FOLLOWING IN HIS FOOTSTEPS, by Rob Molan,a pint of ale

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.

Lucky Day by Sarah Swatridge,a pot of tea

‘Lucky Day’ by Sarah Swatridge

A Pot of Tea

Everything changed that day. The day the piano tuner came.

Heather’s son, William, still lived at home and for some time he’d been dating Katie, a single mum.

It was a Sunday when Heather and Joe met Katie for the first time. They took to her straight away. She was warm and friendly and above all, a gentle and loving mother. Little Tia was seven and painfully shy.

‘She’s usually so chatty,’ William laughed. ‘It’s hard to get a word in.’

‘It can’t be easy meeting strangers, and we’re all adults,’ Heather reassured her son, although she’d gone to the trouble of providing a box of toys and had offered her chocolate ice-cream for pudding which, according to Katie, was her favourite.

Heather was confident Tia would relax once she began to get to know them. Perhaps next time they met she’d be more comfortable?

As they’d eaten a big roast at lunchtime, Heather only served tea and cake for tea, in the lounge. It was, as she was pouring the tea, that she noticed Tia looking at the piano.

‘Would you like to have a go?’ she offered. Katie looked worried, ‘Don’t worry, it’s old, and probably out of tune. She can’t do any harm.’

While the adults continued to chat, Tia climbed on to the stool and lifted the lid. Tentatively she played a note or two, gradually gaining confidence and making more noise. It was the happiest she’d been all afternoon.

Over the next few months Katie and Tia became regular guests. Tia lost her initial shyness and Heather loved having her around. William said he’d arrange piano lessons for her, and so Heather decided it was high time to have the piano looked at.

Not surprisingly the piano tuner tutted and sighed as he inspected Granny Pearl’s treasured instrument.

‘Would you like a cuppa?’ Heather asked him.

‘Yes please.’

‘Heather?’ he called a few moments later. Heather rushed in from the kitchen expecting to be told it was past repair. ‘I’ve found this.’

He handed over an old biscuit tin, covered in a good layer of dust. Heather blushed and wondered what he’d think of her housekeeping skills.

‘It was at the bottom of the piano. A small glass of water is more effective. It counteracts the effect of central heating.’

Heather felt a little confused, but took the tin and returned with a glass of water which was duly placed inside the bottom of the piano.

‘Kettle’s boiled. How do you like your tea?’ she asked.

‘Milk, no sugar, thanks.’

Having served his tea, she returned to the kitchen and opened the ancient tin. And that’s where she found Granny’s jewels!

Granny Pearl had never been wealthy but various members of the family had expected her to have a string of pearls if nothing else. No one had ever thought to look for them in the piano.

‘My goodness, there are rings, chains, old watches and loads of necklaces,’ Heather grinned as she showed Joe. ‘They’re all a bit tarnished, but not plastic.’

The whole episode, although exciting, caused Heather a sleepless night. She was sure, when her grandmother died, that she was her Granny’s only living relative. Her will had specifically mentioned she was to have the piano. But in her dream, she imagined that someone else had a claim on the biscuit tin of old chains. What if somewhere out there, there was a distant second cousin, twice removed?

The following day she and Joe took Granny’s jewellery to be valued.

‘Do you want a valuation for insurance purposes or are you thinking of selling?’ he asked.

Heather looked at the rather ugly hoard knowing she’d never wear it. She didn’t think Pearl would be upset if she sold it. Granny had never been one to wear much jewellery.

‘I’m thinking of selling,’ she told him.

She left the stash with the jeweller and went for a coffee with Joe.

‘What will you spend the money on?’ he asked. Heather was quiet for a while, stirring her coffee again and again.

‘If it’s not worth that much, perhaps we could go for a meal, although I dare say Granny would see that as being extravagant.’

‘It’s up to you.’

‘If they really are of value then maybe we could have a holiday and if it’s worth a fortune then I’d love to buy a beach hut on the coast – but of course we would share it with our friends and neighbours. Tia would love it.’

As they ate their cake and splashed out on a second coffee, they thought of all the things they could buy if they were rich.

‘I’m being so selfish,’ Heather said after a while. ‘We ought to give it to William to help him get a place of his own. It’s so hard for youngsters these days. Do you think he’s serious about Katie?’ Joe shrugged. ‘I like her and she’s good for our William.’

