A Christmas Carol 2: The Wedding of Ebenezer Scrooge Read online

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  Copyright ©2004 A. Moore

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  Part One

  CHAPTER 1

  Scrooge woke up, turned over, and groaned. He felt hot and uncomfortable, and his forehead was damp with sweat.

  He was aware that he had been having vivid dreams, and not at all pleasant dreams either—nightmares almost. Fortunately he couldn't remember the details. Just that he had met his old business partner again. And Marley was long since dead. Seven years dead, to be precise.

  Scrooge pushed back the covers and immediately felt cooler. Then he pulled aside the heavy curtain which surrounded his bed and glanced towards the window. The window was also curtained, but he could see light around the edges. And bright light too. He must have slept late, he realized, so he had better get on. There were things to do, even if it was Christmas Day. In fact there were things to do because it was Christmas Day.

  Scrooge padded across the cold floor to the window. Then he looked out on to the yard below, and to his delight he saw snow. Snow! A couple of inches of it. Gone was the filthy, choking, sulfurous fog of the night before—the fog which he had found so dark and depressing—and in its place was bright sunlight and blinding white crystal. Wonderful!

  The view from Scrooge's window had nothing much to recommend it in normal circumstances, but today was different. He gazed out over the city rooftops with pleasure, noting the sharp blacks and whites, the gray smoke rising from the chimneys, the light flashing off the icicles and frost-encrusted gutters.

  Then he noticed a movement below. It was a boy, busy making snowballs and hurling them at the gateway of the house if you please.

  In other times Scrooge would have leaned out and bawled a warning, sending the boy on his way in a hurry, but today he had different business to transact. He pushed up the sash of his window and called in a gentler tone.

  'Boy! Can you spare me a minute?'

  The lad looked up. He was small, with a cap too big for him and a grubby, pinched face. ‘Yes, sir?'

  'Do you know that poulterer's in the next street but one, on the corner?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Do you know whether they've sold that prize turkey that was hanging up there yesterday? Not the little prize turkey, the big one.'

  'I dunno, sir, but I can find out.'

  'Good lad. I want you to go round and tell them I want it. And if they've sold that big one, I want the best of whatever they've got left. Tell them to bring it round here and I'll give them the money and instructions as to where it's to go.'

  'How much?’ demanded the urchin.

  Scrooge sighed and pretended not to understand. ‘I'll pay them the market price and no more.'

  'No, I mean how much for doing the job—for you.'

  A tough negotiator it seemed. All of ten years old, Scrooge estimated, and hardened by years of haggling in the streets. Still, it was Christmas. Rather to his own surprise, Scrooge felt a generous impulse rising to the surface.

  'Come back with the man and I'll give you a shilling. Come back in less than five minutes and I'll give you half a crown.'

  The lad was off like a bullet.

  Big mistake there, young man, thought Scrooge. You should have demanded sixpence in advance.

  But then he thought about what he himself had said. Had he really promised the boy a shilling? And even half a crown? What in Mammon's name had he been thinking of? Scrooge pulled the window shut and moved away, shaking his head. Must be mad, he thought. Or not properly awake.

  Scrooge washed, shaved, and dressed himself, all the while with his ear cocked for the doorknocker.

  Just as he was lacing his shoes he heard a series of great sonorous bangs on the front door below. It was a formidable doorknocker, that one. Marley had chosen it specially because he had begun to grow deaf in his old age.

  Scrooge went down and opened up. He paid the poulterer (actually it was the poulterer's assistant, a spotty youth with a squint), gave him an envelope which bore the Cratchits’ address and had a note inside; and, by dint of giving the fellow five shillings and telling him to keep the change, managed to persuade him to deliver the turkey that morning by cab.

  'It's a big un,’ said Squinty, stating the obvious. ‘They won't have time to cook it today.'

  'I know that, but I want them to have it today. They can cook it tonight and it'll feed them for a week, even though they're a big family. And make sure you give them my note.'

