The Ghosts of Christmas Past

by Andy Conway

  They sailed down the gentle slope of New Street to the Theatre Royal and pulled up. She leapt out and let Mrs Jowett lean on her to clamber to the pavement. The old lady looked up at the welcoming lights of the theatre as if it were her scaffold.

  “Come just a little more and see me inside. I need your arm to rest on.”

  Emily Cratchit shuddered. She wasn’t dressed for such a place as the theatre. Even if it was just the annual show for the poor children, her hands were red and her dress stained with scrubbing floors, her shawl threadbare, her bonnet dull and grey. If only she could have worn her Sunday best.

  “Ma’am, I’m not dressed for this. It’s the first-class entrance. I’m not even dressed for the side entrance round the corner.”

  “I need you just a while longer,” she wheedled, and it was like a child.

  Mrs Jowett paid the cab driver and thanked him and he sped off. Emily watched him go with a sinking heart. Now she would have to walk home. Of course, it hadn’t occurred to Mrs Jowett to get the driver to take her back. Her class just didn’t think of things like that.

  Emily offered Mrs Jowett her arm and they shuffled into the theatre.

  How the rich could last without the poor to see to their every little need, she didn’t like to think. They wouldn’t last two days left to their own devices, she was certain of that. They barely got through that single day of Christmas without the likes of her to dress them, feed them, see to their every need. By Boxing Day, the relief to have servants again was a thing to behold.

  Inside, the ballroom was all golden and shining and all the most fashionable people had gathered. It must be what the Assembly Rooms looked like. She lowered her head instinctively and curled in on herself, so much that she didn’t see Mr Swingeford approach. She was looking at his boots when he spoke.

  “Dear sister. So long we do not see each other and today we meet three times.”

  Mrs Jowett didn’t smile. “And they say good things come in threes.”

  “I’m here to see Miss Ruth. Have you seen her?”

  “I imagine she’ll be behind stage making preparations for the performance. Why so much interest in her today, brother?”

  “The main thing that interests me most today is you,” he said.

  Emily Cratchit longed to interrupt and make her excuses to leave, but she was stuck having to watch this conversation.

  “You don’t normally take any interest in my affairs, brother,” Mrs Jowett said.

  “I’m most interested as to why you have concurred with Miss Ruth’s story.”

  Emily stole a glance at him. He was smiling but it was the smile of a crocodile. Oh, he was such a mean, vicious old miser. His only delight seemed to be other people’s misery.

  “What story?” Mrs Jowett asked, unable to conceal her contempt.

  “That these people who’ve come from afar are her long lost aunt and cousin.”

  “Why do you say that’s a story?”

  “Because you know more than anyone she is an orphan. She was abandoned on the steps of your own chapel. That’s why you took an interest in her. That’s why you took her fortune in hand when she graduated from the orphanage. You are hiding something, dear sister.”

  Mrs Jowett waved a dismissive silk-gloved hand and looked around the ballroom for more interesting company. “What concern is it of yours? She is nothing to you anyway.”

  “Oh, on the contrary, sister. I have asked for her hand in marriage.”

  Emily let out a little shriek, like she’d seen a rat. She tried to hold it in but it popped right out of her mouth and there was nothing she could do about it.

  Mrs Jowett turned quite pale and let out a low moan. She put her gloved hand to her mouth. A fist to cover a scream. But she didn’t scream. She swallowed and said, “What have you done?”

  “I have assured her of a certain future, of comfort and happiness.”

  “She’s young enough to be your daughter.”

  “Nonsense. She is young and beautiful, despite her lower social status. She is strong and will breed well, to provide me with succession.”

  “She will not. She is most unsuitable.”

  “I think I shall be the decider of what is suitable,” Swingeford said.

  Mrs Jowett stammered and said, “And do you think it’s suitable that she is having an affair with a gentleman from this theatre?”

  “What?”

  Emily stared now and her mouth fell open. She couldn’t help it. Everything that came out of the mouths of these two was shocking. Why would the old lady lie like that? Miss Ruth was the model of virtue.

