Scrooge & Cratchit

*For the past three years, I've visited the tale of Dickens' A Christmas Carol in December and found my mind telling me this story. Life circumstance has forbade me from sitting down for very long and writing. I find it nearly Christmas again, in a world turned upside down, and the characters, and this story, come flooding back to me. I hear them as I fluff my Christmas tree, I see them as I hang my stockings. Please bear with me as, indeed, this story is a work in progress. I hope to upload as often as I write, and I hope that this year is the year that Scrooge & Cratchit finds itself completed.

Christmas Eve – 1836 – London

"Quite dead." Muttered Ebenezer Scrooge as he stood blankly over the cold, dead body of his business partner, Jacob Marley. "As a doornail."

Scrooge had been called to the home of Marley less than an hour ago. His old business partner had succumbed to his illness, leaving Ebenezer the sole proprietor of Scrooge and Marley Money Lenders. He lay stiffly, blue of color, across the undertaker's slab, his head bound by a white bandage. A mere toothache had progressed to death. Scrooge's face showed utter indifference.

It was a frigidly cold day, the snow was falling in sheets, the darkness of the late December day falling all around him at a rapid rate, covering the cobblestone streets with a powdery white blanket.

Signing his name on the death certificate, Scrooge turned to face the room around him. The undertaker and his young apprentice each stood with their hands out, waiting to be paid. Reluctantly Scrooge paid the man, painfully taking first one coin, then the other out of a small leather change purse.

"He'll take the two pence off the dead man's eyes." Young Bob Cratchit spoke to himself as he pondered exactly how dead a doornail could be. He knew Ebenezer Scrooge, as well as anyone. He'd worked for the man for nearly 12 years, he knew the man's dealings, his ticks, his personality. He'd been at Marley's side nearly without break for the last three days, knowing the man would soon be meeting his maker.

And before the words had even fully escaped his lips, the man had, indeed, taken the two pence off of Jacob Marley's closed eyes.

"Back away paddock!" Scrooge had shouted at the young apprentice as he approached the body and plucked first one coin and then the other. "Two pence is two pence." Bob involuntarily shook his head in disgust. Not that the two pence on the dead's eyes was a necessary thing. It symbolized paying the death toll across the river Jordan. But that's all it was, a symbol. Bob imagined that for every dead man to have two pence laid on their eyes, the undertakers became two pence richer.

Suddenly, a commotion outside drew everyone's attention, and when George Carey, Bob Cratchit's neighbor came barging into the room, Scrooge shouted his distain.

"Come now!" He shouted, more out of good breeding than out of true respect for the dead. "What is this rushing about for?" Running about was ill mannered.

"I'm sorry Mr. Scrooge, but it's Bob I'm after." George spat breathlessly.

"What's the matter?" Young Bob Cratchit asked, his thick Irish accent standing out amidst the proper English ones that surrounded him.

"It's Emily. The baby. There's problems."

"Oh God no." Bob murmured as he rushed past George, leaving Ebenezer Scrooge behind in the dust.

Bob had come to England as a young lad, seeking anything other than Belfast and work in the shipyards. Soon he had met Miss Emily James, a young lady of good breeding and excellent reputation and had fallen utterly in love with her. Their marriage had taken place in spite of her parent's objections. She was the daughter of Harold Honeycutt James, a wealthy solicitor in London, who boasted a minor connection to the royal family, and the late Belle Ann Moore, a true beauty if ever there was one.

When her father died leaving nothing but bad debt behind him, Bob Cratchit had sworn his life to Ebenezer Scrooge until a time when Harold James' debts had been erased. It had been over decade and there was no sign of freedom.

He was a father of a young son, Peter, and an even younger daughter, Belinda. The news that Emily was pregnant again had filled Bob's heart with such joy that at times he could hardly contain himself. He loved his wife and his children, and loved that he shared his offspring with Emily. It seemed as though they had gone through so much to even be together and married in the first place. It didn't matter to either of them that they had next to nothing, what mattered to them was that they were together.

He could hear her screams from down the street. They stopped him dead in his tracks. "Merciful Father!" He shouted as he took off running again.

When he barreled through the front door of the small two-story row house that they called home, he saw Peter and Belinda, bundled up together in the corner of the main room, by the fire.

"Daddy!" Belinda shouted as she broke free of Peter's grasp and ran to her father.

"Belinda, my wee darlin'." He spoke as he knelt down on his haunches to cradle the girl's soft blonde curls and shivering little body.

"Is Mummy dying?" She asked, simply, with her childish innocence.

"Not if I have anything to say about it, deary." He comforted.

"She's been screaming for a long time, Daddy." Peter informed his father as he stoically left his place by the fire. At just 7 years old, the boy behaved as a man. He was his mother and sister's protector, his father's dearest companion. His heart had more years than his body, and Bob knew that the child had inherited Emily's strength.

