2004 - A Christmas Carol: The Lost Stave

. . . Then Tiny Tim struggled to his feet and said, “God bless us, every one.”

After Ebeneezer Scrooge left the Christmas Eve feast, Bob Cratchit remained at the window, watching his employer dance down the street. When he was sure that the old man was gone for the evening, he turned to his family. With a worried look on his face, he said, “Well, we certainly saw a different side to Mr. Scrooge this evening.”

A voice from the darkened hallway said, “Yes, Uncle Ebeneezer seems like a new man.” Fred emerged into the room and continued. “It would appear that your plan was successful, Mr. Cratchit.”

Bob crossed the room to put an arm around his wife who was still standing at the dinner table. He poked the remains of the Christmas turkey that Scrooge had so generously provided and said, “Yes, I believe that we have another great bird ready to be plucked.” He hugged his wife, lifting her feet from the floor and spinning her around the room. “Take a last look at his hovel, my dear. We’ll soon be leaving Camden Town.”

“Yes, my dear Mrs. Cratchit,” said Fred, “We will all be moving up in the world, thanks to my newly philanthropic uncle, dear Ebeneezer Scrooge.”

Mrs. Cratchit rounded up the children and escorted them to their bedrooms, while Fred and Cratchit cleared the dishes from the Christmas feast to the kitchen. Fred crossed the room to the window by the door. He pulled the drapery aside and lit his pipe.

“Mr. Nelson and Mr. Heath will be here shortly. Shall I break out the brandy that I brought?” he asked.

“If you want a drink, you best. You know I cannot yet afford such amenities.”

Bob set five glasses on the table. Fred pulled a small flask from his coat pocket and set it next to the glasses. “Mr. Cratchit, we are well on our way to curing your financial ailments. So you best accustom yourself to amenities such as this.”

Fred returned to the door in response to a light rap. Mr. Nelson and Mr. Heath, the two businessmen who had earlier attempted to solicit a contribution from Scrooge for the poor, entered the room.

“I trust our little masquerade was successful?” Mr. Nelson asked eagerly.

Fred put a glass in each man’s hand as Mrs. Cratchit joined the men gathered around the dinner table.

“Gentlemen, and of course, my dear Mrs. Cratchit, (he directed her to raise the last glass) let us drink a toast to the new partner of Scrooge and Cratchit, and the orchestrator of this most original Christmas carol, Mr. Bob Cratchit.”

The celebration turned into an accounting of expenses (after all, Cratchit was a clerk).
Fred needed to be compensated for the few grains of opium that Cratchit had blended into Scrooge’s pipe tobacco. (Fred just smiled when Mrs. Cratchit asked, “However did you acquire such a thing?”) That small amount had been enough to place Scrooge in a very suggestible state.

The actor who played Marley’s ghost and Fezziwig was paid with a bottle of cheap whiskey. “The old sot thought he was auditioning for the Old Vic,” said Mr. Heath.

Mr. Nelson presented bills for the makings of a costume of green velvet and ermine fur. “Good thing I put extra padding in that suit. We stood out on the window ledge for an hour while I described our flight over the rooftops of London.”

“He really believed he was flying?” asked Mrs. Cratchit.

“That and more. You saw him at the Pig’s Whistle. He really thought that he was at Fezziwig’s. And you did a fine job impersonating his first love,” said her husband.

“Letting that old goat kiss me sent me shuddering. Your plan better work, Bob Cratchit.”

Cratchit swatted at her bottom as she set out some leftover bread and butter. “We spent quite a bit at the Whistle. Luckily, after an hour, I was able to dilute most of the whiskey. The publican tried to cheat us, but Mr. Heath managed to convince him to settle for 20 pounds.” Heath laughed and rubbed his sore knuckles.

Cratchit studied his ledger. “Have we covered the cost of Scrooge’s false headstone?”

“I did, “said Mr. Nelson, “With a quid to the caretaker.”

Cratchit gathered up his papers and account sheets. “Well, my friends, tomorrow is Christmas. A very Merry Christmas, I would say. So relax and enjoy the day. The next day, I will start the wheels turning to provide our rewards for this night’s hard work.”

“Mr. Nelson and Mr. Heath will come in early to thank Scrooge for his generosity to the work they do with the poor of the city. We will manipulate the old fool to set up a regular contribution, let’s say 100 pounds every fortnight, half of which you will return to me.”

The two men clinked their glasses. “Here’s to 25 pounds every fortnight for each of us.” Said Mr. Nelson. “A small fortune,” agreed Mr. Heath.

“Fred will come by later to discuss and opportunity he has to buy into a mercantile operation. With his newfound generosity, Scrooge will jump at the chance to finance his nephew’s business venture. You can spend the money any way you want, Fred, as long as I get my half.”
“Mr. Cratchit, I believe you don’t trust me.”

