by Anne Moore
'Why of course,’ he said. ‘I shall take a longer walk that day, and wear myself out, to the point where an early night will be welcome.'
'Splendid. And I wonder if you have noticed the justification for the other small celebration—a little party next Saturday.'
Scrooge concentrated fiercely, anxious not to be found wanting yet again. Birthday? Hadn't heard of one. Wedding anniversary? Hardly. Dammit, why hadn't Sasha given him a hint?
'I'm afraid,’ he said eventually, ‘that no specific cause for a party immediately comes to mind.'
The widow did not rub his nose in it. ‘Well, it's not much of an excuse,’ she said, ‘but at the end of this week, the days and the nights will be exactly the same length.'
'Ah—you mean the spring equinox.'
'I do.'
Scrooge sighed in exasperation at his own failure to recognize the obvious. ‘Well, I can't say that I would have guessed that. The equinox is not an event that we take much notice of in financial circles.'
'Well we note it here,’ said the widow. ‘And I normally give a party to mark the occasion. And now that you seem to be well recovered, I have taken the liberty of inviting a few friends and neighbors to join us, next Saturday evening.'
The widow accompanied Scrooge on most of his walks, and the following day was no exception. As they proceeded she pointed out to him some of the sights of village (there were not many, for Tanway was not a large place), and introduced him to various friends and neighbors whom they happened to meet. The widow was a friendly soul, Scrooge noticed, and she greeted the farm laborers with the same enthusiasm as the Vicar. She seemed to know everyone.
One of the principal landmarks in Tanway was the church, which was positioned at the western end of the main village street. To begin with, a walk as far as the church and back was enough exercise for one day, and on several occasions Scrooge and the widow walked slowly around the churchyard before returning home.
The chief feature of the churchyard was an ancient yew tree. It was, said the widow, probably twice as old as the church itself, which meant something in excess of a thousand years. Quite how the widow would know this, Scrooge wasn't sure, but the tree was undoubtedly venerable, because its trunk had long since split into two, leaving a space through which a man could walk.
Close to the church was the manor house, which was also old but had evidently been rebuilt and remodeled in Georgian times. It was fronted by a wall, with a handsome pair of gates.
'And who might your squire be?’ Scrooge inquired, as they paused to look at the building.
'There is a vacancy,’ said the widow thoughtfully. ‘The family was an ancient and honorable one, but by no means fertile. Sir John, who was the last male of the line, died childless many years ago, and his widow followed him last year. She lived to be ninety, and was a good friend of mine. She was a member of my sewing circle.'
The widow turned to point back at the churchyard.
'Her grave is over there, in the far corner. The house and the estate adjoining it have been inherited by two distant cousins who live in Canada, and they have, I understand, no intention of returning. So what is to become of the property no one knows.’ The widow smiled mysteriously. ‘Do you fancy the life of a country squire, Mr Scrooge?'
Scrooge paused. ‘Well oddly enough,’ he said, ‘I was born and bred in a small country town, near Newbury, but I migrated to London as soon as I left school. I have sometimes thought about returning to the country for my last years—but not yet awhile, I think.'
On the night of the sewing-circle meeting, Scrooge retired to his bedroom soon after seven, leaving the coast clear for the widow and Sasha. Both of them, together with the two ladies who came in on a daily basis to deal with the cooking and household work, had been busy all day with preparations. Sasha in particular was clearly excited by the prospect of the evening's activity.
Upstairs, Scrooge undressed and popped into bed; and he was pleased to find that it was a bed which had thoughtfully been warmed for him with a pan of hot coals. It was too early to go to sleep yet, so he read for while.
Downstairs he heard the doorbell ringing repeatedly, and the chatter of female voices as the guests arrived.
Later he heard singing. Or rather, a sort of chanting. It was not an unpleasant sound. Indeed it was really rather restful. And so, after a while, Scrooge put out his lamp, and slept.
The following morning he descended for breakfast. He was, perhaps, a trifle earlier than had been his previous habit, and he found that the dining-room was still laid out as it had been for use on the night before. The table was pushed to the rear of the room and the chairs were set in a circle.
