Fokston to London

Fokston to London train, Kent, June the 9th, 1865.

53-year-old Charles Dickens pulls his top hat over his eyes,

slips into the first-class carriage with a glass of sherry.

He's determined to enjoy the last few hours of his train journey.

He leans one arm on the wood-panelled wall to steady his feet

before he ducks into the discreet,

high-backed velvet seat in his compartment.

This is not of anti-West Coast.

This is the dream, isn't it?

You feel like you've had a good train journey now if the trolley still has twixes left.

And if you arrive within three hours

of the scheduled arrival time.

His eyes settle on the young woman already seated in the compartment,

sees her watching as he takes out his manuscript and lays it on the table.

He's due to submit his latest instalment of Our Mutual Friend in a day's time.

He should be making final edits.

Is that the great author's latest novel?

He takes in her slender frame, her pale complexion, her long dark hair.

Perhaps I can make you a character.

He sees her smile.

He's about to offer her a few pages to read, but before he can, he's rocked forward in his seat as a loud

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