A True History of Mr. Scrooge and Mr. Marley

By David Vandeviver

On the final night of the year 1857 an obscure old woman died at the Pauper Lunatic Asylum in Birmingham, England claiming to have lived out her life among the characters of Charles Dickens’ famous Christmas Carol. And yet, everyone knows that Ebenezer Scrooge and Jacob Marley were fiction. They never really existed ... or did they? Covering that period from August of 1747 to December of 1827 A True History of Mr. Scrooge and Mr. Marley reveals the untold story behind the much-beloved Dickens Christmas classic. Just who were Ebenezer Scrooge and Jacob Marley? What was the truth behind that famous Christmas Eve haunting? What could possibly have happened to cause their flesh-and-blood reality to fade into such complete obscurity even while they lived on as fictional characters? And just where does the imagination cease and reality actually begin?

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Vandeviver
• Release date: Jun 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301942695

Book preview

STAVE I

THE CHARWOMAN’S TALE

Birmingham, England

December 30th, 1853 to December 31st, 1857

CHAPTER 1

INTO THE GREAT TOWN HALL

December 30th, 1853

She entered the Square out of Pinfold Street, in the teeth of a biting wind. In green woolen cap and thread-bare muffler. Nose running persistently and eyes half-closed in a futile attempt to protect them from the stinging needles of driven snow. Fingers aching from the bitter cold. Clutching the tattered shawl which flapped wildly about her shoulders. Threatening to abandon her altogether with each fresh blast which swept down Congreve Street, moaning out of the west.

Before her the great Town Hall rose up in silent majesty against a gray and desolate winter sky. Standing in grim defiance of the elements while the frozen smear of a late-December sun sank slowly and inexorably from view. Disappearing, at the last, behind the stark outlines of those buildings which stood along the street opposite. Effectively concealing the far-distant horizon. A frozen orb. Copper-hued through the perpetual haze of factory smoke which hung tenaciously over the City. Its celestial fires having emitted no perceptible warmth. Its eternal light having provided but a questionable illumination.

Slowly and laboriously she advanced upon this imposing structure. Its massive stone columns rising up upon all sides to support a spectacular roof which sloped down to ornate cornice and evenly-spaced dentils. Giving the entire edifice a distinctly Greek or, perhaps, even a Roman appearance. Set solidly upon a foundation of marble block into which a series of cavernous twelve-foot-high stone archways had been constructed in complete circumnavigation of the base. Beneath which massive wooden doors alternated, at regularly-spaced intervals, with stained-glass windows of cathedral-like splendor. With banners draped festively overhead, straining mightily against their lines in the snapping wind. And freshly-printed placards pasted securely to the outer walls. All proudly proclaiming that the eminent Mr. Charles Dickens, England’s greatest living novelist, would be delivering his final reading of A Christmas Carol inside this very Hall. And upon that very night …

Even now some of the earliest arrivals were making their way in from the darkening streets, in eager and excited anticipation of the coming evening’s entertainment. Laughing and chattering as they scurried along through the rapidly-freezing slush. Clouds of steamy exhalation trailing in their wake. Mingling with the wind-driven flakes of soot-begrimed snow. Laughter, exhalations and snow alike whisked promiscuously away, as it were, into the gaping maw of the rapidly-descending night.

But she avoided these twilight revelers as much as possible. Oh, yes! Uncomfortable in their proximity and unaccountably fearful of inadvertent contact. Hurrying onward with head bowed and muffler drawn ever-more-closely about her face. Finally disappearing from view beneath one of the great stone archways. Its heavy door swinging shut behind her with the reassuring ‘thud’ of oaken substantiality. The bitter cold and driving winds of but a moment before suddenly banished into the rapidly-warming realm of fading unpleasant memory.

Warm, as I say, at last. And safe … or was she?

"Dickens, sir!"

***

"Dickens, Bette! she’d exclaimed. I can’t! Not with ‘im there. Please!" Her voice had trembled with agitation. And with fear. Bony hands held out toward her prostrate companion in pathetic supplication. "You know why as well as me! So please don’t ask it of me, Bette. Oh, please don’t!"

"But, Martha … you ’ave to, Bette had insisted. Her rasping voice tired and weak. Sweat matting thinned grey hair to a glistening, wrinkled skull. Her breath coming in rough, labored gasps. I’ll loose me situation if you don’t, she groaned. And I’m getting too old to find me another … you can see that now … can’t you, dear?"

These last few words had tumbled off into a violent fit of coughing. Originating from somewhere deep in her chest. Brutally hollow. And producing great, sticky globs of greenish phlegm. Tears of pain and fatigue inching down her lined face as she gasped desperately for breath! Shivering with a startling intensity! Struggling to focus upon Martha through bleary, red-rimmed eyes.

Until, at last, her breathing apparently once more under control, she had whispered fiercely, "And then what’ll we do, eh? We’ll starve now, won’t we? She clutched at Martha’s sleeve with claw-like fingers. So come, Martha … you must ‘elp me out, dear! I’d go meself if I could. You know that I would! But look at me. I can’t … [more prolonged coughing] … I can’t even stand, now, can I? So you must ‘elp me out, Martha. There’s a good girl! And after all I’ve done for you … you must! And here her voice, weak already, became almost inaudible. Or ‘ad you forgot about all that now? After all these years I’ve stuck with you …?"

Forgotten? How could she even think such a thing? Of course Martha hadn’t forgotten! How, for twenty-six long years, Bette had, indeed, ‘stuck’ with her. Through thick and thin, as you might say. Ever since that awful night when it had all come to such an unexpected and horrible end! Twenty-six long years ago, it was now … to the very night, as a matter of fact. And, indeed, almost to the very hour …

And now Bette had taken ill. Pneumonia, most likely. Taken ill while returning home from that first night’s reading of the famous Christmas Carol. Trudging home from her labors at the great Town Hall in a blinding snow-storm. In nothing but a threadbare shawl and bonnet. And in even worse shoes! Arriving home late. Soaked clean through and shaking so violently that Martha had feared, at first, for her very life!

