Sunday Afternoon Musings
Why Nancy Still Lives With Me
I’m watching Dickensian for the third time, and it’s definitely better than the first two. Maybe it’s because I’m more familiar with the stories. Or perhaps it’s because life has continued its forward march since the last time I watched.
But truthfully, I think it’s because of Nancy.
Long before I ever watched Dickens come to life on a screen, I was Nancy.
Nancy—the conflicted, fiercely loyal young street woman from Oliver Twist—was the role I played as a teenager. It was a glorious experience, and to this day, it remains one of the most meaningful experiences of my life. The applause was heady. The costumes were fun. And the music was spectacular. But those things aren’t what made my days and nights as Nancy stand out. It was because of who she was.
She was complicated.
She understood good and evil.
And she was brave.
What I loved most about playing her was her strength—not the loud, obvious kind, but the kind forged through survival. Nancy’s world was brutal, ruthless, and savage, yet her heart was capable of love, kindness, and understanding. She knew who Bill Sikes was. She knew what he was capable of. And still, she loved him. Not because she was weak, but because she was human.
Their relationship was volatile and heartbreaking, layered with fear, devotion, and longing. As a young actress, I didn’t yet understand that kind of complexity, but I felt it—every night on stage.
And then there was the barroom scene.
The music.
The laughter.
The tables.
The swirling skirts.
For a few rousing, exhilarating minutes each night, I sang like a dance hall songstress. I danced and kicked and twirled without fear. It was loud and wild and joyful, and Nancy, through me, came alive.
But what stayed with me most was Nancy’s tenderness.
Her gentleness with Oliver.
Her protectiveness.
Her quiet courage when no one was watching.
And the way the Artful Dodger looked at her—with admiration and affection, something for which he had no words. Even then, I understood that she represented something good to him. Something hopeful.
Then came the final scene.
The night Bill kills Nancy.
It still lives vividly in the theater of my mind.
As I lay crumpled on that stage, the lights dimming and the audience hushed, something unexpected happened. My little brother—four or five years old at the time—bolted out of his seat and ran toward the stage to protect me.
He was going to take on Bill Sikes himself.
My dad flew out of his seat, catching him just in time before that furious little boy could kick a grown actor in the shin.
I didn’t know about it until later. But when I did, I laughed—and then I cried.
That’s the power of story.
That’s the power of believing.
That’s what Nancy brings to people.
Watching Dickensian now, I see her again—not just as a character, but as a mirror. I see her strength. Her loyalty. Her quiet courage to do the right thing, even when the cost was everything.
And I realize something I couldn’t have imagined when I was belting out that raucous barroom ditty:
Some stories don’t make sense until life fills in the spaces.
Nancy has stayed with me all these years.
And watching her on the screen today is less nostalgia . . . it is recognition.
We don’t outgrow our stories.
We grow into them—One Story at a Time.
— Charlene