THE DICKENS RACE

The parlour was shuffly with pages.

Six or seven elderly people sat in easy chairs with hefty books on their laps. From time to time, one of them carelessly inspected the others over his or her spectacles then returned with renewed voracity to the consumption of the words through slip­shod eyes.

Abruptly, the one who appeared to be the oldest of all lifted him- or herself from the armchair with the help of a zimmer frame and announced retirement for the night.

Poring over Dickens was not good for blurring eyesight nor for the fading vision of souls. Still, up to three of them cheated by reading in bed under dim lamps. The plots were skated across like the Pickwickians on a frozen lake--but, needless to say, none of them skipped words. They all remained, you see, hopeful of going to Heaven. No point in blotting one's copy book at this late stage, after all. So, yes, skipping was quite out of the question.

Skipping was simply what the little girls among them could remember themselves doing in the cobble-streets of olden golden dusks--but they did not think to skip up the wooden hills to bed now they were such old little girls.

The little boys stayed later in the parlour, swapping plots and disused lifetimes.

The one reading Oliver Twist cried as he closed the final page, despite winning the race. After all, it was the shortest of the novels and the credit would be reduced in consequence. There was nothing in it as sad as Nell's death in Old Curiosity Shop, either--and sadness in books could be prized for its comfort, not its sorrow.

One little girl returned to the parlour. She had forgotten Our Mutual Friend. Dickens was behind the sofa reading it for himself.  He had not read it since he became the ghost from Christmas Carol.

The house grew dark and shuffly quiet.

Published 'Night Owl's Newsletter' 1995