The Further Adventures of Ebenezer Scrooge

by Charlie Lovett

  “One might not say that she was saved,” said the ghost, “but without the change in the laws, her fate does not bear imagining.”

  Freddie reached out to the woman, and for a moment he thought that she could see him, for she turned her eyes in his direction and seemed to light up with recognition. But then she stepped through him towards an empty corner of the room, where she resumed her scolding. Freddie had never in his life felt so cold as in that moment when her shadow passed through him.

  “The hour grows short,” said the ghost, plucking Freddie from his reverie, “and your uncle has a busy night ahead. We had best return to your lodgings.” No sooner had the words died on his ghostly lips than the three found themselves standing again at the foot of Freddie’s bed.

  “I thank you, kind Spirit,” said Scrooge, “for what you have shown my nephew tonight, and for what you showed me so many years ago.”

  In response to Scrooge’s gratitude, the Spirit merely shook his white locks until the room was filled with a dazzling light. In another instant the light was extinguished and the ghost was gone, leaving behind only a sprig of holly, which Scrooge stooped to retrieve from the floor and place in the fold of his nightshirt.

  Freddie was surprised, on hearing his clock strike the three-quarters, to observe that the hour was not yet two. He knew it was past one when his uncle had made his much unexpected appearance, and the strange travels through London had seemed to take several hours, yet here he was, little more than a half hour after his frightening disappearance from his lodgings, tumbling into a chair by the empty grate and motioning for his uncle to do likewise if he desired.

  “I am confounded, uncle,” said Freddie, wishing he had thought to pour himself a brandy before collapsing in the chair, but lacking the strength to rouse himself for the task. “Am I to wake in a moment to find this all a dream, or have we truly taken this strange journey together?”

  Scrooge, reading his nephew’s expression as easily as he might a copy of All the Year Round, took the decanter from the chimneypiece and poured a glass, which he handed to Freddie. “You have not been dreaming, nephew, any more than I was dreaming twenty years ago when I spent a night with the same ghost.”

  “And was this the ghost that affected your transformation from a . . . a . . . well, pardon, uncle, but from an unfeeling miser into the generous soul you became?”

  “No pardon is necessary,” said Scrooge. “Were I to pass judgment on my former self, I daresay I would be considerably harsher. This spectre did visit me on the night of my metamorphosis, but I was in greater danger than you, nephew. I required more help than he alone could give. Be happy you are spared a glimpse of the last of my visitors that evening.”

  “But what danger threatens me, uncle?” said Freddie, the brandy now returning to him some of his usual businesslike air. “I make my contributions at Christmastime and make myself as merry as the next man. The shadows we saw tonight are of the past, and besides, such things have nothing to do with me.”

  “Don’t they?” asked Scrooge, and the two sat in a silence that was broken only by the clock striking two and the droning echo of the church bell doing the same in the humid air.

  “Do you believe all unjust suffering is a thing of the past?” asked Scrooge at last. “The mad may be treated more humanely and the children may find their hours in the factories somewhat shortened, but there are still many who would be thankful for a friend such as you in the halls of Westminster.”

  “Westminster! What are you suggesting, uncle?” said Freddie, now compelled by his surprise to rise from his chair and take refuge behind it.

  “I’m suggesting nothing, nephew. You made the suggestion yourself.”

  “I must be at the office in the morning, uncle. I’ve no more time for these games of yours. I thank you for an enlightening history lesson, but now I’m afraid I must bid you good night.” Freddie turned for his bedroom door, only to find a sudden gust of wind slam it shut in his face. From behind him, he heard the voice of his uncle, previously dulcet and gentle, now bold with rage.

  “These are not games! I come here for your welfare and for the welfare of the thousands you will help. I don’t say ‘might’ help, for I know despite your stubbornness you are a man of action.”

