by Anne Moore
In due course Dr Medway returned with him to Mrs Molloy's apartment. There he examined the patient, and gave instructions for his care. Warmth, plenty of liquids, a constant watch.
'Would he not be better off in a hospital?’ asked Scrooge.
'No, sir. You have two ladies here who can do all that is necessary, and a bit more besides, I judge. Hospital would not improve his chances.'
Chances.... That was not a word Scrooge cared for.
'If it's a question of money...’ he began haltingly.
Dr Medway put his hand on Scrooge's shoulder. ‘My dear sir,’ he said kindly, ‘if a thousand pounds would do the trick, I know full well that you would press it into my hand here and now. But money is not the answer.'
Scrooge did not loiter in Billy's sickroom. He was useless, and he knew it. Better to leave such matters in the capable hands of Mrs Molloy and Sasha.
Later that day, Mrs Bannister called, and a nursing rota was set up to see that Billy was cared for round the clock.
Scrooge had not cared to ask the doctor directly what his diagnosis was, but Mrs Bannister told him that it was pneumonia. Well, Scrooge had not spent much of his life in discussion of medical matters, but he knew what that meant.
At ten o'clock on the Wednesday night, Sasha came back to Scrooge's apartment to find him slumped in front of the fire.
'Mr Scrooge,’ she said. ‘I think you had better come with me.'
And twenty minutes later, with Scrooge and Sasha and Mrs Molloy beside him, Billy died.
Dr Medway said afterwards that Billy had lived for twenty-four hours longer than he had expected.
'It is no comfort to you, Mr Scrooge,’ he said, ‘but you must realize that half the deaths in this city are of children under ten. At least Billy lived to be twelve. And the truth is, you see, all those years of living half-starved on the street had weakened his system. He had little resistance to infection, and believe me, the city is full of it at present. Be proud, Mr Scrooge, proud that you did the best you could for him, and proud that he fought hard to live.'
For a day or two Scrooge's mind was oppressed by the what-if and the if-only. If only we had not gone to the frost fair, he would say. Perhaps he picked up the infection there. And what if we had got him into a hospital, in spite of what the doctor said.
But all of this was nonsense. Sasha told him so, and in time Scrooge came to accept it.
Some of Scrooge's longer-standing obsessions also troubled him. When the undertaker told him the price of the coffin, he protested vehemently, but found that, for once, he had met his match.
'Your reputation has preceded you, sir,’ said the undertaker coldly. (He was not short of business and could afford to offend six customers that morning without losing a moment's sleep.) ‘I was told that if you were offered a free ticket to heaven you would quibble about the price, sir, and it seems my informant was right. The cost of the coffin is as stated, and it is not subject to discount.'
Scrooge groaned aloud. He groaned both in despair at himself, and in despair at the horrors of the world. He bent low over the undertaker's desk, as if he had been kicked in the stomach, and wrote out a check without another word.
The funeral was naturally to be held in St Andrew's church, with the Reverend Mr Bannister officiating, and Scrooge had a long discussion with the Vicar about the nature of the congregation.
'There are few things more depressing,’ Scrooge declared, ‘than a funeral in an empty church. And I should know, because when your predecessor buried my late partner, Jacob Marley, those present were only myself, the Vicar, the deceased, and four fellows who carried the coffin. Not a satisfactory situation, Mr Bannister, not satisfactory at all. And for this one I suggest we do something different.'
What Scrooge had in mind was that the poor and homeless of the parish should be informed that the funeral would be held at 12.00 noon, and that it would be followed by a free meal in the church hall, adjoining. The meal would, of course, be paid for by himself.
'And if you are nervous about the effect of the great unwashed upon your premises,’ Scrooge added, ‘I shall be pleased to pay for a thorough cleansing afterwards.'
To his credit, Mr Bannister approved this proposal, and the word was put about on the street. Hurried arrangements were made to hire chairs and tables and to arrange for caterers to provide a hot two-course meal for as many as the church hall would hold. Mrs Bannister and Cratchit were in charge of administration.