‘You’re right there,’ Joe agreed. ‘He’s certainly matured since she’s been on the scene. And, I think he’d be a good father to Tia.’

‘I tell you what,’ Heather said. ‘I’m feeling lucky today so I’m going to see if I can win anything on the tombola.’ She looked across to the charity table in the corner of the café. It was full of prizes in aid of Cat Rescue.

‘I’ll have some tickets please,’ she told the woman behind the counter and was delighted when she won a book token, even though she made a point of using the library. She didn’t want their village to lose it.

A while later Heather and Joe sauntered down the high street calling in at the bookshop and then at the newsagents.

‘I’ve been lucky so far today so I may as well buy a scratch card,’ Heather laughed as she scratched away at her card a few minutes later.

‘Hey, I’ve won ten pounds, and you know what they say? Good luck comes in threes.’

However, when they returned to the jeweller, he told them the jewels were mainly paste, copper or at best gold plated. There was only one item of any value.

Heather fingered the gold St Christopher. It was the only piece of jewellery she could ever remember her grandmother wearing. That was because her grandfather had given it to her. It had been to keep her safe.

Heather decided she couldn’t part with the St Christopher. And it looked so much better now the jeweller had cleaned it up. Joe fixed it round her neck. She was offered twenty pounds for the rest which she accepted.

‘Shame we weren’t lucky,’ Joe said on the way home.

‘Oh, but we were,’ Heather corrected him. ‘We’re thirty pounds better off and I have Gran’s necklace, which I’ll always treasure.’

‘You’re right. We could put it toward a meal out or a cream tea?’ he said, ‘But what if we started a ‘Spur of the Moment’ fund? And give ourselves the occasional treat?’

Heather laughed. ‘I like the sound of that. Granny would definitely approve. And when we get home I’m going to empty my coin jar and add that to our fund.’

At home Katie and Tia were waiting for them. Tia had just had her first piano lesson and was keen to show them what she’d learnt. They’d never seen her so enthusiastic or chatty.

They all listened to Tia practising her scales through a couple of times and clapped.

‘I’m glad you enjoyed it because I won a book token today and got you this music book, Piano for Beginners.’

‘Thank you,’ beamed Tia as if she’d been given the Crown Jewels.

‘And we have something to tell you,’ William announced. ‘I’ve asked Katie to marry me and Tia to be my daughter – and they’ve said yes!’

There were hugs all round. ‘You were right,’ Joe told Heather. ‘It has been a lucky day.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Meetups

It was four o’clock in the morning and Emma was lying awake with a throbbing toothache shooting up inside her head. Thoughts of the days ahead raced through her mind. It took a while to get back into the swing of the Capital.  There had been crowds of people hanging around outside Euston Station. She’d never seen so many in the middle of the afternoon. Didn’t people have jobs to go to?

She’d planned the meetups beforehand. It was impossible to get hold of people in London at the last minute, and she had half a dozen people to see in only three days, a mixture of past work colleagues, neighbours, and fellow writers from way back when. It was a pity they came from different stages of her life and that none of them knew each other.  Otherwise, she could have doubled them up.

On the first day she’d planned to see the Whistler Exhibition at Tate Britain with her ex-neighbour Michael. She was determined to get at least one gallery visit in on this trip. People in London didn’t realise how lucky they were to have culture on their doorsteps.  In the evening, she’d booked for a seminar with her friend Jane at some academic institution in Bedford Square. The talk was on the subject of colonial map-making which sounded pretty dry.

‘That’s not the point,’ Jane said. ‘There will be drinks afterwards, possibly even food.’ She had forgotten that Jane had a nose for sniffing out free food and wine at cultural events.

On the second day she would be meeting an ex-colleague in Ealing. He couldn’t manage the tube anymore. Gone were the days of free entry to the Royal Academy on his membership card. Thankfully, the Elizabeth Line was open so she wouldn’t have to trundle along on the District Line stopping at every other station. 

What she hadn’t planned for was this throbbing sensation going right up inside her head.  When she looked in the mirror, she saw that the whole right side of her face was swollen. It had been coming on during the journey down, but she’d managed to keep it at bay by dosing herself up with paracetamol. But now the pain was back with a vengeance, and she was up to the limit of paracetamol. So straight after breakfast, she dialed 111 and, miraculously within the hour, they’d fixed her up with an NHS dentist just down the road in Holborn. There they gave her an Xray and a prescription for antibiotics.

