Cratchit’s Carol, Part 6

VERSES THUS ENDED, WE PROCEED TO THE CHORUS.

“You must get up,” said the voice. “It’s Christmas morning!”

I knew that voice, old and rough and filled with all the joyful innocence of a child, and I smiled. My eyelids flickered open and I turned my head expecting to see Uncle Scrooge’s smiling eyes greeting me in the morning sun. He was not to be seen, yet I was not disappointed to find an empty room. I knew that he was present.

“Good morning,” I said to him. “Merry Christmas.”

I arose from my bed feeling as if I had truly rested for the first time in years. Scrooge told us that when he awoke on that Christmas morning of 1843, he had been positively giddy with joy, a madman possessed by the Christmas Spirit. I, too, felt the deepest joy I’d felt since I was a child, but it was of a different kind than Uncle Scrooge. I felt as if I was waking from the sweetest of dreams, with a joy that warmed my chest as if my heart was set within a blacksmith’s furnace.

For a moment, I feared that a dream was all that the events of the night had been.

Even so, I thought, it was a very good dream.

I turned and rose from my bed, and, unaided by my cane, hobbled to the sitting room door. Upon opening it I rested my eyes upon the familiar pair of chairs by the fireplace.

“Thank you, Ebenezer Scrooge,” I whispered, “for being as good a friend, as good an uncle, as good a second father as anyone ever knew.”

That’s when I saw something leaning upon the hearth: a cane. It was not the cane which I’d tossed across the room last night, but a much more beautiful one. Limping over to the hearth, I picked it up and held it in my hands. I studied its lines and fine grains, and admired its glossy shine. Its wood was deep red, and it looked not so much as if it had been carved as grown. A small sprig of crimson holly grew from its hilt, and the most delicate and subtle trail of ivy ran down its shaft. The cane appeared to be as well worn as if it had been fashioned a great many years before.

Perhaps it was already here. Perhaps it had simply gone unnoticed. Perhaps, knowing this, my head had put it into my dream. Perhaps someone crept into my house during the night, and lighted up the stairs, placed it carefully by the hearth….

It is truly astonishing how illogical one’s logic can become when one is faced with something wonderful.

“Oh you beloved imbecile,” I muttered to myself, shaking my head. “I do believe that from this time forth, I shall believe.”

I felt as though that blacksmith’s fire breathed within my heart, and the flames of love and joy rose even higher.

With the assistance of this beautiful cane I walked to the window, lifted the glass, and breathed in the thrillingly chilly air of a London Christmas morning. It was the same view Uncle Scrooge had taken in nearly 30 years before, and I still felt his presence within and around me. I looked out upon the few people hastening along the street toward some welcoming Christmas home-fire, and upon the blind man begging alms across the way.

“God bless us, everyone,” I whispered.

When I arrived at my mother’s home two hours hence, it was with a child in tow whom I had hired to carry a Christmas turkey which rivalled in size the one which Scrooge himself had purchased for the Cratchits those many years ago. My mother was aghast.

“But we’ve already got a goose! What on earth shall I do with a turkey!”

“All the more to share, dear Mother!” I said as I kissed her red cheek. “Over here, little sir,” I said to my hired aide as I directed him to the table.

I tipped the boy as generously as I thought Uncle Scrooge would and wished him the merriest of Christmases. Looking at the coins I had placed in his hand, he dashed off with an even greater vigour than that with which he had accompanied me.

“My Tim!” she exclaimed, “Do you want to work your poor mother to the bone on Christmas Day?”

“Direct me as you will, dear mum, and you’ll find me a most industrious helpmate.”

Direct me she did, and as each of my siblings with their own sons and daughters in tow arrived, the little Cratchit home became a whirl of busyness and cheer. Nieces were colourful with bows, nephews stood stiff as gentlemen in crisp linens.

The feast being set, with a goose and a turkey set before one another as if they were to meet in combat, the Cratchits sat round a table which, though larger than the one we’d had when I was a boy, was yet far too small to seat such a grand family comfortably. Or perhaps it was just the right size for a grand family with such mutual affection as ours.

“To our patriarch Mister Bob Cratchit,” said I, raising my glass. “The kindest of men, and the most worthy of any to carry the mantle of Father.”

A round of “Hear, hear!” followed.

“And to Uncle Ebenezer Scrooge,” I added, “who in sweetness of memory and example remains for us Cratchits a stone of help, and the founder of the feast!”

“Hear, hear!” cried my mother, still aproned and lifting her glass aloft.

