Zachariah 19: Mister Scrooge

London, England

December 24, 1843

The people went into and came out of shops singularly, in pairs or groups, young and old. And the people—most of the people—upon seeing the little climbing boy in the tattered long-coat and dented top hat, would smile and, “Merry Christmas to you, lad!” many said, and superstitious or not, most would reach out to touch him.

Each time he was touched, Zachariah ‘was’ touched.

He had never felt that he belonged among the ‘clean people’.

Forgetting who he was and what he was for the first time in the near nine years of his life — Zachariah now felt…?

Zachariah felt as though he belonged. His eyes becoming shiny and wet, he became one of them, one of the happy people…

One of the clean people.

There… ‘There’!

Streaky and distorted, the window was heavily frosted near the bottom and coated with beads of moisture nearer the top, and although the wavy window was misty at eye level, Zachariah was able to see trays; at this time of evening most were empty, but not all.

Not too long until closing time, on this, the evening before Christmas, not much was left in the bakery, but what did remain was enough to make the hungry boy’s mouth water.

There were cakes and cookies of many shapes and sizes; some tarts with delicious-looking red and yellow toppings; a few large, crusty napoleons; scones with rich, oozing cream and gingerbread men.

With his nose pressed against wet, cold glass, Zachariah watched as the baker, wearing a soiled apron, reached from tray to tray, taking the last of the napoleons and three cherry tarts.

Who could ‘ave so much money, the boy thought, to buy so many’a them wonderful things? And to Mousy, “Should I go in ‘ere and buy me one’a them cream things?”

Turning from the window, starting through the door, No! Don’t ya spend ya money so fast, thinking of what was ahead, Ya still got a way to go.

Knowing he’d be sorry if he spent his money now, “An’ ya know’s what ya really be wantin’!” he said aloud. “Just ya wait till we get to the confectioner’s shop!”

His deceived stomach grumbled in protest, but sighing and wishing he had enough money for a pastry, too, Zachariah began to walk again.

“A merry Christmas to ya, lad!” A smiling man with a young boy in tow rubbed his shoulder.

“Thank ya, Sir!”

Another man, touching the sleeve of his long-coat. “May the Lord Jesus keep ya, boy!”

“I thanks ya, Sir!”

“Aye, boy!”

Zachariah turned, looking.

“Aye, boy!” Waving, an elderly woman accompanied by two younger women purposely crossed the road to come to him, and each in turn touched Zachariah, wishing him “A good Christmas.”

“You, too, Mum.” Warmed by the friendly touches of the three women, “And a good Christmas to ya, too, Mum!”

The women were rewarded and delighted with the boy’s heart-warming smile. “God bless you, lad!”

“Thank ya, Mum.” Looking from one lady to the other,

“And to you, too, Mum. Thank ya!”

They parted, the boy going in his direction and the women theirs, but each of the four came away from their accidental meeting feeling somehow rewarded.

Going on, one road crossing another.

Looking… Watching…

The boy continued on until, suddenly, Zachariah stopped walking and, turning in a tight circle, his head thrown back, his nose in the air he sniffed deeply…

An aroma! His nose twitching, sniffing the air as a hungry animal.

“There!” It’s coming from there.

His stomach rumbling loudly. His mouth watered so badly he had to swallow and wipe the saliva from his chin.

Crossing the road. Following the scent he stood in the doorway of a ‘morose’ appearing tavern.

The door opening abruptly, Zachariah moved out of the way as a cheaply dressed man and woman came from within the tavern.

Seeing the little chimney sweep, “Aye, lad.” the lady smiled and lightly, with her forefinger only—not wanting to get her somewhat dirty glove dirtier—touched his shoulder as the man went to the road to hail a passing cab.

Zachariah watched as, “Whoa!” the driver pulled the plodding horse to a halt, climbed down from his seat and ran around the rear of the small carriage. Opening the door with a slight bow, “Mum! Sir! An’ where might I be takin’ ya?”

Holding the man’s offered elbow for support, the lady stepped onto the runner and into the cab.

Telling the driver their destination, the man followed the woman.

Tipping his cap, “Aye, Sir!” Slamming the door shut, the driver ran back to the front of the cab where he pulled himself up onto the seat and, the reins slapping the horse’s rump, “Giddy’ap!” they were off.

Hesitating a moment, Zachariah came closer to the tavern door again…

And within seconds had to back away as it swung open once again.

The man coming out noticed the boy. “Ah, for luck, my little friend.” he said as he vigorously rubbed his left hand across the boy’s shoulder, then, walking away, he picked his teeth with a toothpick with his right hand, while wiping his other hand on the back of his own shabby coat.

Drawn back, Zachariah held the door open a bit inhaling deeply through his nostrils smelling the combined odors of roasting pork, beef and mutton making the suddenly ravenous boy giddy and, his stomach grumbling, he took another deep breath as though by merely breathing he’d be able to taste what he smelled and so to satisfy his hunger.

“ ‘You’!”

Grabbed from behind, held by the collar of his coat.

“What do you want here?”

Zachariah was lifted off his feet. Frightened, the tips of his toes barely touching the ground. Turning his head, the boy looked into the face of a thin, elderly man with deep set, dark brown eyes, scraggly eyebrows, a beaked nose and wildly flowing white hair.

An obvious look of contempt showing on the man’s face, “Don’t you have elsewhere else to be?” Shaking the boy, “Why’s your kind always hanging about?”

Bringing his head closer, breathing his fetid breath in Zachariah’s face, “Every place I go it’s you beggars and filth!” Bending forward, coming even closer, the man’s long nose just an inch from the boy’s. “Why can’t you stay with your own kind? Why must you people always be hanging about?”

