A Christmas Carol 2: The Wedding of Ebenezer Scrooge

by Anne Moore

  'Hmm.’ Scrooge was thoughtful. ‘Yes, you are quite right, Cratchit. I have done nothing with Marley's estate. Taken nothing out, and put nothing in.’ He turned to Billy. ‘I was Marley's sole legatee, you see, Billy. Which means that he left me all his money. And the truth is, I didn't know what to do with it. Still don't if it comes to that. Anyway, we'll think about that in a moment.'

  Scrooge stood up, went to his desk, and returned with the folder containing the figures which he himself had prepared.

  'Now, Mr Cratchit, my side of the house. This is a little harder to estimate, because my money is put out to work, and therefore much depends on the outcome of various business enterprises which I have agreed to support. By definition, both the individual entrepreneurs and myself are convinced that each scheme which I invest in is sound, otherwise we would not be spending our time and money on it. However, experience tells us that not every enterprise will prosper. And perhaps all will fail. But what I have done, Cratchit, is to take liquid funds in hand at face value, regard loans due to fall in this year as certain, longer-term loans as less certain, and allow a measure for complete failure. That done, the sum total amounts to just under four hundred thousand pounds.'

  'My word!’ Cratchit leaned back and turned a trifle pale. ‘As much as that.'

  'Indeed,’ echoed Scrooge. ‘Total, over one million pounds.’ He might have added: ‘What do you think of that, Billy?’ But he didn't, because he knew full well that the boy could have no concept of what a million pounds meant. Billy had probably never even handled a one-pound coin.

  Cratchit looked quite stunned. ‘This is not an exercise that we have ever done before, sir, and it has taken me quite by surprise.'

  'Me too,’ murmured Scrooge. ‘One forgets, you see.... Well, I was miles out in my own estimate. If you had asked me at breakfast this morning I would have guessed no more than a quarter of a million on my own account, and perhaps the same for Marley.'

  Scrooge rose to his feet and began to pace about.

  'Truth is, you see, I was embarrassed that Marley left me what he had. We were partners, yes, but barely friends. He was a cold man, not given to confidences. He told me that I was to be the executor of his will, but not that I was to be a beneficiary.'

  'He had no one else to leave it to, sir. And certainly no thought of charity.'

  'You're right, Cratchit, you're right.’ Scrooge sighed. ‘And today has proved one thing to me—I don't want to die like Marley. He is dead these seven years, and it is as if he never lived. Not a soul mentions his name or his memory. There is nothing left of him, barring a gravestone, which is out of sight in a cemetery, for no one could stand the man. No one came to his funeral.'

  'He was not much liked, sir,’ Cratchit admitted.

  'Liked! Huh! He was feared and despised, that's the truth of it.'

  Scrooge sat down again. He slapped the table with his hand.

  'Well! Our figures prove one thing! They prove I am not a miser. If I was a miser I would have known how much I had, to the penny. I would keep it in gold, stored under me bed, and I would gloat over it nightly. But I am not a miser. Am I, Cratchit?'

  'Certainly not, sir,’ said Cratchit stoutly.

  'I've been known to rub me hands with satisfaction at a deal well done. But I take no unseemly pleasure at the hardships of others. Do I?'

  'No, sir.... Well, just the occasional cackle, perhaps.'

  'Cackle?'

  'Well, sir, when Messrs Carter and Ratchett was hammered you did have a little laugh, sir.'

  'Ah, yes, but they were crooks, Cratchit, crooks. I think every honest man can allow himself a small celebration when villains meet a timely end.... No, I don't think my worst enemy could say that I am as hard a man as Marley.'

  Scrooge placed his elbows on the table and adopted a brisk manner.

  'Now then, Cratchit—and you, young Billy. We've added up all the money, more or less. And the thing is this. What are we going to do with it? Eh?’ He glanced from face to face and saw nothing but gapes and puzzlement. ‘Eh? What, what? Hmm?'

  Silence prevailed for some moments, so Scrooge did some prompting.

  'Well, let me put it this way, fellows. I have a million pounds at my disposal, and I can't take it with me when I die, can I? Even if I was going anywhere but the churchyard, which I don't believe. And it's not much use to anyone, just sitting there accumulating at three per cent compound, is it? So what am I going to do with it? Eh?'

