Peter Cratchit's Christmas Carol

by Drew Marvin Frayne

  There were two women inside. It was evident from their surroundings they were desperately poor. Their Christmas repast consisted of a few turnips and wild onions made into a type of thin stew. There seemed little reason for them to celebrate the day. And yet the house was not without Christmas cheer. There were boughs of evergreen, and homemade decorations made of holly leaves, stuffed with red berries, and bits of polished rock rescued from the sea.

  One of the women—clearly the mother of the other—had a marvelous bun of white hair perched on her head. The other was younger, with pretty green eyes, and carrot-red hair, the type of carrot-red hair, I had often been told, that can only be found on a true Scotsman, or true Scotswoman…

  “Augie.” These must be Augie’s family. We had spoken of them, of course. I knew he had a sister and a mother somewhere in the Northern Highlands. But I had not thought…had never considered…

  “You know.” I said it quietly, without apprehension or concern.

  “I do.”

  “And before you left us? Did you know…then?”

  Scrooge nodded. “I had my…suspicions.” The old man always was a shrewd judge of character.

  “And it does not…concern you?”

  My Uncle Scrooge smiled at me. “My only concern is for your happiness,” he said. He turned to watch the two women again. “Listen.”

  I did as the old man bade. I listened as the two women, softly at first, began to sing:

  The first Noel, the angels did say,

  Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay.

  In fields where they lay keeping their sheep,

  On a cold winter’s night that was so deep.

  It was a moving scene, the simple faith of two women with nothing left to believe in but family, and divinity, and the sanctity of the day. I smiled, in spite of myself, and felt my mood temporarily lifted. “I have seen some of that part of the world,” I said to Uncle Scrooge, “where the first Noel is said to have happened. I am unsure it ever truly gets cold there, even in wintertime.” The old man smiled at me, and motioning his head, we began to walk away from Augie’s family home. Scrooge took my hand once more, and we returned to London.

  We were in Camden Town—no, not Camden Town, but near it, in Regent’s Park. We were outside the park itself. Christmas was happening here as well, people running to and fro, bustling about, and there was Tetch, his battered cap on the ground before him, singing in a plaintive, but pleasing voice, taking up the tune the two women had just begun:

  Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel,

  Born is the king of Israel.

  “You loved this Scotsman?” Scrooge asked me, speaking of Augie.

  I nodded. “With all my heart. And he me.” I paused. “I miss him every day,” I plainly added. It occurred to me just then—and for the first time since the spirits made their presence known to me—that I had not seen Augie. Not his ghost, anyway. I had seen his visage and his form and his smile in my memories, but the ghoul that had been haunting me had become curiously absent. I wondered if I would ever see Augie again.

  I wondered how I felt about that.

  We walked, leaving Tetch and his singing behind, though I was heartened to see several coins in his cap, and a gentleman bending over to add another to his collection. At least Tetch would be warm, and fed, this Christmas night.

  My thoughts turned once more to Augie’s family. I knew Augie did his best to help them, to send on what he could. This is what he was willing to leave behind to take me to the island. Why had I been so blind? Why did I think only of my own ambitions, my own concerns, and my own desires, both good and ill-conceived?

  “Uncle,” I said to Scrooge, “what am I to do?”

  “I cannot answer that question for you, my boy.”

  I swallowed hard and sought an answer to the question that was now foremost in my thoughts. “Am I to die this night, Uncle?” I asked.

  Scrooge gave me a pained look. “I’m sorry, Peter, but I am no Ghost of Christmas Present. I cannot see vacant seats, nor the shadows of the future.” He paused. “Do you wish to die, Peter?”

  “I do not know,” I finally uttered, a hoarse whisper, and nothing more. I could feel my chest spasm and fought against the sobs that threatened to overcome me. “I thought I did. I thought Augie demanded it of me. Now…now, I am unsure.”

