Short Story: Christmas Present

Short Story: Christmas Present

Christmas, Christmas, Christmas. Bob had heard of nothing but Christmas since Christmas of the previous year. Working for a firm of accountants, Bob had become more than a little accustomed to annual events and deadlines, all of which were measured in units of time. Mr Bragits accounts were due in two days and monthly invoices were to be sent in a week and collected in two. The countdown to Christmas was no different. In January it was counted in months, from June it was measured in weeks and then, when the month of December appeared on the calendar, the countdown was ticked off in days. Bob was sure that come Christmas Eve, the countdown would become translated into hours – and there was, of course, The Party. The Party which he would not have believed was taking place if he had not heard it with his own ears, and if his ears hadn’t heard it from Ebenezer himself.

Bob Cratchit didn’t know whether he enjoyed office Christmas parties or not. Not because he was undecided but because he had never had the opportunity to attend one. This years’ was the first, the first Christmas party of the accounting firm of Ebenezer Scrooge.

In previous years the days leading up to Christmas had been, for Bob, un-enjoyable. He enjoyed Christmas itself at home with Mrs Cratchit, Tim and the rest of the family, but the rules of Scrooge and Marley Accountants were simple; no work meant no pay. And so for the eight years, in which he had been in Mr Scrooge’s employ, he had watched Christmas unfold in other people’s lives, while he remained perched behind his desk, shivering with cold, peering through the soot and condensation streaked office windows overlooking the street. He’d watch ladies in fur coats carrying brightly coloured parcels, and children, when they weren’t falling over or ambushing each other with snowballs, helping their fathers, drag newly purchased Christmas trees, leaving brushed trails behind them in the snow. His desk faced the window, not so that he could see out but so that light, by which to work, could seep in, conserving the use of candles. Perched as he was, back to the fire, made no difference to Ebenezer’s miserliness as icy drafts scythed across the floor, making the preparation and promise of Christmas something everyone else enjoyed.

But, that was last year and the years before that. This was this year thought Bob. This year the windows were clean and there was a roaring, yes roaring fire in the grate. He wasn’t wearing fingerless mittens which, in previous years, had enabled him to grip his quill, and, true to Ebenezer’s word, he had indeed raised his salary and discussed his affairs as he said he would. As for the newly acquired coal-scuttle which Bob thought had been bought on a whim, well that stood gleaning, as bright as the day that he’d purchased it from Mr Tidalnail’s hardware shop.

Bob Cratchit jumped as Ebenezer burst into the office, knocking some neatly stacked papers across the desk. ‘Mr Cratchit,’ he announced, ‘we need a Christmas tree, a large one. The largest you can find and we’ll need some glass baubles and some tinsel. Mr Harkness has some very fine trees, run to his shop and acquire the biggest, fullest – the best tree that he has...and tell him to put it on Ebenezer Scrooge’s account.’

Bob, not needing to be told twice, grabbed his coat, his hat and his scarf and was almost out the door before Mr Scrooge added that he should do the same at Mr Bunders when picking up the decorations. ‘And don’t forget to tell them that we’re expecting them tomorrow at around three o’clock for a glass of Smoking Bishop and mince pies and turkey and cake and......’ the door swung closed as Bob Cratchit ran, and skated his way down the snow covered street in search of the biggest and best Christmas Tree that he could find.

White decal-edged cards printed in black and bordered with just enough gold to show the recipient the importance of the event to which they were being invited had been printed. They had been delivered personally by Mr Mawdley the printer when the countdown to Christmas was still being ticked off in weeks. They arrived, neatly wrapped, in thick brown paper secured tightly with string, with a sample attached, neatly, to the front. Bob Cratchit remembered watching the package being placed with ceremony on the corner of Ebenezer’s desk, the place where they had remained for the past three weeks, waiting.

During that time there had been a continual air of anticipation and Mr Cratchit had often caught, out of the corner of this eye, Mr Scrooge picking up the package, checking it for nothing in particular before wiping away flecks of imaginary dust, ironing out an invisible creases before carefully placing it back in pride of place from where he’d taken it.