The meal proceeded with all the warmth and merriment as any Christmas we had ever known. I looked with a profound and grateful reverence at each of the faces crowded around the table. They glowed not only from the mix of candlelight and golden sun, but as if I could almost perceive that splendour which I had glimpsed upon God’s creatures once before. Martha’s eyes were joyous in pride as she looked upon her daughters. The ribbons in Belinda’s hair were bright with colour and danced when she laughed. Matthew and Lucy, so much grown and yet still so youthful, shared their secret jokes. Peter, our eldest brother, wore father’s old shirt, and I believe it was the very one which father had conferred on him so long ago for the festive occasion of Christmas. It fit him quite well indeed.

When at last we had come to the portion of the meal at which the men leaned back and loosened their waistcoats in the greatest expression of absolute satisfaction, I stood with a pleasant groan to excuse myself.

“With blessings to all,” I said, “I must away. There is another visit I must make this day. Could we spare, dear mother, some of our birds and some stuffing to take?”

“Spare it? Heavens, we could assemble an entire bird in itself between the leftovers of the two!”

She packed a wicker basket with a Christmas feast fit for a family nearly as big as our own, and I set off into the sunlit snow for the bedside of Ambrose Swidger.

When at last I came to the hospital, I was greeted by the same plump nurse with pomegranate cheeks.

“Bless me! Mister… Oh I don’t believe I got your name before, sir,” said she.

“Cratchit,” I said. “Tim Cratchit. I’m Ambrose’s schoolmaster at Field Lane.”

“A pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m Nurse Hale. Come, come, I’ll bring you to ‘im.”

“Thank you, Nurse Hale. That’s very kind of you,” I replied.

“Of course, sir,” Nurse Hale continued. “He’s come around off and on since this mornin’, sir. It’s a hopeful sign, though mind you he had been in a perilous state of insensibili’y for so long, it’s hard to say how things will go.”

Seeing my expression, she strained to speak on a more hopeful note.

“But with a bit of luck and a helping of prayers, sir, I’m sure he’ll recover. I’m sure he will!”

When we came to the large room, the curtains were still drawn, but a lamp on Ambrose’s bedside lit his face warmly, and that of his mother, who yet remained by his side.

“I hope you don’t mind, Mum,” said Nurse Hale in a hoarse whisper, “I brought this gen’l’man to see him. This is Mister Cratchims.”

“Tim Cratchit,” I said, gently correcting the good-hearted nurse. “I’m his teacher at Field Lane.”

“Mister Cratchit!” she quietly cried. “Oh, Mister Cratchit! How little Ambrose adores you! I’m Emily. Oh how good to meet you. Thank you, Mister Cratchit, for coming to see him!”

Ambrose’s eyes fluttered.

“Mister Cratchit?” he said weakly.

I knelt down and took his hand.

“Hello, Master Swidger,” I said. “It’s good to see you, sir.”

He smiled, though it seemed to take some strength to do so.

“I fink I feel like old Mister Jonar must have felt being brought up out the whale, Mister Cratchit, but I fink I’ll be all right. The nice lady has been helping me, sir. She’s very nice. And so pretty.”

Nurse Hale’s red cheeks found a way to turn a brighter shade of crimson.

“Do you know what day it is, Ambrose?” I asked.

“I reckon it’s Sunday, since I’m not in school, and I’m not a-sweepin’.”

“Well,” I smiled, “it’s like a Sunday. It’s Christmas Day, Ambrose.”

“I reckon it is,” he said. “What with the singing…”

Ambrose’s eyes fluttered, and he drifted off again.

“That’s the most he’s spoken yet,” said Emily Swidger.

“A good sign, it is,” remarked Nurse Hale.

“Mrs. Swidger?” I asked with some nervousness. “If you and your husband would allow it…”

She kindly answered my hesitancy. “Mr. Swidger is, well he’s…. Well I wish him the best and no ill on Christmas Day.”

“Ah. Yes,” I stammered. “Well if you, Mrs. Swidger, would allow it, I would like to be of assistance to you. You see, Ebenezer Scrooge…”

“Ebenezer Scrooge?” interjected Mrs. Swidger. “Did you know him?”

“Yes. He was my uncle. Or rather, like an uncle. I called him Uncle. Though to be honest he was more like a second father.”

“God bless him!” returned Mrs. Swidger.

“God bless him, indeed,” I answered. “He invested much in the school. His nephew Fred handles most of that now. But, Mrs. Swidger, I believe I could offer your family some substantial assistance for any financial burdens incurred by Ambrose’s stay here through Uncle Scrooge’s benevolent fund.”

“If I could, mum, I’d pay for them myself, I would,” muttered Nurse Hale, somewhat abashed.

“Moreover, madam, I believe there is much further good Fred and I could do for you and yours, and especially Ambrose, if you would allow us. I believe we could offer you some gainful employment, and a trade apprenticeship for Ambrose. A real one, you understand, not like the Master Sweep Ambrose had been working for. An apprenticeship through Field Lane.”

Mrs. Swidger fought futilely against her tears.

