by Anne Moore
Normally, on such a morning, Scrooge would not have wasted a second in talking about Christmas. In former years he would have taken the view that Christmas was now over, thank God, and he would have jumped straight into the business of the day. But this year, rather to his own surprise, he found himself making small talk.
'I trust, Mr Cratchit,’ he said, ‘that you and your family had an enjoyable day yesterday?'
Cratchit's eyes opened wide, as if he did not entirely trust his own ears. ‘Oh yes, sir, thank you. Very enjoyable indeed. Oh—and thank you very much for sending the turkey, sir. It was most unexpected.'
'Unexpected?’ growled Scrooge, as if taking offense.
Cratchit became rather breathless with nerves and sought to retrieve his mistake. ‘Well, sir, it was a most pleasant surprise, one which we had not anticipated, let me put it that way. Mrs Cratchit said I must make sure to thank you most warmly. In fact—’ He groped in his pocket and brought out an envelope. ‘She wrote you a little note, sir. Just a personal word from her.'
'Oh.’ Scrooge took the offered note and placed it on his desk. ‘How kind.... Well, I had the idea that a big bird would come in useful. You have a fair number of young mouths to feed, I believe. Six, isn't it?'
'Yes, sir.'
'I did a bit of celebrating myself, if it comes to that. Went to me nephew's.'
Cratchit seemed both astonished and pleased. ‘Oh, really, sir? I had so hoped you would. Young Mr Watson is a most kind and thoughtful gentleman, sir, it would have been a shame not to take advantage of his offer.'
'Hmm, yes, quite,’ grumbled Scrooge. ‘Anyway, I have to make a little thank you myself, on account of that. I want you to order a crate of decent claret and send it round to Mrs Watson with my compliments.'
'Claret, sir? A crate, did you say?'
Scrooge stared him in the eye. ‘I did. Anything unusual about that?'
'Oh no, sir, no,’ said Cratchit hastily. ‘Nothing unusual at all. Just wanted to make sure that I'd heard you aright, sir.’ He scribbled a note on his pad.
'Yes,’ Scrooge repeated thoughtfully. ‘A crate of the stuff. We had some excellent claret at lunch, so young Fred's cellar will no doubt need replenishing. I can afford it, can't I?'
'Oh yes, sir. Comfortably.'
'Hmm,’ Scrooge growled again. ‘Not excessive, is it? To send a crate? Not absurdly over-generous?'
'No sir, I would not say so.'
'Just a bit unusual for me, you seem to imply.'
'Well, sir....’ Cratchit coughed discreetly.
'Why is it so hard for me to spend money, Cratchit?’ The question was actually one which Scrooge was asking himself, though as he had tagged his clerk's name on the end Cratchit felt obliged to comment.
'I couldn't say, sir, I'm sure.'
'Neither can I,’ said Scrooge with a sigh. ‘But it is hard, you will grant me that.'
Cratchit chose his words with care. ‘You are undoubtedly a thrifty gentleman, sir. No question of that.'
'The wine merchants—I believe there's quite a good one on Gracechurch Street—they will send us a bill no doubt?'
'Oh yes, sir. Your credit is good.'
'Always take credit where you can get it, Cratchit.'
'Indeed, sir, I make it a golden rule.'
Well, that was enough small talk for one day. Quite enough.
'Have a seat, Cratchit,’ said Scrooge. ‘I want to talk to you.'
And he himself sat down too.
'I've been doing a bit of thinking,’ said Scrooge, when they were settled.
Cratchit raised an eyebrow. A slightly apprehensive eyebrow, Scrooge noticed.
'Yes.... Fact is, you see, I'm not getting any younger. I'm fifty now, and I've been working on ‘Change for twenty-five years. Quite a long time. First I was in partnership with Marley, and then I traded on me own account. Well, I can't go on for another twenty-five years. Won't be able to.'
'Perhaps not. But you're still a fit man, sir.'
'Oh yes. And there's no need to be alarmed, Bob. I'm not packing up just yet, so your job is as safe as houses. In fact, I might be able to do a bit better for you in the next year or two than I have in the past.'
'Thank you, sir,’ said Cratchit, in the tones of a man who has no expectation of a pious hope becoming a reality.
