Peter Cratchit's Christmas Carol

by Drew Marvin Frayne

  “Yes?” the spirit prodded me when I halted my thought midsentence. “Nothing more important than…?”

  “Never mind. It—it is of no consequence.” I was going to say “family,” but the word struck me like a thunderbolt. Family. All I did, all I intended to do, was for the family. And yet, I had abandoned them so readily, so easily…

  I shook my head, clearing the thoughts like old cobwebs from my mind. I surveyed the scene once more. How happy we all were! How simple and how content! This was the Christmas after Charlie had departed this world, and yet how joyful I seemed. Well, I thought, we are ever simpler in our youth…and then, thanks to the sacrifices of our parents, no Cratchit child had yet to truly feel the sting of this modern world, except for poor, sickly Tim, who seemed ever cheerful and resolute, despite his many trials.

  The scene dissolved, and I saw myself again, an older youth, eighteen years of age, heady with the onslaught of adulthood. And what a scene to behold! There I was, naked as the day I was born, my legs splayed wide, my feet pointed toward the heavens. And there was Roger, on top of me, rutting, grunting with exertion and plowing mercilessly into me. Roger. Like Charlie, I had not thought of him in some time either. Funny what the mind chooses to dwell upon or forget. Handsome Roger, a full ten years older than me, already a made man in this world, with his crisp, dark hair and his hairy chest, rutting away at my inexperience and my youthful enthusiasm.

  Embarrassed, I averted my eyes. The spirit did not. “Does not such a scene shock you, spirit?” I asked. But the being before me said nothing, and before long Roger finished his ministrations, spilling his seed inside of me with a loud, groaning clamor.

  We were in a rented room, small and spare, but surprisingly tidy. As usual, Roger hastened to dress and go, while I, heady as only the young can be, tarried, endeavoring to convince my lover to do the same. “Hallo, Roger,” I said, tapping him on his still bare shoulder. “Happy Christmas.”

  He sat on the side of the bed, pulling on his trousers, but turned and gave me a forceful kiss on my lips. “Happy Christmas, Peter,” he replied, before grabbing his shirt off of the floor and slipping it over his shoulders.

  Blushing, I reached into my own trousers and pulled a rectangular box out of the pocket. “Here,” I said, handing it to him without another word.

  “What is this?” he asked. His tone was both bemused and wary.

  “What do you think?” I replied, trying to sound carefree, but nervous as a cat who hears a mouse in the walls. “It is a Christmas present.”

  I didn’t understand the look he gave me then, but I do now—suspicion, misgiving, concern. He was wondering what I expected of him, when he, himself, expected nothing of me but my time, my mouth, and my arse. I understand that now. Then, though, I was young, and foolish, and told myself I must be in love, and he must love me, if we had committed such carnal acts together.

  Inside the box was a pen. It was nothing fancy, not gold nor silver, but it had cost me two weeks’ wages. Roger held it out to me. “What am I to do with this?” he asked.

  I was confused. “You write with it, of course,” I said, acting as if Roger had been attempting some form of humor.

  But he was not. “And when my wife asks where it came from, what do I tell her?” I had no response for this—I had forgot, I suppose, that he even had a wife. Roger threw the pen and the box in my lap. “Peter—I’ve been meaning to tell you this for some time. I think we’ve been seeing too much of each other. Someone might grow suspicious.”

  “But, Roger, I thought—I thought—”

  “What is it you thought, Peter?” he said, turning on me with a sneer. “That we were in love? That I would leave my wife for you? Grow up, Peter. Men like us don’t live happy lives. And my wife’s family has all the money and all the business relations.” He moved his face so it was close to mine, so he may impart his final lesson more fruitfully. “This is all men like us will ever have in this world, Peter. A few stolen moments. Remember that.”

  With that, Roger stood, grabbed his coat, and bolted out of the room. My face—and my world—crumpled as I realized I would never see him again.

  The scene began to dissolve once more, and I rounded on the spirit that had made me relive it. “Another old memory that offers me nothing but pain and agony. You show me my weakness and fragility. Why do you bring me to these places, spirit? What lesson am I to learn now, from this, before I depart this world?” I bitterly asked.