On the morning of the funeral, the weather was still bitterly cold. There were those who noted that the wind was now coming from the south-west, and said that a thaw was imminent, but for the moment winter was fighting a strong rearguard action. Not surprisingly, therefore, the poor of the parish came to the conclusion that the warmest place to be was with two hundred other people in a crowded building; the church was packed.
What was more, few of those present could ever remember having been offered a free meal before, and if the only qualification needed to get it was to spend half an hour singing hymns in memory of someone you'd barely heard of, well that was not a problem.
At the appropriate point in the service, Scrooge ascended into the pulpit to give a short address. He had assumed, at first, that the Vicar would carry out this task, but he had been told that a few words about Billy would sound much better coming from him, and so he had agreed to speak.
Scrooge paused before beginning, and surveyed the pews in front of him.
Two hundred pairs of eyes stared back at him.
They were wide staring eyes, full of hunger and longing. Men, women, and children, of all ages. Some of them looked exceptionally ragged and dirty, even by the standards of the time; and to tell the truth, when collected en masse, they didn't smell at all nice. However, the unsavory aroma could be cured by leaving the church doors wide open for an hour or two afterwards. If only, Scrooge thought, all problems could be solved as easily.
One glance at the congregation was sufficient to tell him what the assembled poor were thinking. Is he going to be long? they were wondering. Will the food be getting cold? Well, he would not speak long.
But first, Scrooge decided, there was another matter to be dealt with.
'One thing I cannot abide,’ he announced, ‘is a runny nose. So all those who have a runny nose will now wipe it.'
Well, that was a somewhat unorthodox beginning, and there was a rumble of amusement. Perhaps fifty of those present had a runny nose, and of those fifty perhaps two had a handkerchief—or a rag which served as such. The rest used their sleeves, as they always had.
'There,’ said Scrooge. ‘That's better.'
And now he really had their attention, so he began the address proper.
'Ladies and gentlemen.... We have gathered together today to pay our last respects to a young friend and employee of mine, by the name of Billy. I cannot give you his last name, for I never knew it. He never told me, and I never liked to ask. And even Mrs Molloy, to whom he confided much, never knew it either.
'I think most of you will have known Billy by sight. He was young, and small, but he knew every street and alley of this parish, every shop, every cab-driver, every crossing-sweeper, costermonger, and streetgirl.
'The boy never told me much about his background, but he did confide in my housekeeper, Mrs Molloy. She has two grown-up sons of her own and knows how to deal with youngsters.
'Billy was born into a working-class family, with two children younger than himself. As is all too often the case, the father died young, leaving his widow to fend for herself. Then Billy's mother fell ill. They were evicted from their home for failing to pay the rent. And they were obliged to seek refuge with the woman's sister and her husband. But the husband did not treat Billy well. In fact, he treated him abominably. Let us say no more of it than that. And so, when his mother died too, Billy ran away, and began to scratch a living on the streets as best he could. Life for him was as the philosopher Hobbes described it in the state of nature: nasty
, brutish, and short.
'That was three years ago. As for my connection with him—well, the boy came into my life on Christmas Day last, and since then I had employed him as my office boy, to run errands for me.
'I had hoped that Billy would prosper under my employment. I had hoped that he would learn to read and write fluently, so that he might find a good job in due course. A job on which he could afford a home, a wife, and a family. Or fambly, as he always referred to it. But that was not to be.
'Now this is a Christian church, and the Vicar will tell you that Billy has gone to heaven. And for those who are Christians, that thought is a great comfort. But for those who do not believe in the Christian afterlife, the loss of one such as Billy is particularly hard to bear. In the words of the great seventeenth-century physician, Sir Thomas Browne: It is the heaviest stone that melancholy can throw at a man, to tell him that there is no further state to come.
'In closing, therefore, let me quote further from that same source, Sir Thomas Browne—for these words hold true, I believe, whatever our philosophy: It cannot be long before we too lie down in darkness, and have our light in ashes.
