 Between now and Christmas we will be serialising Robert Cubitt's satirical version of the old Charles Dickens classic, a Christmas Carol. Still Christmas Eve, but now it's about 2.00 a.m. “Oy, wanker. Hands off cocks and on with socks. Time for your next visitation.” Smooge sat bolt upright, startled awake by the uncouth shouting. “I beg your pardon. How dare you wake me in such a rude manner.” “Ooh, ‘ark at him. Anyone would think you were something special, instead of a greedy wanker with no mates. Now, come on, I’m on a tight schedule. There’s old ladies waiting to be mugged ‘cos I’ve been detailed to this. Know wat I mean?” “Do you mind telling me who you are first.” “Never you mind who I am. Just let’s say I’m the ghost of Christmas Present. That’s the ghost of now, not the ghost of the present you got last year that you didn’t like and don’t know what to do with. Do what I do and give it to someone you don’t like, you get me?” “So I guess I’m supposed to follow you then?” “That’s right, innit.” Smooge rose from his bed and went over to the window. He climbed through and plummeted to the ground below. Above him the ghost’s head appeared through the window. “Personally I’m going to use the door, but you know your own business best.” The ghost called down. Smooge thought he heard the word ‘wanker’ again as the head disappeared from view. Now, now, Tamsin my love. You should not encourage our children to think badly of their Great Uncle. Smooge groaned and pulled himself from the snowdrift that had fortuitously cushioned his fall. Beside him the ghost materialised. Smooge took a second to examine him. He was young, his face covered in volcanic pimples. He wore strange clothes. On his head perched a cap, the peak sticking out sideways as though his head had turned but the hat had stayed static. On its dome the initials N and Y were intertwined. Below that was a loose short sleeved shirt of bright red, emblazoned with the words "I'm not a gynaecologist, but I don't mind taking a look if it helps out!". At his hips were loose fitting trousers that sagged and barely clung to the youth’s buttocks. Every few seconds he would hitch them up to prevent them descending further. Finally there were the soft white fabric shoes he wore, a strange tick like mark adorning the sides. They were totally unsuitable for the deep snow in which they now stood. “Now, Bro, you gotta follow me. You get me?” The youthful ghost intoned, his head tilted to one side. The question was accompanied by a strange flick of the fingers of his right hand. “Er, yes, I think I understand.” Why the ghost needed to ask for confirmation of understanding all the time, Smooge couldn’t work out. The youth of today, with their strange language. The ghost rose into the air and Smooge found himself rising with him. “This is sick” The ghost shouted. “Almost worth being killed in that drive-by.” “I’m sorry you’re feeling nauseous.” Smooge sympathised. He’d had no idea the occupants of the spirit world could feel mortal discomfort. “What you goin’ on about dude? Never mind. We’re ‘ere nah, innit.” Smooge recognise the small, slightly shabby house of his nephew. The walls melted away to allow Smooge and the ghost to enter the living room. Within it were gathered his nephew, his wife and their two children. “Don’t worry, they can’t hear you or see you.” The ghost advised Smooge. “Now, Priti, Boris, just one more parlour game and then you must go to bed. If you don’t then I shall summon your Great Uncle Smooge to scare you to bed.” The children raised their hands to their face and shrieked in terror. “Now, now, Tamsin my love. You should not encourage our children to think badly of their Great Uncle.” “I’m sorry, Justin, but the old miser does nothing to earn either our affection or respect. I would encourage our children not to emulate him. Why, I would rather they were,” she paused for dramatic effect, “poor rather than that they became bankers.” “Uncle Ebenezer isn’t that bad, you know. Why, he may yet turn out to be a good egg.” “That is what I love about you Justin. So kind; so forgiving; so deluded. But your Uncle is a lost cause. He cares only for money. He will die alone and unloved.” “Much as I would like to believe differently, I fear you’re right, my love.” “In these times of trouble he does nothing to ease our plight, does he?” “He is of the belief that we’re all in it together, so why should he help us if he doesn’t help others?” “Yes. Well, some are