by Anne Moore
'But perhaps you are taking her too literally, Sarah. Sleep in the same apartment, yes, but surely she did not say that you were to share my bed?'
'Yes, she bloody did! And what's more, she said I was to make sure that you made love to me. At least once.'
'What?!'
'You're to make love to me, at least once,’ Sasha told him. ‘Mrs Bannister's words exactly. You tell him that from me, she said. And if his knob's as stiff as his manner, Sasha, she said, you'll be on to a damn good thing.'
CHAPTER 16
During the night, Scrooge woke up and had a good chuckle. He chuckled because he remembered this dream he'd had.
Quite a saucy dream it was. He'd dreamed that he had gone to bed with young Sasha, Mrs Bannister's maid. And a fine old time they'd had of it! Ho ho ho, chuckled Scrooge. What a hoot that dream was! The very idea.
Then he turned over in the bed and found that lying beside him was a long, warm body, the very size and shape of...
Scrooge groaned, held his head, and wondered how on earth it was that he had got himself into this situation.
In the morning, Sasha rose early and busied herself with household chores. Scrooge was mightily grateful that she did, for he had no idea how to behave in her presence.
When he was dressed and ready for breakfast, he found that she had left the apartment altogether, presumably to take her own breakfast with Mrs Molloy.
Scrooge went as usual to Mr Montini's café, sat alone with a newspaper, and grunted bad-temperedly when asked anything. Mr Montini seemed quite relieved that Scrooge was his old self again.
After breakfast, Scrooge plucked up his courage and went round to call on Mrs Molloy. Her apartment was at the rear of his building, on the ground floor, and when she opened the door Mrs Molloy giggled happily when she saw who the caller was. But then she always giggled.
'Are you alone, Mrs Molloy?’ asked Scrooge.
'I am, sir,’ said Mrs Molloy, fairly hugging herself with amusement. ‘Them others has gone shopping for me. And what can I do for you this fine morning?'
As the temperature was at that moment hovering around freezing-point, with a brisk breeze to match, Scrooge was not sure where she got the ‘fine morning’ from, but he didn't quibble.
'I need to talk to you,’ he said, and stepped inside.
Once the door was closed, Scrooge revealed the nature of his difficulty. He explained that he was wholly unconvinced that it was right and proper for young Sasha to have a room in his apartment. A girl that age, living under the same roof as a man of his age—well, people might talk.
'I should very much hope they would talk,’ said Mrs Molloy, who was quite unmoved by Scrooge's dilemma. ‘If they wasn't to talk there would be something wrong with the world. And with a bit of luck we will have your reputation transformed, Mr Scrooge. If I put the word around often enough, folks will have you halfway human before the month's out.'
This was not what Scrooge had intended at all, and he had to fight hard to control his exasperation.
'But don't you think it would be more appropriate for a young girl like Sasha to have rooms with you, Mrs Molloy?'
'Oh no. Definitely not.’ For once, Mrs Molloy did not laugh. ‘She's to stay with you, Mr Scrooge. Mrs Bannister was most definite on that.'
The absence of even a smile from Mrs Molloy's features was certain proof, if Scrooge needed any, that Mrs Bannister's dictates were not to be trifled with. However, he persevered.
'But I can think of no reason,’ he said plaintively, ‘why Mrs Bannister should be permitted to make all my domestic arrangements.'
'And why not, pray? She's better at it than what you are.’ And Mrs Molloy tittered again. ‘Hee hee hee hee hee!'
At this point, many a man would have recognized a hopeless cause, but Scrooge persevered in the face of the evidence.
'But people will think the worst,’ he argued. ‘They will believe I am taking advantage of the girl.'
'Well I should hope you are, Mr Scrooge. Hee hee hee hee hee! And from what I hear, there's life in the old dog yet.'
No, it was no good. The battle was lost.
Scrooge groaned and placed a hand across his forehead. That it should come to this, he thought. That I, Ebenezer Scrooge, whose name inspires terror among failing businessmen and debtors, that I should be successfully conspired against—and not even by men, at that, but by a colloquy of women!