'That being so, it surely falls to those who remain behind to use our time, such as it is, to best advantage—both for our own satisfaction, and for the sake of others.'
Billy was buried in St Andrew's churchyard. The ground being frozen solid, braziers had to be set up for twenty-four hours before six men with picks could dig the hole deep enough.
Afterwards, Scrooge caused to be erected a modest marker. It was nothing over-elaborate; just a plain piece of stone, on which were carved the following words:
Billy—a child of the street who died too young
The following week, Scrooge provided the Vicar with a sum of money sufficient to ensure that each year a Christmas feast could be provided for the poor of the parish. Oh, and with the proviso that each person attending should be presented with a gift: a brand-new linen handkerchief.
At the end of that same week, Scrooge was sitting at home one morning—yes, sitting at home, for he had not the energy to go into the office that day—when he had a caller: Mrs Bannister.
Scrooge invited the lady in, and Sasha served them coffee.
After some small talk Mrs Bannister declared that she had heard it rumored that Scrooge was deeply depressed.
Scrooge thought about it.
'No, not exactly depressed,’ he said. ‘I consider it futile to rail against fate. Useless to worry about that which we cannot change. But I am weary and I am saddened.'
'By the death of your young friend.'
'By that, yes. But also by the realization that it is not as easy to help people as I had thought.'
Mrs Bannister nodded. ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘And I think what you need is a change of scene, Mr Scrooge. What you should do is go down to Wiltshire and stay with my sister.'
'Ah yes,’ said Scrooge. ‘The widow of Pewsey.'
'Indeed.'
'Would she be willing to have me?'
'She is very interested to meet you again. You have a standing invitation, sir.'
Scrooge smiled as he remembered the lady. ‘Well, that's a very kind thought. Perhaps I will go one day.'
'No perhaps about it, sir,’ said Mrs Bannister briskly. ‘My sister and I have been in correspondence, and it is all arranged. You will go today, and she will look for you on the four o'clock train. Sasha will pack you a bag.'
It was a measure of Scrooge's fatigue that he could summon no will to resist. This was clearly something that had been planned for him, several days earlier, by that all-powerful cabal: Sasha, Mrs Bannister, and her sister. As Scrooge had already learnt, and as he was to have demonstrated to him many times in subsequent years, the man who attempted to stand firm in the face of their wishes was a direct descendant of King Canute.
He simply nodded and declared that he would be pleased to take advantage of the widow's kind offer.
Sasha escorted him to the train.
'You all right, Mr Scrooge?’ she asked anxiously, as she helped him into the compartment.
'Yes,’ said Scrooge, ‘I think I shall survive.’ Though the truth was, he felt far from well. In fact, he felt horribly ill, boiling hot one minute and shivering cold the next. But he was determined not to admit it, even to himself.
'You look pale, and you're sweating a bit, despite the frost.'
'I'm all right!’ snapped Scrooge.
'Very well then!’ shouted Sasha in return, and she whacked the compartment door shut with a force that would have taken his fingers off had he been careless enough to leave them in the wrong place.
Sasha stamped off, but after a few moments she relented. She came back, opened the door, and tucked a warm rug around his knees.
'You get off at Pewsey,’ she reminded him.
'Yes, Miss,’ said Scrooge meekly.
And Sasha smiled at last.
As the train moved slowly west, Scrooge gazed miserably out of the window. Everything was gray. The sky, the snow, even the frost-encrusted trees.
Inside his head, his thoughts were in a whirl. He was thinking about the school he had visited, the hostel for the homeless men, the children's hospital, Billy, the office, Sasha, Mrs Bannister, his hostess the widow, and a thousand other things, some of them best forgotten.
And deep, deep inside, was that awful pain which would not go away. The certainty that he would never again see young Billy.
He must have fallen asleep, for when the train reached Pewsey he became aware of where he was only when the engine jerked to a halt.