more in it together than others, apparently.” The scene faded as the ghost took them away from the house and they drifted high above the roof tops . “Surely you wouldn’t burn the boy’s crutch.” Bob protested. “Where are we going now?” Asked Smooge. “That’s for me to know and you to find out, copper. Oh, sorry, I mean you’ll see in a moment.” Smooge blinked away the cold night air and when he opened his eyes once again he found he was in the tiny, dingy living room of Bob Scratchit’s house. Gathered around his clerk were the twelve children he believed were his own. “I don’t mean to be rude, Father.” The eldest boy was saying. “But haven’t you and mother ever heard of birth control?” “Now hush, Dappy.” His father said. “You know what joy you all bring us. Besides, if we had fewer children we’d lose our housing benefit.” “What’s housing benefit?” asked a small, shrunken looking child. “That’s money you get if you have too many children and can’t afford to pay your rent, stupid.” The oldest boy cuffed his sibling round the ear in a friendly manner, sending the small boy tumbling across the room. “Now, don’t be unkind to Tiny Tim.” His father intervened. “God bless us every one.” The small child said, shaking his head to clear the ringing in his ears. “Yes, that’s right, Tiny Tim. Now, where’s your mother?” “Upstairs with Mr Grace doing a curtain fitting.” Dappy reported. “Well, who’d have thought that his curtains would fit our windows.” Bob beamed at the child. The child rolled his eyes at his father’s stupidity but said nothing. “Now, what is Father Christmas going to bring us this year?” Bob smiled around the circle of children. “A doll,” said a small girl who appeared to be addicted to the colour pink. “Toy soldiers.” Said a medium sized boy. “A hair dryer.” Said another boy, holding up a mirror and patting his hair into place. “A Set of plumbing tools.” Suggested a rather stocky little girl wearing a boiler suit. “World Peace.” Said Tiny Tim. “Ah, Tiny Tim, would that were true.” Bob ruffled the hair of his youngest son. “God Bless us every one.” Tiny Tim said. “Yes, Ok, Tim. No need to keep repeating yourself.” The front door slammed and Elisa Scratchit breezed into the room, buttoning her blouse. “Right then Bob Scratchit. What have you brought us for our Christmas Dinner?” Elisa demanded to know. “Well, my pay doesn’t go far, as you know my love, but thanks to Mr Smooge’s nephew’s benevolence I have managed to obtain a large, juicy rat. If I slice it thinly there will be enough for a piece each.” “Oh, father.” Tiny Tim exclaimed. “You are so good to us. It’s been ages since we last had rat.” “Well, you can all enjoy a little more. Mr Smooge has asked that I go around to do another curtain fitting tomorrow so I shan’t be here for lunch. Perhaps Mr Smooge may take pity on me and feed me a morsel from his own table.” “You work so hard, Elisa. There is so little I can do.” “Perhaps ‘do little’ should be your last name.” the woman sneered. “That would make me Mrs Doolittle. Mrs Elisa Doolittle. It has a nice ring to it. Wouldn’t it be loverly.” “We shall miss you Mummy.” “Do stop your whining, dear Tiny Tim.” Snapped his mother. “Now, where did you leave your crutch, we’re nearly out of firewood.” “Surely you wouldn’t burn the boy’s crutch.” Bob protested. “Of course not. I just want to send the little tyke out to get some wood from the yard. The older lads "accidently" broke one of the neighbour's fences today. We may as well make use of the scrap wood.” “Oh, that’s OK then. Off you go Tiny Tim.” The boy hobbled obediently to the door, his more able brothers and sisters sniggering behind their hands. Smooge turned to the ghost. “Will they truly eat rat on Christmas Day?” “Unless there is a miracle.” The ghost gave Smooge an inquiring look. “I knew I paid that man too much.” Snapped Smooge. The ghost gave his curious flick of the fingers and the two were immediately transported back to Smooge’s bedroom. “Now be warned Bro. The third and final ghost will be with you at the strike of three.” The apparition faded into the night, taking care to pocket a gold watch and chain as it left. End of Episode. Episode 5 will be posted next Saturday, 4th December. If you want to be sure not to miss Episode 5, just click below for our newsletter and we'll email you a reminder. If you would like to find out more about Robert Cubitt's writing, just click the button below. This will take you to the "Books" page on this website.