  But the spirit ignored my question. “He seemed a rather mercenary fellow,” was what it said instead.

  In spite of myself, I let out a short, barking laugh. I am unsure what was more comical—the fact that the spirit seemed to be unbothered by the carnal scene it had just witnessed, or the fact that this was the only observation to be made from the entire sordid affair. “He was not wrong,” I said. “I was young, and foolish.”

  “And perhaps could be forgiven as such,” the spirit evenly replied. “Though I am rather uncertain which of you was the foolish one.”

  “It is of no consequence,” I rejoined. “I learned the lesson well enough.”

  “Ahh, yes,” the spirit intoned, as the location around me began to shift once more. “A lesson well learned, indeed…”

  Another dissolution. Another Christmas Eve, two years later. Another bed. And another set of legs pointed heavenward.

  But these did not belong to me. No, I was the one doing the rutting in this squalid little scene. The recipient was Fenton J. Whitby, a preening, middle-aged, corpulent fellow—who also happened to own one of the largest merchant fleets in all of England.

  “Oh! Yes! Yes!” Whitby gasped in between thrusts. “Yes, young Master Cratchit, you may have the contract for the Belisama. Now, harder, my dear boy, harder!”

  Yes, a lesson well learned. I watched as my twenty-year-old self thrust my cock in and out of the gasping older man. I seemed as detached as I ravaged him as I was in the here and now, standing beside myself. But it got me what I needed.

  Beside me, I felt the spirit gazing into me, past my exterior, and into my soul. “I did what I had to do,” I said, defending my actions. “Uncle Scrooge was not long for this world. And the business was suffering. My father and Uncle Fred could not sustain it forever. This—this is what I had to do to ensure the old man’s legacy, what I had to do to protect the family.”

  “This—and more.”

  I nodded grimly. There had been others before Whitby, men lower in his organization. There had been promises, deals, alliances, and threats. There had been assignations and stolen nights. But my family needed a protector. And I knew only I could secure the future of both my family and of Fred’s. I felt a duty I could not explain. And so I did what I had to do.

  “Should I have condemned them into poverty?” I asked bitterly. “Should I have them turn from the joy they knew in this world?”

  “Did they take such joy in material things?” the spirit asked me.

  “They took joy in comfort,” I replied. “They took joy in security.”

  “And did they?” the spirit asked, as the scene before us changed again. Now I stood in front of my family, and Fred and his family, and shared with them my happy news.

  “You’re leaving us?” my mother gasped. I knew that would be her initial reaction. “But when, Peter?”

  We were in Fred’s familiar house, bedecked to the hilt for the holidays as always. “The ship must set sail at high tide, Mother. That is tomorrow evening.”

  “Tomorrow—why, that’s Christmas Day, Peter!”

  I kissed my mother on her cheek. “And I shall be here for the day, Mother. The ship will not sail until sundown.”

  “But—oh, there is such little time, Peter! How are we to prepare?”

  “What is there to prepare, Mother? I can bring precious little on board the ship. I can be ready to go in a moment’s time.”

  “Oh, but, Peter,” my mother sputtered, placing her hand on her chin and doing her best to lo
ok concerned.

  But it was not my mother who worried me. “Father? Uncle Fred?” I turned to two of the patriarchs of our family. “What do you think?”

  To my surprise, the two men looked at each other first and seemed perhaps a bit uncomfortable. “Clearly, my boy,” my father finally said, “this is a wonderful opportunity. I just— I mean— India is so far away, Peter…”

  “The greater the journey, the greater the risks, and the greater the rewards. You know that as well as any, Father, Uncle Fred.”

  “Of course, of course, my boy,” said my Uncle Fred. He was a ruddy man, who had inclined toward stoutness in his later years, but his eyes ever sparkled, and he was still handsome, and splendid. I loved him, and his dear wife, nearly as much as my own parents. And they loved every Cratchit in their turn. Fred and his wife never had children of their own, so they doted on me and my siblings as if we were theirs. I owed them as much as I owed my own family, as much as I owed the old man. “It’s just that—this is such sudden news. And we will all miss you so!”