"It takes a long time Peter; sometimes days. Pretty soon we will have a new baby to play with. Isn't that exciting? Do you want it to be a boy or a girl?" Bob asked, trying to calm his children's fears, and his own. He knew birth was a terrifying business, he'd been right next to Emily both times before, he knew it could be bloody and messy and more painful than anything he'd ever been through. But he couldn't help but feel that this time was different. It was too early, the baby hadn't been expected to arrive for 6 or 8 more weeks. The fear of it all gripped at Bob's heart, and a tear slid down his cheek, in spite of his strength for his children.

"I just want Mummy." Belinda cried, burying her face into Bob's chilled overcoat.

"I know, I know. Let me go see about her, alright?" Bob pulled his crying daughter away from his chest and stood up. "Peter, whatever you do, don't either you, or Lindy come upstairs, you hear? You mustn't come upstairs until I say."

Peter nodded. "Yes Daddy." He wrapped his arm around his sobbing little sister, and stood as if he were a soldier, perfectly erect, his emotions warring in his eyes."It'll all be well soon, son." Bob said, giving his song a reassuring, if not forced, smile.

Bob nodded and as he heard Emily wail in pain once more, he started up the narrow steps. Once he'd reached the top, he was met by the sight of a pile of white bed sheets stained red from blood reaching nearly to his knees.

"God help us." He muttered.

"ROBERT!" Emily shouted.

"Emm! I'm here, love!" He cried as he barged through the closed bedroom door.

The sight of the midwife nearly standing on the bed between Emily's knees, her arms disappearing underneath the blood smeared white sheet shocked and horrified the young father, temporarily turning him into stone.

"She's bleeding too badly and it won't stop until the baby comes out and it's stuck." The midwife cried out.

"Robert!" Emily cried. She'd always called him Robert. She'd been of the opinion from the very beginning that he was not destined to be a clerk forever, that one day, he would be someone very special. And special men weren't to be called a plain 'Bob.' Special men were 'Robert's.' No matter what, he was special, and he was her "Robert."

"Come hold her hand. I've got to turn this babe or it'll die before it can be born."

Bob's temporarily solidity lifted and in a flash he was sitting on the side of the bed, grasping the cold, clammy hand of his young wife, who's face was as white as paper and streaked with salty tears and sweat.

"How long has it been this way?" He asked the midwife.

"She began at day break she said. Called for me just after you left for ol' Scrooge's crypt. By mid day she was trying to push. We realized we were in trouble nearly a half hour ago. Emily, stop pushing. You can't push."

"I have to." She whimpered. Strain reddened her face, and her grip on Bob's hand tightened.

"Just try not to, love." Bob cooed as his gently kissed her forehead. "Now isn't the time for it. You've got to wait."

"She's bleeding far too much Mr. Cratchit. If I can't fix this both she and the baby will die." She whispered. The look on her face saying what her words were not. Emily was in grave danger, and she feared the baby was already dead.

"You have to fix it." He commanded. "We've got two other children downstairs that need their mother. You've got to free him and deliver him. Or her."

"It's a boy." Emily breathed. "It's a boy. I know it. My special boy..."

"Hang in there darling, you're doing great." The midwife grunted as she continued to maneuver underneath the sheet. Bob's grip on his wife tightened and the longer the midwife worked, the quieter Emily became. She was getting used to the pain and surrendering her body to it.

It took her another 15 minutes before the midwife was able to free the baby enough that Emily could begin to push freely again.

"One more should do it, Emily. Come on. Big push."

With a shout, Emily delivered a tiny, squirming but quiet baby. She collapsed against Bob, who had crawled into the bed behind her.

"Baby's here, love. Baby's here. Kicking up a storm." He said tentatively, watching the midwife as she checked the little one over.

She smiled. "It's a healthy boy."

"A boy!" Emily cried with joy. "I told you. I knew all along."

"Yes, love, you did." Bob said, kissing Emily's forehead. Relieved.

"He's tiny. But he's alive." The midwife said as she gently lifted the bundle into Emily's arms.

"Tiny, but alive. The Lord be praised." Emily said as she took him into her arms.

"What shall we call this wee one?" Bob asked, rubbing his thumb against his new son's cheek.

"What about Tim?"

"I like it. A good strong name for such a tiny wee lad. Our own Tiny Tim."

It was just as young Tim was learning to walk when they learned there was a problem with his leg. Something hadn't formed properly, he was too small, things just didn't connect up like they should. He'd been a moderately healthy baby, aside from the sniffles here and there, but as he grew into a boy, he was never well, one thing or another always kept him sick. The weight on Bob Cratchit's shoulders seemed unrelenting, and ever increasing.

It was on this same day - the Eve of Christmas, 7 years later - that our tale truly begins.