That night, Sasha ran a bath for him.
Somewhere in the basement of Scrooge's building there was a boiler which had been installed some years earlier in order to supply hot water to every floor. The system had never worked properly—which was another cause of complaint among Scrooge's wearied tenants—but Sasha had somehow got to the bottom of it and had waved a magic wand.
Scrooge didn't ask how it had been done. He suspected that the full, hot bath had been achieved through the purchase of large amounts of fuel and the time of a laborer to stoke the boiler.
Cratchit had probably been drawn into the conspiracy and would be paying the laborer from some secret fund which he had siphoned off from Scrooge's books. Thus does corruption creep in, thought Scrooge, through harmless little schemes for the production of something as innocent as hot water. And as he looked at the bath it seemed to Scrooge that a sign had been painted along the side—a sign which only he could read. It said: ‘I am the most expensive bath in London.'
But Scrooge was past complaining.
When Sasha told him to take off his clothes and climb in, he did as he was told.
Her expression did not so much as flicker when he was naked; and for his part he pretended that being naked in the presence of a beautiful girl was something that he was quite used to and of no remark whatever.
He sat in the bath, gazed steadfastly at his feet, and allowed all parts of himself to be soaped and rinsed. All parts. To allow access to some of them he had to kneel up, but he never said a word. Didn't dare.
When he was thoroughly done he was instructed to step out and to be careful to place his feet on the mat. It was a new mat, of course; and Scrooge didn't recognize the big fluffy towels, either.
With Scrooge dealt with, Sasha said that it seemed a pity to waste the water, and she would just take a quick dip after him. Which she did. She slipped out of her clothes and stepped into the bath.
Scrooge was well nigh dry at that point, and he wrapped the towel around him and sat down on the bathroom stool to watch.
He had to sit down, because the beauty of Sasha naked made him feel weak.
Her skin glowed in the light from the one lamp in the room (another new item). Outside, the night was undoubtedly bitter, but within the bathroom the atmosphere was hot and steamy. And Sasha's skin glowed in the golden illumination. She lay back in the bath and her eyes met his, and she smiled.
Scrooge knelt down and kissed her. Her mouth was softer than he would have dreamed possible, and her lips met his willingly. And perhaps, Scrooge hoped, perhaps she was allowing him to kiss her not just out of a sense of duty. It was possible, he hoped—just remotely possible—that she might feel a touch of affection for him. He had done nothing to deserve it, of course. In fact he could not imagine what a man would have to do to deserve the privilege of kissing such a mouth. But given the opportunity of stealing a kiss from it he was not about to let scruples stand in his way. And kissing Sasha proved to be like diving into a pool of warm honey.
After a few moments he leaned back, in order to be able to admire her fully, and she smiled at him again.
'You got a regular girl, Mr Scrooge?'
'No,’ said Scrooge softly.
'I thought you might have some little piece tucked away somewhere.'
'No. I'm afraid not.'
'St John's Wood, they say, is a favorite place for city men's girls.'
'So I understand. But I have no little favorite, Sasha. Though my father kept a mistress, when he was a widower, and if I'd followed his example I would have one too.'
> Scrooge thought about the lady in question—his father's mistress. Susanna she had been called. He had not thought of her in years.
'As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘she was the first woman I ever went with. And very nearly the last. Complained that I spent too quick, and left me feeling foolish.'
Sasha chuckled. ‘That's a common enough failing with younger men. But when you're older you learn to take your time....'
'The relationship was not very satisfactory for either of us,’ Scrooge admitted.
'So what do you do then, if you haven't got a special girl—go to a house?'
Scrooge hesitated. But Sasha was entitled to an answer, of course.
'I do occasionally go to a house, yes. When I find myself distracted from my work. Which isn't very often, mercifully. I am an old man, after all.'
'You're not really old,’ Sasha assured him. ‘Your hair's going gray, but you still got your own teeth. And you stride around pretty quick. You're still vigrus.'
