Peter Cratchit's Christmas Carol

by Drew Marvin Frayne

  The lessons. So it was he who sent the ghosts, and my uncle, to me. “Promise me that ye will see it done, lad,” he said.

  I understood. I nodded. “I promise, Augie.” I said. “I will see it done. What I will tell them, how I will explain my absence to my family, I do not know. But I will see it done.”

  Augie took my face in his hands. “Tell them—tell them a story, Peter Cratchit,” he said. “I seem to recall ye had quite a talent for that.”

  I wrapped my hands around Augie one last time. Augie did the same. And then he kissed me. It was a kiss that held such language and such assurance; it was a kiss of forgiveness, and gratitude, and, above all, a kiss of unyielding, unending love.

  Even before we finished our embrace, Augie started to fade from my view. “Goodbye, my love,” I said. Augie turned and waved, and finally, finally, finally, I let him go.

  And when I opened my eyes once more, I was in my little recess, in my little alley, back in London, back in Camden Town.

  Five

  The End of It

  I OPENED MY eyes, and then I closed them. One moment more with Augie. One moment more of mourning what was lost. One moment more with what had once been.

  And then I opened my eyes to the future.

  I felt—light. Light as a feather, actually. And as merry as a schoolboy. “And giddy as a drunken man!” I said and laughed. I laughed. I laughed! Long, and loud, and tears came down my cheeks—tears shed, for once, in joy, and not from sorrow.

  “Oh, Augie, Uncle Scrooge,” I promised, “I will keep Christmas in my heart. I will remember the lessons of this day. And I will tend to those who need me. Oh, heavens and Christmas time be praised!”

  Christmas! I wondered… Hastily, I made my way out of the alley and onto the street. Yes! There were people, plenty of people milling about, and I could sense a hum of excitement in the air. Or was that just my imagination?

  “What’s today?” I cried, calling out to a boy dressed in Sunday clothes.

  “Eh?” the boy returned.

  “What’s today, my fine fellow?” I asked again.

  When I first spoke to him, the boy’s cautious response suggested wariness in regards to my haggard, soiled appearance. But my repeated question, and the rather incredulous look on his face, seemed to indicate that he had determined I was harmless, though clearly foolish. “Why, it’s Christmas Day!” he said, before taking off like a shot down the street.

  I observed the boy as he ran, finding great amusement in watching him scamper away so rapidly. There was such joy to be had in this world, even in sights as simple as a child running. I rubbed my hands together in pent-up excitement. “It’s Christmas Day. Christmas Day! I haven’t missed it. I have only been with the spirits for one night. But what do I do? I don’t know what to do!” This was not precisely true. I knew what I needed to do—I needed to go home. I was more unsure of how to best accomplish this feat. “Should I just show up—like this?” I said, looking down at myself and taking stock of my clothes and my form. I must confess that my giddy heart yearned for nothing more than to rush into the arms of my loved ones, and my guilty conscience advised that the sooner I could let my family know I lived, the better. But I admit it stung my pride a bit to be seen in my current state. My hair was wild and unkempt; my face and clothing were soiled and tattered beyond repair; and I smelled terribly of animal muck. No matter. These things could not be helped. And my foolish pride had caused me enough damage in this world.

  I endeavored to clean some of the dirt off of my clothes, using my hands to wipe first my trousers, then my shirt, then my tattered coat. And yet, when I struck at my coat, I heard a strange tinkling sound coming from my pocket. I reached my hand inside and pulled out several gold sovereign coins.

  I thought of Uncle Scrooge’s last embrace, and I smiled.

  I had prepared a story for the innkeeper, lest my untidy appearance prevented me from getting a room at the inn. But the sight of the gold in my hands was enough to secure me a room, a hot bath, and a bountiful feast. Another coin convinced a local barber to fit me in for a quick cut of the hair, and a few more persuaded a tailor to open his shop, and I was outfitted, head to toe, with new garments to wear.

  While the tailor was dressing me, he attempted to convince me to purchase an outfit in the latest Paris fashion, made of the finest silk. “It would look very fetching on you, sir!” the man said.