  “But it is a great opportunity,” I argued. I could not understand why they were not gleeful for me. “I have managed to persuade old Whitby to let me take forty percent of the profit from the journey. Forty percent, Father, Uncle! That is tremendously high for a first-timer! And I shall see parts of the world no Cratchit ever thought to see!”

  Again, there was silence. “I know there are some slight dangers. But I shall be fine; you will see. And you shall not miss me so much around the business,” I added. I was desperate to convince them now. “You shall have Georgie and Tim. And I shall be back. And I will write you all letters, when I can, from every port we land in. Think of the stories I will be able to tell you when I return. You will see. This will only be the beginning!”

  I had not my Uncle Fred’s gift for oration, and I feared there may be a terrible row over my departure. But then my father clapped his hands and stood. “My son,” he said, placing his arm over my shoulder, “if this is what you want, then I am happy for you. This is an opportunity, indeed.” He raised his glass of wassail punch and exhorted everyone else to do the same. “To Peter’s golden voyage!”

  “To Peter’s golden voyage!” the room echoed. We all took a draught of the warm and spicy punch. It was still my father’s recipe and tasted the same as it did when I sampled it from a wooden vessel in our Camden Town rooms, though this cup was fine cut glass, sharp and iridescent, one of a set Uncle Scrooge had given Fred and his wife some Christmases ago.

  I could not understand their muted reaction to my news. The sensation in the room was certainly nothing like the titillation the prospect that my five-and-six pence per week situation stirred six long years ago. I forced a smile and pretended to be of good cheer. They would understand in time.

  My mother came up beside me and took my arm in her hand. “You should see your Uncle Scrooge,” she said.

  “How fares he?” I asked. It had been some weeks since my last visit, and the old man was doing poorly then.

  My mother didn’t respond to my query in words but only shook her head. I understood and hastened up the stairs.

  Uncle Scrooge had been moved to his nephew’s house when his illness became severe. This allowed the Cratchit family to move into his old chambers, at the old man’s insistence. How strange, though, at the end of one’s days, to be forced to leave one’s own home, one’s own place of comfort. And yet Scrooge was surrounded by loved ones, who wanted nothing for him but that which brought him comfort and ease.

  There was a nurse sitting with Uncle Scrooge, a stout matronly type. She nodded a greeting when she saw me and quietly left the room. Uncle Scrooge lay on the bed. He could never have been described as a robust man, but illness had ravaged his body, and I had never seen a more skeletal figure in my life. There was no color in his hollow, sunken cheeks, save for a sallow gray, and his breath came in short, fleeting bursts.

  It would not be long now.

  I suppose it poetic to think of the old man going out on Christmas Eve, when six years prior he had been reborn on this night. But I thought little on that as I took his hand in my own. At this, he stirred. He opened his eyes. His cracked lips parted. He spoke.

  “Peter…”

  It was evident that it took agonies for him to utter even that one word. “Shh, don’t try to speak, Uncle Scrooge,” I said, pouring out a glass of water from a pitcher on his night table. I slowly brought the glass to his lips. I knew enough not to pour it down his throat but watched instead as his parched tongue lapped at the clear liquid. “Just listen, Uncle Scrooge. I have done it. I have secured the deal with Whitby. I have earned my first commission. Forty percent, Uncle Scrooge. Forty percent! And trade opportunities from here to India. The Port of Guinea, the Royal Niger Company, Corisco Bay, the Cape Colony. And East Africa, Arabia, Goa. I’ll do deals in all of them, Uncle. The first of many great deals. You’ll see. I will make you proud.”

  The old man was trying to say something. It seemed very important to him, but he simply could not form the words. “Don’t worry, Uncle, I will look after them. I will look after them all. I will be their protector. You can go to your rest in peace.” And so saying, I gently placed his hand back at his side. Uncle Scrooge needed his rest; I stood to go. And yet, as I neared the door, I heard him rasp one last time. “Peter,” he sputtered. “Peter…you must…you mustn’t…Peter…the lessons, Peter…”

  “I will remember all of your lessons, Uncle Scrooge. I will be a great man of business. You will see.”

  They were the last words he spoke to me, or to anyone. By morning, Uncle Scrooge was gone.

  And by that evening, so was I.

