A Christmas Carol: A Carol Betwixt  

A New Christmas Story

By the Crazymad Writer

Chapter One

Here Lies the Body of Jacob Marley

Exiting the counting-house, two gentlemen walked dejectedly away from it. “Mr Fosdyke,” said the first gentleman, “I am

deeply saddened that anyone could be so cold of heart, especially so at this time of the year.”

“Indeed, Mr Hartwell,” the second gentleman replied. “Imagine, wanting to put the poor and destitute into prisons, to

punish them, because of their bad luck. Mr Scrooge must surely be the coldest person in England, this Christmas.”

“His clerk was suffering mightily, so cold that it was in there,” Mr Hartwell said to his colleague. “Did you see the

fire they had set in the grate?”

Nodding, Mr Fosdyke replied, “I did. Mr Scrooge could never be anything other than cold of heart burning his coal one

piece at a time.”

“Come; we have others to call upon before this day has finished with us,” Mr Hartwell said, cheering up.

“Yes,” Mr Fosdyke replied. “I am sure they will – all of them – offer us a better welcome than Mr Scrooge.”

As the gentlemen made their way along the narrow, cobbled street, the sound of their footsteps echoed in the cold

shadowy doorways and arches lining it.

Rounding a bend in the street, Mr Hartwell gasped with shock when he spied someone lying face down upon it. “Look,”

he said, pointing. “Someone is in need of our help.”

Approaching the person (it was male), lying on the cruel hard cobbles, they tried to ascertain who it might be. “Who is it?”

Mr Fosdyke asked his colleague

“I don’t know,” Mr Hartwell replied. “Lend me a hand, to roll him over, so we can take a look at his face.” They rolled him

over, onto his back. “Why, he’s barely more than a child!” Mr Hartwell cried out, quite in surprise.

“Yes,” Mr Fosdyke concurred. “No more than eleven or twelve years of age, I’d hazard a guess.”

“He’s wet to the bone,” said Mr Hartwell.

“And as cold as the grave,” Mr Fosdyke added. “Come; we must get him indoors, before a warm fire, lest he expires

from exposure this very night.”

Later, at the gentlemen’s base, the boy, seated in a chesterfield chair in front of a roaring log fire, offered his hands to the

flames, warming them. “Begging your pardon, sirs,” he timidly said, “but how did I get here, wherever it is?”

Offering him a mug of piping hot tea, Mr Fosdyke said, “You are safe, here; it’s our base. We found you lying

unconscious in the street.”

“And on so cold a night,” Mr Hartwell added. “We feared for your life, we did.”

Accepting the tea, the boy said, “Thank you, sirs, for helping me, so.”

Sitting on a chair adjacent the boy, “Mr Fosdyke said, “Pray tell us your name, lad.”

“And why you were lying there, unconscious in the street,” Mr Hartwell implored. “Your parents must be sick with worry.”

Staring blankly into his mug, the boy offered them no explanation as to why this was so.

“Has the cat got your tongue,” Mr Fosdyke asked, jesting, trying to lighten his mood.

Running a finger around the rim of his mug, the boy said, “My name is Tommy, Tommy Tilbert, sirs.”

“And?” Mr Hartwell asked, urging him on.

“And...I was playing.” he told them, uncomfortably recalling it.

“Playing outside, at almost four of the o’clock – in the month of December?” Mr Hartwell asked, thinking he heard

incorrectly.

“Yes, sir,” Tommy replied. “It’s true!”

“It’s alright,” said Mr Fosdyke,” we believe you, don’t we Mr Hartwell?”

“Humph, yes,” he replied, clearing his throat. “You must have had good reason to be there, on so cold an evening.”

“I did, I did!” Tommy insisted. Running his finger ever faster around the rim of his mug, he said, “You see, sirs...I was set

upon.”

“Set upon?” Mr Hartwell asked, concerned for the boy.

“Yes, sir,” he replied.

“Who attacked you?” Mr Fosdyke asked, worried for the child.

