A Christmas Carol II--Contagion Page 2

  ‘Scrooge, I don’t beat around the bush,’ said Tacker.

  Scrooge said that the attitude did him credit.

  ‘I say what I think.’

  Scrooge commented that this was no more than might be expected of him.

  ‘I’m a straight shooter.’

  Scrooge asserted that he would have expected nothing less.

  ‘My first impressions of England? It’s gloomy.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Scrooge.

  ‘Cold as heck.’

  ‘Hardly to be avoided at this season, I fear.’

  ‘And you know what, the cliché is true after all. You guys really do have unbelievably bad teeth.’

  Scrooge smiled acknowledgement, exposing his own mandibles, which resembled nothing more than a decayed and battered fence in a hurricane.

  ‘But I’ll say this for it,’ Tacker said. ‘There’s no d——Yankees.’

  Not for the first time since they had met, Tacker’s choice of phrase caused Scrooge some severe awkwardness. With inward regret he recognized that he should act now to prevent further embarrassment.

  ‘Mr Tacker,’ he said discreetly, leaning over the table, ‘You are a Southerner, I see. But I must protest. That is not a word we use, in England.’

  Tacker was quite abashed. ‘The “Y” word? I understand. It’s dirty where I come from too.’

  ‘No, “Yankees” is fine. But “d——”. If the expression of extremes is needed (although in the main we avoid it), it’s much better to say “dratted” or “blasted”, in case you upset the sensibilities of the easily offended.’

  ‘But I can say “a—hole”, right?’

  Looking around nervously, Scrooge considered how best to break it to the man. ‘Again, it is a word with a much harsher connotation on this side of the Atlantic. I should definitely avoid it. Any curse, in fact. We simply do without them. Odd, I know, but it is the habit of the times.’

  ‘So I can’t call someone a “d—–”?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, unless his name is Richard.’

  ‘And p—– is out?’

  ‘Unless administered by a doctor with a needle.’

  ‘“S—–”, “f—–”, “c—–”?’

  ‘Please, Mr Tacker, keep your voice down, I beg you,’ whispered Scrooge desperately. ‘Simply try to refrain from uttering oaths at all, as far as possible.’

  ‘All right, Scrooge. As your guest, I will of course do what you ask. But I warn you if I’m woken up by your business partner again I’m liable to let out a “m————” and there’s nothing you or I can do about it.’

  Scrooge shivered and looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was in earshot. To his exquisite agony, the maître d’hotel was perched at his elbow, awaiting their orders with an air of noble suffering. Unable to prevent a momentary look of horror crossing his face, Scrooge at once suppressed it, and let out a nervous laugh. ‘Ah, my good man,’ he simpered. ‘May we perhaps hear the menu?’

  The day’s menu repeated much too fast for them to understand, the orders of food and wine made in a confusion of guesswork and apology, and the maître d’ at last sidling away wearing a rigid mask of disdain, Tacker (untouched by the mildest scruple at his foregoing outburst) at once got down to business.

  ‘Mr Scrooge,’ he said charmingly, a world away from his previous unapologetic tone. ‘We are here to discuss business. When I showed you that gun, earlier, you were quite unaccustomed to it.’

  ‘I was,’ conceded Scrooge.

  ‘And that goes for all Englishmen outside of the army, I suspect?’

  ‘And the gentry. To my certain knowledge.’

  ‘Well now, I think that I’ve got an exciting proposition that might change all that.’

  ‘I’m all ears,’ said Scrooge.

  In truth, however, he was only partly ears, his attention being at that moment arrested by a good deal of whispering at the next table, including several audible mentions of his name, culminating in a female voice repeatedly calling that name at an increasingly loud volume, followed by entirely unignorable imprecation, ‘Coo-ee!’.

  Tacker had already ceased his sales pitch when he noticed the women, and now his attention was on them he singularly failed to discern Scrooge’s reticence to acknowledge the call.

  ‘They know you, Scrooge? They’re trying to catch your eye, I think.’