Yes, indeed, Scrooge thought. He was still ‘vigrus'. He had a distinct memory of being vigrus more than once last night, and he had every intention of being vigrus again before he went to sleep. Admittedly, such an action was probably immoral and wicked and sinful, but he would worry about that later. At least he would do his best to see that the pleasure was not all one-sided.
He lowered his head and kissed Sasha's lips once more, then her breasts, licked her nipples.
She laughed and pushed him away. ‘Not yet, sir. Not yet.'
She sat up in the bath and set about washing herself properly.
'Mrs Molloy used to work in a house,’ she told him.
Scrooge wasn't sure that he had heard her correctly. ‘Mrs Molloy what? Worked in a house, did you say?'
'Oh yes. Told me she enjoyed it on the whole. A lot better than working on the streets, she said. Might have been in the place still, only one of the customers fell in love with her and took her away. An Irish gentleman, so she told me.'
Scrooge returned to the stool and pondered.
How long had he known Mrs Molloy? Seven years, was it? She had come with the house, from Marley. Seven years. And yet he had had no idea that she had once been a prostitute.
Of course he had no idea about any other aspect of her life, either. He didn't know where she had been born, how many children she had, whether her husband was alive or dead. These were not matters he had ever troubled to ask about, and since he was renowned for being uninterested in anything except making money, they were matters which had never been confided to him. Scrooge was forced to acknowledge that, even if he had been told any of these things, he would probably have forgotten them. Except the bit about working in a house, of course. He would have remembered that.
Eventually, the water cooled, and Sasha stepped out of the bath into the open towel offered by her master.
As she dried herself she looked at him from time to time, with that half-amused expression which Scrooge was beginning to realize was her natural look when she was at ease.
'You're to spend again tonight,’ she told him.
'Am I?’ said Scrooge dreamily.
'Oh yes. Mrs Bannister said so, definite. He'll try to get out of it, she said. He'll say he's too old, too tired, too busy. But you make sure he does it reg'lar. A man should spend all he has, she reckons—and then make more.'
Hm, well, possibly. Doing it reg'lar with a girl like Sasha seemed very irreg'lar to Scrooge. Very irreg'lar indeed. But if that was what Mrs Bannister thought best, he asked himself, who was he to gainsay the lady?
When Sasha climbed into his bed for the second night in succession, he welcomed her with open arms, and kissed her again.
Part Three
CHAPTER 17
There was no doubt that the arrival of Billy and Sasha in Scrooge's household had administered a shock to his system, but all those who knew him were agreed that the shock was highly beneficial. It had jolted him out of his grumpiness and isolation, his inward-looking, bent-over, suspicious resentment of people in general. Within the space of two weeks, Scrooge's life had been changed for ever; and for the better, as he would have hastened to tell you.
Scrooge still had his moments of anger and impatience, of course. And he still clung tight to his wallet: Cratchit often remarked that it required three strong men to loosen his grip on it. But, for the most part, Scrooge had become a kinder, gentler, more relaxed and considerate person.
Within a further six weeks he was to suffer a loss which would pain him deeply for as long as he lived—but for the moment he was happier than he had been for many years.
And there was so much to do. Scrooge's day-to-day existence hurried him along in a manner which hardly gave him a moment for reflection.
True, he had not quite forgotten that he had decided, at the turn of the year, that he must cut down his involvement in business, must cure himself of his obsession with making money, and must start to apply some of his wealth to good causes. But for the first few weeks of the new year he found such thoughts pushed to the background. Quite coincidentally, he became the subject of more business proposals than he had seen for years, and the habits of a lifetime were so deeply ingrained in him that he could not fail to give them proper attention.
Then there were other calls on his time: his new companions needed advice and assistance. Billy, for instance, had to be found a tutor to teach him to read and write. And, after some inquiries, Scrooge found a retired schoolmaster living nearby who was more than willing to supplement his meager pension by coaching Billy for three hours every morning. Scrooge negotiated a magnificently low fee, only to relent on seeing Cratchit's pained expression.