His finger stopping, Tommy looked up from his mug, and said, “Street urchins.”

“Why did they attack you?” the gentlemen asked.

“Because I am homeless.”

“But they are also homeless,” said Mr Hartwell, scratching his head, confused by it.

“They attacked me because I am not one of them, in their gang,” Tommy explained. “I have not always been homeless,

sirs.”

“Why are you homeless?” Mr Fosdyke curiously asked.

His finger running around the ring of his mug once again, Tommy’s thoughts deepened, remembering how it had come

about.

“Did you get lost?” Mr Hartwell asked. “Because if you did, we shall do all that we can to reunite you with your parents.”

Bursting into tears, Tommy wailed, “My mum and dad are dead!”

Stunned by this news, Mr Hartwell and Mr Fosdyke were at a loss as to what they might say in reply.

“Mum and dad died last year, just before Christmas,” Tommy sobbed. “They died of consumption – both of them.”

“I am so sorry to hear that,” Mr Hartwell said, in all honesty.

“Please accept my since sympathies,” said Mr Fosdyke.

“Thank you, sirs,” said Tommy. Wiping away the tears from his eyes, he said, “The landlord came to our house the day

after their funeral. He told me to get out, that he had to fumigate it, after them dying from consumption, there. That’s what

he said. He told me I could return a week later, when the fumes were gone. But when I returned, there was a new family in

our house, and they ran me, threatening me with the police, so they did.”

“Have you any brothers or sisters?” Mr Hartwell enquired.

“No, sir, not any.”

“Have you any relatives?” Mr Fosdyke asked.

“Apart from an uncle and aunt somewhere in Pimlico, that I cannot find, no one at all,” Tommy glumly replied. “That’s why I

was on the street, so it is.”

“And why the street urchins picked on you,” said Mr Hartwell.

“Yes, sir,” Tommy replied. Taking off one of his shoes, he reached into it (the gentlemen thought it was to fish out a stray

stone). Withdrawing his hand, Tommy said, “But they didn’t get this.” He showed them a shiny bright sixpence. Seeing it,

the gentleman laughed, so amused that they were. Perturbed by their reaction, Tommy said, “Why are you laughing? This

is my life sayings!”

“We are laughing with you,” Mr Fosdyke kindly explained, “not at you.”

“Mind your money well,” Mr Hartwell told Tommy.

Later, after they had shown Tommy upstairs, to bed, Mr Hartwell and Mr Fosdyke sat in front of the fire, drinking port

while discussing their find. “He fell asleep the instant his head hit the pillow,” said Mr Hartwell.

“Indeed,” Mr Fosdyke concurred, “the child was so tired, from roaming the street for almost a year, he was unable to

keep his eyes open long enough to bid us goodnight.”

“We must go search for the child’s uncle and aunt, on the morrow,” said Mr Hartwell.

“Indubitably,” Mr Fosdyke concurred.

Lighting a taper from the fire, Mr Hartwell offered it to his pipe. Sucking, breathing in the sweet smoke, he relaxed,

enjoying the moment. “You know something, Mr Fosdyke,” he said, blowing out smoke. “I have been thinking.”

“Thinking?” Mr Fosdyke asked. “About what?”

Chewing thoughtfully on his pipe, Mr Hartwell said, “About Christmas.”

“Christmas?”

“Yes, Christmas,” he replied. “Let me explain...”

By the time Mr Hartwell had finished explaining, telling Mr Fosdyke his thoughts about Christmas, his colleague was

somewhat confused. “Let me get this straight,” he said, “you want to make Christmas better by making it easier?”

“Yes, in a nutshell, that’s it,” Mr Hartwell casually replied.

“But how is that possible?” Mr Fosdyke asked. “There are so many poor and destitute in England, let alone the rest of the

world, it would take a miracle to achieve such an ambition.”

Placing his glass of port onto the mantelpiece, Mr Hartwell looked hard in his friend’s eyes, and then said, “A miracle is

exactly what I am hoping for.”

