Sketches, Dispatches, Hull Tales and Ballads - University of Hull

Rarely had Gerald encountered such rapt attention when talking
about his research. Mick was now driving at twenty miles an hour.
‘According to their biographer, Elizabeth Gaskell, Charlotte and
Emily used to walk in circles around the dining room table until
eventually they were tired enough to sleep. After Emily died,
Charlotte walked alone around the table on her own, hour after
hour, night after night.’
A terrible sadness appeared in Mick’s eyes.
‘The poor bloody cow. Any others?’
‘Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Margaret
Drabble… but the most famous insomniac of them all, the veritable
poet laureate of sleepnessness, was Charles Dickens.’
There was a strangled cry, then Mick slapped the steering wheel.
He shook his head, began laughing.
‘What is it? What have I said?’
He looked at Gerald triumphantly.
‘And you’re the man who doesn’t believe in fate.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘Charles Dickens has been my constant companion every single
night for the last ten years.’
‘Ah, you’re a Dickens fan.’
‘Fan doesn’t begin to describe it. If it wasn’t for him I’d have gone
stark, staring mad.’
Gerald, startled by this outburst, laughed nervously.
‘I see.’
‘No, you don’t. You’ve no idea. How can I make you understand?’
Mick looked round in desperation. ‘Hang on, here we go, just the
thing.’
He indicated, came to a halt opposite a grocery shop called Polski
Sklep.
‘See that?’
‘What exactly am I supposed to be looking at?’
Mick pointed at the shop, ‘In there.’
Gerald gazed at the shop’s stark interior, the harsh lighting, white
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