  Freddie turned to his uncle, and for an instant the room seemed far away, hidden in a haze, and he saw clearly the image of himself a short time before, standing in the shadows of Murdstone and Grinby’s. The clatter of the factory was gone, and he heard only his own voice, echoing forward in time the words he had spoken so recently: “If I had been alive to see such things, I should have marched straight to Parliament and not rested until something was done.” In another instant the vision had vanished and he saw only the serene face of his uncle as the old man sat quietly staring into the empty grate.

  “There is still injustice,” said Scrooge.

  “If I were in Parliament,” murmured Freddie, letting the unfinished thought hang in the air.

  “You could help many. You could alleviate much suffering. Even a very old friend of mine might benefit from a liberal voice in the Commons,” said Scrooge, thinking of Marley’s burden.

  “But, uncle,” cried Freddie, again thinking of practicalities, “how am I to be elected to Parliament? I am nothing but a clerk in Whitehall.”

  “Have you not heard?” replied his uncle. “England is a democracy now. Even a clerk in Whitehall may become a member of Parliament. I daresay the day is not far off when a novelist may become prime minister. But as for you, my boy—let your resolve be sufficient for now. We shall discuss the details of your career as a social reformer by the light of day. Now, you’d best be off to bed before my next visitor arrives.” With that Scrooge picked up a book from his nephew’s table and, settling deeper in the chair, began to read, paying Freddie no more mind. Freddie turned to discover the door to his bedroom open once more, and he shortly enjoyed a deep sleep and dreams in which powdered wigs, impassioned debates, committees, commissions, and ministers swirled around him in a dance more curious still than that which he had witnessed at the asylum. Entranced by such visions, he rested well.

  STAVE III

  The Second of the Three Spirits

  It so happened that on that same evening, whilst Scrooge entertained his departed partner in his gloomy rooms, Mr. Pleasant sat with Mr. Portly in their drawing room in Mayfair, attended by a butler known to them only as Johnson, who had kept their brandy replenished for some hours. They had discussed, as was their wont, first the relative fortunes of various corporations; second, the general economic outlook; third, as the brandy began to do its work, the personal habits of certain bank employees; and finally, just before falling asleep in their chairs to the amusement of Johnson, who retired to a comfortable bed, their speculations about the personal habits of certain bank customers. Johnson assumed that, as usual, he needn’t disturb them until breakfast.

  Scrooge awoke in the middle of a prodigiously raucous snore, for his nephew possessed no novels, not even those written by the sort of novelist who might one day become prime minister, and, forced to read a book on international trade regulations, he had quickly fallen into a deep slumber. He was restored to consciousness in the nick of time and for the especial purpose of holding a conference with the second messenger dispatched to him by Jacob Marley.

  The room in which he awoke was the same as that in which he had dozed off, but it had undergone what you and I would consider a surprising transformation, though to Scrooge it was completely expected. The walls and ceiling were so hung with living green that the chamber looked a perfect grove, from every part of which bright, gleaming berries glistened. The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the light, as if so many little mirrors had been scattered there. Heaped up on the floor, to form a kind of throne, were turkeys, geese, game, poultry, great joints of meat, suckling pigs, long wreaths of sausages, mince p
ies, plum puddings, barrels of oysters, red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense twelfth-cakes, and seething bowls of punch that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam. Scrooge marvelled that his nephew could sleep soundly in the next room whilst such an aroma of sweetness filled the air.

  Sitting amongst it all, or rather reclining, for he was nearly supine, rested a jolly giant, glorious to see, and as familiar to Scrooge as was the innkeeper who prepared his nightly feast. There was the simple green robe, or mantle, bordered with white fur. There were the bare feet and chest. There was the wreath of holly on the head, and there, amongst its leaves, the shining icicles that defied the summer weather. Scrooge’s face sparkled with delight to see a figure so alike in countenance and raiment to his former companion.

  “Welcome, good friend,” he said, skipping round the Spirit with as much glee as his old knees would allow. The Spirit followed Scrooge’s capering with twinkling eyes and a genial face, and answered him in a cheery voice that rent the air with joy.

  “My dear Scrooge,” he said. “How well you have come to know my brothers these past twenty years.”

