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Authors: Chris Priestley
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produced in the Cratchit household.
Peter mashed the potatoes without mercy whilst Mrs Cratchit made the gravy, and Belinda, the second eldest of the daughters, made the apple sauce. The youngest children noisily set the table and dragged chairs into place, and Bob and Tim occupied the corner of the table together.
Sam listened to Lizzie laughing and wondered why the spirit’s incense had not worked its magic on him. Was he so dead to joy? Had he so totally forgotten what happiness was? He felt a kinship with the invalid Tim. That is what I must be like inside, thought Sam. And yet still he tries to match the others for happiness.
Sam had barely taken his eyes off Bob’s frail son, as he hopped unsteadily about the room, his crutch clunking against the floor as the others either steered clear of him or guided him to safety.
Bob rarely left the boy’s side and Sam noticed that they were almost always in physical contact, as they were then at the table, Bob’s own skinny hand seeming to be full of health and vigour beside the pale and limp, fragile hand of his son.
Everyone saw this favouritism and all knew the sad truth it concealed and none would ever have been jealous of it nor ever remarked upon it.
When Mrs Cratchit began to carve the goose and the full aroma of it was released, the younger Cratchits beat the handles of their knives on the table (which bore the bruises of earlier such beatings) and even Tiny Tim joined in with a barely audible ‘Hurrah!’
The goose was consumed with a joyful enthusiasm, the eating punctuated by sighs and exhalations. With a great deal of assistance from the generous portions of potatoes, stuffing and apple sauce, it proved to be big enough to feed the whole family.
The pudding was fetched and, though not as large as it might be, was treated with all the ceremony a pudding ten times the size – and with a great deal more fruit – might have been expected to receive.
The dishes were cleared away and the fire built up so that chestnuts might be roasted, and there never could have been a rosier scene as apples and oranges were brought out to excited cries.
But Sam saw only Tiny Tim, whose eyelids were drooping now, exhausted by the activity, nestling into his father’s chest, ear to his father’s heart.
‘Mr Scrooge!’ said Bob Cratchit, standing and raising his glass for a toast, making Tim jump. ‘I give you Mr Scrooge, the Founder of the Feast.’
His enthusiasm was not reciprocated.
‘Founder of the Feast indeed!’ said Mrs Cratchit. ‘I wish I had him here. I’d give him a piece of my mind to feast upon –’
‘My dear,’ said Bob, ‘the children. It’s Christmas Day.’
Mrs Cratchit made it very clear what she thought of the notion of toasting such ‘an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man’ as Scrooge, and Sam looked up at the spirit.
‘Seems like your magic is wearing off,’ he said. ‘Why Bob wants to toast the miser, I’ll never know, but his family see him for what he is, that’s for sure.’
‘And yet they toast him still,’ said the spirit.
It was true. The family did – for Bob’s sake – toast Scrooge, however reluctantly. Sam shook his head as even Tiny Tim proffered a weak toast to his father’s employer.
‘Look at him,’ said Sam. ‘Poor little so-and-so. What’s he got to toast anyone about?’
‘He does it for love of his father,’ said the spirit.
‘Then his father’s a fool to make him,’ said Sam. ‘And he’s a fool to do it.’
The Ghost of Christmas Present made no reply. And in his heart Sam knew he did not believe Bob Cratchit to be a fool at all, but a good man who deserved better. He wished they could do more than sprinkle fairy dust on their lives. What good was that to Tiny Tim?
‘Spirit,’ said Sam after a pause, trying to sound nonchalant, ‘will that boy live?’
‘Sam,’ said Lizzie, ‘don’t . . .’
‘Why do you care?’ said the spirit.
‘I just do, all right,’ said
Peter mashed the potatoes without mercy whilst Mrs Cratchit made the gravy, and Belinda, the second eldest of the daughters, made the apple sauce. The youngest children noisily set the table and dragged chairs into place, and Bob and Tim occupied the corner of the table together.
Sam listened to Lizzie laughing and wondered why the spirit’s incense had not worked its magic on him. Was he so dead to joy? Had he so totally forgotten what happiness was? He felt a kinship with the invalid Tim. That is what I must be like inside, thought Sam. And yet still he tries to match the others for happiness.
Sam had barely taken his eyes off Bob’s frail son, as he hopped unsteadily about the room, his crutch clunking against the floor as the others either steered clear of him or guided him to safety.
Bob rarely left the boy’s side and Sam noticed that they were almost always in physical contact, as they were then at the table, Bob’s own skinny hand seeming to be full of health and vigour beside the pale and limp, fragile hand of his son.
Everyone saw this favouritism and all knew the sad truth it concealed and none would ever have been jealous of it nor ever remarked upon it.
When Mrs Cratchit began to carve the goose and the full aroma of it was released, the younger Cratchits beat the handles of their knives on the table (which bore the bruises of earlier such beatings) and even Tiny Tim joined in with a barely audible ‘Hurrah!’
The goose was consumed with a joyful enthusiasm, the eating punctuated by sighs and exhalations. With a great deal of assistance from the generous portions of potatoes, stuffing and apple sauce, it proved to be big enough to feed the whole family.
The pudding was fetched and, though not as large as it might be, was treated with all the ceremony a pudding ten times the size – and with a great deal more fruit – might have been expected to receive.
The dishes were cleared away and the fire built up so that chestnuts might be roasted, and there never could have been a rosier scene as apples and oranges were brought out to excited cries.
But Sam saw only Tiny Tim, whose eyelids were drooping now, exhausted by the activity, nestling into his father’s chest, ear to his father’s heart.
‘Mr Scrooge!’ said Bob Cratchit, standing and raising his glass for a toast, making Tim jump. ‘I give you Mr Scrooge, the Founder of the Feast.’
His enthusiasm was not reciprocated.
‘Founder of the Feast indeed!’ said Mrs Cratchit. ‘I wish I had him here. I’d give him a piece of my mind to feast upon –’
‘My dear,’ said Bob, ‘the children. It’s Christmas Day.’
Mrs Cratchit made it very clear what she thought of the notion of toasting such ‘an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man’ as Scrooge, and Sam looked up at the spirit.
‘Seems like your magic is wearing off,’ he said. ‘Why Bob wants to toast the miser, I’ll never know, but his family see him for what he is, that’s for sure.’
‘And yet they toast him still,’ said the spirit.
It was true. The family did – for Bob’s sake – toast Scrooge, however reluctantly. Sam shook his head as even Tiny Tim proffered a weak toast to his father’s employer.
‘Look at him,’ said Sam. ‘Poor little so-and-so. What’s he got to toast anyone about?’
‘He does it for love of his father,’ said the spirit.
‘Then his father’s a fool to make him,’ said Sam. ‘And he’s a fool to do it.’
The Ghost of Christmas Present made no reply. And in his heart Sam knew he did not believe Bob Cratchit to be a fool at all, but a good man who deserved better. He wished they could do more than sprinkle fairy dust on their lives. What good was that to Tiny Tim?
‘Spirit,’ said Sam after a pause, trying to sound nonchalant, ‘will that boy live?’
‘Sam,’ said Lizzie, ‘don’t . . .’
‘Why do you care?’ said the spirit.
‘I just do, all right,’ said
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