  I laughed. “I am not going home in triumph, my fine fellow. I am just going home.” This earned me a quizzical glance, but I only smiled and assured him that calico would suit me just fine.

  Dressed more appropriate to the occasion, I began my walk to Uncle Fred’s house. I arrived sometime in the afternoon, but if the vision Uncle Scrooge had shown me was correct, my entire family—all of them—would have already assembled.

  I walked past the door a half dozen times, trying to find the right words to say. But there were none. Finally, screwing my courage to the sticking place, I made a dash at the door and knocked.

  A girl answered. I did not know her, but much had changed, I supposed, in my two-year absence, and why should that not include Fred’s little housemaid?

  “Is your master at home, my dear?” I said. Of course, I knew he was.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s in the dining room, sir, along with the mistress and all of his guests. I’ll show you upstairs, and let him know you are here, if you please.”

  I had already made my way across the entry, and my hand was on the dining room door. “Thank you, but he knows me,” I said. “I’ll just go in.”

  I opened it gently and quietly sidled my face in around the door. They had just begun to dine, and engrossed in the splendors of the holiday repast, no one noticed me at first. But then my sister Bettina happened to glance in my direction, and her sudden, sharp inhalation and the crashing sound of a goblet hitting the floor alerted everyone to my presence.

  “Hello,” I said weakly. “Merry Christmas.”

  How they started! How each and every one of them started to see me standing there, alive! My next waking moments were a blur of hugs and tears and a cacophony of voices, all speaking at once. I was glad that my mother possessed a firm constitution and did not faint, though the same could not be said for poor Uncle Fred, who collapsed into a chair and did not leave it until I was able to make my way over to him, so he might hold my face and hands in his own and assure himself that I was really, truly there.

  “I had to know that you were really alive,” he said by way of explanation. “After all, we are a family with some history with ghosts!”

  I smiled and kissed him on each cheek. “And so we are, Uncle.”

  There were exclamations and explanations, and as Augie suggested, I told them all quite a story, a tale of capture by Barbary pirates and a rousing escape. For some time, I had them under my spell, and my absence was soon quite forgiven and nearly forgot. Tomorrow I would visit Mr. Whitby and report what had truly happened aboard the Belisama. For now, I let my family simply revel in the miracle of my safe return and the thrill of my adventures.

  I did the same.

  It was good to be home.

  Still, there were some sad tidings to account for. “My dear sister,” I said to Martha, “I was very saddened to see that you have lost your milliner’s shop.”

  My sister’s look was one of surprise, and not pity. “I have lost it?” she said with a laugh. “Why, wherever did it go?”

  I was confused. “But—I saw, it is a printer’s shop now.”

  But Martha only laughed more. “I moved my shop to High Street—ohh, has it been a year, Bettina?”

  “Nearly so,” Bettina replied. “For that is how long Jeremy has owned the printer’s shop.”

  “We own it, my dearest,” Jeremy said, placing an arm around my sister’s shoulders. “And soon it will be more than a printer’s shop, for we will be publishing original books in the new year.”


  “Just small things at first, pamphlets and poetry,” Bettina chimed in modestly. “Indeed, if we are half as successful as Martha, we shall be great sensations, indeed!”

  “But the business is not doing well, is it, Father? Uncle Fred?” I said, drawing the attention of the entire room. “You plan to sell it, before the year is out.”

  I could tell by the expressions on the faces around me that this was new information for almost everyone in the room. “Dash it all, Peter Cratchit,” my Uncle Fred said, though his tone of voice suggested bemusement and not irritation. “Here you have been gone for two years, and yet you seem to be incredibly well-informed!”

  “Dearest?” My aunt Clara touched her husband’s shoulder. “Is this true?”

  “Well,” my uncle Fred started, exchanging a look with my father before continuing, “yes, my dear, it is true. As of the new year, Scrooge and Cratchit will officially close its doors for good.”