Three nights ago that was. And though she had attempted to return to her work upon the following evening she had collapsed in the middle of the lobby. Drenched with perspiration and delirious in her utterances! Two of the other women had brought her home. And she had kept to her bed ever since. Certainly she was in no condition to attempt to go back out again tonight. For that would surely kill her …

And so Martha had finally and reluctantly [and even fearfully] given in to the inevitable. Had agreed to go out into the bitter cold of that late winter afternoon. To take her friend’s place on the cleaning crew at the great Town Hall for this, the final evening of Mr. Charles Dickens’ Christmas Readings. Given under the auspices and for the benefit of the City’s hoity-toity new Industrial and Literary Institute. Full twenty-six years from the very night …

***

She had installed her friend upon their old and battered sofa. Beneath an accumulation of tattered blankets and quilts. Before their tiny fireplace. Putting by a small supply of firewood [for coal cost money!] hopefully sufficient to see her through the long, cold winter evening which lay ahead. And with a bit of watery broth simmering over the fire, should she feel that she could keep something down.

Bette had anxiously [and repeatedly!] exacted Martha’s solemn promise to return home as soon as ever she could after her night’s enforced labors at the Hall. And then Martha had wrapped herself up in her muffler and shawl, pulling the old woolen cap down over her ears with a grim determination, and ventured out into the icy winds of that late December afternoon …

The great Town Hall had originally been designed to accommodate the City’s famous Triennial Music Festivals. Its main lobby a magnificently-imposing architectural spectacle. Its vast interior brightly-lit by enormous crystal chandeliers. Their myriad beams reflecting back from stately marble staircases, rich mahogany railings and brightly-polished tiled floors. And from a thousand different facets and angles. Its cavernous dimensions a veritable chamber of echoing reverberation. Mere puny man dwarfed in his insignificant comings and goings by such spectacular surroundings. An appropriate setting, indeed, for the City of Birmingham’s varied and ever-lengthening calendar of cultural activities.

And it was the cumulative effect of this combination of size, brightness and visual splendor which now burst [all unexpectedly!] upon her. Serving to momentarily overwhelm her simple working-class sensibilities and send a terrifying thrill of absolute fear down her spine! For surely she didn’t belong here! She was too much out in the open! Too far away from the alleys and warrens which provided her only effective means of escape and protection. Her only sure guarantee of continuing anonymity and safety. It could come to no good! None at all! For he would be here … might already be here … waiting for her. Waiting …

"Dickens, sir!"

I was there all that first night already, love, and never so much as set eyes upon ‘im, Bette had repeatedly assured her as the long afternoon wore on. "And there ain’t no reason why you should be a-worryin’ your ‘ead about bumpin’ into ‘im, neither! Just attend to your work and keep your wits about you and everything will go along just fine, I’m sure. You must trust me in this, Martha … everything will come out just fine. You’ll see."

And yet …

***

She had come to take up her friend’s mop and bucket. To be her replacement for the evening. To labor as a member of the crew of charwomen hired by the City Corporation to clean up after the crowds of ‘working people’ who were expected to attend that evening’s final, gala performance. It was to be an entertainment intended to ‘enrich’ the somewhat undernourished cultural lives of the City’s poor and laboring classes. And it was anticipated that it would be spoken of in excited terms, by those who would be in attendance, for years to come. For the great Mr. Charles Dickens, champion of the poor and the economically oppressed, was come once again to Birmingham!

But from the very moment when Martha had first heard that Dickens was returning to the City for this series of so-called Christmas Readings she had been increasingly worried. Increasingly nervous …

He had been there once already. The previous January. To receive official recognition of his literary achievements, as it were, in the form of some rather expensive gifts. A diamond ring [of all the ridiculous things!] and a silver salver. Tokens of the City’s ‘affections and esteem’ as you might say. And having accepted them he had, quite naturally, departed. Gone back to his fine big residence in London. And from there on to Europe. To Italy. Or so it had been reported in the papers.

But now, and all quite inexplicably, he was come back again! And at very Christmas time! Come back when any normal man might have wished to be at home with his family ‘round a cozy fire. And come back for what, exactly? They said it was to bestow these trifling Christmas Readings upon the worthy citizens of Birmingham. But why come back here, of all places? Why not go somewhere else? And why again so soon? And why now? Unless …

There was an unsettling aspect to his abrupt and seemingly inexplicable reappearance. Something which filled her with a grim sense of evil and foreboding. Something ominous was in the offing. But what did it all portend? And what might it all mean? Why had he come back here? And why now? And why, again so soon? Unless … unless he had somehow found her out? But how could he have done so? And when? During that brief January visit, all those months before? It didn’t seem likely. And did he know? Did he really know …? I mean, for certain? And know … what precisely …?

It had been twenty-six long years since that awful, terrible night. Years of furtive movement and complete anonymity. Surviving upon the very fringes of mere existence. Years of having successfully avoided all detection. And yet now … what might have given her away? Had someone warned him? And, if so who? And even if he had accidently learned of her whereabouts … but was that even possible? And after so many years? And what did he intend to do, now that he had come back? Had he come back … to silence her, perhaps? To … to kill her? Yes! That was it, surely! To kill the only surviving witness …

Such morbid thoughts as these occupied her mind with increasing urgency as the crowds of working-class revelers began to emerge out of the cold and darkness of that fateful evening. Flooding the great lobby with their excited chatter and raucous laughter. With their eager cries of recognition and boisterous holiday cheer. With their infernal, and never-ending racket! A veritable din of confused and confusing noise which buzzed about inside her aching head, interrupting her desperate attempts to think and make some sense of it all! Driving her insane with the incessant reverberation! Dear God! Would it never end? Would they never just be silent? Would they never just shut up and go about their stupid business? Surely she couldn’t stand much more of this …?

And then, gradually, it had subsided. The crowds moving forward, inward, toward … slowly filling up the brightly-lit Auditorium. Like grains of sand tumbling into the bottom of an hour-glass. Taking their incessant chatter with them. And leaving only the inevitable stragglers to finish tracking in the last of their mud and slush and filth from the cold and darkening streets.

And then it was that the supervisor of the cleaning crew, a dour Welshman named Hatcher [thin and middle-aged with drooping moustaches, dark tufted eyebrows and a battered briar pipe resolutely clamped between large and badly-discolored teeth], had hustled them off, like so many mop-totting geese, to their assigned locations. And as they dispersed, Martha felt her nervousness and foreboding begin to mount once again! And this in spite of Bette’s remembered reassurances.