'Make a note on your pad, Cratchit. Ten per cent increase in your salary, with effect from the first of January.'
Cratchit's eyes bulged. ‘Ten per cent, sir? Increase?'
Scrooge growled at him. ‘Isn't it enough?'
'Oh yes, sir, ample, sir. Thank you very much, sir.'
'Not at all. Worth every penny, I'm sure. No, the thing is, you see, I've been doing a bit of thinking. Been wondering whether I should go on doing the same old thing until I drop—or whether I should take a slightly different direction.... I don't know whether you're familiar with Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics, Cratchit?'
'No, sir. Can't say that I am.'
'No, well, I dare say you can manage your life perfectly well without having read it. But that book deals, in short, with the question of how a man should live his life—and hence how he should die.'
Scrooge paused and turned to look into the fire.
'If I have a fault, Cratchit, it is that I read too much. Costs me a fortune in fuel, for I like a good light to read by. Always have. It was a habit that began when I was a boy. My father and I fell out when I was thirteen, and I was obliged to remain at school during the holidays, when all the other fellows had gone home. And there is nothing in this world, Cratchit, quite so desolate as a boys’ boarding school during the holidays, when all those noisy brats have departed. All save one, in my case, and he had nothing to do but read. But my reading recently has disturbed me. It's made me think—think about my past, present and future. And it's disturbed my sleep too. So I know that I shan't be settled in my own mind until I've sorted myself out.'
Scrooge stood up.
'The first thing to do is to find out how much I'm worth. I have a fair idea, of course, but I could be out by ten or twenty per cent. So the first thing to do this morning is for both of us, you and me, to add up the value of my holdings.'
He picked up a ledger.
'You take the Marley money, and I'll take the rest. That should be a fair division of labor. And by the end of today I want to have a pretty good idea of my net worth.'
Cratchit rose to his feet. ‘Very good, sir.’ He turned to go.
'Oh, and Cratchit?'
'Yes, sir?'
'For goodness’ sake see if you can get these fires to burn up bright. It's positively arctic in here.'
CHAPTER 8
Scrooge spent the remainder of the morning checking through his bank accounts and share-holdings. He wanted to know how rich a man he was, but at the same time he wished to keep the calculation as simple as possible; he therefore listed the value of each item to the nearest pound, writing the figures on a sheet of ledger paper.
The fire in the hearth had by now responded well to Cratchit's chidings, and it was backed up high in the chimney, its warmth making Scrooge positively cheerful for once.
At some point after mid-morning he pulled out a number of old boxes which had been piled up behind his desk for several years. They had been there for rather longer than he had realized, apparently, for many of the contents came as a great surprise to him.
In one box there was a considerable sum in Swiss currency, taken in part settlement of a scheme which had gone badly awry. When Scrooge came to look at the associated paperwork he could well understand why he had put the matter out of his mind, for his error of judgment had cost him dear. Now he just pursed his lips and hissed with disapproval at his youthful folly.
Another box contained a selection of gold watches and some jewelry. A third revealed some share certificates for a Peruvian mining company. Now where on earth had they come from, and were they as worthless as they looked? To Scrooge's experienced eye they appeared to h
ave ‘fraudulent and worse’ engraved all over them. But once, perhaps, he had bought them with the wholehearted conviction that he was getting in on the ground floor of, quite literally, a gold-mine.
All these items were briefly listed and a value for each was not just penciled in but inked in. Scrooge was determined to resist the temptation to make detailed inquiries as to the true and present value of these strange accumulations. Perfect accuracy was not the object of the exercise. Close enough would do.
Towards lunchtime Mrs Molloy turned up with a scrubbed and polished young Billy. He was hardly recognizable with a clean (pale) face, new clothes, shiny boots, hair so short that the pate was almost polished, and—above all—a proper overcoat. In herring-bone tweed, no less. What was more Mrs Molloy had gone the whole hog and bought scarf and gloves.
Introductions were made, Cratchit declared himself quite speechless with amazement at Scrooge's unprecedented liberality, and Billy made several revolutions in front of the admiring audience to show off his new outfit. He seemed quite bemused by the situation; from the look on his face he appeared to be not quite sure whether he was awake and fully conscious, or simply dreaming it all as he lay curled up above a baker's oven.