0 Comments
 Between now and Christmas we will be serialising the satirical version of the old Charles Dickens classic, a Christmas Carol. Still Christmas Eve - but it's now about 1 a.m. Smooge couldn’t be sure if what woke him was the chiming of the church clock or the strange green glow in the corner of his bedroom. Either way he struggled to consciousness and examined the light more closely. A thick fog drifted around it, making it difficult to see what was at its heart. There was a loud coughing and spluttering and the fog started to disperse to reveal a green clad figure waving frantically. “Sorry about that. Damned special effects machine’s on the blink again.” The apparition waved some more and Smooge was able to make out a large man with a bushy beard. Crowning his snowy locks was a garland of evergreen leaves, which his waving arms had managed to tilt slightly sideways giving him a rakish appearance. His fur trimmed green suit looked vaguely familiar, as did his shiny black boots, but Smooge struggled to place them, though he felt a sudden desire for a cold fizzy drink. “Who are you, and what the fuck are you doing befouling my bedroom?” Snapped Smooge. He supposed he should have felt fear, but for some reason felt only annoyance. If I wasn’t a banker I’d be the nasty judge on Strictly Come Dancing “Oh yes. I suppose introductions are in order. I am one of the three that was foretold. I am the Ghost of Christmas Past. I come to you like the last stale sausage roll on the plate which no one will eat.” “Very nice for you, I’m sure. Now what the hell do you want?” “I come to remind you of the way things used to be, before you turned into the creature you are now, cursed and hated by one and all.” “That is an image I nurture and cherish. If I wasn’t a banker I’d be the nasty judge on Strictly Come Dancing.” “Be that as it may, but you weren’t always like that. Now come, follow me.” The ghost rose and walked to the outer wall of the bedroom and continued straight through. When Smooge didn’t immediately follow, he stuck his head back through the apparently solid bricks. “Come on. I haven’t got all night. I’ve indigestion to deliver to half the population of the Western world. Climb out through the window. It’s perfectly safe.” Smooge threw up the sash window and climbed through. He stepped gingerly onto thin air and found, to his surprise, that his weight was supported. The ghost grabbed his arm and pulled him upwards and over the roofs of the houses. “Where are we going?” Smooge shouted against the wind. He was surprised to find that he had no feeling of cold, despite the steadily falling snow. For some reason Smooge thought he heard singing, an annoying high pitched voice that grated on his nerves. Something about walking in the air, but he couldn’t quite make out the rest. “All in good time. Ah, we have arrived.” The ghost lowered them to the ground outside a window. The house was brightly lit, all the gas lights blazing and a thousand candles twinkling to add to the brilliance. Smooge peered through the open curtains at the festivities inside. Dancers swirled to the sound of music and there was laughter from a hundred throats rising above. “I know this place. It’s the home of my former employer, Mr Fizzypop.” “That’s correct. This is his house before you and Jacob Harley drove his business into bankruptcy and bought it back for a fraction of its true value.” There’s even rumours of a Peerage in the New Year’s honours list. “That’s standard business practice. I learnt it from the owner of a major chain of High Street shops. By the way, if this is supposed to be my Christmas past, where am I?” “Ah yes. Where indeed Ebenezer?” The Ghost grabbed Smooge’s arm and they drifted upwards and slightly sideways. “Now, look.” Smooge found himself looking through the window of what was obviously a bedroom. The turbulence of the blankets covering a large bed indicated that strenuous activity was being indulged beneath them. A ringlet adorned head popped into view on the side nearest to them. A second appeared further away. Both seemed to be gasping for air. “The Fizzypop twins. Such nice girls, and so enthusiastic.” A young male head appeared between the two females, handsome despite its dishevelled state and also gasping for breath. “And there I am. I remember it well.” Smooge leered at the ghost. “Do you recall what happened to them?” “On the night? I remember the noises they made. What a pair of wild cats. Their father nearly caught us. I had to hide in a cupboard. But after that? No. I seem to recall that I lost track of them. What became of them?” “Well, of course, when their father lost his business the whole family was thrown onto the street. Eugenie, that’s the nearer one, found herself pregnant. By you, before you ask. She gave birth in the workhouse and died of complications and bad hygiene. She should have gone private but they