Thinking his colleague had, perhaps, had a drink too many, Mr Fosdyke reached up to the mantelpiece and pushed the

glass gently away from him.

Laughing good naturedly, Mr Hartwell said, “That was my first glass of port, as well you know.” Reclaiming his glass, he

sipped the brown coloured liquid. “I can see that you are confused, old chap,” he said, “so I will put it another way.”

Returning his glass to the mantelpiece, he asked, “What did Scrooge say about Christmas?”

“He said many things about Christmas,” Mr Hartwell replied, “and all of them unfavourable.”

“He most certainly did,” Mr Fosdyke agreed. Gazing into the fire, he watched the sparks flying up the chimney, and then

said, “He also told us that his partner, Mr Marley, died seven years previous, this very night.”

“It’s true; he did,” Mr Hartwell concurred. “I thought it most peculiar that such a terrible thing happening – and so close to

Christmas – had not softened his temperament, not even a bit.” Inspecting his pipe, he saw that it had gone out. Tapping

it against the fireplace, he emptied it of spent tobacco. Refilling his pipe, he said, “If I was Mr Marley, alive and well, not

dead as a doornail in a cold and damp grave, I would use my money to make this a Christmas that everyone in

Christendom would enjoy and remember for the rest of their lives.”

“I am sorry, old chap,” said Mr Fosdyke, “I cannot see how thinking about Marley can make Christmas any easier.”

Tapping the side of his nose, Mr Hartwell said, “When you have visited his grave, you will.”

Later that evening, entering the graveyard where old Marley lay buried, Mr Fosdyke and Mr Hartwell searched for his

grave.

“I say,” Mr Fosdyke whispered, “Is this really necessary, visiting such a dreary place?”

Pointing away from them, to the low corner of the graveyard, Mr Hartwell said, “I’ll wager you a shilling that Marley is

buried, there, in the paupers’ lot. Come; let us inspect it.”

Stepping into the low corner of the graveyard, Mr Fosdyke swathed his coat collar high around his nose, and then said,

“This is an abysmal place, rank with the stench of death. I wonder if the corpses lying within it are covered at all.”

Pointing again, Mr Hartwell said, “There; that is Marley’s grave.”

“That one,” Mr Fosdyke asked incredulously, “the grave with the smallest headstone of them all? Surely, not even

Scrooge would bury someone he knew in so miserly a manner.”

Approaching the grave, the gentlemen inspected its diminutive headstone. It read: Here lies the body of Jacob Marley.

Born 1785 Died 1836

“Oh, that he was alive again,” Mr Hartwell said, patting the cold stone. “I am sure he would see things, namely money, in a

different light.”

Reminding his colleague of what he had said, his promise, Mr Fosdyke said, “You told me that when we got here, to this

wretched man’s grave, I would understand how to make Christmas easier, but I am none the wiser. I am as perplexed as

before we set off.”

Coming clean, Mr Hartwell said, “I had a hunch, a gut feeling, the instant Mr Scrooge told us his partner was dead, that

we had to come here.”

Taking off his hat, Mr Fosdyke scratched his head thoughtfully through his thinning grey hair. Donning his hat, he said, “If I

had just met you, I would have thought you a candidate ripe for Bedlam, saying that. But I do know you – and for a

considerable time at that, so I will give you the benefit of the doubt. Pray tell me some more.”

Coughing, nervously clearing his throat, Mr Hartwell said, “That’s about it, old chap. Whatever it is, be it intuition, sixth

sense or an insight into a realm of creation that I know little about, I knew it was right to come here this

evening.”

Suddenly, there was a sound, like someone moving about under one of the huge yew trees dotting the

graveyard. Pointing to the tree, Mr Fosdyke said, “I hope you are right, because we are sitting ducks, ripe for the

picking, hidden away in this graveyard. Vagabonds pay no heed to Christmas, you know.”

What the gentlemen saw next was scarier by far than mere vagabonds...

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© Gerrard T Wilson 2010