A Taskmaster Christmas Carol

Greg and Alex sit on their thrones. There is a VT of a yule log behind them. Garland and lights decorate the set and there’s a Christmas tree in the corner opposite Greg and Alex. The Taskmaster trophy is wearing a Santa hat. Greg and Alex are both wearing Christmas-themed socks.

Greg: Hello and welcome to the first annual Taskmaster Christmas show! I’m your host Greg Davies and tonight I have the honor of presenting A Taskmaster Christmas Carol: Taskmaster’s take on the classic Dickens tale. Joining me tonight are five of the many former Taskmaster contestants who will be featured in tonight’s story. They are: Rhod Gilbert! Ed Gamble! Mae Martin! Judi Love! And Bridget Christie!

Thunderous audience applause

Greg: And seated next to me, a man who recently confided in me that he thinks Mrs. Claus is quote totally bangable. It’s Santa’s least favorite elf: Little Alex Horne!

Alex: Thanks, Greg. You’ve all been so good this year, we hope you enjoy this little present from us to you.

Greg: But before we start, we are contractually obligated to do some painfully stilted banter. I guess Santa didn’t get my Christmas list.

Alex: Right. Well, if you remember the beginning of a Christmas Carol, it’s spooky stuff, “Jacob Marley was dead to begin with…” and all that. But then Dickens gets sidetracked about the expression dead as a doornail. He argues that coffin nails are deader than doornails and it got me thinking.

Greg: About nails.

Alex: Right about which nails are the deadest. So, I made a chart.

The VT shows a chart with various nails ranked from least dead to most dead.

Alex: So, as you can see, we’ve got fingernails on the left. Not dead at all, in fact they keep growing after you die! Well, they actually don’t, the skin around them shrinks which makes them appear to grow.

Greg: Audibly groans.

Alex: Then you’ve got toenails, common nails, box nails, door nails, ring-shank nails….

Greg: What the devil is a ring-shank nail?

Alex: A ring-shank nail is a nail with grooves (rings) around the shaft for better grip.

Greg: Ah, ribbed for her pleasure, eh Alex?

Alex: Blushes furiously

Alex: Then we’ve got spike nails, finishing nails, and of course, coffin nails. So, as you can see, doornails are right in the middle in terms of how dead a nail is, Dickens was correct.

Greg: What am I supposed to do with that?

Alex: Well, I think I nailed it!

Greg: Tries to look annoyed while he stifles a laugh

Greg: Right. Prize task time. Alex, what have we asked them to bring in today?

Alex: Well, Greg, today you’ve asked them to bring in the thing that you would most like to unwrap on Christmas morning. Oooh!

Greg: Right, well let’s see if I’ve been a good boy this year. Mae Martin, let’s start with you. What have you brought in for me?

Mae: Well, I was thinking about puppet Greg.

Alex: We’ve all been thinking about puppet Greg. Alex shivers.

Mae: Right, well I was thinking that he needs some different outfits so that he can match the different moods of Greg Davies, so I got him some new clothes.

Alex: Here’s the first one.

Mae: So, you can see, he’s got your favorite Brooklyn t-shirt and cuffed jeans for a more casual standup look. Then, we’ve got a Santa suit so he can be festive for the holidays. And of course, we’ve got this.

The screen shows a picture of the puppet wearing only a Speedo and positioned like Rhod’s infamous photo. The camera pans over to Rhod who is laughing uproariously.

Rhod: pointing at Mae I like this one, Greg.

Mae: And we’ve got a nice tuxedo for award shows and such.

Greg: Speedo aside, it’s a strong start. Let’s see, Ed Gamble! What have you brought in?

Ed: Hello, Greg. Well, I thought a lot about this and then I thought fuck it, what is something with a wrapper that Greg likes?

The screen shows a picture of a box full of packets of Maltesers.

Ed: Candy. It’s tasty, it’s Christmasy, you unwrap it, and I’ve brought in 83 of them.

Greg: Laughing Well, it’s not very original, but you do know your target audience. Greg rubs his belly.