  “Indeed,” replied Scrooge, “I count them amongst my best of friends. I believe, at times, that they alone understand my peculiar habits and attitudes.”

  “You are as one of our family,” said the phantom, gently laying a hand on Scrooge’s head, at which the old man blushed so deeply the glow might have lit the room, were a fire not burning merrily in the grate. “But our time is short, and you have set us a difficult task. Shall we begin?”

  Scrooge reached out a wrinkled hand and grasped the hem of the Spirit’s robe, and holly, mistletoe, red berries, ivy, turkeys, geese, game, poultry, meat, pigs, sausages, oysters, pies, puddings, fruit, and punch all vanished instantly. In their place was a dim parlour, the lamps doused and the grate empty, the only light filtering in through the open window from the streetlight below. In two round stuffed chairs slumped two round stuffed gentlemen, snoring in unison, empty brandy glasses at their elbows. In an instant a fire leapt in the grate and the chairs leant forward, tumbling their occupants onto the hearthrug, where they sat rubbing their eyes, wondering if breakfast had come already and why Johnson had lit a fire on such a hot day.

  “Merry Christmas, friends!” shouted Scrooge, adding further confusion to the faces of Messrs. Pleasant and Portly until the latter, realising that only one person in London would make such an exclamation on the shortest night of the year, stumbled to his feet and responded with a scowl.

  “Ebenezer Scrooge! Bah!”

  To which his companion added, “Humbug!”

  “We’ve not much time and much to do,” said Scrooge, ignoring the displeasure of the freshly disturbed gentlemen. “Perhaps I should first introduce you.”

  And here the eyes of Messrs. Portly and Pleasant widened in a way that was usually reserved for surprisingly large deposits received at the bank, for they observed, lounging on a mountain of turkeys, geese, plum puddings, and holly, the spirit who had borne Scrooge to their parlour. The Spirit remained silent, but his eyes glittered and he smiled broadly at the two dumbstruck gentlemen as he gobbled an especially large pudding.

  “He . . . he . . . he looks like a child,” stammered Mr. Portly as the Spirit wiped his mouth on his voluminous sleeve.

  “Indeed, you are exactly correct!” squealed Scrooge with delight.

  “I am the Ghost of Christmas Present,” said the Spirit, trying ineffectually to suppress a giggle. “I shall not be of age for another six months.” With this he ripped the leg off a turkey and began to gnaw on the juicy meat.

  “’Tis no matter,” said Scrooge. “Young or old, he will take us where we need to go this night.”

  “Where I need to go,” said Mr. Pleasant in a tone that belied his epithet, “is to bed. I suggest the rest of you do the same.” He marched towards the door, only to find his path barricaded by an enormous fold of fur as the Spirit tossed the hem of his mantle in front of the fleeing financier.

  “If . . . if you will forgive us, Mr. Scrooge,” said Mr. Portly in a shaky voice, “we really must be abed; our business begins quite early tomorrow.”

  “It is tomorrow,” laughed Scrooge, pointing to the clock on the chimneypiece, which was about to strike the quarter after two. “And your business begins now.” With the final syllable of this proclamation, Scrooge’s voice acquired an intensity that Messrs. Pleasant and Portly found more menacing than the giant, who now flicked a bare turkey bone into the fire.

  “Shall we go?” asked the Spirit, standing and shaking the crumbs out of his mantle. It was a remarkable quality of the ghost (which Scrooge had observed in his brother) that, notwithstanding his gigantic size, he could accommodate himself to any place with ease. For the residents of that house, the sight of this colossal figure standing comfortably in their parlour finally shocked them into the realisation that they would not be slipping quietly off to their bedchambers, but that some ominous adventure lay waiting for them. In another moment, the Spirit had grabbed the unsuspecting gentlemen by the hands; the parlour, the fire, and the trappings of Christmas had all disappeared; and the quartet stood in the cold winter air of a black, dilapidated lane flanked by tenements that looked as though they might topple forward into the street at any moment.