  'Very good sir. And you did say, keep the change?'

  Yes, he had said that. And he was stone cold sober too. Had he meant it? Apparently he had, for he found himself saying, ‘Yes, young fellow, you may keep the change.'

  For some unaccountable reason Squinty seemed as surprised as Scrooge was. ‘Oh!’ he said, and hopped off quick before there was a change of mind.

  The urchin remained on the doorstep, looking up with an air of anticipation. ‘Half a crown you said, guv.'

  Scrooge frowned. ‘I said half a crown if you were back in five minutes. But you were more like half an hour.'

  The boy hung his head. ‘I done my best. They was busy.'

  Scrooge looked down at him. He was a scruffy little soul, and like most of his kind he was dressed in fourth-hand clothes. His trousers hung in rags below his knees and the jacket was too small. It also had holes in the elbows. But at least he had boots, of a sort, if not socks; Scrooge had seen many who went barefoot, even in winter.

  'How old are you, son?'

  'I think I'm twelve, sir.'

  No birthday party for him then, or he would have remembered. ‘Twelve,’ repeated Scrooge.

  'Yes, sir. I reckon.'

  'And what's your name?'

  'Billy, sir.’ Emboldened by Scrooge's interest, he looked up eagerly. ‘Got any more jobs, sir? I'm saving up for an overcoat.'

  'No doubt you are,’ said Scrooge. ‘I'm not known for feeling the cold, but if I had holes in my jacket I dare say I would want an overcoat too.’ He reached into his pocket and found a florin. ‘Let's call it two shillings, shall we?'

  Billy's eyes widened. ‘Cor, thank you, guv.'

  'Sir will do,’ said Scrooge. ‘And my name is Mr Scrooge.'

  'Thank you, sir. Thank you, Mr Scrooge.’ Billy rubbed the shiny silver coin on his sleeve and took in every detail of it. ‘I ain't never had one of these before.... And I like our new Queen Victoria. I reckon she's pretty.’ With exaggerated care he stored his reward safely away.

  Scrooge hesitated for a moment, and then made up his mind. ‘Come inside, Billy,’ he said. ‘I may have something for you.'

  Scrooge led the way up the stairs to his apartment, where he went into his bedroom and poked around in the wardrobe. He emerged holding an old tweed jacket that he had not worn for some time. ‘Here. Try this on.'

  Billy slipped his arms into the coat and pulled it around him. It was, of course, far too big, even though Scrooge was a smal
l man, and Billy looked ridiculous; but no more so than half the poor of London, who were dressed in somebody else's cast-offs, and the other half were wearing mere rags.

  'There,’ said Scrooge. ‘That should do you for an overcoat, Billy. For today, anyway. Later you may be able to trade it for something better.'

  'You mean ... I can have it?'

  'Yes.'

  'Cor! Thank you, guv—er, sir.'

  'That's all right. I don't need it any more.'

  Scrooge leaned forward and folded back the sleeves so that Billy could use his hands. Then he straightened up and hesitated once more. He looked at the uplifted face in front of him. What in the world was he doing, he wondered, inviting this lad into his apartment and giving him clothing? Was he quite sane?

  The boy stared at him, evidently waiting for Scrooge to say something, and finally Scrooge said: ‘Had any breakfast yet?'

  'No sir.'

  'Come on then. I'll treat you.'

  CHAPTER 2

  Scrooge made his way to Mr Montini's café, in Lime Street, where he habitually took breakfast.

  As Billy followed him through the door, Mr Montini, not surprisingly, turned to shoo the boy out. This was not exactly a high-class establishment but street urchins were not encouraged, even if they had any money.

  'Oy, you—hop it.'

  Scrooge intervened. ‘It's all right, Mr Montini. The lad is with me.'

  Mr Montini raised his eyebrows. He was largely bald but had a bushy mustache to make up for it. ‘Well stone me. It really is Christmas.’ He evidently was not pleased by Scrooge's choice of companion, but he said no more, perhaps because the room was almost empty.