'You wouldn't exploit the kindness of an old gentleman with a paltry sum like that,’ said Cratchit reproachfully. ‘Would you, sir?'
Scrooge glanced at Billy and saw no support for his economies there.
'Oh, very well then,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Double it if you must.'
And Cratchit did.
As for Sasha—well, she was not backward in coming forward. Her brief from Mrs Bannister was that she was to soften Mr Scrooge's soul, and it was a brief which she interpreted broadly.
She involved herself in every aspect of Scrooge's existence. She put out the clothes for him to wear each day, and when she found that some of them were old and worn, or just plain dull, she ordered others. She simply charged the new items to his account.
As for the old clothes, she simply gave them away, so she did! Didn't even sell them for a few pence at Simmons and Levy's clothes exchange, as Mrs Molloy had always done. Scrooge had enjoyed grumbling about how little his old suits fetched in that quarter, but he wasn't sure that he was bold enough to criticize Sasha for just making a gift of them.
Sasha's supervision did not end with Scrooge's clothes. She made sure that he took regular meals, with a suitable balance of meat, vegetables and fruit. Scrooge came to expect to be questioned closely, on his arrival home in the evening, about what he had had to eat during the day; and Sasha was adapt at discerning when he was being less than truthful.
In the evenings, Scrooge found himself taking more hot baths than he had had in months, with mysterious oils added to the water, if you please. Even his skin was softer now.
The apartment too, was transformed. After a thorough cleaning of every room (with bought-in assistance, Scrooge noted gloomily), Sasha set about redecorating and refurnishing.
Mrs Bannister was taken on as a consultant, and each evening Scrooge came home to find that a wall which had once been a comfortable brown color (probably for forty years), was now a pale blue. And an old chesterfield, which to Scrooge's eye had years of life in it yet (provided you avoided the odd spring), had been tossed out of the front door, awaiting the rag-and-bone man.
The boiler in the basement continued to be stoked, to the point where Scrooge positively sweated at times. But he didn't dare to criticize. If he ventured—and he did, once—to suggest that all this might perhaps
be costing a lot of money, Sasha fairly tore into him, and told him he could afford it ten times over, and if he'd had any sense he'd have seen to it all himself, years earlier. And after that Scrooge thought it wise to keep mum. Ruthless, young Sasha was. Absolutely ruthless.
Scrooge might have resented and resisted all this—indeed he would have fought back with words and deeds—had he had the slightest reason to suppose that he was being taken advantage of, or if he had suspected that his weakness for a beautiful face was being exploited. But he knew well enough that this was not the case. Sasha was working to orders, and the éminence grise behind it all was Mrs Bannister. And besides, everything that was being done was being done in his best interests; Scrooge could sense that, and feel it in his bones.
Even if he had had any resentment, or grounds for complaint, all protest would have melted away at bedtime. Scrooge was not fool enough to imagine that Sasha would have cared for him if she had been left to her own devices. But she was warm and gentle and forbearing, and also very beautiful. If she had been sent to melt his heart, Scrooge thought to himself, she had made a damn good job of it.
In the evenings, and at weekends, the young lady laid down a law that Scrooge was to go out more, meet people, and have some fun. She took him, for instance, to some of the more respectable music halls, places that Scrooge had not even glanced at for a decade or two. He attended concerts, art galleries, and even—until it was proved that he was hopeless at it—allowed himself to be led out on to the dance floor.
On one memorable occasion, Scrooge was sitting with Sasha in the bar of the Victoria Theater, one of the more famous of its kind, enjoying a rum and peppermint during the interval. Rum and peppermint was not a drink which he normally favored himself, but Sasha had fancied one and he ordered two. He was sitting there, idly watching the noisy crowd, when he was spotted by two young fellows from the Royal Exchange. He knew them slightly: Wilkins and Potter.
Wilkins was the first to espy Scrooge, and he could scarcely believe the evidence. He came closer.