  “Welcome, gentlemen, welcome,” said Scrooge. “I daresay you have seldom ventured into this part of London. Not so many customers here as in Mayfair, no doubt.”

  “Is this about those charity cheques, Mr. Scrooge?” enquired Mr. Pleasant. “Surely you must know that you could write a thousand cheques for fifty pounds and the London poor would still be with us.”

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Portly, shaking his head, “one person simply cannot change the plight of the unfortunate.”

  “But one person might change the plight of one unfortunate,” said Scrooge. “One person may even change the plight of ten, or a score, or a hundred unfortunates. Let us go in, shall we?”

  On entering the nearest house, the men were met with a fetid smell that made further ingress difficult. Nevertheless, clutching their sleeves across their noses, they pressed on, down a dark and filthy staircase. As parasites appear on the ruined human wretch, so this ruined shelter had bred a crowd of foul vermin that crawled in and out of gaps in walls and boards, fetching and carrying fever and sowing evil in their every footprint.

  They emerged amongst a range of damp and gloomy stone vaults beneath the ground. The filth of humanity oozed up around their feet. From ahead in the near darkness, they heard a soft moan.

  “You don’t really mean to say that human beings live down in these wretched dungeons?” asked Mr. Pleasant.

  “Live down here and die down here, too, very often,” replied Scrooge solemnly, pushing open a door to reveal a small chamber. The room was colder than the street outside. No fire could be placed in the grate, for there was no grate, the stone vault having been intended originally for keeping a small quantity of coal to supply lodgers in a room above. Seated against the wall on the wet floor were four wretched beings, who seemed human only in form. As Scrooge informed his companions, they had once occupied rooms on an upper floor of the same house. The father, whose head lolled loosely on his shoulders, had been a weaver, and had supported his family passably well until a dry spell of work forced him to burn his loom to keep the children warm. The bedsteads, chairs, and tables he had already burned. Now, as his whisperings revealed, he only prayed that death might take his children quickly, and with little pain.

  “But what can we do?” asked Mr. Portly. “There are so many living in such conditions.”

  “There are not so many here,” said Scrooge. “There are only four. Here is a man who needs only enough money to buy a loom and he might ransom his family from this prison.”

  “Surely there are relief societies to help just such a person,” sai
d Mr. Pleasant, averting his gaze from the hollow eyes of the mother, who cradled her children in her lap.

  “Why, certainly,” said Scrooge cheerfully. “The Society for the Relief of Distress undertakes just such endeavours.”

  “Well, we had best contact them,” said Mr. Portly.

  “They are a bit shy of funding at the moment,” said Scrooge. “It seems the bank refused payment on a fifty-pound donation just this morning. A mere fraction of that would have saved this family.”

  “You don’t mean to say,” said Mr. Pleasant, “that they will . . .”

  “I am but the ghost of this year’s Christmas,” said the Spirit, breaking his silence. “I cannot tell what is to pass on Christmases yet to come. Yet I would be surprised if any of my younger brothers ever meet these souls.”

  Mr. Pleasant opened his mouth as if to remark on this prediction, but before he could speak, the Spirit had once again taken hold of his hand, and that of his companion, and the dungeon fell away beneath them. They found themselves standing in a narrow paved yard hemmed in by high walls duly spiked at the top. From this yard they passed into a small cell, which, though its occupant was a prisoner, was luxurious in comparison to the home they had just left behind. In one corner stood a simple wooden bedstead and next to it a stool and a writing desk, on which lay a few sheets of paper. From a small window high in one wall a hint of daylight filtered into the room. Seated on the stool was a man in ragged clothes with dishevelled hair, scratching away with a quill.

  “I know this man!” cried Mr. Portly. “Or I know what he was, for the last time I saw him his hair was kempt, his cravat exquisite, and the sheen fresh on his breeches.”

  “Why, of course,” said Mr. Pleasant. “He was a customer of the bank. That is, he . . . he . . .” And Mr. Pleasant stuttered into silence as he dragged the depths of his mind for the details of the prisoner’s long-forgotten business with the bank.