couldn’t afford it. Her son was named Oliver. He was given the last name of Twist. A term to do with financial trickery, I believe.” “And the other?” Smooge struggled to recall her name. “Bridget. She was called Bridget.” “Beatrice actually. She fared no better. In order to support her destitute father and mother she took to a life of prostitution. She died gin soaked and disease ridden. You passed her in the street once and didn’t even recognise her.” “That could hardly be my fault. Fizzypop was an incompetent fool. Harley and I did no more than any self-respecting usurers would have done.” “There is no need to be so defensive. No one blames you. Indeed old Fizzypop’s last words before he expired were ‘I don’t blame Harley and Smooge. They did no more than any other greedy unethical bankers would do.’” “Well, my friends in Parliament didn’t think we had done anything wrong. Had they done so they would have shunned us. Instead they allowed us to make even more profit. You know, it’s amazing what a donation to party funds, the funding of a private office or the sponsorship of an MP can get you in return. For a pair of Wimbledon tickets I can get a question asked in the House, you know and dinner at the Garrick Club will get me the ear of the Prime Minister. There’s even rumours of a Peerage in the New Year’s honours list.” “Yes, indeed it can get you a lot in return. I’m sure the Pope will summon you to be canonised as the first living saint. How many former MPs now sit on the board of Smooge and Harley?” “Quite a few, but that is mere coincidence. In fact that reminds me, it’s time we culled the more useless ones.” “Then I doubt it will leave many still serving you. Now, it’s time for us to leave.” The house faded into the night and Smooge found himself back in his bedroom, sitting on his bed. “When the clock chimes two.” The ghost droned, “You will be visited again.” The room filled with fog once more and the ghost disappeared in a fit of coughing and spluttering. Episode 4 will be posted on Saturday 27th November. If you can't wait until then, you can buy the whole book by clicking on the button below. And if you want to make sure you don't miss the next episode, why not sign up for our newsletter so we can remind you when we post it next week.
Episode 2 of Robert Cubitt's less than reverent take on the Charles Dickens Classic. Christmas Eve, around 9 pm. “Ah, Mrs Scratchit. Right on time. Are you ready for my curtain fitting?” “I am Sir.” Elisa unbuttoned her heavy Winter coat. As she opened it wide Smooge staggered in a mock faint, clutching at his heart. Elisa giggled as she removed the coat, then struck a pose. She was a striking woman. Her twelve pregnancies had left her with a figure that was best described as ‘statuesque’. Her curves undulated from her shoulders to her knees, shown off to their best advantage by the tight basque that she wore above white silk stockings. No burlesque dancer could match her at that moment. Smooge reached out to grab at the large parts of her that were thrust towards him but Elisa took a step backwards, wagging her finger at him in mock scolding. “Now, Now, Ebenezer. Food first. You know I can’t fuck on an empty stomach.” * * * Smooge lay back on his feather mattress and snuggled into the crisp, clean sheets. That had been good, and so inexpensive. He made a mental note to dock Scratchit’s pay to compensate for the small outlay to Scratchit’s wife. You give with one hand and take with the other and that’s how the world goes round, he mused. His eyelids grew heavy as he listened to the church clock chiming eleven. A muffled thud made him sit bolt upright in his bed. He craned his neck, trying to locate the source of the sound. He was pretty sure that it had emanated from the upper floor, not the ground. He relaxed slightly, satisfied that his fortune wasn’t in peril. A second thud came and the gas lights dimmed. The fire, already burning low, started to belch smoke into the room. He coughed and spluttered, wiping tears from his eyes as the fumes spread. Strange. That had never happened before, at least not to his knowledge. “Don’t be such an arse.” A voice said, A third thud, louder now, came clearly from the parlour. There was nothing for it, he had to go and look. Stepping gingerly from his bed, Smooge felt around with his feet, sliding them into the fleecy lining of his slippers. He reached into the fireplace and grasped the warm metal knob of the poker. “Who’s there?” He challenged the night. There was no reply. He crept slowly towards the door, the poker raised and ready to strike at the first hint of trouble. Using his finger nails he eased the door open, then swung it hard, crashing it back against the wall. “Ah ha.” He shouted as he sprang into the dim light of the parlour. “Don’t be such an arse.” A voice said, originating from somewhere near his chaise longue. Smooge peered into the