A nervousness which was rapidly rising far beyond her own poor ability to control it …

***

It was to her ultimate misfortune that Martha found herself working near one of the last unclosed doors leading into the over-crowded Auditorium. From deep inside of which, as if emanating from the very bowels of some enormous and mysterious cavern, a disembodied and disturbingly hypnotic voice was already speaking in distant, yet distinctly-audible tones …

It had begun almost before she was aware that it had begun. This voice. And then only to be drowned out in a veritable deluge of cheering and applause! An explosion which had unceremoniously roused her from an intense self-absorption with her own mounting nervousness and concern. Bringing her back to the reality of her own imminent peril! Back to the urgency of her own dire and potential proximity to the very danger she had so certainly anticipated encountering upon this horrid and ill-fated night …

She could see that the gas-lights had been turned down. Could see the almost complete darkness which now engulfed the vast interior. And when the tumult finally subsided and she could once again hear this voice it was saying something fulsome about how it had always wished to have the great pleasure of meeting you face-to-face at this Christmas time. At which point it was, once again, drowned out. Overwhelmed by a fierce renewal of that thunderous cheering and applause, whistling and foot-stomping. As though this unseen audience, his audience, were going absolutely and deliriously mad in their insane adoration of the man whose voice this must assuredly be. This self-proclaimed champion of the working-class poor. This chronicler of their social and economic distress. This infernal demon! This Charles Dickens …

It went on in this way for what seemed to her like an eternity. And, without even being aware that it was happening, she had slowly begun to edge her mopping a little closer, and yet closer still, to that accursed open door and the unseen owner of that fatal, hypnotic voice at work within. Closer and yet closer still to the churning maelstrom of that violent emotional outburst which this disembodied voice had unleashed inside the darkened Hall. Like a fluttering moth drawn inexorably toward the mesmerizing fatality of the brightly flickering flame. Closer … and ever closer to that open doorway. Toward the yawning, beckoning blackness beyond! Against her will. And as if against her very reason! Like a dormouse in the presence of some vile and venomous snake. Helplessly drawn toward the intoxicating ‘hissssssssssss’ of that disembodied voice stalking, all unseen, through the darkened Auditorium of the great Town Hall in the City of Birmingham. Stalking through her increasingly disoriented senses. Deep inside the unplumbed abyss of her very soul!

She could sense the danger. Yes! And she could feel the very evil emanating from that dark and forbidding chamber. And yet … still she edged steadily closer … and even closer … and yet closer still. Until, at last, she had slipped silently through the open doorway and into the rear of the darkened Hall. Hurriedly and furtively secreting herself in its blackest corner. Totally obscured by the shadowy forms milling about at the very back of the house.

I now proceed, the unseen voice was saying, to the pleasant task to which, I assure you, I have looked forward for a long time. And in but an instant the Hall had exploded into yet another fearsome avalanche of thunderous cheering and applause. Far more terrifying, now, for her being within the very chamber itself and subject to all of its resounding echoes. The thousands of horrifying reverberations which emanated from a myriad of unseen and hitherto unsuspected corners, overhangs and angles.

And then it was that those anonymous and shadowy figures standing at the back of the Hall, concealing her presence and blocking her view, shifted. Like the vertebrae of some reptilian creature. Writhing with the languidness of an opium dream. Revealing to her, at last, the figure of that previously unseen speaker. And then it was [at that very instant and as if upon some insidiously pre-arranged signal!] that the great heavy door, through which she had only just unwisely entered, closed summarily! Swinging shut with a sepulchral ‘thud.’ Like a coffin-lid dropped into its final resting-place. Cutting off all earthly possibility of either retreat … or of salvation!

***

She cowered there in the enveloping darkness. Swallowed up whole, like some mop-totting Jonah in the belly of the great Town Hall of the City of Birmingham. Absolutely and utterly trapped in the impenetrable blackness of that vast and Hellish cavern! While all about her there arose a shrieking and howling! As of irrevocably-damned souls writhing in the agonies of some exquisite and eternal torment! The shrieking and howling of the more than two thousand working-class harpies who had braved the freezing cold and arctic winds of that December night to pay homage to this vile literary Lucifer. [Yes! That was it! How clear it had all become to her in that one, blinding moment!] And these fools, insanely screaming out their lust for this ‘Founder of the Feast’ and the horrid little panoply of imps and devils he would presently conjure up for their holiday edification and amusement upon this, his Satanic gas-lit stage … they were nothing but his creatures! His familiars …

And now the shadowy crowd had silently parted to reveal the great literary Beelzebub himself! Smiling in jolly malevolence! Villainously evil in dark brown frock-coat and matching cravat! His features hideously irradiated in the reddish glow cast upon them by the rows of hissing gas-jets reflecting off wine-colored velvet curtains! Eyes twinkling merrily as he casually surveyed this, his earthly domain. For the great Charles Dickens himself stood motionless upon the gas-lit stage at the far end of the Auditorium. Waiting in menacing and patient silence. Waiting! And waiting still …

And, yes! He was smiling! Oh, yes! Confidently. Even affably. He was smiling … unconcernedly! For he knew! Yes! He knew! Knew that he had her now. Had her at long last! Older now. Oh! So much older. Older now by far than even she had then been back then … back when … had she really been that young? How long ago? How long? And now there he stood! Waiting patiently behind the portable writing desk which sat upon the low oaken table. Set upon the gas-lit stage. Patiently waiting for the cheering to subside. And the applause. And all of the various scufflings and coughings and murmurings which inevitably precede the full and attentive silence of blind adoration. Waiting for all of it to completely die down before proceeding to his horrid and inevitable task …

And as he stood there, letting his seemingly benevolent gaze wander languidly over the crowded Hall, it suddenly became blindingly and terrifyingly apparent to her that this had all been a trap! A subtly-laid trap! A sinister contrivance of the great English novelist. Of the ingenious weaver of intricate popular fictions. The acknowledged master of plot and dialogue and characterization. That he had enmeshed her, somehow, in one of his own devilish creations. And that he had divined her presence! [She could only imagine how!] Had sought her out. Had come for her! Had deftly maneuvered and manipulated her from afar as easily, and as carelessly, as he might have maneuvered and manipulated one of his many fictional characters. Fictional? Could it possibly be true? But she was real … wasn’t she? Well … wasn’t she?