  “Yes, with Mr Aldridge,” said Mrs Jowett.

  “The blackamoor actor from America?”

  “The very same.”

  “You lie.”

  She slapped him. It happened seemingly before Mrs Jowett knew it herself. Swingeford did nothing, but his grey face turned a shade of purple. “She has made a fool of you, brother.”

  Swingeford gripped his cane and for a moment it looked like he was going to strike his sister, but he turned and stormed off through the crowd.

  Mrs Jowett raised her chin and gathered herself, a strange satisfied smile on her face.

  Why would she say such a nasty lie about dear Miss Ruth, whom she’d always shown kindness to? Well, a certain kind of kindness. Not that of a mother, like Emily treated her own children. You loved them and your heart bled for the poor little mites, always fighting to keep Death from the door, always wanting the very best for them even when you couldn’t provide it. Worried sick every night that you were losing them. Her poor tiny Tim out on the streets mixing with all sorts of bad ruffians. He might join that criminal gang who ran pitch-and-toss games across the street and live in a dungeon, but she’d fight to stop that from happening.

  “Mrs Jowett?” Emily said.

  The old lady couldn’t hear her, still watching her brother’s head move through the crowd.

  “Mrs Jowett, ma’am?”

  “Yes? What is it?”

  “If you’re finished with me, ma’am?”

  “What? Oh, yes. You may go.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. Merry Christmas.”

  Mrs Jowett looked to her as if Emily Cratchit had wished her ill health all her remaining days. “I don’t think it is,” she said. “I don’t think it can be.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Well, I’ll be going then.”

  Mrs Jowett tottered and grabbed Emily’s arm. “No.”

  “Ma’am, what is it?”

  The old lady whimpered, hit by a fresh bolt of agony, and the whimper became a low moan, just like she’d made this morning after her brother had departed. What was this invisible power he had to inflict pain on his sister?

  “Ma’am, is everything all right?” As the words left her mouth, she knew how stupid they sounded.

  “Nothing is all right,” Mrs Jowett groaned, gripping her tightly. “Emily. Take me back home. I feel ever so...”

  She slumped against her and Emily took her weight and walked her back out through the ballroom throng, muttering excuse mes and if you pleases till she reached the door and plunged into the cold night.

  A boy loitering before the theatre, ragged, looking for trade. She recognized him. He ran errands for John Jobbins the baker round the corner on Lower Temple Street.

  “You, boy, call me a cab.”

  The boy jumped to attention and ran out to the street to wave down a cab. He was back in moments calling, “Here, miss. Got one for you.” He was holding out his palm.

  Emily grabbed Mrs Jowett’s purse. “Help her into it, boy.”

  The boy took her. He was so small it seemed impossible that he could hold her, but she leaned against him and he took the weight and walked her out to the muddy street, her skirts swishing in the slush.

  The cab was pulled up in the middle of the street. The cabman jumped down and helped to load the old lady aboard. Emily took out a sixpence and pressed it into the boy’s hand.

 
“Now, boy, I need you to take a message to a man inside the theatre. You know my husband, Mr Bob Cratchit, yes? He’ll be in the stalls tonight with my son, Tim.”

  “I know him, miss.”

  “You tell him that I’ve had to be called to Mrs Jowett. She’s taken ill and I need to send for the doctor. Tell him I’ll be home later tonight as soon as I can.”

  He ran off into the theatre and Emily climbed up next to Mrs Jowett. She was quite faint, slumped against her, moaning.

  “Driver. The Connexion chapel rectory on Peck Lane and Dudley Street. Thank you.”

  They set off up New Street with a jolt and he turned down Pinfold Street at the top and descended into the Froggery, exactly the way they’d come only minutes before.

  As the cab descended, the cold air full in their faces, she wondered if she might have sent a message to Miss Ruth to warn her of what she’d heard. But no. It was nothing to do with the likes of her. So much lying and deceit and hurt, and all of it coming between her and her family and their Christmas.