Greg: Alright, I’m afraid, but let’s see what Bridget has brought in. Another kimono that you kept for a few decades?

Bridget: Nope, I’ve brought in this:

The screen shows a large tombstone that says:

Here lies Greg “Taskmaster” Davies

May 14^th, 1968-

Greg: stares in wild-eyed horror.

Bridget: Imagine, it’s Christmas morning, you open a present and it’s your gravestone. One thing you can check off your to-do list.

Greg: Ah yes, who doesn’t want to wake up on Christmas morning and be reminded of their own mortality?

Bridget: I’ve known you for a long time; you’re a worrier. Now it’s taken care of; no need to worry that Alex will write a strange epitaph or cheap out and just bury you in his backyard.

Greg: Why is Alex in charge of my funeral?

Alex: I’m always in charge of admin.

Rhod: I always assumed Alex would throw himself on the funeral pyre.

Alex: Laughs, biting his fist.

Greg: Well, I would say you are crashing into last place, but given who is left, sadly there is still hope for you. Judi, what have you brought for me to unwrap on Christmas morning?

Judi: I’ve brought in a singing fish.

The screen shows a picture of one of those novelty fish that sing.

Greg: Absolute rubbish.

Judi: It plays Christmas carols and its head moves.

Alex shows a VT of the fish singing “All I Want for Christmas Is You.”

Greg: shakes his head I don’t even know how to respond to that. Alright, that just leaves you, Rhod. Show me that picture of myself with a Santa hat on it or my mum in the tub with elf ears and let’s get it over with.

Rhod: Actually, I’ve got something a little different this time. Alex?

Alex displays a picture of Alex himself, wearing nothing but underpants that have a large, green bow on the front. He also has a red, stick-on bow slightly off to one side on his head. The audience erupts in laughter.

Rhod: I figured you’d most like to get into Alex’s pants on Christmas morning.

Alex: Yes, I’m wearing them now.

Greg: You are not. Go on, let us see if you’re really wearing them.

Alex: Do I have to?

Greg: Why would you say you were wearing them if you didn’t want everyone to see?

Alex opens his trousers, pulls down his long johns just a little, and exposes just a hint of the green ribbon. Greg reaches for the ribbon to undo it, and Alex smacks his hand.

Alex: Not until Christmas, Greg. Alex winks.

Greg: Okay, points. No surprise, singing fish, one point. Two points to my tombstone, you weird, morbid woman. I’ll give three points to Ed, because I do like my sweets. Oh, these last two are tough. I’ll give four points to Mae for their lovely additions to puppet Greg’s wardrobe, and five points goes to Rhod Gilbert!

Greg: Alright, with my presents out of the way, it’s time at last to introduce A Taskmaster Christmas Carol. Merry Christmas, everyone!

Chapter 2: Stave I: When Your Friend Dies.... Check

Summary:

Greg is haunted by an old friend.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Rhod Gilbert was dead to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Greg Davies signed it: and Greg’s name was good. Old Rhod was as dead as a doornail.

Greg knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Greg and he were partners for I don't know how many years. Greg was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole friend and sole mourner.

The mention of Rhod’s funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Rhod Gilbert was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate.

Oh! but he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Greg! A squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner! Hard and tall, secret, self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. Though he was always hot and sweating, you could tell his heart was cold as ice. He had thin, silver hair; dark glasses that obscured his cold, gray eyes, and a deep, sonorous voice that for any other purpose would be sexy and appealing, but was entirely wasted on the foul things that Greg spewed at the people around him.

Our tale begins on Christmas Eve. Greg sat on his “throne” in his counting-house. It was cold, bleak, and biting weather. In the next room sat his clerk and assistant Little Alex Horne. Alex had worked for Greg for years, and yet Greg knew almost nothing of Alex’s life outside the walls of their office. He allowed Alex only the smallest of fires, barely more than a single coal. But he couldn’t have more coal even if he wanted to, for Greg kept the coal under lock and key in his office, and Alex wouldn’t dare try to get it, for fear of incurring Greg’s wrath.