And he had lured her … thus … into this, his fatal web of silken, bloody strands! There to devour her, body and soul, like some monstrous spider in dark brown frock-coat and matching cravat! To tear her to pieces! Oh God! Hadn’t he already stolen her life? Oh, so very many, many years ago? Let the charwoman alone to be the first! he had written. That was all that he had mercilessly left to her. Of her entire life! All of it reduced to this single cryptic sentence! And now he was come for her! To steal her very existence from her as well! To hurl her into utter and all-encompassing oblivion!

And it was driving her mad!

"Oh, Jacob! Help me …"

CHAPTER 2

THE GHOSTS OF CHRISTMAS PAST

December 30th, 1853 [continued]

Marley was dead …

"Liar!"

The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker and the chief mourner.

"So it was! Indeed it was …"

Scrooge signed it …

So he did …

… and Scrooge’s name was good upon ‘Change for anything he chose to put his hand to.

"Then how do you explain what they found in the pantry, you bloody bastard?"

Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise?

"Otherwise? How it could be otherwise? No one knows that better than you do, you lying cur!"

Uttered in the merest of whispers. Trembling with agitation. All but unheard in the murky blackness which engulfed the rear of the great, crowded Auditorium.

He paused momentarily. For ‘theatrical effect,’ as it were. His eyes twinkling merrily in the reflected gas-light as he let them roam deliberately over the interior of the darkened Hall. Up-turned faces eerily chalky in the gloom. All that was dimly visible of the first few rows of his adoring listeners. This man, middle-aged and handsomely-attired in dark brown frock-coat and matching cravat. Leaning slightly forward across the portable writing desk toward this, his spectral audience. Confidentially. As if to impart a sense of cozy familiarity and the jollity of some mutually-shared, yet universally-understood joke. An impish grin lurking mischievously beneath drooping moustaches. The look of a vain man. Eminently well-pleased with both himself and his present situation. Enormously amused. Barely able to contain himself, actually.

And then, smiling jovially and raising an admonishing forefinger into the air:

"This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate."

"You mean of the lies you’ve been a-spreading, you miserable turd!"

This last escaped her audibly. Involuntarily. Almost unconsciously. Through teeth tightly-clenched in barely-controlled anger. In hatred even!

And even in the intense darkness which smothered the back of the Hall, she sensed that several heads had swiveled ‘round. Indignantly! Eyes vainly straining for some indication of just who had dared utter such crude blasphemy as this! She shrank back even further. Cowering against the wall. Desperately biting her lower lip in mute frustration. Tasting salt. For already the tears of impotent rage were coursing down her cheeks. Through the crevices and gullies of her prematurely wrinkled features. Skin already like old parchment. Dry with age not yet actually attained. Worn by years of worry and fear. And the endless struggle for mere existence upon the streets. Rough with chap from the bitter wintry winds.

"Martha, my dear … whatever has become of my pretty Martha?"

Oh, Jacob!

She huddled even further back into the protective shadows. As the voice from the gas-lit stage continued to probe the surrounding darkness. Came stealthily searching through the rows upon rows of anonymous and unsuspecting listeners. Came searching … for her! Yes! Coming for her … because of what she knew! Coming for her because of what she could tell them if she but chose to do so …

Oh, yes!

She could tell them alright! She could tell them everything …

"Dickens, sir!"

***

It was the 30th day of December in the year 1853. It was a Friday. And it was to be the final night of Charles Dickens’ program of three Christmas Readings given under the auspices and for the financial benefit of the City of Birmingham’s newly-inaugurated Industrial and Literary Institute. A special night, as everyone knew, with tickets priced at only sixpence apiece to enable the ‘working classes’ to obtain admission to hear the great hero of the poor and the down-trodden enunciate his philosophic message of noblesse oblige and cozy Christmas benevolence.

For things were not right in the England of Queen Victoria. Things were amiss in a world where ‘profit’ and ‘gain’ trumped ‘peace on earth’ and ‘good will toward men’ every time! For men had failed to obey God’s sacred injunction that they respect and care for one another. That they ‘do unto others,’ as it were, and treat one another with charity and decency and kindness. Those at the top, the wealthy who ‘owned’ things such as factories and banks and fine estates, had used their political and economic leverage to exploit the working classes and the poor. So that squalor and hunger and filth were everywhere a blight upon the general human condition. But this need not and, indeed, it must not be allowed to continue! This boy is Ignorance, Dickens had proclaimed. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased. Deny it! … and bide the end!

And therefore those at the very top must take it upon themselves to assume responsibility for the well-being of those suffering masses huddled down below. And those at the bottom must endeavor to make themselves worthy of this imperative act of upper-class philanthropy by striving to educate themselves and thereby assist in their own moral and intellectual uplifting and redemption. Even old Scrooge had put aside his greed and ceased to weigh everything in life by its profitability. Raised Bob Cratchit’s salary and determined to assume some small responsibility for assisting his struggling family. And thus must the upper classes, in general, reach out to their own lower-class brethren! To their employees and servants, to the trades-people with whom they dealt upon a daily basis and even [and especially!] to the poor and the destitute who choked the good Queen’s slums and debtor’s prisons.

Now, there might be some who would say, If this is how the good Queen conducts her slums and debtor’s prisons, then she doesn’t deserve to have any! Well, perhaps not. But the Apostle Matthew had cautioned that, ye have the poor always with you. And one must do something with them, after all. And therefore [as Dickens, himself, had observed earlier that evening], rich and poor alike, all men must needs come to realize the fundamental truth that those whose interests are identical, who depend upon each other, and who can never be in unnatural antagonism without deplorable results must come to look upon one another "as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. Or bide the end!"

And so more than two thousand representatives of the English working-class had gladly handed over their precious sixpence apiece to come and hear the great Mr. Dickens read from his famous Christmas Carol. In the magnificent Town Hall. In the Midlands City of Birmingham. Upon this bitterly-cold December’s night. To hear him assert that those few at the very top must assume some small responsibility for ameliorating the sufferings and tribulations of all those many at the very bottom. For whose labor was it, after all, which enabled those at the very top to live their lives of happy affluence, physical comfort and aristocratic ease? Eh? Answer me that!