gloom cast by the dying embers of the fire. There, stretched out on the chaise, was a figure. It looked familiar. It wasn’t alone. He crept closer. The gaslight flared, illuminating the scene and showing a man reclining. He wore a winding sheet around his chin and a suit that was ten years out of fashion, moth eaten and dusty. Smooge thought he saw movement within the threads. On the floor near the figure’s feet sat a scantily clad girl, while at the other end another almost naked girl sat plucking grapes from a stalk and feeding them to him. “As I live and breathe,” whispered Smooge. “Harley. Jacob Harley.” “The one and only. Your one time partner and now resident of the underworld.” “But you’re dead. I buried you myself.” “You did, and I note approvingly that you spent barely a penny on my interment. The plot you chose was the coldest, most remote in the cemetery, the stone you erected so tiny you can barely read my name. I congratulate you. I would have done no more had the boot been on the other foot.” “What magic is this that brings you to my parlour in the dead of night.” “No magic, Ebenezer. I have been sent.” “Who sent you?” “You would not wish me to break a professional confidence, would you?” Jacob Harley raised a disapproving eyebrow. “That is not the way of Harley and Smooge.” “Smooge and Harley. I changed the name the day I buried you.” “Ah yes. Of course. How is business these days? “Not bad. I plan to take on new partners; A Mr Goldman and a Mr Sachs. They tell me that there are shed loads of money to be made advising the government on privatising its assets then undervaluing them. We plan to start with the health service.” “That sounds very promising. However, I’m not here to talk business. I was sent to bring you a warning.” “What warning could you bring me.” “Change your ways Ebenezer. Change your ways this very night.” “And if I don’t?” “Then you will end up like me.” You’re a randy old goat. I was most impressed. “That doesn’t look too much like a hardship.” Smooge waved his hand to indicate the two barely clothed handmaidens. The one by Harley’s feet plumped up her pneumatic breasts in case Smooge hadn’t fully appreciated them. “Appearances can be deceptive. What you can’t see is that I no longer have any genitals and these two beauties have what I used to have, only twice the size and encrusted with hard scales. If you can imagine what they might do with those then you will get some picture of my torment, which I must endure throughout eternity. Or until Wales wins the Rugby World Cup, which is likely to take just as long.” “Ah, now I understand your warning. But I’m not fearful. I am righteous, I cannot go where you went. You lived a dissolute life, Jacob, whereas I am abstemious in the extreme.” “What you were doing to Elisa Scratchit could hardly be classed as abstemious. You’re a randy old goat. I was most impressed. Did she say how my children are?” “You fathered her children?” “Not all of them. Numbers three through five I believe are mine. Twelve is almost certainly yours by the way. The sickly one.” “So at least Scratchit fathered the others.” Harley choked on his laughter and would have died had he not been dead already. “Goodness gracious no. He is, perhaps, the father of the first. The others are mine, yours or of unknown provenance. Anyway, back to matters at hand. You are a greedy old lecher” Harley intoned. “You will be visited tonight by three shades. Listen carefully to them and heed their warnings. If you do not then you are doomed to join me in my eternal torment.” Harley faded out of existence, but the two girls stayed where they were, eyeing Smooge up as though trying to work out how much he would fetch at a fat stock sale. Harley blinked back into the room again. “Come on girls.” He hastened his companions. “Strictly’s on in five minutes.” Smooge shook his head to try to clear it of the vision of Harley and the two women. Hallucination, he concluded, brought about by indigestion, which in turn had been brought on by fornicating on a full stomach. He went over to the sideboard and dispensed a very large brandy from the decanter. He poured it down his throat, which he had to say was an insult to the makers of such a fine cognac. Noticing that he was still holding the poker he realised that maybe it hadn’t all been in his imagination. Smooge made his weary way back to his bedroom and climbed into the bed, though it now felt cold and clammy. He struggled to find sleep but eventually was able to succumb, but only after he had spent half an hour mentally evicting people from the houses he owned. Episode 3 will be posted next Saturday, but if you can't wait until then, you can purchase the whole book by clicking the link below. Or if you want to make sure you don't miss the next episode, why not sign up for our newsletter to receive a notification when it goes live. Just click the button below.