  It was comfortably warm in the café, and both Scrooge and Billy took off their top layer of clothing. Then they sat down and the proprietor gave them menus. He hovered, and sighed faintly, not quite holding his nose but clearly less than happy. Scrooge ignored him.

  'Can you read, Billy?’ he asked.

  'No, not really. I can read numbers.'

  'Very well.... If I might make a suggestion, perhaps we should begin with porridge, and then a boiled egg. Followed by toast and coffee. That sound all right to you?

  'Cor! Not half!'

  Mr Montini turned away, bawling out the order to Mrs Montini, who was never seen but lurked somewhere in the kitchen.

  While he and Billy were waiting, Scrooge took the opportunity to examine the boy more closely. He could not remember ever before having taken any notice of someone as poor as Billy. He had seen such people in the streets often enough, of course: men, women, and children, of all ages. But he had seldom troubled to speak to any of them and certainly never taken one of them out for a meal. In fact he wasn't quite sure why he was doing it now, except that for some reason he had found it hard to send the boy away after he had bought the turkey.

  Scrooge looked at Billy with some curiosity. The boy's hands and face were dirty, but then street urchins seldom washed. His brown hair seemed to have been not so much cut as hacked with a knife; it was greasy and filthy, and was probably the home of a whole colony of lice. What was more, his nose was running, and if there was one thing Scrooge could not abide it was a runny nose; he passed over his handkerchief and gave instructions for its use.

  Billy used it and made to pass it back.

  'No,’ said Scrooge sharply. ‘Keep it.'

  'Cor, thanks.... Er, sir.'

  'Not at all.'

  The porridge arrived and consequently conversation ceased for a while.

  Billy had evidently been taught how to use a spoon at some point, but his table manners were none too polished. However, Scrooge made no comment, not even when the plate was held up and licked clean. Very thoroughly clean.

  'If I'm not mistaken,’ said Scrooge, when he had finished with his own plate, ‘you were the lad who came round to my office yesterday afternoon, singing carols. Was that you?'

  'I've been singing,’ said Billy. ‘Yeah.'

  'Make any money?'

  'Some. Not much. Ha'pennies mostly.'

  'I'm afraid in my case, Billy, I chased you away.'

  'Yeah. I remember.’ Billy grinned.

  Scrooge looked down at the table. ‘I'm sorry about that. But the truth is, Christmas annoys me. Always has. Well, in recent years anyway. So many people coming round with begging bowls, asking for money for this, that, and the other. I'm afraid I find it irritating.'

  Billy didn't mind. ‘S'all right.'

  'Anyway, I think I've made up for it now.'

  An even broader grin. ‘Yes, sir, I should say so.'

  Scrooge liked that grin. It was the grin of a boy who had not eaten a decent meal for some time, who was halfway through one now, and who had every prospect of more good grub to come. Scrooge could have survived for some time on a grin like that. And it came pretty cheap too.

  Their boiled eggs arrived, and silence descended on the table once more. After that there was a good deal of munching of toast, followed by a call for further slices. Finally they sat quietly and drank their coffee.

  'Tell me, Billy, have you got any family?'

  'No. Ain't got no fambly.'

  'Your father and mother are dead?'

  'Yes.'

  It was evident that this question hurt, so Scrooge didn't press for details.

  'And where do you live?'

  'Don't live nowhere. Of a night, if I have a penny, I sleeps at one of the lodging-houses in Kent Street. But I only go there in the winter. The rooms is packed, forty and fifty to a room, six to a bed, and I don't like the things the big boys do with you.’ He gave Scrooge a careful look without raising his chin. ‘Bash you up and that. The big girls too, come to that. Most nights I sneak round the back of a baker's I know, cos their ovens is nice and warm and you can curl up over the grille.'

  Scrooge struggled to imagine what it must be like to be a small boy who slept through a winter's night, curled up over a metal vent at the back of some commercial building.