  'Well, sir,’ said Billy in a quiet treble. ‘If you've really got a lot of money, I reckon as how you should spend it.'

  Scrooge turned and stared at the boy. ‘Spend it?’ he croaked.

  'Yes, sir. Well, that's what money's for, isn't it?'

  CHAPTER 9

  That evening, as Scrooge and Billy walked home from the office, Billy explained that, after buying his new clothes, Mrs Molloy had had a talk with him about his living accommodation. She had decided, Billy said, that it would be wrong for him to continue sleeping in Scrooge's spare bedroom, and that it would be better for all concerned if he were to have his sleeping quarters in her apartment. In fact, she had already shown Billy where he would be sleeping from now on, and had made up a bed for him.

  Well, Scrooge could certainly see the sense of all this, and so, after he and Billy had had a meal together, he delivered the boy to Mrs Molloy's front door. Her apartment was on the ground floor of the building in which he had his own rooms, the entrance being tucked away round the back.

  After taking young Billy inside, Mrs Molloy gave Scrooge an explanation for her decision. ‘Thing is, you see, I am used to little boys, on account of having had four of me own. Whereas you, Mr Scrooge, are not.'

  Scrooge realized that this was a polite way of telling him that the novelty of Billy's company might very soon wear off. And no doubt there was some risk of that; Scrooge had, after all, led a solitary life for many years, and the introduction of a small boy into his routine, particularly on a twenty-four hour basis, might be more than he could cope with. Whereas, if Billy had Mrs Molloy's apartment to retire to, relations between him and the boy might continue on an even keel for longer than would otherwise be the case.

  In the circumstances, therefore, Scrooge bowed to Mrs Molloy's better judgment. But he would, he said, see Billy for breakfast the following morning.

  The next day, after he and Billy had paid their usual visit to Mr Montini's, Scrooge announced that later in the morning he would be going to see his doctor.

  'Oh,’ said Billy. ‘Are you feeling ill?'

  'No, fit as a fiddle. But I haven't had a chat with my doctor for quite some time, and there are things I want to ask.'

  Shortly after nine o'clock, which Scrooge considered a civilized hour for calling on a professional man, he set off for the doctor's surgery, taking Billy with him.

  The snow was beginning to melt now, and the pavements were wet with slush and mud. The two elements mixed together to form a kind of filthy slurry which Scrooge hated.

  As they turned into Brandon Street, Billy paused in his tracks and then said, “Ere—what's this doctor's name then?'

  'Doctor Medway.'

  Billy was triumphant. ‘I fort it was. I recognize this street. I've heard of him! They say if you're really poor, and you go round the back of his house, he'll give you medicine and that for nothing.'

  'Do they indeed?’ said Scrooge. ‘Well, it wouldn't surprise me, but the good doctor has kept his charitable activities mighty quiet, that's all I can say. He has never,’ Scrooge added grimly, ‘neglected to send a bill to me.'

  After five minutes in the waiting-room, Dr Medway opened the door of his surgery and invited Scrooge to come in. Scrooge rose, and when Billy remained seated Scrooge took him by the arm.

  'Come along, Billy,’ he said. ‘You too.'

  Dr Medway's expression betrayed no emotion when he saw that Scrooge had a young companion with him. No doubt, Scrooge reflected, he saw stranger things three and four times a
day. The doctor certainly didn't ask who the boy was, and at first Scrooge didn't explain.

  Medway was a man in his forties, with a balding head, and brown, thoughtful eyes. He was well dressed, but in a practical style: his jacket cuffs were heavily buttoned to permit them to be folded back when dealing with blood and other bodily fluids.

  'Please take a seat, Mr Scrooge,’ he said. And then, when they were all three seated: ‘Well now, what can I do for you today?'

  'You're the doctor,’ Scrooge responded. ‘What's your diagnosis?'

  If Dr Medway felt any irritation at this, he hid it well. He just narrowed his eyes, pursed his lips, and gave Scrooge a careful scrutiny. ‘Well, you look a little older than when I last saw you. And a bit more cheerful than your usual self. Can't see any obvious problems. I do hope you're not wasting my time, Mr Scrooge. Unless you're really ill I don't think I want to bother with you.'

