons has been made of Alladin's Lamp. As soon as some spit and polish is applied the Genie appears, to the consternation of the Tommies. The Genie offers them the usual choices but the two soldiers seem unable to make any sensible decisions. Alladin did not have it so difficult.

What would yours be?

Tuesday, 15 November 2011

Separate Tables

Just watched the classic 50s film Separate Tables again. It was based on two Terence Rattigan plays, released in 1958, nominated for seven Oscars and won two. It has an impressive cast: Rita Hayworth, Deborah Kerr, David Niven, Wendy Hiller, Gladys Cooper, and Burt Lancaster. Niven won the Oscar for Best Actor and Hiller for Best Supporting Actor.

It is a sublime and sensitive portrait of people imprisoned by the constraints of society and their own personalities, facing a moral dilemma which manages to combine the parochial and the universal.

The acting is peerless, every one of the actors having an intensity and honesty which is remarkable and memorable.

If you want to see a window into the mores and customs of a certain time, one which has long gone but is also eternally with us, then watch this marvellous film.

Friday, 11 November 2011

Monty Python Economics

The lead article of the British Newspaper, The Daily Telegraph, quotes a cabal of City big-wigs who claim that the only way to save the British economy is by abolishing the 50% top rate of tax for the highest earners and increasing personal tax allowance. They claim this will attract entrepreneurs to the country.

Sheriff of Nottingham One : Robin Hood Nil.

I find it incredible that anyone seeks to reward the rich (many of whom got us into this mess in the first place because of their relentless, reckless gambling greed) while expecting ordinary people to endure all of the austerity.

I ask a few questions.

Are the rich solely motivated by money? What about loyalty, patriotism, wishing to do good for good's sake?

How will a few of the already rich make such an improvement in the economy when so many people are being thrown out of work with a consequent decline in tax yield?

How much more money do the already wealthy need? How much can one person or family spend in one life-time?

Why weep for the rich while slashing at the poor?

I am reminded of two songs, the first the theme song to Robin Hood.

Robin Hood, Robin Hood, riding through the glen.
Robin Hood, Robin Hood with his band of men.
Takes from the bad, gives to the good;
Robin Hood, Robin Hood, Robin Hood.

The second is from Monty Python's Flying Circus

Dennis Moore, Dennis Moore
Galloping through the sward
Dennis Moore, Dennis Moore
And his horse Concorde
He steals from the rich
And gives to the poor
Mr. Moore, Mr. Moore, Mr. Moore.

Thursday, 10 November 2011

Healing my injury

I've just got back from a Reiki session with Yvonne Bottarelli at the therapy centre at Marlborough House in Taunton.

It was magic. I feel healed and free of pain. The trauma of my injury slipped away like an iron gauntlet being unlocked and falling to the ground. I can hardly believe it.

Just to put this in context; I had a fall over three years ago and broke my ankle and shattered and dislocated my elbow. I was phobic about broken bones in general and dislocated elbows in particular having seen my mother struggle with two dislocating elbows throughout her life.

The people at Marlborough House have helped me incredibly in a number of ways. Nabeeh Marar has helped with the phobia and Daniel Hayward with the injury.

I was recommended to try out Reiki and booked a session with Yvonne Bottarelli. She was marvellous. Her inspired healing has made a profound difference to my injury, gradually weaving improvement, strength and health.

And now, today, at the final session I had booked with her before moving to France she worked what I can only describe as magic.

I feel I have got my arm back again. I feel whole and wonderful.

Wednesday, 9 November 2011

Four Men in the RAFA

My wife and I went up to the Royal Air Force Association Holiday home in Weston-Super-Mare on Sunday to celebrate my father's 88th birthday.

He introduced us to his three new pals, three men as old as he. They had been placed at the same dining table for the week's holiday and clearly hit if off immediately. Peter was from Malta, Jimmy from the Midlands, Bill from Wales and my Dad from London. The only thing they had in common was that they had all served in the RAF during the Second World War and had all chanced to be placed on the same dining table.

Yet there was more. They had a defiant and good-humoured grasp on life, a willingness to try out new things and stretch their resilience.

I spent some time talking to Jimmy. He looked frail and was in a wheel-chair. His hearing was bad. He had the most impish, naughty smile and was clearly a favourite of the female staff.

He told me that he had been a rear-gunner on a Lancaster Bomber. I calculated that he would have been twenty one years of age at most. On one of the raids the plane was shot to pieces and the crew had to parachute out. He landed badly. Indeed all of the crew were injured in one way or another.

'It was at Eindhoven,' he said. 'Eindhoven in Holland.'

'What happened then?' I asked, expecting him to say that he had become a prisoner of war.

'I don't remember much,' Jimmy answered. 'The next clear thing I remember is waking up in hospital in Roehampton.'

'Roehampton?' I said. 'How did you end up there?'

'Dutch partisans,' he answered. 'They got every one of us out, injured though we were.'

He leaned forward and touched me on my knee. 'I've been very lucky,' he said. 'Very lucky.'

Friday, 4 November 2011

Claire Tomalin's Dickens: A Life

I can't put down Claire Tomalin's biography of Charles Dickens. I feel as if I am living in the nineteenth century, an observer of the writer's life, perhaps a servant or maybe a butcher's boy who calls with the chops and sausages and is astonished by his energy and sometimes alarmed by his mania.
For make no mistake, Dickens was a man of phenomenal energy and life-force. His constitution must have been magically strong. Charisma is too small a word to encompass him.
The beauty of this biography is that Tomalin's shows him warts and all yet indicates that the warts were, perhaps, an essential part of his towering, monumental personality. In fact there were more than warts, there were huge failings as a human being. Yet, I am reminded of the fact that we are dealing with a man who was born almost two hundred years ago and that some of these faults would not have needed to surface in the way they did in another era.
As I read with mounting distress the harsh way he treated his wife Catherine and his young lover Nelly I thought for a moment, why doesn't he just marry the girl? But he couldn't. Divorce was not an option, especially not for a man who did so much to create the notion of the happy family enjoying the Christmas turkey.
My favourite part of the book so far takes place when Dickens was in the midst of his marital break-up, a break-up considered so terrible that many long-time friends deserted him. He was starting a new weekly magazine and insisted that it be called 'Household Harmony.' His best friend Forster suggested that such a title would raise a few eyebrows. Isn't it delicious that the great spinner of words could not see what a terrible error of judgement such a title would have proved. In the end, Forster's arguments prevailed and the magazine was called 'All the Year Round.'