  The cab clattered down the dark street and she looked to the right as they passed Well Street. Her home on Bread Street tantalizingly out of sight. They passed it in a flash and she clutched her shawl about her. The snow was creeping through her boots and her toes were numb. She might have been home right now lighting the fire and warming the house for Christmas. The cab rattled on down the hill and came to the chapel, opposite the Dungeon. It was just a few dark streets to home with the snow to light the way, but it might as well be a hundred miles.

  — 24 —

  MRS HUDSON ALLOWED Belle to take her deep into the bowels of the theatre, her mind still racing. She had almost given in. Almost escaped. But she was stuck here now. She had to see this through. Whatever it was.

  She followed Belle, bustling around the theatre, checking on the auditorium that was filling now, and Fred followed, sullen and shy. It appeared the audience entered through three different doors, from different streets: the toffs entered from the front of house and took up the boxes; the middle classes came in from a bar on Lower Temple Street and took seats in the upper circle; the poor children of the Froggery streamed in from Ethel Street and filled the stalls.

  Through a peephole at the side of stage, she spied Bob Cratchit and his son Tim taking their seats, both smiling, even the boy. It was true. This was the one night of the year they could forget their troubles.

  They went backstage, down a passageway, off which were the dressing rooms. Dickens had returned, eager to perform his magic tricks. Belle had slotted him in as a distraction in one throwaway scene. The long-suffering Forster watched him put on his make-up and kicked his heels.

  She linked arms with Fred and squeezed his hand. “Cheer up, Fred. The show must go on.”

  He forced a smile, pretending all was well. Perhaps he was just happy to hang around and help Belle like he said. It appeared he hadn’t made any overtures to her, and this was probably good. Mrs Hudson would step in and prevent it if she had to. Who was to say that Belle shouldn’t marry Swingeford? That was most likely what was destined to happen if they hadn’t crashed this party.

  If Fred distracted her from that, the outcome could lead to tragedy.

  She tried to remember the name of the girl whose life had been wiped out due to something like this: a girl who’d gone to the past with a boy, and he’d made a change. Yes, he’d saved someone’s life, prevented a murder, and they’d returned to the present and the girl had discovered her whole life wiped out.

  What was her name again? It was important.

  Rachel! That was it.

  Rachel was the living proof that blundering into the past and changing things led to tragedy. And there had been others too. She couldn’t remember their names, but she had a vague sense of a small band of other figures in the shadows beyond Rachel, just out of reach.

  Let Fred be disappointed in love, she thought. It was for the best.

  Belle asked Fred to go in the men’s dressing rooms and tell them it was ten minutes to curtain. Dickens and Aldridge had their own and the rest of the men shared a large room.

  Belle and Mrs Hudson entered the women’s dressing room, a poky cupboard where three women squeezed around each other like a contortionist’s act.

  “Ladies, we have ten minutes,” Belle said, clapping her hands excitedly. “Break a leg.”

  Before they could answer, a shout came from outside, a voice raging, a great banging clattering down the passage.

  Belle ran out and Mrs Hudson followed.

  It was Swingeford. He stormed down the passage, banging his cane on every door, shouting, “This play will not happen! I will not sanction such licentiousness in this theatre! I forbid it!”

  The actors piled out to see.

  “Mr Swingeford,” Belle cried. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “You!” he yelled. “How dare you even question me? It is your disgusting behaviour that shall see this theatre closed, tonight and forever!”

  Fred stepped between Swingeford and Belle. “Who do you think you’re shouting at, you old tyrant?”

  “This theatre is closed! Closed, I say! This performance is cancelled!”

  Dickens pushed forward. He was in a shirt open at the neck, his face plastered with foundation, eyes painted black. “Mr Swingeford, you cannot mean that. What is this? There are two hundred or more children out there waiting for this show to begin. You cannot cancel this!”

  “I can do what I like.”

  “Mr Swingeford,” said Belle. “I beg you. There is one good day in the year at least when these children can laugh and feel some warmth from their fellow men. All year round it is nothing but a brutish struggle for these poor children. You would rob them of this one day of hope?”