“Not at all. But I can deduct my share if it will be more convenient for you.” Fred raised his glass in salute.

Cratchit turned to his wife. “My darling, you can begin to arrange for furnishings for our new house and a few things for yourself with the money that Scrooge will provide for poor Tim’s medical treatments.”

“Does that mean that I can dump this stupid crutch?” asked your Tim from the hallway.
“You lose that crutch and I will whip your miserable eavesdropping hide,” growled Cratchit. “That crutch will get you and your brothers into Oxford.”

Mrs. Cratchit crossed to room to hug her youngest son. “Your father has worked very hard to provide for us. The very least that you can do is pretend to be crippled and sickly for a few more years.”

“Well, when the old fool dies, I’m throwing this stick in the river.”

“I’ll have no more talk like that. Don’t you ever forget that you are supposed to be an innocent and sickly urchin.”

Fred rose and addressed the table. “Gentlemen, the night is late. Let’s allow this lovely family to get its rest. Let us adjourn to enjoy our holiday and reconvene in 2 days.”

As Bob Cratchit approached his place of employment on the day after Christmas, he noted that a craftsman was already preparing new signs. “’Scrooge and Cratchit’” he said to himself, “Maybe Tim was right, ‘Cratchit and Sons’ had a better ring.”

The office had an unfamiliar feeling. It was warm. There was a roaring fire in the stove. Bob smiled. His plan was falling into place.

“Merry Christmas, Bob.” Scrooge bounded out from his office and embraced his new partner. “Did you see the new shingle? You don’t mind that it’s ‘Scrooge and Cratchit’? After all, I still am the senior partner.”

“No, Mr. Scrooge, I would have insisted on that wording. You are very generous.” “No more ‘Mr. Scrooge’. You must call me Ebeneezer.”

“Yes, Mr. . . I mean. . . Yes, Ebeneezer.”

Scrooge took Cratchit’s arm and guided him into his office.

“Bob, a wonderful thing has happened to me. I would explain it to you, but you wouldn’t believe me. You would think your partner was mad. But my eyes have been opened to how I have wasted my life.”

“I am determined to make up for my miserly ways. Did you have a merry Christmas with your family? I hope so. I was very busy. You remember those two fellows who were asking for help with the poor?”

Cratchit suppressed a smile and just nodded.

“Yesterday, I arranged to do just that.”

Those devils, Cratchit thought. They are trying to cut me out of our deal. Trying to hide a note of panic, Cratchit asked, “What do you have in mind, because I have a few ideas . . .”

“It’s done, Bob, I have already arranged to transfer most of my, I mean, our accumulated profits to the church.”

“I . . . I . . . don’t understand, Mr. Scr . . . Ebeneezer.”

“Yesterday, after church, -- I had not been to church in years -- I asked the bishop if the church needed any money to help the poor, to keep those poor wretches out of the poor houses and the debtor’s prisons. We talked at length. He was very enthusiastic to hear of my offer of financial assistance. In fact, he has already sent a vicar over to pick up the bank check this morning.”

Bob mopped his brow and put a hand across his stomach to settle it. “That’s a wonderful . . . wonderful . . . thing you have done. How much have you decided to . . . distribute in this way.”

“Don’t worry, Bob, I’ve left enough for you to run the office for about a year. I’ll be stepping aside at that time. I don’t believe that I told you that. I won’t need much to maintain my house. But you’ll have the greatest gift that I could offer.”

Those words were like the sight of a familiar shoreline to a sailor. Bob started to smile weakly as Scrooge came around the desk to take Cratchit’s hand.

“I am offering to you the chance that I wasted. As young men, Marley and I built this business, thinking only of money, without regard for our family or our community. I am too old to start over. But I will get my second chance through you. This office will be yours with a small amount of capital for you to start out with. You’ll be building a business for your family from almost nothing. But you will also have learned from my mistakes. What a wonderful opportunity.”

“Almost nothing?”

“Yes, a wonderful opportunity for you and your family. And don’t worry about Tiny Tim. He is an amazing boy. London’s finest doctors are waiting to care for him. They are ready to examine him today. They have already been given sufficient funds to cover any treatment that he requires. Any money left over will go to the care of other unfortunate children. You see, I have thought of everything. Merry Christmas, Bob.”

Cratchit slowly raised from his chair and went into the outer office.

Scrooge heard some scratching sound and asked, “Bob, what in heaven are you up to?”

Cratchit was using tongs to extinguish glowing coals in the ash bucket. “Turning down the fire, my friend. One or two coals will be sufficient.”

It's a story that has been told and retold; adapted dozens of times in movies (starring Jim Carrey, now in theaters), on television, in popular literature, even in comic books. So, I gave it a go. One of my readers, obviously not a Dickens fan, said, "This is cool, just like that Scrooge McDuck."