  'I see,’ he said at last, though he didn't see at all. Scrooge himself was not a man who worried overmuch about his creature comforts, but to sleep on the streets was beyond his imagination. He doubted if he would survive even one night in such conditions. ‘And how long have you been living like that, Billy?'

  'Three years.'

  'Do you ever go to school?'

  'Nah.’ The idea was absurd.

  'Did you ever go to school when you were younger?'

  'Nah.'

  Scrooge sighed. He became quiet for some minutes.

  The meal over, he rose to have a word with Mr Montini at the counter. He took out his wallet and unfolded a five-pound note.

  'Mr Montini, I apologize for bringing an unexpected guest, but today is, I think you will agree, a special day. And in view of that, perhaps I might give you this note and ask you to use it to treat some of your customers to a free lunch. Perhaps some of those who have, as we say, fallen upon hard times. Would that be possible do you think?'

  Mr Montini gazed at the proffered note with some astonishment.

  'What I have in mind,’ Scrooge continued, ‘is that you might feel able to provide a meal for some of those, like my young friend here, who would otherwise go hungry. Round the back, if you wish, rather than in the café itself.'

  Mr Montini took the note at last. ‘You sure, Mr Scrooge?'

  'Oh yes. Quite sure. But I want it to be anonymous, you understand. Not a word to anyone.'

  'Well, very kind of you, Mr Scrooge. Very kind indeed. And I can promise you it will all be used to good purpose. There'll be no shortage of takers.'

  Scrooge turned to go.

  'Um, will you be joining us yourself, sir?'

  'No, I think not. I have been invited to my nephew's house.'

  'Oh, so you'll be going there then.'

  'Well,’ said Scrooge. ‘Probably.'

  There, he thought, as he turned away to collect his coat, that wasn't so difficult, was it? He could not remember ever having gi
ven away five pounds in one lump before, but it had not resulted in either apoplexy or a stroke. Not yet, anyway.

  CHAPTER 3

  Scrooge and Billy went out on to the street again.

  Billy was clearly delighted with his new ‘overcoat’ and was doubly fortified by a good breakfast. ‘What now?’ he inquired, evidently convinced that Scrooge had something in mind.

  'Well, I suppose we could go to church. It's about that time.'

  Billy was not keen. He wrinkled his nose and kicked at the snow.

  'It's warm,’ said Scrooge encouragingly. ‘Well, warmer than out here. And there's company. And you get a free dinner after it.'

  That last made a significant difference. ‘Oh, all right then.'

  Scrooge led the way to St Andrew's, which was the church of his parish. It was close enough for the clock to be heard striking, every quarter of an hour, both from his apartment and from his office.

  Their feet crunched on the still-frozen snow as they walked along the street.

  'There isn't anywhere else to go,’ said Scrooge, hoping to make Billy feel more comfortable. ‘Not really. It's too early to go to my nephew's, and there's no point in going to my office, for the ‘Change is shut. And it's scarcely the weather for a walk.... Have you ever been to church before, Billy?'

  'Not for a long time.'

  'Do you know why people go to church on Christmas Day?'

  Billy pondered. ‘I reckon it's because it's Jesus's birthday.'

  'Well, so they say. But in fact the Christians did not begin to mark it as the birthday of their savior until about four hundred AD. So I myself am inclined to think that the celebrations at this time of year are a festival to mark the rebirth of the sun. The Romans used to feast at this time of year, long before Jesus ever appeared. And they did all the things we do—they decorated their temples with greenery and holly. They gave gifts too. It was called the festival of Saturn.'

  'Saturn?'

  'Yes. He was the Roman god of agriculture. You see, Billy, up until Christmas-time the days were getting shorter, and the nights longer. But from now on the reverse is true. The days will lengthen, spring will come, and then summer. And that will make the crops grow, to feed us all. And if that isn't worth celebrating I don't know what is.'