  “Are there no orphanages? And the Union workhouses? They are still in operation?”

  “Indeed they are,” said Dickens. “I wish they were not.”

  “Then let them provide that relief. Why should this theatre give free tickets to the idle poor when others pay for their entertainment?”

  “Because others can afford it,” said Belle. “The board of trustees have always allowed this charity.”

  “That shall change. I’ll see to it.”

  “What is it you want?” Belle asked. “Why do you do this?”

  “I have been informed of your despicable behaviour.”

  “What?” Belle said. “What have I done?”

  “You have been involved in a sinful liaison with...” He turned, searching the faces all crowded around and pointed at Ira Aldridge. “With... that.”

  There was a collective gasp.

  “That’s rubbish!” Fred shouted.

  “What are you saying?” Belle asked. “Who said this?”

  “How dare you!” Ira Aldridge yelled. He pushed his way through the crowd, bearing a wooden sword.

  His wife pulled him back. “No, Ira! Don’t!”

  “I’ll run him through for this calumny!”

  “Don’t deny it!” Swingeford said, brandishing his cane, but looking a little relieved that Mrs Aldridge was able to hold her husband back.

  “Take it back!” Aldridge cried. ‘Take it back!”

  “No future wife of mine shall sully herself in such activity,” Swingeford said, trying to look down his nose at Ira Aldridge with as much condescension as he could muster. “Nor shall she cheapen my name.”

  “It is not your name that is at risk,” said Belle. “It is my name.”

  “The theatre has made you wilful and debauched. You have spent too much time here and not enough at chapel. I will see to correct that.”

  Belle put her hands on her hips, shaking with anger. “Why do you invest in a theatre if you think it so disrespectable?”

  “It is an investment, nothing more.”

  It was obvious, Mrs Hudson thought. He had bought a controlling share in the theatre purely to corner Belle, to trap her in this snare. His smug smirk attested to it. “Mr Swing
eford. It is clear to everyone that this is nonsense. Miss Belle here isn’t involved in any way with Mr Aldridge, nor any other man here.”

  “Tell me who said this lie!” Aldridge screamed. “I’ll sue them!”

  Swingeford backed away to a spot where he was safely out of the reach of Ira Aldridge’s wooden sword. Mrs Aldridge stood before her husband and turned to Swingeford, fire blazing in her eyes. “Who is maligning my husband? I demand to know!”

  Swingeford cast her a look of utter contempt, from her feet to her bonnet, as if to question how she even dare talk to the likes of him.

  “Mr Swingeford,” said Mrs Hudson. “The very idea is preposterous. Mr Aldridge arrived here by coach not two hours ago, with his lady wife, and hasn’t been in Birmingham for years.”

  “Whoever told you this is a liar,” Fred said.

  “How dare you?” said Swingeford. “My sister is not a liar. She is a Christian woman of fine upstanding character.”

  “Your sister?” Belle said. She put her hand to her breast, wounded.

  “And yet she’s lied to you,” said Fred.

  “Perhaps not a lie,” Mrs Hudson said. “Perhaps she believes it to be the truth, with all her heart, but she has simply mistaken something for the truth. An effect of age, perhaps?”

  Mr Fezzwig said, “My dear mother swears there is a ghost living in her larder who steals her cheese. A cheese-eating ghost. It is nonsense, but she believes in her own truth.”

  “Could it be that your sister is confused?” Mrs Hudson asked.

  “Why, you said so yourself this very morning, Mr Swingeford,” said Belle.

  “That I did. Yes.” He looked from one to the other, a rat cornered, looking for a way out.

  “Everyone here will attest to this girl’s virtue,” Mrs Hudson said. “And as I’ve said, Mr Aldridge arrived two hours ago for the first time in years, and neither he nor Miss Ruth have been out of anyone’s sight since then.”

  She thought of the moment Ruth had run away. Yes, she’d been out of sight then, but she stared Swingeford down and dared him to doubt her.

  “You have clearly maligned the poor girl, and Mr Aldridge,” said Dickens. “You must apologize at once.”