Alex himself was a friendly and hardworking clerk. He was always keeping himself busy with his tasks. He had soft auburn hair and wore a beard that was beginning to gray. He had a large family at home, but none of this was known to Greg. Quite simply, they were not friends, and it made Alex’s heart hurt. Other than to bark orders at his assistant, or complain, Greg rarely spoke to Alex.

Greg was hard at work when he was interrupted by an unwelcome visitor, the first of many on that fateful Christmas Eve.

“A Merry Christmas, Uncle!” a cheerful voice called out. It was Greg’s nephew, Ed Gamble.

“Bah,” Greg replied. “Humbug.”

“Christmas a humbug, uncle!” said Greg’s nephew. “Preposterous and absurd!”

“I do,” said Greg. “Merry Christmas! I put it to you that you have no right to be merry. What reason could you have to be merry? You’re poor enough.”

“Come, then,” returned Ed gaily. “What right have you to be dismal? You’re rich enough.”

Greg, having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said “Bah!” again; and followed it up with “Humbug.”

“Don't be cross, uncle,” said Ed.

“What else can I be,” Greg returned, “when I live in such a world of fools as this? Merry Christmas? Fuck Christmas! What's Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer? If I had unlimited power and authority,” said Greg indignantly, “every idiot who goes about with ‘Merry Christmas' on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!”

“Uncle!” pleaded Ed.

“Nephew!” returned the uncle sternly, “keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine.”

“Keep it!” repeated Greg’s nephew. “But you don't keep it.”

“Let me leave it alone, then,” said Greg. “Much good may it do you! Much good it has ever done you!”

“Christmas has done me good!” Ed replied, petulantly. “It’s a generous time of year, with games and chocolates and kindness to your fellow man. A time of year when it doesn’t feel like we’re just trying to earn points with some power-mad dictator but instead see the good in everyone and in all things. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!”

Little Alex Horne heard from the other room and involuntarily applauded. Becoming immediately sensible of the impropriety, he stopped awkwardly and pretended to be toting up numbers on his writing tablet.

“Let me hear another sound from you,” said Greg, “and you’ll keep your Christmas by losing your job!”

Alex returned to his tasks and Greg looked at his nephew again.

“Don't be angry, Uncle. Come! Dine with us tomorrow.”

“Why the devil would I do that?” Greg muttered, trying to get back to his work.

“Because it’s in the spirit of Christmas? Don’t you think we should think about the spirit of the task?”

“Why did you get married?” asked Greg, seemingly changing the subject.

“Because I fell in love.”

“Because you fell in love!” growled Greg, as if that were the only one thing in the world more ridiculous than a merry Christmas. “Good afternoon!”

“I’M SO SORRY, Uncle,” Ed shouted.

“Good afternoon,” said Greg.

“It is not my fault that I was born,” Ed said sadly. “Here! Take this pudding that I made in my kitchen, from scratch. Merry Christmas, Uncle!”

“Good afternoon!” said Greg, throwing the pudding in the bin.

“And A Happy New Year!” Ed replied.

“Good afternoon!” said Greg.

No sooner had he gotten rid of his petulant nephew than two new visitors arrived. They were short, awkward-looking men with unkempt hair. One was wiry thin with glasses and an almost heron-like appearance, the other a bit portly with a black beard and curls. They approached Greg’s desk together.

The one with the glasses spoke first. “Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Davies or Mr. Gilbert?”

“Mr. Gilbert has been dead these seven years. He died this very night, in fact,” Greg replied bitterly.

The awkward pair managed to look even more awkward. The other man spoke. “Well, I am sure his liberality will be well represented by his surviving partner.”

“You didn’t know, Rhod, did you?” Greg said, nearly allowing himself a smirk.

“I am Mr. Mark Watson and this is my associate, Mr. Nish Kumar. During this festive season of the year, it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir.”