  “Uncertainty can be our most dangerous foe,” the old man said. “When we decide, we must commit to a course of action. But indecision allows us to perform no deed. It oft seems easier to do nothing, even if that inaction keeps us in misery and pain.” Scrooge stood before me. “To live or to die. To stay or to go. Happiness or anguish. They are all choices, Peter.”

  We had been walking all this while, and though my mind and my heart were inward turned, dwelling on my own troubles and worries, all around me, Christmas was still unfurling:

  They looked up and saw a star,

  Shining in the East beyond them far.

  And to the earth it gave great light,

  And so it continued both day and night.

  We had made our way into Regent’s Park itself, and though I heard the song of the carolers, I took no solace in their words. “I’ve made so many bad choices in my life, Uncle Scrooge,” I said. “Else why would I have come to such misery and despair?”

  “It is true, my boy, that some choices, once made, cannot be undone. But that does not mean that the choice made was the wrong one. Or that there will not be more choices to make in the future. In the end, Peter, you decide.”

  “Even to live or to die?”

  The old man took my hand in his. “Come. There is one more journey to make this night.” And with those words, he took my hand, and I found myself transported one last time.

  We stood in a small lane before a comfortable-looking stone house. In the distance, I could see London, but we were some ways outside of the city proper. I did not recognize this place, and felt quite certain I had never been here before. “Uncle Scrooge,” I asked, “who resides here?” But the old man signaled for silence with his hand. The look on his countenance was one I had not seen yet this day—a look of anticipation, or wistfulness, or perhaps both at once. I had never seen my uncle with such an expression on his face in the entirety of my life.

  We began to walk slowly up the path. Here, away from the city, more snow had fallen. How peaceful, how beautiful the scene before me. Holly adorned every window, lit from the inside with red and green candles.

  The house was not large but was not small; it was, as I noted before, comfortable. It was a type of structure that was perhaps a bit out of fashion now; but it seemed well-lived, and the noble stone walls stood strong and true, as if proud of the manner in which they sheltered those who dwelt within.

  There was the sound of horses, and a carriage turned into the lane. By instinct, Scrooge and I stepped aside to let it pass, though there was no need for such action; the carriage held as little substance for us as we did for it. Still, we hurried along to follow the passenger inside.

  He was admitted to the house by a parlourmaid, and then greeted by another woman, similar to the man in age and appearance. Determining the woman to be the man’s sister, I turned once more to my uncle. “Whose home is this?” I asked again, but, again, the old man bade me be silent.

  “How is she?” the man asked, removing his coat and scarf and warming himself by the roaring fire in the hearth.

  “Recovering well,” the woman replied. “The doctor says she will be ready to leave her bed by the first of the year.”

  “That is good news, indeed.”

  “Still, I worry. I shall have to depart soon after the new year myself. I wish there would be someone here to tend after her, to be with her.”

  “She has the servants, Sarah, and the nurse. And the doctor is not far off.”

  “True, but they are not family, William.” The woman smiled. “But you know how she is. She insists she wants none of us to stay here, not permanently, at least.
Now, as for visits and holidays, on the other hand…”

  The man—William—smiled at this as well. “But has she been made overtired by too many visits today?” he asked.

  At this, the woman shook her head and softly laughed. She possessed the sort of laugh that, even when suppressed, made it evident she invoked such feelings frequently—a merry soul indeed. “They are truly the best tonic for her, I believe.”

  “I shall go up, then, for a few moments?” It was a question, but all present, including Scrooge and I, already knew the answer.

  I was curious as to who the players in this family drama were, and how they pertained to my own affairs. Having been twice chastened, though, I knew better than to ask.

  We followed the man up the stairs. He was a handsome enough fellow, of middle age but demonstrating still great health and vitality. We watched as he knocked, gently, on a half-closed bedroom door. “Are you awake, Mother?” he asked, poking his head into the room.

  “William! Do come in, dear; do come in.”