'Well, well, well!’ said Scrooge. ‘That will do nicely, Mrs Molloy. That's a good piece of worsted, that suit is, of the highest quality, one can see at a glance. And I pride myself that having been involved in the cloth trade as a young man, I do know my worsted. I am very grateful to you, Mrs Molloy. Of course,’ he told Billy, ‘it will all feel very stiff and new for a while. Whenever I have a new suit—and I had one as recently as three summers ago—I find it needs whacking against the bedroom wall a few times before it quite conforms to me shape. And even then it takes a while.'
'Hee hee hee hee hee,’ giggled Mrs Molloy, probably picturing Scrooge in action as a wall-basher. Billy turned his cap round and round in his hand, his face quite rosy from all the attention he was getting.
'I dare say this would have cost a fair bit?’ remarked Scrooge.
'Four pounds, seven shillings and threepence three-farthings,’ said Mrs Molloy. ‘On account of I demanded a two per cent discount from Mr Isaacs in Fenchurch Street. He being one of your tenants, Mr Scrooge.'
'So he is,’ said Scrooge. ‘So he is. And how is the old villain?'
'Passing well, Mr Scrooge, passing well. He sends you his compliments.'
Scrooge scratched his head. ‘Yes, it's extraordinary how one overlooks things, you know. Until you mentioned it I had forgotten that property in Fenchurch Street. I took it from another tailor, one who fell upon hard times through an excess of drink, I fear. It's managed for me by agents and the rent is dealt with by Mr Cratchit here, so I am inclined to forget it. It would be cheaper of course to manage the whole thing oneself, but there is never the time, is there?'
He looked for agreement from his colleagues, and all present shook their head as if to say, no, there was never enough time for that sort of thing. Ever tactful in the presence of a rich man, they did their best to appear familiar with the difficulties of managing properties which they barely remembered owning.
'Well now,’ Scrooge continued, ‘your expenditure to date, Mrs Molloy, leaves a sum of twelve shillings and eight pence one farthing.'
'I have it here,’ declared Mrs Molloy, reaching for the bag which she invariably carried with her.
'No, no, I was not asking for it back,’ said Scrooge. ‘In fact, I think you had better keep it for your trouble, Mrs Molloy.'
A sudden silence fell. Even the fire stopped hissing.
'You mean, hold on to it because the lad will need to be bought more stuff?'
'No, I mean keep it for yourself. If I might make so bold, Mrs Molloy, a new bonnet might not be out of order. You have worn that black one both indoors and out for at least a year.'
'Two,’ said Mrs Molloy. ‘Give to me by the late Mrs Chadwick it was, and we buried her on new year's day, two winters since.'
'Well then.’ Scrooge rested his case.
'What's wrong with this bonnet?’ demanded Mrs Molloy, for once in her life failing to find the situation amusing.
'Nothing, nothing. I merely make the point that it might be allowed a rest from time to time. A new bonnet would allow for some variation in wear, as perhaps, between weekdays and Sundays.'
Mrs Molloy rose to her feet, her face serious in expression. ‘I think I shall go, Mr Scrooge, afore you falls down with the apoplexy, for you cannot be yourself. You are my witness, Mr Cratchit,’ she added, waving a finger under that gentleman's nose. (Although Cratchit's eyes were bulging nearly as far out as her own.) ‘Mr Scrooge's sudden fit of madness was none of my doing. He brought it upon himself.'
And with that, she departed.
Scrooge decided that it was time for lunch.
They all three took lunch together, in a nearby tavern. Without pressing the matter too hard, Scrooge volunteered that he had just wondered, Mr Cratchit, whether it might not be possible to make use of young Billy about the office. After all, there were numerous occasions when an extra pair of hands, not to mention a pair of feet, might be useful about the place. There were always messages to be delivered, newspapers to be fetched, odd bits of shopping and tidying and so forth to be done. Was that not so?
Cratchit agreed that it was. But could Master Billy read and write?
Not much, as yet, Scrooge acknowledged. But that could be attended to.
The matter was settled. Billy would work for Mr Scrooge, taking orders from either him or Mr Cratchit. Wage: a penny an hour, plus his keep. And in due course, arrangements would be made to teach him to read and write.