  Scrooge turned round to see three women who, interpreting accidental eye contact as an invitation, at once invaded the gentlemen’s table with their good wishes and loud voices, and pulled their chairs up to make it a jolly feast.

  It was a recent and not (he might under duress concede) entirely welcome development in Scrooge’s public life that on account of his considerable contribution to charitable institutions, he was frequently subjected to the familiar attentions of near-strangers. This group in particular confused him, as two of the ladies who made up the party (although his nature would not allow him to admit it) might have been considered by a weaker man than he to be rather irksome, and yet the third he found so pretty and such delightful company (which he would never have confessed under any circumstances whatever) that he could barely force himself to say a word in her company, on any subject.

  The females Scrooge presently announced were a bouncy, rose-cheeked woman of fifty or so, a slim and delicately pretty girl of around nineteen, and a very old lady who was neither taller nor more animated than the average tree stump, and who sat in uncomprehending silence throughout. They were attended by an extremely fat and serenely smiling gentleman known to Scrooge only as a man of vast material wealth and remarkable poverty of wits, who smiled unceasingly in the warmest and happiest of ways, and had never been known to say anything of any interest to anyone at all. It was therefore a more than averagely bemused Scrooge who made the introductions.

  ‘May I introduce three ladies of my acquaintance: Mrs Emmeline Twosome, her niece Miss Felicity Twosome, their aunt, the dowager Lady Crimpton and Mr Peewit, a millionaire. Ladies and gentleman, a business acquaintance of mine from the United States, Mr Dwight Tacker.’

  Tacker bowed minutely, but before he could speak a beaming Peewit leant forward with a rolling motion and breaking into a wider smile than usual asked if anybody else at the table owned a hot-air balloon, as they were so very much fun? No one could think of an answer to this, and as they shook their heads mutely, Felicity, who had been staring adoringly into Scrooge’s eyes since the moment she had seen him, perceived her chance to divert his attention, by jumping into his lap.

  ‘Oh, Mr S,’ she said with a joy so intense as to make her quite solemn. ‘We received the books you bought at our little school this week, and I distributed them amongst the little darlings and we taught them all sorts of geology and history and trigonometry, such as I never thought they would have a chance to learn – and they wouldn’t, if it wasn’t for you!’ She concluded this exclamation by spreading a multitude of kisses all over Scrooge’s face and head, so that he didn’t know where to look or what to say.

  ‘Felicity is a teacher at a local Poor School,’ commented Emmeline, who had not stopped looking at Mr Tacker all this while, but had allowed her gaze to roam over the bulk of his physique and his face which (she might have inwardly observed) showed no more softness than one of the great Rocky Mountains. Her eyes grew wider with every instant and had taken on a worshipping aspect. For his part, Tacker’s eyes had not left Felicity since she joined the table. Scrooge had distinctly heard him mutter, ‘That’s one fine piece of a— right there’, and had shot him a warning look. Thereafter Tacker responded to Emmeline’s enquiries in an absent way (only serving to sharpen her desire for his attention) while trying to communicate to Scrooge his feelings about Felicity with a sequence of facial spasms expressive of the furthest transports of ecstasy, and explicit hand gestures.

  ‘You seem so rugged and untamed,’ Emmeline murmured to him. ‘I suppose you’ve killed many men?’

  ‘Yes,’ said that gentle
man. ‘And women too.’

  ‘Oh, you brute,’ she whispered. ‘And I bet you didn’t care one jot. I bet you didn’t give them a second thought.’ A convulsion most expressive of deep disgust, but whose true cause might have been any one of a handful of more approbatory emotions, shook its way up her body, reaching its climax in an involuntary shaking of her head, as though she was trying to scare away a bee.

  All this while, Tacker was mugging most violently at Scrooge from behind Felicity’s shoulder, his tongue stuck out and twisting round and round, with his fingers held up for his tongue to work between in imitation of some kind of act which left Scrooge mystified.

  ‘How fascinating,’ said Emmeline, still staring at him. ‘Is that some kind of Red Indian incantation?’

  ‘Not so much,’ said Tacker.