  The image before me changed once more, and I saw myself on board the Belisama, having insisted my family stay behind to properly mourn our lost uncle. Truthfully, I wanted no one to see me off, especially not my hysterical, weeping mother. I wanted to do this alone, without them. I felt it is what any man of business would do. So there I stood on the deck of the ship, my gear having been stowed in the only private cabin—save for the captain’s, of course—dressed in my finest, surrounded by the men Whitby had hired to sail the ship. I had spent most of my life amongst the lowly and the poor, but these men were somehow different from the folk of Camden Town. They were rougher, coarser, and would be more difficult to manage. I was anxious and apprehensive.

  But I also felt ready to the task.

  “Who’s the toff?” one of them asked loudly, pointing at me. He had a thick black beard and a rough Welsh accent. His tone was one of curiosity, but also a challenge; I had been expecting this.

  I cleared my throat before speaking. “I am merchant on this ship, representing Mr. Fenton J. Whitby,” I said, my voice perhaps more confident than my knees.

  “Well, ain’t you a proper little gentleman, then?” the Welshman asked again, making a motion as if to pat my head and overly emphasizing the word “little.” This got a good laugh from the men—at my expense—over both my attire and my height.

  “I assure you, sir, I am no gentleman,” I replied, louder than I needed. I wanted as many of the men as possible to overhear my words. “I am Camden Town, London, born and bred. My name is Cratchit, and I see myself as no better nor worse than any man here. But this I do promise—stick with me, good sirs, and we shall all see our fortunes improved come the end of this voyage. That I do assure you.” That started a healthy murmuring amongst the crew, but I was not done yet. “And, in the spirit of our voyage, and in the spirit of this glorious Christmas Day, I have brought along a few extra barrels of the finest London gin. A present from me to you on this cold Christmas night.” This brought a much more vociferous response, a hearty cheer from the crew and a few vigorous shakes of my hand. I was almost done. “We shall open the first barrel as soon as the captain gives his consent. Good voyage to us all!” This declaration earned me another hearty cheer, and the men began to disperse, tending to their duties, seeming satisfied that this interloper in
their midst would not provide any significant impediment in their journey.

  One sailor was left standing near me, staring at me, a tall, red-hued, red-haired man a scant few years older than myself. He was of burly form and had more than his share of freckles dotting his face. “Ye handled them well,” he said approvingly. His speech told me he was from Scotland. “Have ye been practicing that little speech all day?”

  I thought for a moment to bluff, but then I let my confident veneer slump, just a bit. “Since yesterday, actually,” I said, and we both chuckled.

  The redheaded man stuck out his hand. “Angus MacMorley. My friends call me Augie. Pleased to be sailing with ye, Mr. Cratchit.”

  Augie had an open face and a strong handshake. “My friends call me Peter,” I replied, happy to have made an acquaintance so soon.

  Just then a sailor, tending to his duties on ship, broke into song:

  I saw three ships come sailing in

  On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day.

  I saw three ships come sailing in

  On Christmas Day in the morning.

  Soon, other voices joined in, including my own:

  And what was in those ships all three

  On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day?

  And what was in those ships all three

  On Christmas Day in the morning?

  I felt Augie slip his strong arm down my back and around my waist as we all sang along to the familiar carol. I hoisted my own arm around his broad shoulders, and we looked at each other, and smiled.

  The scene before me began to dissolve once more. I turned to the spirit, to beg it to let these images remain that way, to let Augie and I remain that way, if only for a few moments more. Yet I caught my tongue when I saw what the tableau before me displayed next. Augie and I, laughing and talking on the deck of the Belisama as we made our way to France; then Augie teasing me as the wind whipped my hair, my wild, tousled hair, off the coast of Portugal; and then, finally, in Barbate, Spain, near the rock of Gibraltar, our first kiss. We were alone, enjoying some well-earned shore leave, walking along a rocky outcrop. The men had stayed near shore, where the taverns and the brothels were. But Augie and I wanted to be alone in this world. He held my hand to steady me as we crisscrossed the rocky shore. And there, as we watched the waves crashing against the gravel-filled shores of Barbate, Augie took me in his burly arms and kissed me.