'Perhaps we should take breakfast in the kitchen this morning,’ said the widow, when she came upon him standing by the dining-room door and unsure of where to go.
'Why certainly,’ said Scrooge. ‘It will be very welcome wherever it is served.'
Sasha cooked for them, and Scrooge watched her affectionately as she worked. There was something about that girl, he decided. She had come on in leaps and bounds in the short time he had known her. Put on weight too, he suspected. There was a sort of glow about her—a sense of accomplishment and self-confidence which pleased him greatly. He felt a warm sense of satisfaction that a few people—Mrs Bannister, the widow, and himself—acting together, had been able to bring about a transformation which they could take pride in.
'I do hope,’ said the widow after a while, ‘that our meeting last night did not disturb you.'
'Oh no,’ said Scrooge quite truthfully. ‘Though I was somewhat surprised to hear you singing.'
The widow exchanged a glance with Sasha. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘We sang all right.'
Sasha looked back at the widow. ‘And we danced too,’ she said, with an obviously mischievous intent, and the two of them burst out laughing. In fact they laughed so much that Sasha had to sit down and bend her head forward over her knees.
Scrooge was so taken aback that he didn't know what to say. As soon as he reasonably could, he changed the subject.
At the weekend, as she had said she would, the widow gave another party to mark the spring equinox.
The dining-room was once again prepared for the occasion. The furniture was rearranged, and the best silver candlesticks were brought out and polished. The widow, Sasha, and the two helpers labored all day to prepare.
Come the evening, a good pile of logs was set burning in the spacious hearth (for the nights were still cold), and Mr Scrooge was given charge of the wines. The red wines were decanted and left to breathe, and the white wines were suitably chilled.
Scrooge decided to dress up for the occasion, since the ladies seemed determined to do so. Sasha had in fact traveled to Pewsey to buy a new dress; charged to Scrooge's account, of course.
'Dressing up’ meant that Scrooge wore a dark-blue suit with a faint chalk stripe (as opposed to his customary dark gray, so dark that it was almost black); gold cufflinks (as opposed to his normal choice of small pieces of ebony set in steel); and—just to show that this was a relatively informal occasion—a white silk handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket.
His beard, he decided on looking into the mirror, was really quite presentable; in fact he had to snip off a few loose hairs to tidy it up.
About a dozen friends and neighbors, of both sexes, came in for the evening, and were served with a hot buffet meal.
When the party began, Scrooge was slightly surprised at the variety of persons present. They included, as he had expected, some of the higher levels of local society (a lawyer from Pewsey and his wife), but also some persons of much more modest status (the village blacksmith and his wife, a washerwoman). However, the mix seemed to work perfectly well, as if all present were used to such gatherings.
During the evening, the widow called upon some of her friends to provide musical entertainment. The piano was heavily used, as were the odd fiddle and a double bass brought in by guests. Several songs wer
e performed, both solo and in chorus.
To Scrooge's astonishment, one of the solos came from Sasha.
True, he had heard her singing about the house from time to time, both here and in London, but he had not taken a great deal of notice, and it would certainly not have occurred to him to invite her to sing in company.
But here she was invited, for in keeping with the catholic nature of her guests the widow had chosen to treat Sasha as one of the family and not as a servant. And Sasha sang the song beautifully.
It was not a melody that Scrooge remembered hearing before, and he could not have repeated a word of the lyric afterwards. But the sensation of having heard it—the memory of the purity of her voice, and the strange, disturbing melancholy that it induced in him—that, he knew, would stay with him for ever.
Afterwards, when all the guests had gone, Scrooge congratulated Sasha on her performance.
'I had no idea,’ he said, ‘that you could sing so beautifully. And that song—I wonder where you learnt it?'
As soon as he spoke, Scrooge realized that this was a question he should not have asked, because a wince of pain crossed Sasha's face. But she did answer him.