And so they had come to hear. And to laugh and to weep and to cheer for those wonderful characters he had brought so memorably to life. Scrooge and Bob Cratchit. Old Fezziwig and Tiny Tim. And then to trudge back to their own squalid homes, through the bitter cold of that long winter’s night. Back to their own dreary, meaningless, monotonous and empty lives! To the grinding poverty, the malnutrition and the disease which characterized their own story-book existence.

And yet [oh, happy day! for they were, indeed, happy, grateful, pleased with one another, and contented with the time], they trudged home secure in the knowledge that the rich and famous Mr. Dickens was, indeed, thinking of them in his idle moments! As he supped, mayhap, with the Lord Mayor and the members of the City Corporation upon roast beef and Christmas pudding. Before going back to his own luxurious residence in some fashionable London suburb. To resume his fabled existence as England’s greatest living author. And all upon this 30th day of December. In the Year of Our Lord 1853. A Friday. And full twenty-six years to the day … almost to the very hour … and, indeed, almost to the very moment since …

And so the great author had taken his place behind the velvet-draped table set upon the gas-lit stage. Atop which sat the portable writing desk. And the ivory-handled letter-knife. He had taken a sip of water from the carafe concealed somewhere beneath. And, having done this, he had begun to read from his celebrated tale. And as he began, and as he progressed, all of the pent-up anger and fear and hatred which had smoldered in the subconscious recesses of poor Martha’s tortured and troubled soul began to bubble forth in uncontrollable aching spasms.

For here was he, the great Mr. Dickens, rich and famous and a national hero, as it were. And there was she, old and poor. Obscure and ignored. And how had he come to be so rich and she to be so poor? He so beloved and she so bereft and forlorn? For it was her life, after all, that he had stolen! Not just twisted beyond all recognition … but totally obliterated! He had exterminated her! For the charwoman hadn’t even been given a name! And how had this horrible injustice come to be? How had Ebenezer Scrooge come to be as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man as Dickens insisted he had become … while she had ceased even to exist? And old Scrooge with the blood of poor dead Jacob Marley still dripping slowly from his greedy, grasping fingers?

"Eh? Answer me that … you bloody lying bastard!"

***

Marley was dead …

The very words cut into her like a knife! Bringing back with an unexpected agony all that had happened those many, many years ago. She knew that she had feared to meet him. Knew that she must not come here! And yet … she had come anyway. Come of her own volition to take the place of her only friend in all this cold, dark and unforgiving world. Her fellow-sufferer. Her fellow-exile! Assured again and again that nothing would happen to her. That everything would yet be well … but look at her now! Trapped in this sepulchral Hall. In this cavernous Hell! As if sealed in a tomb! As if buried alive … with this devil incarnate and two-thousand or more of his shrieking, screaming harpies. These fanatical worshippers at the shrine of his literary greatness! Of his infernal lies and his fictional deceit …

For worshipers they were, and make no mistake! And he their self-appointed Deity. They were his very creations, made in his own evil image! Yes! That was it, surely? They were merely another of his insidious creations! No different, really, than any of the others. For without him, they had no real existence whatsoever. The fools! They were but a banshee part of this, his vile fantasy world. Called into being for but a few brief hours, at sixpence a head, to come and worship wantonly, even lasciviously, at the shrine of his ‘literary genius.’ To play their appointed part and then be banished back into the cold and the outer darkness. To suffer the absolute oblivion of their own meaningless ‘reality’ and to await … what precisely?

Yet still they applauded and cheered at his homely antics. His cozily-contrived performance. All blithely unaware that she was the real reason for this, his ‘second coming.’ Perversely uncaring that they merely acted out a supporting role in this, his crowning achievement. His magnum opus! That, in very fact, they probably didn’t even exist at all! For although they laughed and wept, whistled and cheered as if of their own volition these actions were, in reality, merely convenient to the pursuit of those unimagined purposes actually motivating the great Literary Icon. For they hung upon his every word and they responded to his every gesture like puppet creatures on leading-strings! Like animated corpses in a gas-lit laboratory. The poor pathetic imbeciles! Blithely unaware that they were merely a Greek chorus in the great Mr. Dickens’ insidiously-concocted plan to ferret her out into the open! To ensnare her in this, his ingeniously-designed trap! Because she knew too much. Because she might tell what she knew. And because she could utterly destroy him were she to choose to do so! Oh, yes!

But what did it really matter, after all? Wasn’t it far better, when all was said and done, to be even the merest figment of some famous author’s fertile imagination than to be … well … to be absolutely nothing at all? And it wasn’t as though they were actually aware of their predicament … it wasn’t as though these mindless creatures were actually conscious of their situation … Oh, no!

"So huzzah! for the great Charles Dickens, m’lads! Huzzah! I say, for the famous Mr. Dickens! The immortal Mr. Dickens! Huzzah for his famous Christmas Carol! Oh, how wonderful! ‘God bless us everyone!’ and all that rubbish! Eh? Did you see him then, Johnny? Did you see the famous Mr. Charles Dickens, m’boy? Now there’s something you can tell your grandchildren about, eh Johnny? How you actually saw the famous Mr. Dickens! Did you wave to him then, Johnny? Did you wave? Wave to him, Johnny! Wave to him, I say! Shout ‘huzzah!’ Shout ‘huzzah!’ you dirty little bastard!"

She was losing her very sanity! She could actually feel her mind decaying inside of her skull! The tears of pain and frustration rolling steadily down her wrinkled cheeks. Her breathing coming in labored gasps, when it came at all. She was shaking uncontrollably! And the room swam before her as the flashing knife-blades of his cheery Christmas tale sliced into her raw and bleeding soul! Making it scream in very agony! She couldn’t follow his exact words, and yet those words were branded into her consciousness with the red-hot iron of personal remembrance. A lunatic tale created from the sad morbidity of her own blasted past and retold to the accompaniment of the shrieks and howls and the incessant babble of this, his anthropomorphic army of adoring harpies …

"Oh! Jacob! Help me … please!"

