Cratchit’s Carol: Part 3

Part 1: VERSE THE FIRST: MY DEAR UNCLE SCROOGE. November 30

Part 2: VERSE THE SECOND: CHRISTMAS UN-MERRIED. December 6

Part 3: VERSE THE THIRD: SPIRITS! Memory’s Ghost. December 12

Part 4: SPIRITS! Continued: A Ghost Enfleshed. December 19

Part 5: SPIRITS! Continued: The Lady. December 22

Part 6: VERSES THUS ENDED, WE PROCEED TO THE CHORUS: December 24

VERSE THE THIRD: SPIRITS! Memory’s Ghost

I felt a tapping on my shoulder and I awoke. I must stress that word here, “awoke.” For all that was about to happen this night, for all its fantastical elements which my mind struggled to accept as real, I really must stress that, in the end, few things in my life have ever felt so real as this night.

I must also remind you once again that Uncle Scrooge was dead, fully and completely, for three years now. It was therefore a great shock that when I looked up to see who had awakened me, I found him standing there.

“If you’ve taken to sleeping on the floor, you should at least make use of a pillow. You’ll get a crick in your back that way.”

“Uncle Scrooge!” I exclaimed.

“Tiny Tim,” said he.

I scrambled to my feet and I embraced him with all my strength.

“I’ve missed you, Uncle Scrooge!” I cried, wet tears rolling down my cheeks. “It’s so good to see you, dear Uncle. Please tell me I’m not dreaming.”

He smiled and shook his head as he looked me in the eye. “This is no dream, my boy.”

It was true that I could see and feel the details which a dream is usually missing. His frame was solid in my arms. My leg still ached. I noticed the weave of the wool in Scrooge’s tweed vest. And I distinctly remember that I had an itch on my left elbow.

“Does this mean you are a… a spirit? A ghost?”

“A ghost? Heavens no! At least, not the kind that haunts old houses and rattles old chains. A ghost like that has unfinished business to tend to. No, I finished my business quite nicely, in the end, and with no small thanks to you. Have you got anything to eat?”

I shook my head blankly.

“Of course not. And we haven’t time for that anyway. But we certainly have time for tea! Come sit for a moment,” he said, and ambled over to the chairs by the hearth. I noticed that he walked with more spring in his gait than I had seen in many years. He sat with a thump, and patted the cushion of the chair next to him.

“Come, Tiny Tim. Have a seat and some tea as we used to.”

I sat down next to him, his face aglow with the warm firelight of the hearth, which had been unlit just a moment before. I looked to the flames and saw that although they danced all about the logs, the wood itself was not burned up. When I turned my sight back to Scrooge, he was pouring the tea, though I did not know where the pot had come from.

“You know, Tim,” said Scrooge, handing me a porcelain cup and staring into the flames, “You’re the reason for my change of heart all those years ago.”

“Me?” I asked, my teacup resting unsipped in my hands. “I didn’t do anything, Uncle. Besides I was only seven years old. What could I have done?”

“You prayed for me, Tim. When your father would come home and speak of the horrid things I’d said, and when dear Mrs. Cratchit was about to come and rap me on the nose, it was you who would say a little prayer for me. No one else heard you. No one else knew. But it was one of just a very few prayers which were offered to heaven for my wretched soul. I do believe yours took a special place of privilege.”

I looked abashedly into my teacup, and took a sip.

“I told you once that Christmas has a Spirit,” said Scrooge, “and that it was the Spirit of Christmas which had changed me. But there was more to the story, Tim. It’s not merely that Christmas has a Spirit, but each Christmas its own Spirit, a kind of guardian which preserves its memory in eternity. On that fateful Christmas Eve of 1843, I was visited by three such Spirits. They showed me…. Well, they showed me what I needed to see.”

He placed his tea on the table and leaned in closer.

“You see, Tim, each Christmas has a singular place in history, and a singular place in your own story. Each one is alive by the advent of hope, of light invading darkness, by Love itself.” Scrooge took a breath and looked deeply into my eyes. “You’ve forgotten that light, Tim, and if you don’t remember it soon, your fate will be no better than the one I would have faced had I not repented.”

“But my work,” I exclaimed. “The school, the children. I’ve given everything! What more can I have done? What more could you want?”

He ignored my questions. “Three visitors,” he said, “will come to you this night. Three Spirits. Listen well, Tim. Listen well.”