Sasha had evidently told the guard to keep an eye on him, for the man came along and opened the door of the compartment, calling up a porter to carry Scrooge's case.
Scrooge stepped out on to the platform.
He must have looked very ill, even then, for he heard the porter say to him in a concerned voice, ‘Are you all right, sir?'
'Oh yes, thank you,’ said Scrooge.
But he wasn't all right by any means, and the platform seemed to rise up towards him.
CHAPTER 20
It was five days before Scrooge became fully aware of his surroundings. Prior to that he drifted in and out of consciousness. He knew, of course, that he was in bed, that he was ill, and that he was being cared for, and he vaguely recognized the lady who was with him most of the time. But even when he was awake he was only half awake, and he soon fell back into a deep sleep which was close to death. And, to the extent that he was thinking at all, death didn't seem such a bad alternative.
At some point during his fifth night away from home he woke up and saw that he was in a strange room. He didn't really know where he was; but it was a nice warm place, with a big bed, and a fire in the hearth. There were no lights in the room, and no sounds within or without it, so he knew that the hour must be in the middle of the night, and that the household must be asleep. It seemed best, in the circumstances, to roll over and go back to sleep himself.
In the morning he awoke for a second time, as he thought, and saw Sasha standing beside his bed. But was she real or was she part of a dream?
'Sasha,’ he said. ‘Is that you?'
'It is,’ she said, and smiled.
'But where am I?'
'You're at Mrs Kincaid's house.'
'Mrs Kincaid?'
'Yes. You know—the widow. Mrs Bannister's sister.'
'Ah yes,’ said Scrooge. ‘I think I remember.’ And he did, after a fashion. ‘How long have I been ill?'
'Five days, give or take a bit.'
'I see. And how long have you been here?'
'Three days. I was sent for.'
Scrooge thought about sitting up, but decided it would be too much effort.
'You feeling better, Mr Scrooge?'
'Well, better than I was, certainly.'
'Good. You have a rest now, and I'll go and get you some soup.'
Later, after he had been helped to sit up and consume a bowl of excel
lent vegetable soup, Scrooge was well enough to have a sensible conversation.
'You nearly died, you know,’ Sasha said cheerfully.
'Did I?'
'Oh yes. Mrs Kincaid was right worried about you. You no sooner got off the train than you dropped down at her feet in a faint. She said she hadn't realized she had that effect on people. She was all right when she got you home, but she panicked a bit in the carriage on the way here. Thought she was going to lose you, you see, and her sister would never have forgiven her.'
Sister.... Ah yes, Mrs Bannister, the Vicar's wife. ‘Why so?’ asked Scrooge.
'Because they've got plans for you, them two.’ Sasha seemed to regard this as a huge joke, and she grinned broadly. ‘You want to watch out, Mr Scrooge. A pair of plotters and schemers, they are.'
'Plotters? Schemers?’ Scrooge felt vaguely alarmed. ‘What plans could they possibly have for me?
'Ooh, I dunno,’ said Sasha mysteriously. ‘But I reckon they have.'
The prospect seemed to cause her nothing but amusement, so Scrooge decided that his fate could not be all that terrible.
Sasha continued, addressing him as if he was his normal self. ‘Do you know what they say about Mrs Kincaid in the village?'
'No, what do they say?'
'They say she's a witch.'
Scrooge had a vague recollection of having heard that said before, but he decided that he must still be asleep. Yes, that was it. This was clearly a dream. Or, if he was not asleep, was this conversation, perhaps, Sasha's idea of fun? He closed his eyes, fully intending, if he was not already sleeping, to return to that state as soon as possible. It seemed a very attractive condition.
But before going back to sleep he thought he would just go through the motions of making a reply.
'So,’ he murmured, with his eyes tight shut, ‘if the widow lady is a witch, is she going to turn me into a frog?'
'Nah,’ said Sasha. ‘You're too ugly to be a frog. You'd have to be a toad.'
Scrooge slept again.
Later that day he was visited by higher authority, in the shape of the widow herself. Sasha accompanied her.