Between now and Christmas we will be serialising Robert Cubitt's satirical version of the old Charles Dickens classic, a Christmas Carol. Christmas Eve - Some Time Ago The bell jangled to let Scratchit know that someone had entered the Counting House. He glanced over the heaped ledgers on his desk and quickly looked down again, anxious to appear busy. “Scratchit.” The new arrival shouted. “You’ve been putting more coal on this fire, haven’t you?” “Yes Mr Smooge. But it was so cold, and I only put one lump on.” “Be that as it may, I’ll be taking the cost of the coal out of your wages.” Scratchit gave a silent moan. His wages, such as they were, already amounted to so little. At this rate he would have to send Tiny Tim out to work. “Were there any callers?” Smooge called over his shoulder as he walked towards the inner office, his own private space. “None, Sir.” “Damn and blast. At this rate I’ll be down to my last million before long. There’s no profit in banking anymore, you know, Scratchit. Why, the government are even threatening to cap the interest rates on loans at a level that are affordable. What nonsense. How’s a hard working usurer supposed to make a living with that sort of attitude. If someone’s such a wastrel that they need to borrow money it should come as no surprise that they’ll pay highly for the privilege and for the risk I take in lending it to them without security.” Ending the familiar rant Smooge slammed his office door behind him, shutting out Scratchit’s reply. The younger man rose from his desk, pulling his heavy coat tighter around him, half as protection from the cold and half as a form of defence against his employer. He tapped on the door. But I’ll be docking you a day’s pay and I want you in even earlier the next day. Clear?” “Go away.” The reply came from within. Scratchit dared to tap again. There was a grinding of chair legs as Smooge stood up, followed by the thump of his boots across the bare floor. Scratchit cowered against the wrath he knew was coming. The door flew open. “I fucking said go away.” Smooge, barely taller than his employee, seemed to tower over him. “I’m sorry Mr Smooge, but I have a favour to ask.” “You can ask as much as you like but I don’t have to grant it.” “It’s just that its Christmas tomorrow.” Scratchit trembled, and not just with the cold. “I wondered if I might be granted the day off.” “What?” If Smooge had been asked to lend money at low interest rates he could not have looked more angry. “You not only take my wages but you now want to rob me of a day’s work as well.” “It is Christmas, Sir.” “It is Christmas, Sir.” Smooge whined back in imitation. “Bah humbug is what I say to Christmas. A waste of time and a waste of money. You know that if there wasn’t Christmas there would be far less poverty in the world. All that money wasted on presents that no one wants and that they need even less. Bah humbug I say.” Smooge lowered his voice a little, realising that ranting at Scratchit would only raise his own blood pressure to dangerous levels and he was damned if he was going to give himself a stroke so that Scratchit could use it as an excuse to ask for time off work to visit him in hospital. “I suppose there is some benefit. At least we’ll make a fortune out of all the loans we make in January. When I say we, I do of course mean me.” Smooge allowed himself the rarest of all treats, a short, barking laugh of satisfaction. “Yes, Sir. Thank you Sir. So was that a yes then Sir?” “Damn your eyes, Scratchit. I suppose so. But I’ll be docking you a day’s pay and I want you in even earlier the next day. Clear?” “Of course, Mr Smooge.” I have no loved ones. I have taken great care to make sure that I have no loved ones The bell jangled and Scratchit took the opportunity provided by the distraction to scurry back to his desk. “What Ho, Uncle.” The new arrival called, clearly in a good mood. “You, you damned wastrel. What do you want? You’ll get no money from me. Not while I breath.” “And nor do I wish for any, Uncle, either now or in the future. I have simply come to wish you the joy of the season and to invite you to join myself and my darling wife for the enjoyment of Christmas.” Smooge glared at the neatly dressed young man. He noted with some satisfaction that the collar and cuffs of his shirt were frayed and that he had a patch on the elbow of one sleeve of his coat. “Why is everyone so obsessed with wishing me joy and inviting me to enjoy myself? A dozen times I had it between the corner of the street and the front door. I shall spend Christmas in any fashion I wish.” “Quite right too, Uncle, but I do plead with you to consider joining myself and my family to spend it with your loved ones.” “I have no loved ones. I have taken great care to make sure that I have no loved ones. Loved ones are parasites, sucking the life and money out of a man. Now, Sir, I’ll thank you to be gone so that I may continue with something that I do enjoy; The making of money.” “As you wish, Uncle. However, the invitation remains open. If you change your