***

The darkened Hall swam about her as the malevolent voice echoed and re-echoed through the aching convolutions of her overwrought brain. The cheery thread of this agonizingly familiar tale of Christmas malevolence coming and going with a dizzying rapidity which drove her to the very edge of insanity …

"… in life I was your partner and had, as I think, children dragging a heavy chain over the casks in the wine-merchant’s cellar when Want is keenly felt [if quite convenient, sir!] and abundance rejoices do not blame me whom a breath might have withered at this time of the rolling year but if the courses be departed from you don’t think me ill used before you dot another i seven years ago this very night if I was to stop half-a-crown for it you cannot hope to shun the path I tread, mine occupies me constantly, and if they would rather die I’ll retire to Bedlam if a lunch is provided [yo-ho, my boys!] it’s not convenient and it’s not fair …"

"Lies …all lies!"

… come into the parlour and buy another coal-scuttle with the sight of Marley’s pig-tail sticking out into the hall and Scrooge never did, covetous old sinner, buried with a stake of holly through the chain I forged in one life’s opportunity misused …

It was as if a swarm of insects were buzzing about in her fevered brain! And she groaned aloud, through teeth tightly clenched, eyes screwed shut against the dizzying whirl of the gaslights …

"… you don’t think me ill-used and it is a ponderous chain in the comprehensive ocean of my business [quite as becoming to the body!] a wicked old screw and this must be distinctly understood and a crutch without an owner carefully preserved [ask me who I was and let me keep it in mine!] you have never seen the like of me before what evidence would you have of my reality? it’s only once a year …"

Her shoulders heaved with silent sobbing, her eyes blinded by the tears!

… speak comfort to me, Jacob! [you are quite a woman!] it’s a judgment on him in misery’s every refuge captive bound and double-ironed I fear you more than any Spectre I have seen and they cling to me appealing from an undigested bit of beef but I see it notwithstanding there’s more of gravy than of grave about you or the Country’s done for, say he will be spared, come back with him in less than five minutes and I’ll raise your salary and decrease the surplus population but I suppose you must have the whole day, not a farthing less! haunt me no longer look to see me no more [hillie-ho! chirrup!] if these shadows remain unaltered the night is waning fast and it is precious time to me oh, incessant torture of remorse …

"Where … are you, Jacob? Help me … pleeeease!"

"… and it was always said of him do you believe in me or not? I am behind my time it’s humbug still not to know that no space of regret can make amends for bed-curtains …!"

"Nooooooooooooooo …" it was but a low groan into the bloody teeth-marks upon the back of her hand, echoing through the convolutions of her shattered sanity!

"… God Bless Us Every One!"

"Timmmmmmmm!"

Her brain suddenly lucid! As if a pail of ice-water had been dashed over it!

"Oh, dear God! What did I do to you?"

***

And then, at last, it was over …

The tears ran down her cheeks uncontrollably now. She couldn’t breath! She couldn’t see! She couldn’t think! Foul Dickens rose up before her, vile and malignant in his Satanic supremacy. Taunting her with his absolute control over her very existence! Over the past through which she had so painfully labored and which he now so carelessly, and even malignantly, distorted beyond all possible recognition to accommodate his foul literary designs. He had stolen her whole life! Made a lie of everything … of everything!

And in doing so it was he who had become rich and famous. It was he who had become a hero to the masses of poor and down-trodden humanity who swarmed through the streets and alleyways of the rising factory towns. The very air they breathed choked with the noxious fumes and pervasive filth spewing forth from the thousands of smoke-stacks such as those which dotted the Birmingham skyline. Their lives fatally blighted and their futures futilely bleak. They worshipped him as an idol and cheered him in the streets for his sympathetic view of their situation and his encouraging assurances of its eventual remedy.

"Oh Jacob …"

And now they were cheering again. Whistling and applauding and stomping their work-booted feet in the darkness. While Dickens stood upon the gas-lit stage. His tale finally told. Arms raised in mute acknowledgment of their sycophantic adoration. Beaming triumphantly. Bowing humbly. Soaking up every drop of their scripted adulation. And it was driving her mad!

She must put an end to this! She must be silent no longer! She must scream at them! Pound upon them with her bony hands! And she must continue to scream at them, and to pound upon them, until they finally listened! Until they finally understood what had happened! And how it had all come to pass. She must expose him for the liar that he was! Tell them of just who, and what, Ebenezer Scrooge had really been! Expose this bastard Dickens! She must take back her life! Make them understand about her poor Jacob! Understand how it had all really happened. What she knew and how she’d come to know it! And how she had been beaten down and bullied by Ebenezer Scrooge, with his grasping and his greed. She must tell them how Dickens had stolen it all from her and made it his very own. She must tell them now! God! She must speak!

And as this decision coalesced in her reeling consciousness she began to lurch forward. Wiping at her running nose with the back of a chapped and wrinkled hand. Pushing her way forward, through the crowd at the back of the darkened Hall. Trying to force her way between two hulking, foul-smelling creatures who cursed at her in their surprise. Pushing her insolently back.

But she didn’t care! She tore at their coats with claw-like fingers. Struggled forward! Crying hysterically. Her life had been taken from her! Couldn’t they see that? The truth of it twisted into a mere ‘Christmas story’ with which to strangle her, even as she … as she cursed at them and was again pushed rudely back! Cursed at in return by a low and disembodied voice! Raised her withered hand to strike out, feebly, at this her shadowy assailant! To be pushed roughly aside once more. Stumbling backward to the floor. All in a heap! Sobbing uncontrollably amid the whistling and the cheering and the applause …

Liar! she sobbed helplessly. Defeated now, at last. "Liar …"

***

The crowd was still cheering and applauding, whistling and stomping in near-hysterical adoration, as she slipped quietly out through the door by which she had first entered, seemingly a lifetime ago. Blinking confusedly in the sudden bright light. Broken and despairing and as though in a daze. As she took up her abandoned mop and bucket and dragged herself slowly through a much smaller door and into a side-corridor leading away from the main lobby. And then through yet another door, paneled in amber-glazed glass. Retiring even further into the depths of the now seemingly-deserted building. The teeming crowds and the incessant noise, the oppressive closeness and the almost unbearable tension of this horrible evening seeming to drop away as she silently let herself through yet another door and closed it carefully, even gently, behind her. Here all was tranquility. All was quiet. It was over. It was finished. She was bloodied. She was broken, even. But she had survived. She had drawn near the Devil in this very Hall. In his very Hell! But she had emerged alive. And that, after all, was what really mattered, now wasn’t it?

