“I say—you there, boy!”
“Yes, sir?”
“You know that gigantic goose hanging in the poulter’s shop around the corner?”
“You mean the one as big as me?”
Scrooge laughs and speaks to himself, shaking his head. “Remarkable boy. A pleasure to talk to.” Then to the boy: “The very same. Go buy it for me. Come back within five minutes and you’ll get half a crown.”
“They already sold it, sir,” the boy says, solemnly removing his cap. “In fact, all meats have been bought out just last night on account of the holiday ‘n all.”
Scrooge frowns. “Oh, well…for your trouble.” He tosses down a handful of coins to the child and quickly closes the window. “Shit,” he whispers, accidentally drawing the window down on his thumb. He sees blood ooze from his nail. “Shit!”
—
Scrooge, upon crossing the market square in front of the Exchange, runs into the two charity solicitors he’d treated so tersely a few days prior.
“My dear sirs,” he begins. “Let me first apologize for my rudeness and uncharitable manner when we last met. Could you please put me down for a donation? I’m afraid I’m much in arrears and would like to make up for neglected payments.”
One of the solicitors, in tears, raises his head from a sodden handkerchief. “That’s awfully kind, Mr. Scrooge. But I’m afraid we’re not accepting any donations in the foreseeable future.” The man pauses to release two heavy sobs into his cloth. “Our main office just burnt down last night—of all nights!”
Scrooge’s jaw slackens. “Dear me, tis not so, surely?”
The two solicitors carol with more sobs. Upon recovering, the one conversing says, “It’s all too horrible, I’m afraid. Looks like now we’re the ones in need of charity! We must be off, Mr. Scrooge. Tom, here, has made us an appointment at the nearby soup kitchen. Until next time.”
The men scurry off before Scrooge can utter a farewell. He stands stunned in the market square as fresh snow flurries pour down upon his heavily snow-capped coat and hat.
—
Scrooge awaits on his nephew’s porch. He sees Fred approach with an unusually sour look on his face.
“Merry Christmas, Fred,” he says.
“Merry Christmas, Uncle. You surprise me. I must say I never imagined I’d see you this day.”
“Well,” Scrooge clears his throat, removing his top hat. “There are many occasions where I should have visited you here and now I must try to make up for it. But tell me, Fred. What ever is the matter?”
“Oh, Uncle,” Fred begins but takes a step back, his hand on his abdomen. “I’m sorry to be so blunt—and to do this to you today of all days. Martha and I have the food poisoning. T’was the big goose we procured from that shop near your place. We cooked it last night for Christmas Eve, but I’m afraid it wasn’t cooked enough. I really oughtn’t get you sick, too, Uncle. Rain check?” Fred backs further away, slowly closing the door.
“Oh, yes, of course,” Scrooge says, putting his hat back on, his brow knit in worry. “I’ll write in advance of my next visit. Do feel better, Fred.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” Fred says, hastily shutting the door and after it closes, “I’m sorry!” Muted purging sounds emanate from behind the threshold.
“Oh, dear,” Scrooge says, turning and stepping back into the frigid London street.
—
Bob Cratchit answers the door, tears in his eyes.
Scrooge shivers on the porch and is the first to speak. “Why, Bob, what ever is the matter?”
“What concern is it of yours? And what on earth are you doing here?”
“That is a fine question, Bob. I’m afraid I haven’t been that great of an employer and I’d like to make it up to you…Please tell me, Bob, why do you cry?”
“These are tears of joy, sir. Looks like I won’t have to work for your sorry arse ever again. The missus just received an inheritance from a deceased uncle’s estate worth two hundred thousand pounds, and miraculously Tiny Tim is healed, just this morning. He can walk, breathe, and get on just like normal now.”
“Well…” Scrooge says, mouth hanging open, “that is good news. I—”
Bob Cratchit slams the door in his face.
Before turning away, Scrooge hears the familiar, warm and innocent voice of Cratchit’s now-healthy son. “God bless us, everyone.”
Later, as Scrooge approaches his front door, the snow unleashes its fury again. He reaches into his coat pocket and his hand comes up empty. “Damn” he mutters, knowing he must disturb a locksmith on today of all days. Before leaving his home for a second time, he swears he sees the spectral face of Marley on the knocker, smirking.