Then, suddenly, along with the firelight, he was gone.

I was alone in the dark on Christmas Eve.

—-

I sat there waiting, whether to awaken from a vivid dream or for the three mysterious visitors I could not say. After what seemed an hour, I was beginning to decide I had imagined it all. I’d have thought it was something I ate, but all I’d eaten that day was a humbug or two. Perhaps it was something I hadn’t ate. I stood, and my leg reminded me of its pain. Absently I reached for my cane, and remembered the broken vase downstairs. I limped toward the bed, but soon noticed something strange. With each step I took, the bed did not get any closer. In fact, it seemed to stretch farther and farther away. I quickened my pace, the pain cutting deeper with each step, but the bed only receded deeper into the darkness. I looked for the light of the window, for even a single beam of moonlight, but I could see nothing. The darkness seemed to press as close as the air upon my skin, and seemed to stretch into an eternal abyss.

A clock’s chime rang out its song somewhere distantly in the void or upon my wall, followed by the single bong to signal the time of one o’clock. Following the sound of its fading ring, I heard the sound of a match striking flint behind me. I turned and saw the flicker of a single flame. I saw the hand which held it, and the bowl of a long-stemmed pipe. An old man’s face was just visible behind it, and as he drew the flame to the tobacco, I could make out his white beard and deep, black eyes. The scent of the smoke filled my nostrils. It was a strangely sweet aroma, with a trace of holly, and I couldn’t help but be delighted with the smell. It reminded me somehow of my father. The old smoker pulled a long draught, and huffed out a smoke ring.

“Come here,” exclaimed the old man. “Come here, my boy, and know me better.”

I stepped closer, and as I did, the darkness seemed to grow faintly brighter. He sat upon a wooden stool, and he was dressed in a deep green mantle, bordered with white fur. His long white beard flowed down to his bare, capacious breast in stately waves, and upon his head was a holly wreath which sat as regally as a crown. His eyes twinkled, and he wore a merry smile.

“I believe we have a mutual acquaintance!” He declared.

“Have we?” I replied, still bewildered at the full sight of him.

“We have! Though your Uncle Scrooge knew me by a different title: the Ghost of Christmas Present, such as I was!”

“The Ghost of Christmas presents? Do Christmas presents… die?” I asked with genuine confusion.

The Ghost laughed so loudly and heartily I felt the air quake around us. If ever laughter could inspire a reverential fear, this Ghost had achieved it. Somehow his very joviality felt sacred.

“No, you giddy simpleton,” he said with continued laughter. “Not presents! The Present! I was the Ghost of Christmas Present! The Spirit of Christmas Present. As in the one in front of you, or rather, the one that was in front of him. For you, however, that is to say at the present time, I am the Spirit of Christmas Past.”

“Oh,” said I. Not having met a spirit before, nor a ghost nor a phantom nor any other such entity of strange origin, I found myself at a loss for words. As on every such occasion where words are lost, my brain found the stupidest words to say. “Do you prefer, erm, Mr. Ghost? Or, erm, Sir Spirit?”

He laughed again and said, “Call me whatever you like, so long as you look hard and listen well to what I shall reveal.”

He rose from his seat, and as he did so his immense frame became apparent. He must have stood seven feet, even with his aged, stooped posture. I noticed now that he carried an empty scabbard about his waist, rusted and ancient-looking. His feet were bare, and looked as if they had walked the earth for many ages. I then discerned a holly tree standing next to him, or perhaps it simply appeared there. It was tall and full, and its red buds were bursting with their colour. He studied the tree carefully for a moment, then plucked a thick branch as easily as you or I might pluck a leaf. Instantly there grew from the place where he plucked it a sprig of holly. He took the branch and plucked away its excess leaves.

“Take this,” he said with a smile as he handed me the holly branch.

I took the branch from his hand. It was a walking stick, and from its handle emerged another sprig of holly. As I held it, a trail of ivy crept down the shaft.

“Walk with me,” said he.

The cane was perfectly suited to my stature, and I walked with the Spirit in the darkness.

“You know,” said the Ghost, “like you, I come from a large family with many brothers!”

“You… have brothers?” I asked.

“Eighteen hundred seventy or so,” he smiled. “And counting! But look, a light ahead!”