  'Now, now,’ said Scrooge. ‘I expect a little more interest than that for my half-guinea.'

  'It's a whole guinea. At least.'

  Scrooge waved a hand in dismissal of mere money. ‘Two guineas, three guineas, charge me what you like.... Truth is, you see, I've been thinking things over, doctor. Contemplating a few changes in my life. And what I want to know is, am I a fit man? How long can I reasonably expect to live? That sort of thing.'

  Dr Medway gave Scrooge a strange look, but evidently decided to humor him. ‘Take off your jacket then, and roll up your shirt-sleeve.'

  For the next twenty minutes or so, Dr Medway conducted a number of tests. He took Scrooge's pulse; looked at his tongue; asked for a detailed account of his diet and drinking habits; rubbed his finger and thumb together behind Scrooge's ears and asked him what he could hear; invited him to describe in detail the clothes worn by a man on the other side of the street, and then to read from a text which was printed in a fiendishly small font (Scrooge failed this test without his glasses); and, finally, the doctor posed a number of embarrassingly intimate questions about bowel movements and the workings of Scrooge's bladder. When it was all over he instructed Scrooge to put his jacket back on and he himself sat down and wrote extensive notes.

  'How old are you?’ the doctor asked while scribbling.

  'Fifty.'

  More notes. Then he said: ‘Well, for a man of fifty you're in good shape. Lots of chaps don't get that far. Your teeth are sound, and your digestion seems able to cope with anything you shovel into it. You're too thin, of course, but by your own account you're a healthy eater, so that's just the way you are. You tell me you've seldom been ill in your life, apart from the occasional cold, and I've not seen much of you in my surgery, so my guess is that you'll manage the biblical threescore years and ten.'

  'Hmm,’ sniffed Scrooge. ‘And is that it? Is that all I get for my money?'

  Dr Medway was unmoved. ‘It'll probably be five guineas, in the circumstances—the rich must subsidize the poor. And, yes, that is it. It's the best estimate I can give you, and what's more there are no guarantees.'

  Scrooge sighed. ‘Ah well, I suppose that's helpful.... Now then, I would also like you to take a look at my young friend here. Do much the same for him as you have for me. Sound him out, count his teeth or whatever it is, and tell me if there's anything needs doing for him.'

  Dr Medway gave Scrooge another hard look. ‘Very well, but I want you to wait outside while I do it.'

  Scrooge was surprised, but agreed. He went out into the waiting-room.

  Half an hour passed. Fortunately no other patients appeared, so Scrooge did not feel that he was inconveniencing anyone.

  Eventually Dr Medway opened the surgery door, ushered Billy out, and called Scrooge back in.

  Scrooge sat down in front of the doctor's desk.

  'Now then, Scrooge.’ No ‘Mr’ Scrooge noticed. ‘What's your connection with this boy?'

  'No connection, but he ran an errand for me on Christmas Day. When I spoke to him it turned out that he is homeless. Has no family. Or fambly, as he calls it. So I decided to give him a job. I bought him some new clothes, my housekeeper is prepared to have him as a lodger, and he will work for me at the office, running errands and so forth.'

  Dr Medway looked down at his interlocked hands on the desk. ‘I see. And your purpose in asking me to examine him?'

  Scrooge hesitated. ‘Well, he has lived very rough. Had a hard time of it. He certainly had lice. And I did wonder if he might have picked up something worse, which we could do something about.'

  Dr Medway grunted. ‘Well, I will take you at your word, Scrooge, about employing the boy. Though in some cases I would have had harsh things to say to you. I have had some men bring boys in here, to check that they were healthy, because they wished to make use of them for less respectable purposes.’ The Doctor leaned back in his chair. ‘However, although I have sometimes heard your name mentioned with something close to a curse, I have never heard you accused of that.'

  Scrooge winced and found himself at a loss for words. ‘I am greatly relieved to hear,’ he finally managed to say, ‘that I am given the benefit of the doubt in this matter.’ Though he still could not meet the doctor's eye.