“Yes, Mr. Cratchit. That would be wonderful. That’s so very… Scroogey of you!” she laughed.

“Thank you,” I chuckled. It was one of the greatest compliments I could ever receive.

We were silent for some time, a silence broken only by the honking of Nurse Hale’s nose into her kerchief.

I glanced toward the meal which I had set down next to the bed.

“Perhaps a hospital is not the most suitable place to celebrate Christmas,” I said, “but my mother is a wonderful cook, and we had a great plenty.”

“Oh that sounds wonderful,” said Mrs. Swidger. “I can’t remember when last I ate.”

“It will be a bit cold by now,” I cautioned.

“It will be delicious,” she said. “Please, Nurse Hale, won’t you join us?”

She looked about with a guilty smirk. “Oh I s’pose I could join you. Just for a bite or two!”

Ambrose stirred with the scent of food.

“Turkey!” he said.

It may have been a statement of fact, or it may have been a request; most likely it was both.

Nurse Hale kindly cautioned him, however. “No solids for you just yet, Master Swidger,” she said. “But how about a bit of broth?”

“Yes, mum,” he returned, recognising her authoritative if sympathetic tone.

And there we gathered, Ambrose Swidger, his weary mother, a kindly nurse and myself, for the second Christmas meal I had enjoyed that day. It seemed to do the boy some good to sip on some broth, and what was good for Ambrose was good for those who gathered round him.

The scent of our feast bestirred several other patients in their beds, and soon the feast spread to each one who was conscious and able to eat. Even those who couldn’t, however, yet were cheered in the warmth of Christmas companionship.

I could very nearly swear an oath that we gave more food than I had carried into that hospital.

That night, I laid myself down having known the most joy of any Christmas since 1843. My heart felt as though it would burst with love: the love of my family, of my neighbour, of God himself and all his angels.

And that is the Spirit, is it not? The Christmas Spirit my Uncle Scrooge so often spoke of? It is Love. It is Love at every moment which fills it with glory! Oh what dreariness we are resigned to without it, what hopelessness and callous loneliness, what blindness to the gifts of our past and the divine presents of our present. What hopelessness there is without this Love.

And what is the sweetness of memory but love looking backward? What is the contentment of the present but love looking about in wonder? And what is hope but love looking forward in time?

“Thank you,” I whispered in the dark, and fell asleep.

—

On the third day of Christmas I arose early, rolling back the curtains to greet the bright, morning sun. To be sure, I’m not certain there was much of a morning sun, overcast as it was. But it felt like it was bright that day: the whiteness of the frost on the objects below gave an aspect of crystalline radiance to everything in sight. It was marvellous.

Though I could not intone the strange words, the echo of the friar and that family singing Silent Night yet played in my head, and I hummed the tune as I tied my cravat and buttoned my waistcoat. My tea taken and my bread and butter consumed, I paused for a moment in prayer. Then taking my holly cane in my hand, I stepped forth from the door and gave it a twirl.

When I arrived at the school, Miss Micklewhite had not yet appeared, which was as I had hoped. I busied myself about the classroom, preparing for the students’ return that morning. At last I saw her arrive, and I was right set to be the first to greet her.

“Good morning, Miss Micklewhite!” I declared. “And Merry Christmas!”

“Good morning, Mr. Cratchit,” she happily replied, dusting some snow from her coat. “Merry Christmas to you!”

“I trust you enjoyed an exceedingly pleasant Christmas Day with your loved ones?” I inquired.

“I did, though I confess I could not help thinking of poor Ambrose.”

“I saw him,” said I, “and I’m delighted to report that he has begun to recover.”

“Oh thank heavens!” she exclaimed. “I prayed for him through all the Christmas Mass. And also… for you, Mr. Cratchit. Lately you seemed so… if it’s quite all right to say it…”

“Quite all right,” I responded.

“You seemed so… sad.”

“Thank you, Miss Micklewhite,” I said softly. “I was. I’ve missed someone very much, someone I’d lost at this time of year. Have I ever told you about my dear Uncle Scrooge?”

“Ebenezer Scrooge? He was your uncle?”

“He was, and rather like a second father to me.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Cratchit. I imagine his loss was profoundly felt.”

“It was,” I replied. “But that is only because he was so deeply loved, and because he loved so deeply. I’m proud to have been his ‘Tiny Tim’.”

Miss Micklewhite laughed warmly. “Is that your Christian name? ‘Tim’? I never knew.”

“It is,” I said, smiling. “And you, Miss Micklewhite? Might I ask your Christian name?”

“Certainly,” she said. “I’m Caroline.”

“It is a great pleasure and an honour, Miss Caroline Micklewhite.”

I kissed her hand, and the bells began to ring.

THE SONG THUS ENDED, GO WE ALL FORTH.