mind, then you will find a welcome at our hearth.” “Stuff your welcome up your arse. Now be off with you and stop making free with the heat from my fire.” The young man shook his head in sadness at his Uncle’s bad temper and turned to leave the Counting House. As he passed Scratchit’s desk he dropped a small leather bag onto it. It jingled with the promise of coins. “A Merry Christmas to you and yours, Mr Scratchit.” The nephew offered. “A little something for your children. How many are there now?” “Just the dozen, Mr Justin Sir. Still just the dozen.” “Well done, Sir. And on the wages my Uncle pays you. It’s a marvel how you and Mrs Scratchit manage.” Scratchit was just about to tell him that they didn’t manage when the cheerful young man was gone, leaving only an icy blast of wind and a flurry of snow to mark his passage. The church clock began its chiming and Scratchit patiently counted the striking of the hours until it reached seven. At last he could go home. He closed the ledger that he had been working on and placed it in its correct position within the pile on his desk, before taking the whole heap and placing them carefully in the cupboard. He turned the key in the lock and then shuffled across to the door of Smooge’s office once again. He tapped on the door as though he was afraid of it being answered. The contrast between the ground floor and the first could not have been greater. Smooge must have heard the clock as well, because the door was flung open at once. “Where do you think you’re going.” Smooge demanded, as he always did at that time of day. “Its seven o’clock, Sir. It is the end of the day.” “Damn your eyes, are you robbing me again?” “No Sir.” He pointed a shaking finger at the clock that hung on the wall above the fireplace. Its hand confirmed the hour. Scratchit offered Smooge the key to the ledger cupboard. “Very well. If you must go home to that brood of yours. What time will Mrs Scratchit arrive?” “As soon as she has finished cooking my meal and put the children to bed, Sir. I should say about nine o’clock.” “Good. Tell her not to be late.” “I will, Sir. Can you tell me why she is visiting, Sir?” “It’s another fitting for my new curtains.” “Well, bless me. I had no idea curtains required so many fittings. This must be at least the fourth.” “Fifth actually. She must get them right. I’ll not brook any bad workmanship.” “I’ll wish you good night then, Sir, so that my wife may be here all the quicker.” As soon as Scratchit had left the building Smooge went through the evening routine of securing his premises. He triple locked the front door and threw the dead bolts at the top and bottom. Heavy bars were placed over the windows and padlocked into position. Finally he let himself through the inner door to the foot of the stairs before locking it carefully behind him. At last he was able to climb the bare wooden stairs to his private rooms. The contrast between the ground floor and the first could not have been greater. Where the downstairs was dark and dingy the upstairs glittered with gas lamps and candles. Coals burned brightly in all the hearths and cast a cheerful orange glow on the walls, which were decked in brightly coloured coverings. Rich, deep carpets covered the floors. The furniture was the most fashionable that Messrs Dee, Eff and Ess could provide. Smooge’s housekeeper had left food warming in the oven of the most modern kitchen that Smooge had been able to purchase. The aroma of meat and gravy caused Smooge to salivate as soon as he walked into the room. First things first, however. Smooge went into the bathroom to run himself a nice hot bath. The bathroom was his pride and joy. The walls were tiled from floor to ceiling in marble. Mirrors sparkled, reflecting the light from the gas flamed chandelier. Gold taps and fittings adorned the bath, the sink and the toilet. He allowed himself a small sigh of appreciation as he put the plug into the bath and let the steaming water run into it. He splashed a scented liquid into the jet of water and suds began to form, filling the steam with the rich aroma of exotic plants and spices. “Because you’re worth it.” Smooge muttered to himself. Later he dressed himself carefully in a velvet smoking jacket over rich, red pyjamas. A knock came at the side door to the apartment. He had timed it perfectly. Peering through the spy hole, Smooge smiled as he saw the rosy round face of Elisa Scratchit silhouetted against the night, shivering at the top of the iron staircase that led to the door. He turned the key and let the wife of his clerk into the apartment. Episode 2 of this story will be posted in next week’s blog, but if you don’t want to wait until then to read it, you can purchase the book right now by clicking on the button below. And if you don't want to miss an episode, be sure to sign up for our newsletter. Just click on the button below.
|
AuthorThis blog is compiled and curated by the Selfishgenie publishing team. Archives
November 2024
|
RSS Feed
Copyright Selfishgenie Publishing 2023
Web Hosting by iPage