I turned my eyes and saw a soft glow, warm and ruddy. Slowly the light came into clearer view, and I saw that it was the fragmented, amber-red colours of stained glass. It was a church, and the light from its windows seemed to be as the rising sun. Soon I could see emerging from the shadows a blue sky, and buildings all around us. I could hear the crunch of snow beneath our feet.

I recognised the church. It was St Andrew’s, where my family had attended since my father himself was a little boy. As we approached its doors, ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’ rang forth with the great sound of the organ and a merry chorus of worshippers. A feeling of nostalgia swept over me. I had heard the carol many times before, but there was something about this rendition, which seemed eerily familiar.

“I know this day,” I said. “If you are showing me a Christmas past, dear Sir Ghost, I do believe I know which one! This is the Christmas of Scrooge’s conversion!”

“That it is, my child, but it is not his conversion that I wish to show you. Come.”

The old ghost led me to the doors of the church. He led me inside, and though the door clanged shut behind us, none seemed to notice. He lumbered down the aisle, while the people sang on, taking no notice of the giant in their midst. I stood for a moment at the back of the church until he smiled and waved to me from the foremost pew.

The hymn came to an end and he called out, “It’s all right! They cannot see or hear us. We bring no disturbance!”

The vicar was giving the benediction as I hesitantly came to join the Ghost. Knowing that I was for all purposes a ghost myself did not prevent me from a certain abashment. The Ghost nodded to the two figures seated in the pew, and I nearly fainted when I saw them. It was my own father, younger than I had remembered him in many a year. Next to him sat a tiny boy, holding a crutch and with a small iron frame on his left leg: it was my very self. He, that is, I, looked thin, almost malnourished. Was I really so small? Was I really so sick?

The little boy turned to his father and smiled. His father (my father!) looked at him (looked at me!) with such warmth I could not bear it. I remembered well the face of my father, how kind it was, just as it was here and now. Or there and then. It was still a bit confusing. But what was time to me now anyway? There was only this moment. I know not how long I stood there staring at this scene, but I was suddenly aware that the liturgy had ended. I watched my father, as if overcome with a surge of affection, suddenly sweep his little boy into his arms and upon his shoulder. Smiling, he strolled down the aisle to the doors of the church, his little boy perched there like a parrot. I felt as if he were carrying me even now as I trailed unseen behind him.

“Father,” my little self said, “I’m glad I could be here today.”

“I’m glad too, Tiny Tim,” said my father.

“And I hope people saw me,” said his son.

“Why’s that, Tim?” asked my father.

“Because I think it might be pleasant for them to remember, on Christmas Day, the one who made lame beggars walk and blind men see.”

I saw a tear fall down my father’s cheek. “I think it is most pleasant indeed for people to see you, Tiny Tim.”

I stopped in my tracks. “Did I really say such a thing?” I asked the Spirit. “Was I really so… innocent?”

“Innocent, but also something better than innocent, my boy. Come, catch up. There’s more to see.”

My father and his little boy came to a bench, where he set his son down. “Let’s sit,” said my father, “and watch the snow fall for a minute.”

The snow was beginning to fall, softly, gently onto the already snow-covered ground. The Spirit and I stood there next to them, and I saw that my little boy self was staring hard at something. I followed his gaze and saw a family huddled together on a corner across the street. The father was holding out a tin cup, begging. A little girl no older than six sat next to him, her knees gathered up to her chin. A boy no older than nine sat next to her. They were both gathered into the folds of the tattered cloak of their mother.

My father noticed the look on my little face, and saw that his child was contemplating the family in rags.

“They’re very poor, aren’t they father?” my little self said at last.

“Yes, they are,” answered my father.

“They’re more poorer than us.”

“Yes, Tim, I believe they are,” replied my father quietly. “Much poorer. Does that make you feel sad for them?”

My little face screwed itself up into a deeper pondering.

“No,” Tiny Tim said at last, “It makes me feel poor for them.”

I saw my father’s eyes blink with emotion. “Perhaps, dear Tim, that’s a better thing to feel.”

“Do you have tuppence in your pocket, father?”

My seven-year-old self did not know that two pence was nearly as dear to my father’s purse as it would be to theirs. But my father reached in his pocket and placed a coin in my little hand. I hobbled over to the family and gave the “more poorer” father the coin. The man smiled and thanked me, and I heard my tiny voice say, “Merry Christmas! And God bless you, every one!”

My full-grown self said to the Spirit, “I’d forgotten that.”