  Perched on the bed was an elderly woman, about the same age as Scrooge himself, if he had still been accumulating years, that is. She was a comely matron, the sort of woman who, in her younger years, would have been the perfect image of “mother,” and who now, in her aged years, must be said to be the perfect image of “grandmother.” She had been reading some book, pince-nez attached to the bridge of her nose, but took them off and slid them into her bed jacket as the man—clearly her son—gave her a warm, affectionate hug before settling into a visitor’s chair placed next to the bed.

  “Are you well, my dear? I’m so sorry I could not come earlier.”

  “I am fine, William, fine. I wish you all would not make such a fuss over me.”

  “It is Christmas, Mother. You must expect some fuss on Christmas Day.”

  “Well, perhaps. But only just a little. And there was no need for you to come all this way from the city just to see me.”

  “Nonsense. Of course, I must come.” The man’s affection for his mother was quite evident indeed. “Have you had a good day, Mother? Has everyone been to see you?”

  “Everyone, and then some, now that you have arrived.”

  “And Jane came? And Edward? And she told you that—”

  “That you had business in the city; yes, dear, and that Henry had accompanied you. They told me everything. How did it all go?”

  “Well, it was a jolly party, of course, and the whole family was quite nice, quite nice, indeed. Still, I would rather have been here with you.”

  The old matron waved her hand at her son and laughed. “I am sure a city party is far more interesting than visiting your old mother in the country,” she said.

  The man smiled. It was evident that he adored his mother; I imagine all her children and grandchildren felt the same. Even I—who still had no idea as to who she was nor why I was even present for this scene—found myself growing fond of the old dame. “Nothing is more interesting to me than being with my family,” the man was saying. “Still, in business, it’s good to know who you will be dealing with.”

  The mother laughed. “My son, the industrialist.” She smiled. “Just like your father. You shall not be happy until you own the entire world,” she teased.

  “Well, at least one small corner of it,” the man replied with a wink and a laugh. “Nonetheless, I don’t think anyone can complain about the deal. It’s good for both sides. Everyone will be enriched by it.”

  “I’m sure it is, dear,” the old woman said, patting her son’s hand affectionately. She paused. “How did Henry enjoy the party, dear?”

  “Oh, fine, fine, to be sure,” the man replied. But it was evident by the tone in his voice that things were not quite “fine” when it came to this fellow named “Henry.”

  But the old woman wouldn’t let her son off that easily. “Truly?” she said, but it was all she needed to say.

  The man smiled. “I could never pull the wool over your eyes, Mother. I know Henry visited with you yesterday—he comes here quite a bit, in fact. How does he seem to you?”

  “He seems fine to me, dear. How does he seem to you?”

  Her inconsequential question set off a small torrent in the man. “Mother, Jane and I are at our wit’s end. We do not know what to do with him! He is ever more melancholy, one day to the next. We sent him to university, as he asked, and almost straightaway he is sent home. He did not even attend his classes! It is a complete disgrace. And he won’t speak to us about any of it. Indeed, he has locked himself in his room and refuses to speak with anyone at all! He shows no interest in business, like his brother. I have tried to compel him to be a part of it all. I thought, with this new company we’re acquiring, this may present a good opportunity for just that. But he was sullen and, I hate to say it, downright rude at the party. Mother, what am I to do? He has no aspiration for business. I daresay that would be fine if he showed aspiration for something! But nothing moves him—except for those damned little poems he’s always writing.” At the use of such profanity, the man caught himself. “Apologies, Mother. I just—I just worry so.”

  But it was evident that the woman had heard it all before—profanities included. “My dear, there is not a parent in this world who does not worry for their children, who does not wish to choose their path for them. But this is an impossible task.”

  “Still, Mother, I think that—”

  “Henry is a—a sensitive boy,” the old woman interrupted. “But he will find his way. You must have faith, dear. It is a day for faith, after all.”

  “Yes, but, Mother—”

  “William.” A change had come about the old woman. She sat up straight, all of a sudden. For a moment I was afraid for her health, and so, too, was her son.