  I thought this news would hit the family rather hard; but, to my astonishment, everyone seemed titillated by this new development. “Does that mean—?” my mother started, holding her breath in anticipation of the answer.

  “Yes, my love,” my father replied. “The sale of Scrooge and Cratchit is certified and approved as of yesterday.”

  This brought a great round of applause from everyone in the room, save me, who only stood thunderstruck at both the news and my family’s reaction to it. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I said.

  “You see, my boy,” my father told me. “Neither Fred nor I have quite the head for business that your Uncle Scrooge once possessed. We admit we’ve struggled a bit. But we have just sold the company.”

  “And got a very good price, if I do say so myself,” my uncle Fred added. “Plus a yearly income for both families.”

  I was still lost in bewilderment. “So—so things are well, Father?”

  My father was laughing. “Yes, my boy.”

  “But—but you said that you and Tim would no longer be able to give out geese in Camden Town—”

  “How could you possibly know of that?” my father said, his voice now taking on a tone of bewilderment. He narrowed his eyes and gazed at me quite curiously, as if wondering where I really had been these past two years.

  It was my brother Tim who answered me. “That is because I will be away. I am going to the seminary to join the priesthood.”

  “And we are so proud of you!” my mother said, giving my brother a kiss on his cheek.

  Tim smiled. “Perhaps you can join Father in Camden Town next year, Peter, in my stead.”

  I turned to my father once more. “So everything is truly well?”

  My father clapped me on the shoulder. The look upon his face told me that he believed that something quite extraordinary had happened to me, something even more extraordinary than the tales of pirates and faraway shores I had already spun for them. “Everything is truly well, my son. Especially now that you have returned to us.”

  I smiled ruefully. “I have been fortune’s fool,” I said to myself. But at least now I knew I had been a fool. Something to certainly be grateful for.

  There was some slight commotion in the entryway. Uncle Fred rushed to the dining room door. “I asked Mr. Sewell—he is the man who bought the company—to stop by today for a little Christmas cheer. Little did I know how much cheer we would have to share with him on this happy, glorious day!” He opened the door and in walked a handsome, middle-aged man—a man I had first spied the night before, with Uncle Scrooge by my side. “Everyone, family—this is Mr. William Sewell, the new owner of Scrooge and Cratchit!”

  “Thank you, Mr. Scrooge,” Mr. Sewell said. There was another figure standing behind him, and the businessman stepped aside so all of us could see the other man more clearly. “And please allow me to introduce my son, Henry Sewell.” Henry Sewell. Lean, pale, and with a curious, lyre-shaped scar on the left side of his forehead. The suicide. The youth from my vision of Christmases Yet to Come.

  The boy of my future.

  “Oh, Augie,” I whispered under my breath. “Uncle Scrooge, spirits of Christmas. I shall praise you all until the day I die.”

  William Sewell proved a gregarious fellow who quickly made friends with everyone in the room. Unlike his father, Henry Sewell was quiet and gloomy, and inclined to sulk in one corner of the dining room.

  I did not plan on his being alone for long.

  “Peter Cratchit, Mr. Sewell,” I said, extending a hand. “It seems our families shall be joined from here on.”

  His response was monotone and brooding. “So it appears, Mr. Cratchit.”

  The tenor of his voice and the disposition of his shoulders indicated that Henry Sewell was not inclined to conversation. But I would not be dissuaded so easily. “I understand, Mr. Sewell,” I said, “that you write poetry.”

  This caught the young man’s attention. It did indeed. His eyes lit up, and he turned and finally looked straight at me. “I do, Mr. Cratchit,” he said, not even trying to hide the happy disbelief in his voice. “But how should you know of that?”

  But I did not answer him directly. “I should very much like to hear your work, Mr. Sewell.”

  “Truly?” Again, the excitement in his voice could not be contained, though there was also a note of caution. “Perhaps. I have never really shared my work with anyone. No one ever showed the interest. And, I must confess, some of my poems are—rather private.”

