Peter Cratchit’s Christmas Carol
by Drew Marvin Frayne
In Charles Dickens’ original holiday classic A Christmas Carol, Peter Cratchit is the
eldest son of Scrooge’s lowly clerk Bob Cratchit, a young lad preparing to make
his way in the world. Peter Cratchit’s
Christmas Carol picks up where Dickens left off, exploring what happens to
Peter after the lives of his family are forever changed after a series of
ghostly visitations transforms Ebenezer Scrooge from a miserly man of business
into a kind-hearted and generous benefactor.
Peter
flourishes under the tutelage of his “Uncle” Scrooge, and seeks to make his
mark as a man of business, like his Uncle before him. He also begins to explore
his attraction for other men. One Christmas Eve, as Scrooge lays dying, Peter
embarks on a risky ocean voyage that he believes will secure the future for his
family. Onboard, Peter finds love, happiness, and success, only to lose it all
by the voyage’s end.
Returning
to London, Peter shuns his family and instead finds himself living on the
streets, haunted by his failures and his dead lover, selling his body just to
survive while he waits for the winter cold to claim him once and for all. But
winter snows also mean Christmas is coming, and for the Cratchit family,
Christmas is a time of miracles. Can a visit from three familiar spirits change
Peter’s life again? Is there one more miracle in store for the lost son of one
of Dickens’ most enduring families?
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Excerpt
Peter Cratchit’s
Christmas Carol
by Drew Marvin Frayne
Excerpt #1
I felt Augie slip his strong arm
down my back and around my waist as we all sang along to the familiar carol. I
hoisted my own arm around his broad shoulders, and we looked at each other, and
smiled.
The scene before me began to
dissolve once more. I turned to the spirit, to beg it to let these images
remain that way, to let Augie and I remain that way, if only for a few moments
more. Yet I caught my tongue when I saw what the tableau before me displayed
next. Augie and I, laughing and talking on the deck of the Belisama as we made our way to France; then Augie teasing me as the
wind whipped my hair, my wild, tousled hair, off the coast of Portugal; and
then, finally, in Barbate, Spain, near the rock of Gibraltar, our first kiss.
We were alone, enjoying some well-earned shore leave, walking along a rocky
outcrop. The men had stayed near shore, where the taverns and the brothels
were. But Augie and I wanted to be alone in this world. He held my hand to
steady me as we crisscrossed the rocky shore. And there, as we watched the
waves crashing against the gravel-filled shores of Barbate, Augie took me in
his burly arms and kissed me.
I remember that moment more fondly,
perhaps, than any other in the whole of my existence. And yet, how odd, how
strange and wonderful, to witness it from afar! The spirit and I watched as the
brawny Scotsman wrapped his arms around my waist and gently brought his lips to
mine. We were all smiles and laughter and happiness as Augie kissed me, and I
kissed him. I watched as I grabbed his sailor’s cap off his head and ran down
the stony beach with it, merry as a springtime jay. Augie, laughing, was
chasing me, and I made sure I was caught, and he wrapped his arms around my
waist and kissed me heartily once more.
Standing there, watching the scene
unfold before me, I could almost feel the whipping wind in my hair, almost feel
the springtime sun on my face, almost feel the—
Springtime? “But these are not
scenes of Christmases past!” I suddenly realized, turning to the spirit for an
explanation.
“Do you object to reviewing them?”
the spirit asked.
“I—no, of course not, I just
thought—”
“What?” It stared at me with those
childlike eyes, and I realized, perhaps for the first time, that it was no
child at all, but an ancient being, terrible and innocent and powerful and weak
all at once. I said nothing, but nodded my head, and smiled my thanks.
The scene began to alter once more,
and it was night, a sandy beach. I knew this beach. I knew it in my heart
better than any place in the world. I could close my eyes and still smell the
salty air and the scent of sweet dates and feel the rough spray of the Strait
of Gibraltar on my skin, no matter where or when I was in the world. This was
Tangier, across the strait from Spain, in the sultanate of Morocco.
This is where Augie and I first made
love.
Peter Cratchit’s
Christmas Carol
by Drew Marvin Frayne
Excerpt #2
“Peter,” Uncle Scrooge simply said,
clutching me tight in his grasp. “My poor boy.”