  “Mother? What is it? Are you well? Have I overtaxed you? Shall I call for the nurse?”

  But the old woman only gave him a tired smile. “William, dear, I seem to have left my glasses downstairs. Will you fetch them for me?”

  “Of course, Mother. Shall I fetch you anything else? Some water? You seem—queer.”

  “I am fine, dear. Truly. My glasses. Please.”

  “I shall be right back,” the man said, hastily rising from the chair and dashing from the room.

  William may have thought he would return hastily, but I knew his efforts to locate the old woman’s glasses would take some time, as I had seen her secret them in her bed jacket when her son first entered the room. So what was she up to?

  To my surprise, I watched as my Uncle Scrooge slowly made his way over to the chair. “Uncle Scrooge!” I whispered, a fruitless endeavor, since the old man was not listening, and the old woman could not hear me.

  Or could she? There was something about the manner in which the old woman moved when I spoke, a preternatural cocking of the head, that made me wonder—for the briefest of moments—if she had, indeed, heard me. But that wasn’t possible. Was it? And yet I watched, in awe, as old Scrooge sat by the woman’s bed and slowly, carefully, removed the mistletoe from his lapel. Gently, he placed it on the side of the bed. I saw the old woman’s eyes grow wide and saw her hand move to where the mistletoe lay. And then, to my great bewilderment, I saw her pick it up…

  “Uncle Scrooge!” I thundered, as astonished as astonished could be. But the spell had been broken. The old woman heard naught what I had said, but only sat in her bed, the mistletoe in her hand, a dreamy, yet wistful, expression on her face.

  “Come,” Scrooge said, grabbing my hand and whisking me away from this place.

  Four

  The Third Ghost

  MY UNCLE HAD brought me back to the front room of the lowly Camden Town tavern. “Uncle Scrooge! Uncle Scrooge! Who was that woman?”

  But Scrooge did not answer my pointed inquiry. “I’m afraid I cannot tarry any longer, my boy,” Scrooge said instead, wrapping his arms around me tightly even as his form began to dissipate in front of my eyes.

  “No, Uncle Scrooge. You cannot depart. Yo
u must not! I have so many questions. Are you the one who sent the spirits to me? And wretch that I have become, how can I help my family now? What must I do, Uncle Scrooge? Tell me—what must I do?”

  He squeezed me forcefully and whispered in my ear. “Follow your heart,” he said. “And remember the lessons,” he added before vanishing altogether, leaving me alone in this world once more.

  Remember the lessons. Those were the last words he spoke to me the previous time he parted this world. But what could he mean by such an utterance?

  Before I could contemplate the significance of what the old man said, I felt a sudden shift in the temperature of the room. The pleasant light and warmth from the Ghost of Christmas Past and the shade of my own uncle was replaced by a still, icy air. I turned around and beheld a solemn figure, draped and hooded, coming toward me.

  He moved as mist, creeping along effortlessly, as quiet as if he walked on cat’s paws, and yet I could detect no visible movement or exertion on his part. The figure was shrouded in a garment of a deep black color, so profound and murky that it almost seemed a shade of color beyond black, if such a color could even exist. In the dark of the night, it would be easy to mistake such a figure for a shadow, or an unfelt breeze, but here, in the front room of the tavern, the figure became quite conspicuous. The light in the room dimmed in its presence; indeed, it seemed that the graven figure absorbed whatever light happened to fall upon it, creating an almost black halo that surrounded its very being.

  I fell to one knee, as my uncle had before me in the company of this grave, soundless figure. “I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, am I not?” I asked.

  The spirit answered not, but only stood silently before me.

  “Ghost of the Future!” I exclaimed. “I fear you more than any specter I have seen. But I believe you purpose to do me good. I know you seek to show me the shadows of the things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us. Is that not so?”

  Again, the phantom before me stood motionless, as still as a raven’s nest in winter.