  'Well, having got that out of the way, let me tell you that I have had a very good look at young Billy, right down to the skin. He is severely under-nourished. Says he's twelve, and he may be, but he's mighty small for that age.... You'll be pleased to hear that there are no obvious diseases, either hereditary or acquired. No syphilis, for example.'

  Scrooge was quite shocked even to hear the word. ‘Good, good,’ he muttered.

  'In the past, Mr Scrooge, but not the recent past, this boy has been subjected to physical abuse. Do you wish me to go into details?'

  'No, no,’ whispered Scrooge, lowering his head. ‘Please don't.'

  'But no long-term damage has been done. He seems to have intestinal worms, but that is very common among people of his background, and I've given him something for it. And he suffers from catarrh, but that should clear up with a decent diet and some warmer weather.'

  'Yes, yes, I see,’ said Scrooge softly. He was suddenly filled with an urge to get up and leave the surgery as soon as he could. But he forced himself to ask one further question.

  'And you think that, given decent food, and clothing, and living conditions, young Billy might grow up to manhood and live to a reasonable age?'

  'A reasonable age?'

  'Yes.'

  'What is a reasonable age, Mr Scrooge? Twenty? Thirty? Or your three score years and ten?'

  Dr Medway rose to his feet and moved towards the window.

  'If I seem short with you, it is because I have been up half the night with a patient. He was a healthy chap, until he fell ill. Twenty-eight years old. Climbed mountains when he went on holiday. He was married, with one young child. Three days ago he caught pneumonia, and last night, at three a.m., he died. Now, is that reasonable, Mr Scrooge? And in a world where that can happen, is it reasonable of you to expect me to predict the future?'

  As they walked back to the office, Billy asked Scrooge what the doctor had said about him.

  'Oh, he said that you're in pretty good fettle, Billy, but you need feeding up.'

  Billy chuckled. ‘So do you, I reckon.'

  'Very possibly, very possibly. We must both tuck in, Billy.'

  They walked a little further in silence. Then Billy said: ‘I ain't never been to a doctor before.'

  'Well, let's hope you never have to again. I have seldom been to one myself.'

  Another silence.

  'Mr Scrooge....'

  'Yes, Billy?'

  'I've been thinking over what you said yesterday. About what to do with your money.'

  'Ah. Yes. Any ideas?'

  'Well, there's lots of poor people.'

  Scrooge sighed. ‘Yes, indeed there are.'

  Billy stopped walking and nodded towards the other side of the street. ‘Like her, fr'instance.'

  Scrooge stopped too, and noticed that on the oppo
site side of the street a badly dressed woman sat curled up in a doorway. Every item of her clothing was dark in color, mostly black, and the hem of her skirt was darker still, wet from the slush. In her arms the woman was holding a baby.

  Scrooge had seen this woman before. Seen her on Christmas Eve, to be precise, in the court below his apartment, but he had taken little notice. She was presumably young, or she would not have had a young child, but Scrooge could tell that she was prematurely old. Even from a distance he could see that she had the deep-set eyes of one who is half-starved. She wasn't exactly begging—perhaps she was too proud, or too scared to be overt about it—but as each passer-by approached she looked at him hopefully, as if expecting to meet, one day, someone who would surely save her life.

  'You can spare her a bit, Mr Scrooge,’ said Billy. ‘Can't you?'

  Scrooge suddenly felt as if he had been struck across the face. It was as much as he could do not to cry out. He had to reach for the wall behind him for support. His chest became constricted, and he gasped for breath. But he knew he had to reply.

  'Yes, yes, you are quite right, Billy,’ he managed to stutter. ‘I can spare her something.’ He unbuttoned his overcoat, and produced a sovereign from his jacket pocket. ‘Here—nip across the road and give her this.'

  'Cor, thanks!’ said Billy. His eyes opened wide in response to the high value of the coin, and in an instant he had seized it and run over to the woman. Scrooge saw him hand over the money and then point back to indicate its source.

  The woman staggered to her feet and raised a hand to him. A bare hand it was, spare, thin as paper, blue from the snow and the cold.

  'God bless you, sir!’ she called. ‘God bless you.'

  Scrooge walked on. Well, not so much walked as stumbled, his eyes blurred, head down, just able to see that he did not fall over his own feet.