'Oh,’ she said, after a moment's hesitation. ‘It was a song my mother taught me.'
And then, to Scrooge's dismay, she burst into tears.
Trying his best to make good his foolish error, Scrooge took her into his arms and held her close while she sobbed.
'Oh, Sasha, Sasha, Sasha,’ he said. And he stroked her head until the worst of the tears subsided.
CHAPTER 24
After another ten days, Scrooge decided that he really had no further excuse for imposing upon the widow's generosity, and he decided to return to London, taking Sasha with him.
He half expected that Sasha would object to this decision. He thought it possible that she would apply to stay with the widow, so that she could be near the young butcher who had caught her eye. But either the affair with the butcher was less advanced than he had thought, or else Sasha had concluded that she would in any case be back in the country soon. Scrooge wasn't sure which, but either way he had the feeling that some female plotting was afoot. In any event, Sasha accompanied him without a murmur.
The two travelers reached London by lunchtime, on a Monday morning, and after a bite to eat Scrooge went into the office. There Cratchit spent the afternoon bringing him up to date on developments in his business affairs.
Scrooge listened dutifully, but he found his attention wandering. Part of him was amazed to find that he wasn't the least bit interested in business, and the other part was not at all surprised.
When Cratchit asked for decisions on what to do about certain projects, Scrooge's instinct was to say withdraw, close down, cash in. Bring it to an end. Wind it up. He proposed nothing that would harm any other participant, you understand, but as for his own involvement—why, he found that he wanted as little to do with business as possible.
How odd, he thought. A year or two ago he would not have foreseen such a change of heart.
The papers from the lawyer concerning the establishment of his charitable trust were also on his desk, awaiting his attention, but Scrooge didn't even glance at them. Later, he thought. Later.
For the moment there was a much more vital and pressing matter on his mind, a matter which kept popping back into his head even while Cratchit was explaining what had happened over the weeks of his absence. It was a matter which would have to be dealt with before the day was out—he would deal with it that very evening.
On returning to his apartment, Scrooge told Sasha to put on a smart dress, and then he took her out to dinner.
After a leisurely meal, and a stroll home, Scrooge decided that it was time to raise with her the question which had been occupying him all day. He poured a glass of brandy for himself, and a glass of port for Sasha, and sat her down in front of the warm fire in the sitting-room.
When they were both comfortable he told Sasha that he wanted to be quite sure, in his own mind, that she understood something.
'I want you to be aware,’ he said carefully, ‘that it is not compulsory for you to continue the arrangement which operated before I went down to the country. Before I became ill, as you will remember, we shared a bed together. And a very happy and pleasing arrangement that was. It was a privilege and a pleasure for me. But you must not feel, Sasha, that you are under any obligation to continue that practice. Especially now that you have found someone else, someone of about your own age, for whom you naturally feel some affection.'
'Ah, well now there you're wrong,’ said Sasha firmly.
'Wrong about what? I thought you were attracted to this butcher lad.'
'So I am, but you're wrong about me not being under any obligation. For I am under an obligation. I have my orders, Mr Scrooge, and they come from a lady to whom I owe everything, and so I will not disobey her.'
Scrooge paused. ‘I assume,’ he said, ‘that you mean Mrs Bannister.'
'I do. And Mrs Bannister says that you're to be made to do it every night, and no excuses. She says that it says in the Bible that a man should make love to his wife every day, and the same applies to you and me, even though we're not married.'
Scrooge could hardly believe his ears. ‘A man must make love to his wife every night?’ he echoed. ‘I must say I am inclined to doubt that. Where in the Bible does it say any such thing?'
'Ah, that's what I said,’ replied Sasha. ‘And Mrs Bannister wouldn't tell me. She just said that she'd told her husband, some years ago, that that's what it said in the Bible, and he hadn't contradicted her, so she reckoned it must be right.'
Scrooge smiled. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I see. Well that settles it then.'
The Vicar, Scrooge decided, must be an even more sensible fellow than he had thought.
