Portside

“What’s to-day, my fine fellow?” said Scrooge.

          “To-day!” replied the boy.  “Why, CHRISTMAS DAY.”

          “It’s Christmas Day!” said Scrooge to himself.  “I haven’t missed it.  The Spirits have done it all in one night.”

Scrooge pondered the events that had transpired, unbelievably, over the past night — the visits from the three spirits who had carried him to Christmases past, present and future.  One spirit had led Scrooge to revisit the holidays of his own past; the second had shown to him the difficult lives led by the English lower classes – including that of his clerk, Bob Cratchit, and his family – this Christmas and every day; the third had foretold Scrooge’s own death and how little sorrow there would be to see the old miser go.  He mulled over the message of the ghosts and the visions they had revealed to him.  Should he repent of a life dedicated to accumulating money and use some of his wealth to help raise up the less fortunate?

Then he thought of his journeys of the past night, how real yet unreal, and how so much seemingly had happened as would easily occupy a week or more.  All of that could not have happened in a single night, Scrooge thought.  Then he suddenly slapped himself on the forehead:  It had been only a dream!  There were no spirits; he had not left the comfort of his bedroom!  It had all been in his head.

Scrooge breathed a sigh of relief.  “And to think, I had almost convinced myself to change my ways, to give up the pursuit of profit!”  he said.  “Imagine how that would have drained my bank account!  Become a woolly-headed old philanthropist tossing coins to beggars in the streets.  How could free enterprise prosper if every businessman acted that way?”

He now felt like his old self again.  Happily he shaved and dressed, and then strolled out into the busy street where he greeted every “Merry Christmas!” with a testy “Bah!  Humbug!”  He stopped by a confectionary store where he bought two dozen gingerbread men, and then returned home to enjoy biting off their heads.

But his greatest joy was anticipating returning to the office the following day.  Cratchit would surely slink in late, no doubt hung over from the previous day’s merrymaking.  When I catch him not at his desk on time, Scrooge thought, I’ll put the fear of dismissal into his head, and then dock his pay!  He rubbed his hands eagerly.  Maybe Christmas can be joyful after all, he mused.

And so on Boxing Day Scrooge walked into his office a few minutes before nine.  As he had predicted, Cratchit’s chair was unoccupied.  Scrooge took a seat at his own desk and was having a pleasant time reading his profit ledgers when he heard a commotion outside.

“What the dickens is that?” Scrooge barked to himself.  He hurried to the door and flung it open to find himself face to face with Cratchit.  The clerk was not alone; behind him stood a line of men and women, many of them – it seemed to Scrooge – bearing a strong resemblance to the working-class characters he had seen during his outing with the Ghost of Christmas Present.  All were carrying placards bearing slogans such as “Unfair!” “Scrooge Abuses His Workers!” and “A Living Wage for All Cratchits!”  They were chanting a slogan such as Scrooge had never heard:  “The people united/will never be defeated!”  The people – united!  What kind of nonsense was that?

“What is the meaning of this?”  Scrooge screamed at Cratchit.  “You were supposed to be at your desk fifteen minutes ago!  Get to work this instant or you’re fired!”

“Not until our demands are met,” said Cratchit calmly.  “We are on strike – against you and all bosses who drive workers like slaves for starvation wages.”

“All of us ‘ave walked out!” shouted a man whose sooty clothes identified him as a coal miner.  “We can’t expect you rich folk to do the right thing out of the goodness of yer ‘earts, can we?”

“Once a capitalist, always a capitalist!” said a young woman, attired for factory work.  “It’s in yer blood.”

“We don’t want none of yer charity!”  shouted a man.  “We’ll fight for what’s rightfully ours!”

Cratchit handed Scrooge a leaflet, which the old man perused nervously.  It listed the workers’ demands:  a living wage, health benefits, safe working conditions, retirement pensions.  “What?”  bellowed Scrooge.  “Have you all gone mad?”

“No, we’ve just come to our senses,” Cratchit replied.

“I’ll bring you to your senses!”  Scrooge screamed.  “You’re fired!”

“And who will do all the work – you?”  Cratchit asked.  Scrooge looked around at the determined faces of the picketing workers.

“Bah!  Humbug!” he screamed, before hastily fleeing into the sanctuary of his office.  As he cowered inside, the marching and chanting outside resumed.

Panting and sweating, Scrooge looked warily at the leaflet Cratchit had handed him.  What now? Scrooge wondered.  What would he and his fellow business owners do?

He had no idea.  “God help us every one,” he moaned