Although this story is not set in Dickens's Christmas Carol and does not use those characters, it is a feel-good Christmas story inspired by A Christmas Carol. I hope you enjoy it. It is also available on Fictionpress etc.
CHAPTER 1. CHRISTMAS EVE.
If there was glass in the window, it would have stopped the snow blowing in. If there had been a fire in the hearth, the flames would have warmed the garret room. If there had been one candle in its holder there would have been some light. If there had been even a box or crate to sit on, the man could have rested at his ease. If there had been a coat on his back, his thin frame might have felt some warmth. If there had been tobacco in his pipe he could have smoked.
The man lifted the bottle to his lips. One last drop trickled out. Now there was not even gin to drown his misery. He flung the black bottle into the corner of the room where it clattered against several of its fellows. The man crossed to the window, moved aside the dirty, billowing rag that covered it and peered out.
Below, people hurried past on the pavement. Most with their heads bowed low against the snow, easy marks for the barefoot urchins scampering about in the snow, their feet frozen blue. The man scowled. Not so many years ago, he was one of them. No place to call home, no food in his belly, living by his wits and nimble fingers. Turning his head, on the street corner the man saw the ale house, the Blue Bells, was doing a roaring trade. Amber light and honky-tonk music from a barrel-organ spilled from its open doors.
Inside the ale house, the man knew there would be warmth, laughter and jolly companionship. However, the man did not even have the price of a latch lifter to gain admittance. As he watched, a man reeled out of the Blue Bells clutching his stove-pipe hat to his head followed by cries of, "merry Christmas".
The watching man coughed, a thin hacking sound. He checked his handkerchief for blood. There were no bloody red spots. The man wondered when the dreaded Consumption would come and claim him for its own. Unless he got food and warmth soon it couldn't be too long before the Devil knocked on his door.
As if summoned by his thoughts, there was a rap on the flimsy door. The man turned from the window as the door creaked open. He half expected the smell of coal and brimstone and a blast of heat as from a furnace's open door. He was so cold he would almost have welcomed the fiery pits of Hell.
Instead, the man from the ale house stood in the doorway. The newcomer swayed and half stepped, half toppled into the room. With difficulty the intruder kept his feet and propped himself up in a corner. His stove-pipe hat fell to the boards.
"Finnan, me old Fenian mate, you should... should have," the newcomer's thoughts tailed off.
The man so addressed left his place by the window, placed his hands under the other's armpits and helped his friend slide down the wall until he was sprawled out on the floor. Finnan picked up a handful of burlap sacks and greasy rags and draped them over his friend's body.
"I see you brought us back a plump golden goose, roasted parsnips, a huge plum pudding with holly on the top, half a dozen mince pies, nuts and a bottle of brandy to wash it down with," Finnan said, his County Mayo accent still strong despite his having lived in Liverpool these last six years.
The other man looked up from his place on the floor. A lopsided grin on his face. "Sadly, the food slipped through my fingers on the way home but the brandy I can provide." He rummaged through his voluminous, many pocketed coat and produced a black bottle, the live companion of its dead friends in the corner. "Well, gin instead of French brandy but who wants to imbibe a heathen foreign spirit on a night like this?"
"That'll do me fine," said Finnan, snatching the black bottle from his friend's hand, uncorking it and taking a long, long pull. He wiped his lips and handed the bottle back. The harsh liquor hit his stomach, warming him.
"'Tis a miracle worker you are, Walsh. That'll keep the chill out."
The bottle was still lighter when Walsh passed it up.
"All the same, it's food and fuel we'll be needing as well otherwise 'tis the workhouse or the press gang for us. And I for one am partial to neither event."
"Stow your whining, Finnan," said Walsh. "I know where such delicacies and far more besides can be had for the taking."
"And would that be the Bridewell? The last time I was entertained there the delicacies consisted of bread and gruel washed down with water so cold it froze my stomach."
"Now, my Fenian friend. Would I be sending us two such jolly boys as us after the admittedly inferior refreshments and entertainment on offer at the Bridewell?"
Finnan looked down at his red-nosed friend. "Get to the point, Walsh. If words were guineas we'd be richer than the Lord Mayor of Liverpool himself and him in a coach and four. We'd drive up to West Derby and be dining with the Lords of Sefton themselves in Croxteth Hall."
"What's tomorrow my short-fused friend?"
"Why 'tis Christmas Day itself. Not that we'll be invited to partake in the festivities," Finnan said, crossing back to his place by the window. He glanced out at the ale house where the men inside were bellowing out a drunken song. On the corner, a couple of women wrapped in shawls huddled together and waited for their menfolk to come out. The snow had started falling, great white flakes tumbling down and had already started to pile up in the doorways and window sills and the women's shoulders.