“But, Sir...” squirming, attempting to speak “...I ain’t…”

Tightening his grip on the boy’s collar, the man shook Zachariah into silence. “Why must your kind…” annoyed at being interrupted, he repeated “...always be bothering and harassing honest, hard working people?”

Taking his unreasonable anger out on the unfortunate boy who just happened to be here, in his way.

“I ain’t a beggar, Sir. An’ I works, too…”

Shaking him even harder. “ ‘Quiet’!”

Jiggling back and forth, slipping off the bump on his forehead and his ears, the top hat covered his eyes for a second, then slipped off his head and fell to the ground where it rolled to the man’s feet.

The man looked at the little boy’s frightened, pathetic face, then down at the dented hat where ‘seemingly’ lost in thought, the man stared at the magicians hat for — one, two, three a long moment then, “Bah!” he said, releasing his hold on Zachariah.

Losing his balance, almost falling, the boy slumped to his feet.

Dismissing the boy. Turning away, the man angrily shoved the door causing it slam onto the opposite wall where it remained open as muttering, “Bah!” the man entered the tavern.

The confrontation with the dreadful man having left him cold again. Lifting the hat, Zachariah fitted it onto the three points of his head and, as before, by merely covering his head a sense of warmth and well-being returned to the boy.

Everyone he’d met this night—except this man—seemed to, or at least gave the appearance of liking him.

Confused, “Why’s ‘e ‘ate me so?” he said to his pocket. “ ‘e don’t even know me!”

The door to the tavern remaining open, the boy watched as the man walked to a table and sat.

Noticing the man, “Evenin’, Sir!” George, the barman went to his table.

The man did not answer.

The barman, knowing this customer, asked, “Ya, be wantin’ the mutton tonight, Sir?”

Still irritated by his encounter with the ragamuffin outside, his voice harsh, “ ‘Yes’!”

“Aye, Sir!” Knowing this customer well. Knowing that making a stab at friendliness on this night would mean no more than the many times he’d made an attempt at being friendly in the past. “Will ya be spending this night afore Christmas with your family, Sir?”

“No, George!” the man answered harshly. “If it is any of your business, I’ll be spending…” mockingly “...‘this night afore Christmas’ at home, in bed, as all men should.”

“ ‘owever, Sir...” The barman said “...I do wish ya a good Christmas.”

“Save your ‘good Christmas’ for other gullible fools!”

Expecting none other than this rebuke. “Aye, Sir,” George said.

“One thing more…”

“Aye, Sir?”

“None of your indigestible potatoes tonight, George!”

“Aye, Sir. As ya wish, Mister Scrooge.”

Outside, catching the door, a gust of wind slammed the door shut.

Walking again, the little black-skinned boy again became part of the flowing crowd.

Stopping often to look through shop windows and when spoken to, wishing all ‘A happy Christmas’ the boy spoke back.

The encounter with the man outside of the tavern no longer on the boys mind, Zachariah was with the joyous people once more and, once again had a sense of well-being.

The streaky-black-skinned boy, looking almost like an African, wearing a worn, dirty, undertaker’s discarded long-coat and a twisted and dented top hat, was oblivious to the reasons for the stares of those he passed or passed him.

Zachariah smiled at the people and they smiled back and he— for the first time in his life—truly enjoyed the good luck touches of the people.

The boy felt that, although they were touching him hoping for good luck, they were in fact giving him much more than they thought he’d given them…

After all, what he was really giving them was but an outlet for their superstition, while their touches were making him a part of themselves, a part of their humanity.

Maybe, were it yesterday or the day after tomorrow, possibly they would feel differently.

Now, though, on this night, on this night before Christmas, while passing by the people who caught his eye were rewarded with Zachariah’s heart-warming smile and somehow, in passing, the people felt warmer felt better than they had but moments earlier—and most thought, ‘God bless you, lad!… Most thought ‘May the good Lord bless you, boy’.

“Almost there, Mousy!” Putting his finger into his pocket, the boy touched his friend. “We’re almost there!

“Ahh.”

Barely visible in the distance, the boy saw it down the road: the huge replica of a clay pipe that hung by chains above ‘the tobacconist’s shop’ and Zachariah knew it was there, just next door…

‘The Confectioner’s Shop’.

Of all the wondrous sights of this wondrous night… Of all he’d seen, and smelled, this…

This is what he’d hungered for! This is what the boy wanted most…

‘The Confectioner’s Shop’!

He had passed it thousands of times in the past.

Zachariah had passed it throughout his years of servitude but always in the tow of Johnson — and as he passed ‘The Confectioner Shop’ Zachariah ‘always’ looked longingly through the window, then in passing over his shoulder till the shop was out of sight.

The moisture of sweet anticipation flooding the boy’s mouth, “And now I’m ‘ere...” tapping his pocket “...with a coin to spend!”

Being held by his mother was the this young boy’s sleeping time dream.

Going into ‘The Confectioner’s Shop’ —being able to have what he wanted—this was this young boy’s awake time dream.

But now that Zachariah was there, he was also on a direct route to the shack that was no more than a half-mile away.

Almost home! He was almost home!

The realization returning to him: ‘Home’! ‘Johnson’!

The boy shook his head, clearing his mind and suddenly— as though coming through the fog of a dream…

Zachariah remembered Hobbins. He remembered the equipment left alongside the fireplace and the undertaker’s refusal to pay.

Next: Zachariah 20: Broken Rose

Note: As per ‘Mister Charles Dickens’ — On the Christmas Eve of December 24, 1843, ‘Ebeneezer Scrooge’ had dinner in a ‘morose tavern’ and later blamed his first apparition on a bit of under done potato.