“Innocence is the essence of compassion, Tim,” said the ghost, taking a pull at his pipe. “When a man has lost his innocence, he has lost his compassion as well.”

My father lifted his boy onto his shoulders and began the walk home. I stood silent, gazing at the little boy on his father’s shoulder, and wondered how I lost him.

“Come,” said the old Spirit, “I’ve one more thing to show you.”

The street faded from my sight, and then, before I could see where the Spirit was taking me, I knew where we were, for I could smell the delicious scent of sage and onions and potatoes, and the unmistakable fragrance of my mother’s famous Christmas Goose (famous, that is, in the Cratchit household). We were standing by the Cratchit family table, later on that same Christmas Day.

My throat constricted with happiness and longing to see my family seated there before me. There was Peter, my elder brother, wearing his father’s fanciest collar. It was much too big for him, and made him look like a tiny terrapin in a great tortoise shell. But he was proud to wear it! Belinda sat next to him, all curls and dimples and cheeks like apples. Martha and Lucy and Matthew, too. A family of eight around a table that seated five, we could have been a royal family at a wedding feast for the joy that we exuded.

Once again, I don’t know how long we stood there, like phantoms in a pantomime of perfect peace. Time had become a strange notion, in fact, and the thought of it was an intrusion. It was timeless time. I could see by the condition of the goose that it had been feasted upon, that some time had passed at the table, but still this moment seemed to live in eternity. I was roused from my reverie by a name spoken by my father.

“Mr. Scrooge!” he proclaimed. “I’ll give you Mr. Scrooge, the Founder of the Feast!”

But a pall fell upon the feast’s keepers. The very name of Scrooge was a byword. If only they knew of the tremendous turkey which was soon to arrive anonymously from Scrooge himself! But alas at this moment, the Ogre Scrooge was the only Scrooge they’d known.

“The Founder of the Feast indeed!” cried my mother. “I wish I had him here. I’d give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and I hope he’d have a good appetite for it.”

I watched myself at the table, eyes downturned and pensive. It was difficult to remember those days when the very name of Scrooge could elicit such a chill in the family hearth, but there it was.

“Did you see it just then?” whispered the Spirit. “Did you hear?”

“See what? Hear what?”

“Just then, just now, when Tiny Tim closed his eyes at the mention of Ebenezer Scrooge.”

“I looked frightened. He was little more than a monster to us then.”

“And yet you prayed for him.”

“Is that what I was doing? I don’t remember.”

“And that, my boy, was the prayer that did it.”

“Did what?” I inquired.

“That was the prayer of all your prayers that at last sent the Spirits to Scrooge.”

“But… but this is Christmas Day. Didn’t the Spirits come to him the night before? How could…?”

“Ach,” said the Spirit disdainfully, “When a child prays, a child whose angel is always beholding the face of his Father in heaven, do you think the Almighty gives a tick for the tock of a clock?”

“I… But then… How…?” I stared at the tiny little boy who was me. And I knew that, somehow, it was true.

“Just then,” said the Spirit, “the little boy who once was you cringed with cold fear at the mention of the Ogre Ebenezer. But something in his heart knew that even the Ogre was deserving of his prayers. And it was his prayer of faith that tipped the balance of grace in Scrooge’s favour.”

I gazed down at the little boy, sickly, frail, and endowed with a strength I had long forgotten. I longed to give him comfort, but truth be told I believe I longed more for him to comfort me.

“But it’s time now to go.” The Ghost placed his hand on my shoulder, and as he did so the vision of my family feast began to fade. But as it did, I could have sworn I caught the little boy’s eyes, just for a moment.

And I could have sworn he smiled.

A moment later (however a moment may be reckoned in this liminal place between the past and the present), I was standing in what appeared to be my own bedroom, except that there was snow beneath my feet, and graceful snowflakes dancing in the air around me. The Ghost of Christmas Past stood towering beside me.

“Breathe deeply this air,” he said. “Let it fill you, lad.”

I took a breath, and felt the cold invigoration in my lungs.

“If you would walk in true compassion,” said the Ghost softly, “it is this little child who will lead you.”

As he spoke, the Ghost and the miraculous snow faded from sight. I was standing alone in my bedroom, his holly-tree cane still in my hand. Though the bedroom was warm, I felt that most bracing sharpness of winter air in my lungs. I heard the distant sound of church bells. They sounded wild and sweet.