'If you ask me,’ said Sasha, ‘I reckon Mrs Bannister made it all up, on account of she's desperate to have a family. But of course she never will, because they've been married for years and nothing's ever happened, and in any case she's far too old.'
'Oh yes,’ said Scrooge solemnly. ‘She must be all of thirty-five.’ But his irony went unnoticed.
'Anyway, Mrs Bannister says that I'm to sleep with you, and to keep you at it, no slacking allowed as long as you're well, and that's what I intend to do.'
Scrooge thought about this for a moment. ‘But what about your butcher boy?’ he inquired.
'That's different. That's in my own time. This is work.'
Work indeed. Scrooge didn't know whether to feel insulted at being regarded as a mere job, or impressed at the girl's diligence. He was lost for any kind of response, and fell silent.
After a moment he got to his feet and poured them both another drink. Normally one glass of brandy was plenty, but tonight he felt the need of a little more. And besides, he wanted to loosen Sasha's tongue.
When they were both settled again he said: ‘I never did ask young Billy about his background, Sasha. Not very much, anyway. Most of what I know about him I gleaned from Mrs Molloy. And I regret that now. I would have felt honored if Billy had been able to tell me about where he was born, and how he came to be on the streets. So I wonder, Sasha, if you feel able to tell me something about yourself. But of course, if there are things in the past that you would rather keep confidential, then you must not feel any necessity to tell me. I would not wish to upset you. And a phrase which I have often used myself is Mind your own business, so I shan't take it amiss if you quote it at me.'
Sasha looked at him from her chair on the other side of the fireplace, and Scrooge felt his heart beat faster at the sight of her beauty.
He was not exactly in love with her—not in love in the sense that young men become hopelessly captivated by girls—but he found her an entrancing picture. Even as he looked at her he could remember the touch of her mouth on his, and he longed to possess her physically once again.
Perhaps, he thought, perhaps he ought to be ashamed of feeling such des
ire for her. Perhaps it was very wicked of him. But it was surely a natural enough emotion that he felt, and he only wished that he were thirty years younger and could sensibly expect to make a life with her.
Sasha took her time about answering his question. ‘What did you want to know?’ she asked cautiously. ‘About my background, as you call it.'
'Well, whatever you feel able to tell me.'
There was a long pause, during which Sasha stirred uneasily in her chair. Then she evidently made her mind up, and began to speak.
'I was born in Southwark, Mr Scrooge, just south of the bridge over the Thames, and my father was a carpenter. My mother took in washing, and I was the eldest of three children, the other two being a boy and a girl. We were a happy family for a while, and my mother taught me to read and write after a fashion. But our troubles began when my father died. I was eight years old at the time. After that we became poor, for my mother could earn very little with three young children to look after.
'I earned what I could for her by running errands and the like, but it wasn't very much, and when I was ten I was sent into service as a maid-of-all-work in a small tradesman's house. While I was there the mistress of the house beat me severely. She knocked me black and blue with a broom handle. I complained to my mother when she saw me, and for a while things were better, but then my mother also fell ill and died, and I had no one to stand up for me. What became of my brother and sister I do not know, for I have neither seen or heard of them since.
'With my mother gone, the mistress had nothing to restrain her in her punishment of me, and after six months I could stand it no longer and ran away. Nothing could be worse than living where I was—or so I thought.
'That first night, I had nowhere to sleep, and the girls on the streets told me of Mrs Hodge's house, which was a low lodging-house in Kent Street, and there I went because I had a penny to gain admission.
'That lodging-house was a den of wickedness beyond all description, and I was in many others like it in the years that followed. Forty and fifty young people were crammed into a small room, sleeping naked, the sexes mixed up in a jumble. Lewdness and filth ran riot. The stench was disgusting and made me sick. Boys and girls were lying bare-skinned on dirty sheets together, and seeing no harm in it. Those that did not know how to swear and use foul language soon learnt, and most of those that were there had stolen the money to pay for their night's lodging. But sleep was almost impossible, for the noise and the yelling and fighting made it hard for anyone to rest.