But it had been a terrifying experience! She had paid a fearful price. And, shattered and bloodied, she had almost made an irretrievable error! A careless and possibly fatal mistake. And she shuddered uncontrollably, now, at the sudden realization.

For twenty-six long years she had lived with an ever-present and unspoken fear. Half-expecting that at any moment of any given day or night she might feel the sudden pressure of a Constable’s iron grip fixing itself tightly upon her arm. Hear his voice snarling a triumphant, "Got you at last, then, ‘aven’t we, my dear?" Twenty-six long years of living in mortal terror of eventual discovery and official retribution. And through it all her only protection had been her anonymity. She’d gone to ground and she’d stayed there. As quiet as a mouse. For twenty-six years. Hoping against hope that it had all blown over at last. Praying that they had all finally forgotten …

And it had happened, now, hadn’t it? Ebenezer Scrooge and Jacob Marley had become merely the characters in a story. The figments of an over-active literary imagination. They had ceased to have any reality whatsoever in the public mind. And in that cessation of their own reality had lain her only real hope of ultimate salvation. She continued to survive in the real world because Ebenezer Scrooge and Jacob Marley had ceased to do so. But she knew the truth. For she had been there, hadn’t she?

Well? Hadn’t she …?

So what if she had come forward to make her incredible accusations? Why, it would only have been a matter of time before that dreaded knock came upon her door, and the gruff voice of authority posed the fatal question: "So what do you know about this Scrooge business, then? It never was resolved, you know? So perhaps you’d just better come along with us, all nice and quiet-like. We ‘ave a few questions we’d like you to answer. See?" Oh, no! No! She was too old to climb the gallows now. Too old to die like that! Too old … and too much afraid! And, in her agony, she had almost brought it down upon herself!

He had stolen her entire life from her. Made a lie of it all! Made of Ebenezer Scrooge a hero. And made of Jacob Marley just a comic apparition dragging a ponderous chain through all eternity. His drooping jaw bound up in a moldy wrapper and his pig-tail sticking out behind Scrooge’s door. And there was nothing … no, there was absolutely nothing … that she could hope to do about it! For they had, all of them, passed into the realm of fictional literature. All of them …

"I am … so … sorry, Jacob!"

And agonizing sobs wracked her suddenly very weak and very frail body …

***

She had been unconsciously retreating, perhaps half-a-step at a time, toward yet another glazed-glass door even further down this empty and isolated back corridor. Backing toward it as if in a daze. Laboring slowly and instinctively rather than with any definite intention. Dragging her mop back and forth across the beautifully-tiled floor. So bright and shiny! Back and forth. Aware of nothing. Conscious of nothing. Back and forth … and back and forth. Until …

… at first barely audible, the muffled sounds of approaching humanity had rapidly increased in volume. And in but a few brief seconds the glazed-glass door toward which her back was turned, as she stood unconscious in her reverie, had suddenly burst open in a babble of voices and laughter! Spilling forth a dozen or so individuals, of various age and gender, boisterously engaged in animated conversation. Startling her into a sudden awareness of both her position and her perilous situation!

Martha turned abruptly! Clumsily. Her wet mop slapping carelessly over well-polished boots and silken skirts. Knocking over her bucket in the confusion and sending a torrent of cold, dirty water cascading across the gleaming tiles in the opposite direction [luckily!] from the cluster of merry-makers piled up now, before her, in startled incomprehension. And as her shattered consciousness agonizingly congealed around the reality of her situation, she found herself face-to-face with the great Charles Dickens himself! Standing at the very forefront of this mob which quickly resolved itself into a celebratory retinue of City officials, family members and general well-wishers. Pulled-up sharply, now, before the dreadful apparition of this haggard, frightened charwoman!

All conversation had broken off in mid-sentence. Holiday merry-makers momentarily frozen in time. Taken completely unawares by the sight of this strange old woman’s horrified visage. The only sound to be heard in the deathly silence which ensued being a quick gasp of youthful feminine surprise. And in that instant Martha’s features underwent a profound and terrible transformation, as initial confusion and instinctive fear rapidly gave way to a look of almost animal ferocity! The look in her eyes becoming one of half-savage triumph as she took a sudden step forward, toward Dickens himself, her dripping mop raised menacingly toward his face. As if she contemplated lunging at the great author and verily swabbing him to death before the terrified gaze of the assembled guests!

A young girl, standing to Dickens’ immediate left, cried out, What’s happening, Auntie Georgie? in frightened, anxious tones. And at the same instant a small, thin man with high forehead accentuated by a receding hairline and a profusion of light brown side-whiskers stepped quickly forward, as if to intercept this dreadful weapon.

Nothing, Katie. Nothing at all.

It was Dickens, himself, who spoke. Pleasantly and reassuringly. Quickly attempting to regain control of the situation.

No, Wills! he gently admonished the thin, whiskered man at almost the same moment, as this worthy actually laid profane hands upon the offending mop. "We’ve startled this poor woman, that’s all. Do accept our apologies, my … dear."

He had turned back to face the charwoman, only to meet Martha’s enraged visage. Her wild, ferocious glare burning intently into his eyes! Silencing him! As though he had seen something there which struck a chord! Causing that last word to die out, weakly, upon his suddenly dry and trembling lips! It had been but a whisper. Barely audible even to those clustered nervously about him. All of whom were now staring expectantly [and with mounting terror!] at this seemingly-deranged creature who boldly challenged their passage with dripping mop in this out-of-the-way side-corridor of the great Town Hall in the City of Birmingham.

"Dickens, sir!"

Her words snapped in the tense atmosphere like the sharp crack of a dueling pistol in a quiet country churchyard! Their very unexpectedness catching everyone by surprise! Seeming to confuse even more than startle them. Increasing their already very considerable nervousness. Their already very considerable fear! While Dickens himself retreated half-a-step into the gentleman standing directly behind him. Open-mouthed, as if he wished to say something which he could not quite remember. His eyes grown large, as if with a dawning horror! As though he had been struck solidly in the chest by the very violence of those two incongruous words.

And, sensing that she had drawn first blood in this sudden and unanticipated encounter with the great monster of her innermost fears, Martha hissed out her incomprehensible challenge yet again.

"Dickens, sir!"

Yet still they hesitated. As if mesmerized by this bony apparition and her lunatic behavior. While the seconds ticked by. And the tension became well-nigh unbearable …

Move along now!