  I leaned toward Henry Sewell and spoke with an air of confidence I did not quite yet feel. “I am something of a fellow storyteller, Mr. Sewell, and, in my experience, it is our most private thoughts that make for the most compelling fictions. Would you not agree?”

  But before he could answer, my uncle Fred had called for quiet and raised his glass for one of his rather famous long-winded toasts. “My family, and friends, new and old—” he began, but my brother Tim interrupted him.

  “God bless us, every one!” he said, and we all raised our glasses in toast to our fellow man.

  “And God bless you, Mr. Sewell,” I said, extending my glass to him. “I hope we shall be fast friends.”

  For his part, Henry Sewell raised his glass to mine and did something I had yet to see him do, either here, in this world, or previously, in that other world.

  He smiled.

  Six

  One Christmas Later

  COLD. I WAS dreadfully cold.

  Shivering.

  I partially opened one eye to look around the room. It was as I suspected—the fire had not been laid.

  “Damn that boy,” I muttered, more to myself than anyone else. I pulled my weary form out of bed, feeling every hair on my body standing to attention and every muscle quivering with the chill. “I shall catch my death at this rate.” I crossed to the bedroom door, opened it, and shouted down the stairs. “Tetch!” I yelled. “Tetch, you worthless rogue! Come set the fire!”

  “Oh, leave him be,” a sleepy voice murmured from the bed. “He was making rather merry last night.”

  “He was drunk on rum punch and fornicating with the assistant groom all night long,” I said crossly, folding my arms to my side and attempting to rub some warmth into myself. “That is no excuse for ignoring his work.”

  “Why is it that when we are together it is ‘making love,’ and when Tetch and the assistant groom are together it is ‘fornicating’?”

  “Because I do not shirk my duties in order to make love to you,” I said, endeavoring to still sound cross but finding my good humor quickly returning. “Of course, I may not be so cold if you did not always steal all the blankets in the middle of the night.”

  In reply, Henry lifted the blankets from his naked form, inviting me back into the bed.

  I happily complied.

  “Oh, my love! You are cold,” he said as he wrapped his arms around me.

  “Give me your warmth, my little lord,” I replied, still shivering, but now from happiness as much as from the temperature of the room.
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  “Perhaps you should not fall asleep with no scrap of clothing on,” Henry said saucily as he dug his lips into the nape of my neck.

  “I do not recall you complaining about my attire last night,” I hotly replied as my cold hands sought out the warmest part of his body.

  Henry yelped as my frosty fingers clasped onto his cock and bollocks, but he wrapped his arms around my neck as his lips sought my own, and his prick stiffened swiftly in my grasp.

  “Mmm—Henry—mmph—my little lord—Henry!” I said laughing, doing my best to extricate my mouth from his. “We—cannot—do—this—now!”

  “Why not?” he replied, pretending to be innocent and unknowing. He began to kiss my neck once more, and then lower, down my chest, his tongue taking one moment to lash at my nipple, and then lower still…

  “Because your grandmother is expecting us for Christmas breakfast, remember?”

  But Henry would not be swayed so easily from his appointed task. His busy lips skated ever lower down my abdomen, until I could feel his nose resting in the pubis region right above my now engorged cock.

  “Oh, bother,” he said, though he meant not one word of it. “This is our first Christmas together, Peter. Let us spend the day in bed. Tetch can fetch us something to eat, should we decide we prefer some other sustenance than what is now before us.” And, with that, he began to kiss the tip of my cock, flicking his tongue here and there over the pulsing head.

  “Henry—my little lord—oh, that is nice,” I said, momentarily lost in pleasure as Henry slipped the top half of my prick into his mouth, enveloping it into the warmth of his cheeks and his love. “Well, perhaps, if we make haste—” But I saw, out of the corner of my eye, the light streaming in from behind the shuttered windows. “No. No, Henry, we have a duty to her.”

  He lifted his head from my crotch and pouted. “We can’t stop midstream, Peter,” he said.

  “No?” I replied. I reached into the drawer of the small table that stood next to my side of the bed and pulled out a brown-paper wrapped parcel. “Not even for a Christmas present?”