Walsh pulled himself together and sat up a little straighter. He peered owlishly at Finnan's darkened form by the window.
"That's right. It's Christmas Day. And what do nice families do on Christmas Day?" Walsh asked.
It was so long since Finnan had been in a family that he had to think. He was one of six surviving children raised in a croft on a bog in County Mayo. His mother buried three and then ignored the rest whilst she concentrated on pickling her liver with poitin.
His eldest sister, Brigid, had taken over and raised the younger children as well as she could until she married a farmer's son from near Castlebar. His oldest brother had gone out to California in the gold rush of 1849, another brother, Martin, was accepted by the seminary and became a priest and yet another joined the British Army and was last heard of somewhere near Sevastopol in the Crimea. The only letter he'd sent back had been full of misspellings but told of the heat and flies out in the east.
Finnan himself had sailed to Liverpool hoping to pick up enough money to join his brother in California. Six years later and here he was starving in a garret and no nearer to raising the third class emigrant fare than he had the day he landed at the Pier Head.
"They sing carols around the fire, open their presents, stuff themselves silly eating as much food in one day that would keep men like us going for a month," said Finnan. He leaned out of the window and spat.
"Anything else, my sour black-hearted friend? Here, have another swig from the bottle. It might cheer you up," Walsh said, tossing the bottle to Finnan who snatched it out of the air one-handed.
"Do they also congratulate themselves on their superior English moral worth in bringing God's great good blessings on their table meaning that they are free from hunger and want?"
"You are bitter tonight. Have another drink," Walsh suggested. Finnan obeyed with alacrity.
"I'll tell you, though I shouldn't have to tell a good catholic boy like your good self. They go to their proddy English churches, put a shilling in the collection and give thanks to their false Lutheran god that they will be going home to a table filled with God's bounty."
"Are you telling me that we should be going to church tomorrow? Don't you remember Father Peter said to us that if he saw us anywhere near the sacred precincts he'd horse-whip us before he wrote to the Pope in Rome asking to excommunicate us?" said Finnan, amazed.
"And you'd have thought the man would have been grateful that we were merely trying to repair the lead on his roof for free out of the goodness of our hearts."
The two men laughed.
"No. But think about it my fine Fenian friend. Think about it long and hard. Who's looking after the roast meats, the Christmas pudding, the presents, the silver knives and forks and any other small easily portable items that could slip into a pocket whilst the family and their servants are out at church?" asked Walsh.
In the now near total darkness, Finnan's face lit up with a smile. He crossed the room, his worn out boot heels clicking over the bare boards.
"You're a genius Walsh. The greatest thinker ever to come out of County Mayo. Come now, have you found a house, a house worthy of our attention tomorrow?" Finnan crouched and hugged his friend in a tight embrace before returning the nearly empty bottle.
"That I have. A nice big villa with a nice religious family who will most certainly be attending mass, or whatever these proddy dogs call it, tomorrow morning. I was talking to their footman down at the Blue Bells yonder who had been given the afternoon off to visit his family but was more tempted by the delights to be found in yon hostelry rather than the cheer to be found at home..."
"Out with it," interrupted Finnan.
"...as I was saying, this footman, Tom by name, was telling me in between liquid refreshments that the family he works for, the Vickerys, are keen church goers. A very holy, God-fearing family for proddies and it's a shame they will burn as heretics when the last trump sounds. He then went on to tell me, purely in the strictest confidence, that the kitchen door key can always be found under the third plant pot on the left. He tipped me the wink and said he could be found in the Blue Bells next week if I wanted to pass him a little gratuity."
"Fortune smiles on us at last. So where can we find this bounteous house?"
Walsh coughed into his hand. "Cow Lane, Wavertree."
Finnan exploded. His good humour vanished in an instant. "But that's miles away. Miles and miles out in the country. And me without a coat on my back."
"Nothing to a pair of fine strong men like us. The walk itself away from this pestilential smoky air will do us good and put the roses on your cheeks. It will put an edge on our appetites."
"My appetite already has enough of an edge. It's as sharp as a razor blade already. My stomach thinks my throat's been cut."
"And tomorrow you'll eat your fill and more beside. I guarantee it. This time tomorrow you'll be full to bursting and with money to pave your way through this harsh world."
Walsh yawned widely, stretched his length on the bare boards and with an arm for a pillow rolled over and went to sleep. Finnan himself wrapped himself up in his torn threadbare jacket and hugged his knees to his chest for some pretence of warmth. Eventually, he too dozed and dreamed of a low smoky farmhouse, a small cow in the field outside, a bucket of potatoes cooking on the peat fire and the room filled with laughter and people talking Gaelic.