He was not the wizened, pale invalid
I remembered so vividly from the end of his days. This was the Scrooge of my
boyhood—skinny, yes, even gangly, but lively and robust and energetic. “I’m so
sorry, Uncle,” I said between moans as I sobbed bitter tears against his
shoulder.
“My boy, my boy,” Scrooge was
saying, still holding me tightly and rubbing his palms across the blades of my
shoulders. “Sorry for what?”
His simple question left me
momentarily dumbstruck, and despite myself, I grew silent. “I do not know,
Uncle,” I finally replied, and, indeed, I did not know, a sensation that
resulted in some kind of half sob, half laugh, and a gentle, consoling smile
from Uncle Scrooge.
“Peter, my boy,” he said again,
wiping my cheeks with his fingers. “Such pain you’ve known.” He took my hand in
his. Yes, this was the Uncle Scrooge of my heady boyhood days. He was even
dressed for Christmas, in a maroon vest made of crushed velvet and a sprig of
mistletoe on his lapel. “Come. We have much to do this day.” And without
another word, Scrooge led me out of the tavern and into the world beyond its
door.
And what a world it was! This was
not the dingy street outside that dingy tavern, nor was it the dankest, darkest
portion of the night! It was morning, a shining glorious morning, the giddiest
morning of them all—Christmas morning. And we were no longer on some side
street in the poorest part of Camden Town, but right in the heart of merry old
London itself.
“But—but how did we get here, Uncle
Scrooge?”
But the old man only laughed. Taking
me by the hand, he marched me down the street. Wondrous sights and sounds
assailed my eyes and ears! Everywhere people called out to one another—“Merry
Christmas!” and “Glad tidings to all!” and even a premature “Happy New Year!”
or two. There had been some snow the night before, but only enough to dust the
city in white powder, as if each building were now coated in a generous supply
of icing sugar. This dismayed the mobs of scampering boys, who lacked true
substance for a Christmas snowball fight. But each and every shop window seemed
straight out of a Christmas wonderland. The fruiterers’ stands were especially
radiant. Pyramids of apples and pears stood proudly next to bunches of red and
green grapes, fitting colors, indeed, for this time of year. I saw heaps of
filberts and, next to them, the dazzling yellow and orange of citrus fruits. My
mouth watered at such sights. At the grocers, men and women lined up, awaiting
wrapped parcels, and I heard the clacking sound of large tea and coffee tins
being opened, and closed, and re-opened once more. I saw shy girls staring at
bundles of mistletoe, and a sturdy matron happily clutching a parcel of figs
and French plums almost as plump as she was.
And the smells! The faint scent of
citrus stuck in my nostrils, and the yeasty smell of fresh bread came out of
every bakery and every home on the street. But it was the perfume of roasted
chestnuts that truly threatened to overwhelm all of my senses. That lush,
earthy aroma, so evocative of this time of year, of happy Christmas
tidings…even as a boy, my father would always secret home enough chestnuts so
that we may each have one upon a Christmas Eve, still warm from being kept safe
in his coat pocket. Even the city itself smelled faintly clean and new, as if
the lightly-fallen snow was enough to wash away the degradation and stagnation
of so many past eons.
And Scrooge! My Uncle Scrooge was
with me, taking me through the streets, pointing out various happinesses I
might have missed, stopping here to offer blessings to a shy young girl, and
standing there in front of a group of noble carolers proffering a rousing
chorus of “Good King Wenceslas.” I had a hundred questions for him, nay, a
thousand, but I could only think of one to ask.
“Uncle, dear Uncle, why have you
brought me here?” I said, planting my feet midstreet in order to halt the
pell-mell nature of our march through the city.
“Why have I brought you here, dear
boy?” he asked, an impish light glinting from his eyes. “Why, Christmas, dear
boy. Christmas! Look around you.”
“I’ve looked, Uncle. I see. But I
don’t understand.”
“No. No, you don’t.” This was said
with all affection, and no malice, but still, his words stung.
“Why are you here?” I asked him and then, more ably articulating the
question I truly wanted to ask, I tried again. “How are you here?”
The old man placed his hand on my
shoulder. He moved his mouth close to my ear. “I asked an old friend for a
favor,” he whispered, giving me a small wink and brushing the side of his nose
with one finger. “Come!” he added, far more loudly. “We’ve much to see!”
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