  ‘It really is the most extraordinary amount of fun, a hot air balloon,’ observed Peewit, not in the least disturbed by the lack of attention, but still beaming from ear to ear.

  Felicity was at this juncture attempting to force Scrooge to confess that he was truly the kindest man in Christendom, and chastising him as awfully naughty for refusing to do so. This strain of conversation involved a great deal of wriggling about on his lap, and succeeded as it was by another shower of kisses about his cheeks and lips, Scrooge remembered again the feeling of the gun’s discharge earlier in the evening and felt a most uncomfortable sensation about his midriff. To distract himself from this he stared over Felicity’s shoulder at Tacker. The American leered violently back at him and made a gesture with his hands where the thumb and forefinger of one hand formed a hoop, and the forefinger of the other poked repeatedly forward and back through it, like a magician tucking an imaginary handkerchief into his fist, ready to make it disappear.

  Bewildered by the behaviour of Tacker and Felicity, Scrooge was about to rise and make enquiries with about the whereabouts of their food when the attention of all was distracted by a commotion at the door. The maître d’ hotel was remonstrating with someone who was trying to get in, but who was clearly too inebriated to speak. His increasingly heated words (which had attracted the attention of the entire clientele) were failing to have any effect and he was attempting to push the stranger back onto the street with brute force, when the man leant forward, and rushing past him, ran towards Scrooge and Tacker’s own table. Not only did he seemed quite out of his wits, but to have his eyes on Felicity and be making his way straight towards her. Before either Scrooge or his American friend could react any more than getting halfway out of their chairs, in anticipation of they knew not what, the outraged maitre d’ caught up with the intruder and clasped him around the chest. To which the stranger responded, by biting him in the cheek.

  Several diners who had been halfway to their feet in readiness to help, rushed forward in a general outcry. The maitre d’ staggered back with a look of extreme shock, blood streaming over the hand he held to his face. Half a dozen men (Scrooge and Tacker among their number) fell upon the assailant and with one swift movement ejected him heavily into the street. They followed him out and stood around him with the intention of holding him down while one of their number ran to fetch a policeman. What immediately became clear, however, was perhaps even more disturbing than the attack itself. The attacker showed no penitence, or even understanding of what he had done, but flailed, roared and spat, snapping his teeth at any hand that approached him.

  The six men stood back cautiously and watched as the violent drunkard rose and, with a further snarl in each of their directions, half ran and half stumbled down the street.

  The men slowly returned to their tables, disturbed and mystified. The waiter had been helped to the kitchen where another diner, happening to be a physician, tended his wound. Even Peewit’s blithe happiness had been momentarily replaced by a gaping perplexity, although his asinine grin took only a few moments to make a recovery, and he took flight in his hot air balloon again.

  ‘That was not something for you to see, my dear girl,’ Scrooge said to Felicity, and placed his hand reassuringly on her arm. She kept her eyes to the table so as not to dignify the horror they had witnessed with a reaction, but a palpable quake shook her at his touch. Scrooge gazed at her for a second, thinking that she was indeed a very dear girl and feeling a protective pride at her decorum, when his thoughts and his eyes alike were distracted by the dish of curried kidneys which was set down in front of him. Remembering his hunger, and meeting the look of the maître d’, which was now one of tortured sacrifice, Scrooge set about his meal.

  The little restaurant quite outdid itself with the food, which entirely devoured the attentions of all present for much of the evening’s duration. After paying their respects to their companions and finding a cab for the journey home, however, the two men both sat silently thinking of the attacks they had witnessed this evening.

  There was a thought just out of reach that bothered Scrooge, something he had been ignoring in his characteristic desire always to see things in the best light. Was it that most of his workforce had reported themselves too ill for work the last few days? Scrooge had been indulgently amused by their attempts to gain a few extra days’ holiday over Christmas, but now began to wonder if it might have been genuine after all. Was it that? No.

  Was it that Scrooge’s friends had almost without exception abandoned the capital this Christmas? Many of them men of finance, umbilically linked to the city, and distrustful of anything outside it. As though they all sensed something of which they were afraid to speak. And all the streets had been emptier this Christmas as though London itself receded from festive excitement out of fright at something unnamed. Was it that, then, that troubled him? No, still not that.