It was Wills, Dickens’ factotum, who finally broke the spell. Mystified, quite frankly, by what was transpiring before his very eyes. Sensing something to be very wrong indeed! Yet completely unable to put a name to it. And prevented, moreover, by his employer’s injunction from laying hands upon this sinister old woman who confronted them, with dripping mop and cryptic incantation, in this deserted back corridor. And, therefore, the wiry little man had fallen back upon the simple expedient of merely getting the party moving again. Forward. Toward the next door. And away from the menacing situation which confronted them here.

And as they began moving forward again, haltingly and in uncoordinated fashion, giving the wild-eyed mop-wielding old woman who confronted them a wide berth, Martha sensed her brief moment of triumph slipping helplessly away down the ever-lengthening corridor. And she took a step or two after them in helpless frustration and waved her mop menacingly at their retreating forms.

"Dickens, sir! she called after them. Almost hysterically. You know what it means! Don’t you, boy? Dickens, sir! Dickens …"

But by then they were gone. The door at the far end of that ill-fated corridor closing, finally, behind them. Both confirming and protecting their hastily-executed retreat. And, once again, Martha was alone.

And now it was finally over …

***

All that was left for her was to sink helplessly to the floor. Sobbing silently and uncontrollably. No longer hysterical. But finally and irrevocably beaten. Her shoulders heaving as she struggled to get herself under control. To draw breath into her aching lungs. Yet still the tears came. Tears of anger and frustration. Tears of hatred. Tears of sheer loneliness and despair. It had been so long … so very, very long. Twenty-six years this very night. Almost to the very hour. And almost to the very moment …

"Oh, Jacob! Look what’s become of me …"

***

And yet, in the end, there were simply no more tears to be shed. Not even for the past. And when there were no more tears Martha finally found the strength to struggle slowly and somewhat shakily to her feet. Found the strength to shuffle back through the now-deserted corridors. Leaving mop and over-turned bucket somewhere behind. Back through the door paneled in amber-glazed glass and out into the main lobby. Now almost totally deserted save for the small army of charwomen still plying their simple trade in self-absorbed silence.

She crossed the lobby as if in a dream. Stumbling out into the frozen night. Without giving any thought to the retrieval of her threadbare garments. All awareness of her immediate surroundings rapidly receding into a troubled and smothering oblivion. And even as she shuffled forward, beneath the frozen magnificence of the midnight sky, they had already begun to stir. Crawling up out of the weed-choked graves in which they had been but tenuously buried for [oh!] so very many years … and they were coming for her!

CHAPTER 3

A KNOCKING UPON THE DOOR

December 31st, 1853

The night was clear and bitterly cold. The leaden canopy of late afternoon had cleared off, the wind had subsided and the stars now twinkled brightly in their infinite millions in the ebony vastness of the heavens. There would be no moon this night to rival the illumination thrown off by the City’s gas street lamps, which reflected in the frozen slush congealed upon the paving-stones. Crackling loudly underfoot as she made her lonely way back across the now nearly-deserted Square.

But she noticed none of this. For the terrifying events of this festive evening had completely drained her of any last vestiges of consciousness. Causing her to move forward as if in a drug-induced reverie. As if under the evil influence of some weird, mesmeric trance. Her eyes wide open, yet fixed sightlessly upon some unnamed place far beyond the deserted gas-lit streets which stretched before her. Oblivious to the intensifying cold of the long winter’s night. Oblivious to the steady loss of bodily heat and the complete physical exhaustion which were rapidly overtaking her. Oblivious, too, of the urgent necessity of returning home with all possible haste. To Bette. As she had faithfully promised her ailing companion she would do, so soon as ever she could break away from her enforced labors at the great Town Hall.

Instead, she continued moving on through the lengthening frozen blackness. Her thoughts revolving ever more erratically within her fatigued and fevered brain. Up one icy street and down the next. Crossing a bridge over the canal here and doubling back again over there, all unawares, upon her previous advance. And even as she stumbled blindly forward she was not alone. For spectral apparitions, grotesque and misshapen phantoms, loped and lurched and scurried along all about her. Swooping and darting with a dizzying rapidity through the icy atmosphere of her nocturnal wanderings. Rotting corpses newly-risen from their mouldering graves. The ghosts, as it were, of those many Christmases past …

Long past?

"No … your past!"

***

… a dog howled in the distance as Scrooge looked up from the floor, unable to get his left hand turned over, his eyes gleaming steadily out of the darkness, reflecting the orange glow of his cigar which they found drowned in the millpond only forty feet away where they found him the next morning, his right foot still caught up in the stirrup as the wheels rolled over his skull, slowly crushing his head like an over-ripe melon while she sat bare-breasted in bed, gazing at him with sad glazed eyes, Ask me who I was, he said as she sliced open his cheek with the shard of dirty glass which tipped over in the darkness with a dull ‘thud’ as she brushed it with her fingertips and died on Christmas morning without ever having seen their child and she could see the yellowish fog creeping slowly down the passage-way from the kitchen as the old man in his wheeled-chair chuckled evilly into the dying fire, his head twisted at an unfortunate angle from his body while little Emma sat upright in her coffin and stretched out her small thin hand to him, You wear the chain you forged in life, my dear, he moaned as the severed head swung gently to and fro in the steaming jungle twilight and the hideous creature lurched clumsily across the dark stable yard and disappeared into a bucket full of soapy water, I send them along for you to put to such use as you shall deem proper, he shrieked as he discharged his pistol in Scrooge’s face while the neighbors rushed in and pulled him from her bloodied lifeless body, their voices advancing through the nearly impenetrable murk as she hurled piles of books down upon him from her darkened window, "It is a ponderous chain! he exclaimed, and there were faint greenish fingerprints upon the railing when he came out of old Fezziwig’s office with a terrible grim smile upon his lips, the remnants of her torn dress still tangled about her feet and ankles, hanging naked for all the world to see in the driving summer rain as they dragged his corpse up out of the raw sewage with a boat-hook and the monkey in the feathered cap chattered wickedly over his stew and he vomited up a gut-load of blood which dribbled down over his torn shirt front and a pair of enormous ears, I’ll raise your salary," he said as the two men of business began to strike the hour from up in the fog-shrouded tower where little Tim’s tiny