After lunch, Cratchit soon found work for Billy. Cratchit was, after all, busy working out the value of the late Mr Marley's estate, which involved consulting numerous files, which had to be fetched and put back. And where a job could be done quicker himself than by asking Billy to do it, Cratchit was adept at inventing something else for the boy to do. For Cratchit was, after all, the father of three sons. He knew all about preventing the rapid onset of boredom in the young.
At four o'clock Cratchit announced to Scrooge that he had completed his task. Not, he gave Mr Scrooge to understand, as accurately as he would have wished, had they been obliged to account to shareholders, but good enough, he thought, for Mr Scrooge's purposes.
By that time, Scrooge reckoned that he too had a satisfactory picture of the overall state of affairs in that aspect of the business which he was dealing with. ‘Come along in then,’ he said, ‘and we'll go through it together.'
Cratchit coughed. ‘Ahem. What about the lad, sir?'
'Oh, bring him in too. We will use him as an adviser. For we do need advice, Cratchit.'
'Do we, sir?'
'Indeed we do. There are important decisions to be made, Cratchit.'
'Oh,’ said Cratchit, who looked alarmed.
'So we will use young Billy as a consultant. He is, after all, a representative of those less well off than ourselves.'
Cratchit clearly couldn't make much sense of that, but Scrooge said no more for the present.
The two men and Billy assembled in Scrooge's office and seated themselves around a table. It was a table which had been used for meetings and discussions of one sort and another in the days when Scrooge had bothered to have discussions and meetings in the office. These days he did all his business in the Royal Exchange, sealed it with a handshake, and dealt with the paperwork in the office afterwards.
Outside it was beginning to grow dark, so Scrooge brought up a lamp and placed it in the center of the table so that they could see what they were doing. He also reached into his pocket and brought out the spectacles which he now used for reading by artificial light. Scrooge had resisted the use of reading-glasses for a long time, until one day he found that he had misread a 3 for an 8, and had written a check for five pounds too much.
'Now then,’ Scrooge began. ‘Our object today was to work out, in round figures, how
much money I have available to me, in one form or another. Of course, not all that I own is in cash, or even in a form which could quickly be converted to cash. Mr Isaacs's shop in Fenchurch Street, to give but one example, has a value, but it is not a value that we can do more than make an educated guess at, and it would take a while to sell the premises, even if selling was what we chose to do. Nevertheless, Cratchit, we have both of us formed a view of the value of things, based on our many years of experience, and I dare say we shall not be far out. On the conservative side, if anything, I surmise.'
'Indeed, sir. Where an exact value is not known, I have pitched it a little low.'
Scrooge nodded. ‘Good. Well, you first, I think. The value of the Marley estate.'
'Yes, sir. Well, sir, Mr Marley has been dead these seven years, as you well recall, and although it took a while to tidy up his affairs, they have long since been settled. The partnership between the two of you was dissolved, and under the terms of his will, since he had no wife or children, he left all his worldly wealth to you.'
Scrooge sighed and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He addressed the boy to his right.
'Mr Marley, Billy, was a solitary man. He lived alone in that big old barn where I now live, and which you have seen from the inside. He owned the building, of course, though in his day he rented out no other part of it. Preferred to be all on his own in that huge great space. Well, now I do things differently. The cellars are let to a wine merchant, Mrs Molloy lives in a set of rooms at the back, and the rest, other than my quarters, is let as offices. I always found it odd that Marley, who was always interested in turning a penny, should have wasted his resources so, but there it is.'
Cratchit waited until he was quite sure that Scrooge had finished before continuing.
'Well, sir, since round figures are the order of the day, I can say that Mr Marley left a quarter of a million pounds in Consols and various other Funds. And, in broad terms, he had as much again in property. You've done nothing with most of that, sir. Just let it lie, and ploughed the income back. So the capital's been accumulating at three per cent compound ever since. Some of it's at five per cent. Once or twice we've sold off a bit of land or a building—the railway companies has bought some, and a factory was bought by the firm that rented it. But mostly the property's just been sitting there, appreciating. Rents have been put into Consols. Result, total value something over six hundred and fifty thousand pounds.'