Two days before the Christmas countdown was to be measured in days Ebenezer had, with further ceremony and with an unaccustomed hint of excitement, taken the large black-handled scissors and looping the blade between the string and paper he cut the binding. The package sighed as the course string binding fell away and the paper eased. Carefully Ebenezer folded back the wrapping to reveal one hundred perfectly printed gold-leaf, embossed invitations designed for the purpose of inviting clients, friends, people he knew and a few he didn’t to the first Christmas party of what had become known as Ebenezer Scrooge and Partners.

News of the event travelled faster than the invitations themselves. There was a rumour going round the printers that had leaked into the taverns and then wandered down the alley into the milliners before causing a stir in Mrs Golightly’s tea shop. The hundred invitations had doubled to two and without a word of a lie Mr Creasey, the bookbinder had heard it was a thousand. The news of Ebenezer Scrooges office party was, quite literally, the talk of the town and at the moment the countdown to Christmas began to be measured in days the invitations were sent and received with excitement.

Bob Cratchit struggled to get the tree through the office door but when he finally managed it and after much effort had stood it upright, its topmost needles brushed the ceiling. ‘Perfect’ exclaimed Mr Scrooge dancing a little dance of excitement and knocking more papers across the floor.

Baubles were hung, tinsel laid. Mr Cratchit had even taken the liberty to purchasing some paper chains to hang around the room. Mr Scrooge continued merrily to skip around the tree before sending Mr Cratchit back to Mr Bunders for more baubles, more tinsel and a large box of tree crackers.

Finally, the tree was decked, resplendent, filling the room with the scent of pine while on mantelpieces around the town stood one hundred invitations. Everything was in place for the party to commence, and everyone was talking about it.

Christmas Eve dawned with a fresh fall of snow. Icicles hung like jewels in the bright morning sun and footprints had already started to make their way to and from Ebenezer’s door. Footprints that belonged to Mr Cranshaw, the baker, who delivered sandwiches of every flavour, together with mince pies, and cranberry tarts, slices of Christmas cake and some very special individual figgy puddings. Next came Mr Boldershaw, the butcher, carrying several of his largest platters, laden with slices of turkey and ham, decked with mountains of sausages, made the previous day and freshly cooked that very morning.....and a turkey large enough to feed a dozen hearty souls, with a label tied to its leg which read ‘Bob Cratchit’. Mr Scrooges gift to his new business partner and his family.

Desks became tables bearing a feast. Glasses and goblets stood in orderly rows sparkling in the light of roaring the fire. Bob Cratchit gazed for a moment, taking in the culinary feast that had transformed what had been his office into a cavern of delight. The thought crossed his mind that with the largeness of tree and vast quantity of fayre there was going to be barely any space for guests, and yet, still more footprints made their way to and from Ebenezer’s door turning the crisp white snow to a grey slurry which was trodden over the threshold with each new delivery. No-one seemed to care, least of all Ebenezer for he knew there were sixteen hours until the town hall clock struck mid-night, heralding Christmas Day, and just seven hours until the bearers of his one hundred invitations made their way to his party.

Flames warmed the office as they licked their way around the logs that filled the grate. The air was filled with the aroma of oven baked citrus, mingled with cloves while in the back room over a large cauldron stood the de-jacketed figure of Scrooge pouring bottle upon bottle of ruby red wine over a mountain of fruit. Ebenezer sang and jigged as he poured in the final bottle in before plunging the long handled ladle into the bubbling swirling liquid, giving it a hearty stir. The Smoking Bishop was his responsibility, there was to be lots of it and it was to be the best Smoking Bishop anyone had ever tasted.

The cornucopia of fruit was late in arriving but no matter it arrived in time and bytwo thirtyeverything was in place. The Smoking Bishop was warming nicely, the tables were laden fit to collapse and the lofty tree stood high welcoming anyone and everyone who came through the door.

Quarter to three,ten to three, nine minutes......five minutes...A thought iced Ebenezer’s mind ‘Would anyone come?’... two minutes...the town hall clock struck three....nothing....except a knock. Wood on wood.

Ebenezer, with apprehension gripped the cold brass handle of the door, his mind numb with the recurring, haunting fear that the ghost of Christmas Past would be standing, draped in chains, on the other side.

He opened the door.

‘Merry Christmas, and God Bless you, Mr Scrooge!’ exclaimed Tiny Tim, throwing aside the crutch he’d used to knock the door he launched himself into Ebenezer’s outstretched arms, filling the room with laughter, they began to dance, leading in a tide of guests on a hearty wave of ‘We Wish You A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year’.