  The carriage slowing to a halt in a narrow street, Scrooge’s eye alighted on the faces of a small roadside gathering. Some uneasiness stirred in him, and he felt obscurely closer to his revelation. One of the group took a step forward, coming only a few feet from Scrooge’s widow, while the others lingered back uncertainly. Something about this man made Scrooge uneasy, although he did not know what. There was an inanimate stiffness in his movement and a blankness about the eyes. For a second Scrooge thought he would appeal for some festive alms, but the expressionless man simply kept coming until he was at the window, and a superstitious dread rose in Scrooge.

  ‘He’s one of them!’ shouted Scrooge, hammering at the roof of the cab to alert the driver. ‘Drive on! Drive on!’

  Whether the driver responded at once to Scrooge’s encouragement, or the blockage in their path moved, the cab bucked forward with a sudden surge of speed, the man’s face disappeared from sight, and they were carried home at great speed. Staring into that dead face Scrooge realised he had seen this look dozens of times in the last few days staring out at him from the street-side, and if it was as he had heard (and dismissed as nonsense) that a mysterious disease was making men violent, then perhaps it had reached epidemic proportions. Yet over a few minutes the swiftness of the cab’s motion and its gentle rocking had the natural effect upon his nerves and soon he was asking Tacker’s forgiveness for his outburst. Alighting soon thereafter at his door, sequestered in the quiet of a deserted yard, Scrooge sought to apologize to the driver as well, but found him distracted.

  ‘It wasn’t your shouting that made us bolt, sir,’ said the man, speaking under his breath even though there was no one around to hear. ‘We was attacked at the same time by a madman who bit Devlin (that’s me orse’s name, sir). Bit im! Look at his flank, sir!’ Both men stared to where the flesh had been gouged by teeth, from which ran streaks of blood.

  Scrooge wished the man a safe journey home and went to pay him double fare before thinking a moment, and then doubling it again. He waved him off and turned in with a grave presentiment. What Dwight Tacker must think of London now!

  ‘They drink too much,’ said Scrooge. ‘That’s the only way I can explain it. The police will have a busy night of it and we will have a wonderful Christmas Day tomorrow whilst a few ne�
��er-do-wells languish in gaol, the worse for wear. A good night’s sleep will clear this all from our minds – it’s not yet ten o’clock.’

  Tacker made no remark until they were ascending the stairs.

  ‘Scrooge, you want a gun?’

  ‘Thank you, but no. I’m sure I would only set it off in the middle of the night and upset myself.’

  ‘Suit yourself, Scrooge, but I’m sleeping with a revolver under my pillow and I won’t take kindly if you get scared in the middle of the night and want to cuddle up. Good night.’

  Watching Dwight Tacker go into his room and close his door before he could think of a dignified and dignifying response, Scrooge reflected that whatever the man wanted to say, he always chose the most provoking method of doing so, and also that sleeping with a gun under one’s pillow sounded like a recipe for waking up with neck-ache. He locked his own door, and double-locked it (which was not his custom), and a few minutes later was in a deep and welcoming slumber.

  VERSE III

  When Scrooge was awoken some time later by a sequence of strange noises, the good humour for which he was famous deserted him entirely. He ran his hands over his stomach as before, but knew it wasn’t that. There was a definite and repeated noise coming from downstairs.

  He hesitated before unlocking (and double-unlocking) his door, but Scrooge was at the point in a man’s life when weariness acts upon him so powerfully as to make peace and quiet more important than his immediate physical safety, and he had no hesitation in stepping onto the landing to find out what was going on. Doing so, he held the lamp above his head, and peered down the stairs.

  It was a certain clattering and commotion which had first aroused him and had been followed by a thumping, dragging sound.

  ‘Damble?’ he asked into the darkness beyond the lamp’s reach. There was a snap behind him of Tacker’s door coming unlocked and that man shambled sleepily to his side. What was it, he asked? Scrooge did not know.