 By the time she’d been to the chemist for the pills, she realized she would be late for the Tate Britain rendezvous, so they settled on Tate Modern instead. She could practically walk there, she mused. She liked walking in London, anyway. It gave you a chance to take things in; to reminisce. London had changed though. There was this barrage of people walking straight at you, with their eyes glued on their phones. And nobody waited for the lights to turn green.  No doubt they knew how to time it, but she didn’t fancy being run over, even if it risked identifying her as a stranger in town. Bus routes had changed too, and the stops were further apart. She ended up walking to the Aldwych and then to Temple Station, before taking the tube to Blackfriars.

‘Let’s start at the top and work our way down,’ Michael suggested as they reached the gallery. ‘That way we can see something on each of the four floors.’

On the top floor there was a Light Show by Julian le Parc. The flashing lights  dazzled her and the dangling multi-coloured glass prisms made her feel dizzy. She was already missing the Whistler and suggested having a sit-down and a catchup. Michael had a lot more energy than she had, and soon they were off again to see a retrospective about a female Cuban artist, who she’d never heard of and who had an affinity for blood, which made her feel queasy.  She was relieved when Michael suggested a coffee in the members’ café, with its fine view of the London skyline.  At least that gave them some perspective on the city. They had to skip the next two floors as it was time for her to set off for her evening assignation.

Google said you could walk across the Millenium Bridge to St. Paul’s, then pick up a Number 25 bus all the way to Bedford Square. Only she couldn’t find a No 25 bus stop anywhere and ended up walking all the way to Ludgate Circus, then along Fleet Street to the Aldwych and was halfway up Kingsway before she found a bus that was going her way.  Confounded by the Google map, she walked round three sides of Bedford Square before she found the right place. Map reading had never been her strong point.  The talk was just beginning as she shuffled her way in and plonked herself down on the first available chair. She prided herself on managing to stay awake for the two hours. It was a worthy subject concerning the artificiality of borders created by colonialists who so often disregarded local populations and wildlife.

Time for a drink and some food. So, she headed downstairs to meet up with Jane. Unfortunately, they hadn’t provided drinks this time, and because of the antibiotics she couldn’t drink. Not to be phased, Emma found herself engaging in conversation with complete strangers on all sorts of topics while Jane worked her way through the ample supply of wine.   By the time she reached her accommodation that night, her pedometer registered six and a half miles, more than she ever walked at home. Through a combination of exhaustion and antibiotics, she fell asleep within minutes.

She was woken too early next morning by an email message concerning her next meet-up.

‘Sorry, I’ve mislaid my phone,’ it read. ‘So, I’m afraid we’ll just have to hope that our trains run smoothly.’

This sounded ominous so as a precaution she got to Ealing Broadway Station half an hour early. There was only one exit, so she positioned herself outside the station but in full view of the ticket barrier. That way she would be able to see Dave coming from all directions. An hour went by, an hour of looking this way and that. She was on the point of giving up when she decided to take one final look inside the station. There he was standing dutifully in front of the ticket barrier. How could they have missed each other? 

‘Where have you been?’ he said, accusatively. ‘I’ve been here the whole time.’

‘And I’ve been looking for you the whole time,’ she said.

Time was short and there was no point in arguing about whose fault it was.  They headed off in search of his favourite restaurant where she made the mistake of ordering roast chicken rather than fish pie, forgetting the dentist had told her to chew on one side of her mouth.  

She was glad she’d made the effort though. Finally, she could relax. He was someone she saw eye to eye with. They shared a view on the sorry state of the world, even though they didn’t always share the same political perspective.   

‘Have you seen what it says in the Metro today?’ he said, passing the paper across the table to her. ‘AI is going to kill us all off within the next few years.

‘You’ve got to be joking,’ she said. But she could tell he wasn’t.

Then they both burst into spontaneous laughter. What else could you do?  

About the author

Jenny Palmer writes short stories, poetry, memoir and family history. Her collections 'Keepsake and Other Stories.' 2018, and 'Butterflies and Other Stories,' 2024, were published by Bridge House, and are on Amazon. 'Witches, Quakers and Nonconformists,' 2022, is sold at the Pendle Heritage Centre, Barrowford. 

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.