“Are there no prisons?” asked Greg.

“Plenty of prisons,” said Mr. Kumar, laying down the pen again.

“And the Union workhouses?” demanded Greg. “Are they still in operation?”

“They are. Still,” returned Mr. Watson, “I wish I could say they were not.”

“Oh! What a relief! You had me worried for a second.”

“When we look back on this calendar year, it is important that we make the most of it. A few of us are endeavoring to raise a fund to buy the poor some meat and drink and means of warmth. What shall I put you down for?”

“Nothing! Zero points.” Greg replied.

“You wish to be anonymous?”

“I wish to be left alone,” said Greg. “Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don't make merry myself at Christmas, and I can't afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned: they cost enough: and those who are badly off must go there.”

“Many can't go there; and many would rather die.”

“If they would rather die,” said Greg, “they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.”

Mr. Watson and Mr. Kumar stood in shocked silence.

“Good day, gentlemen,” Greg bellowed.

Not a quarter of an hour had passed before Greg was interrupted again. This time, by a disheveled-looking man who he slowly recognized as someone who had recently defaulted on his loan.

The man had long, dark hair and an equally long beard. His eyes were glassy, and he seemed desperate.

“Mr. Wilkinson,” Greg began. “Unless you have my money, we’ve no business.”

“Please, sir,” Joe began. “Please, it’s Christmas, don’t throw my family out in the cold on Christmas. Give me another week. I’ll get the money to you.”

“You haven’t gotten me the money in a year, why should I believe you now?” Greg said, without looking up from his ledger.

“Please, don’t take it away from me,” Mr. Wilkinson begged.

Greg Davies was an imposing man, taller than most and solid too. When he rose from his chair, Mr. Wilkinson began shaking. Greg took him by the collar and threw him out into the cold. A smile crossed his face for the first time that day, at the joy of exacting his will on another. As he straightened his waistcoat and prepared to go back into the office, he heard a soft sound coming around the corner.

“God bless you, merry gentleman!
May nothing you dismay!”

It was a small, blonde boy, dressed in a ratty fur coat, singing a Christmas Carol. Every few seconds, he smiled, increasingly brightly, hoping to get Greg to take pity on him. When he finished singing, he looked up at Greg and said, “Penny for the song, guvnor.”

Greg, the last bit of his patience exhausted, shut the door in the boy’s face and settled back down to work the rest of the afternoon.

Finally, it was time to close out the day. His clerk, Little Alex Horne, scurried up to get Greg’s coat and hat.

“You’ll want all day tomorrow, I suppose?” said Greg, as Alex did up the buttons on Greg’s coat.

“If quite convenient, Sir.”

“It's not convenient,” said Greg, “and it's not fair. If I was to dock your pay, you’d not find that convenient.”

Alex made a small humming sound.

“And yet,” said Greg, “you don't think me ill-used, when I pay a day's wages for no work.”

Little Alex Horne observed that it was only once a year.

“A poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every twenty-fifth of December!” said Greg, losing his resolve. “But I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier next morning!”

Alex promised that he would; and Greg walked out with a growl.

Greg took his melancholy dinner in his usual melancholy pub; and having read all the newspapers and beguiled the rest of the evening with his banker's-book, went home to bed. He lived in chambers which had once belonged to his deceased partner, Rhod Gilbert. They were a gloomy suite of rooms, in a lowering pile of building up a yard, where it had so little business to be.

Greg had never paid much attention to the door knocker before. It was an ordinary knocker in his ordinary house. Since he never had any visitors, the knocker was really a formality. But on this particular evening as he fumbled with his keys, he looked up at the knocker and found himself face-to-face with Rhod Gilbert. As soon as the knocker had changed, it changed back again. “Humbug,” Greg said to himself, and he entered the house.

For all his bluster, Greg was afraid. He lit his candle and searched his rooms, convinced he would find the ghost of Rhod Gilbert hiding in his closet. He checked through the cold, dark, drafty rooms but he found nothing. And so, he settled in before the fireplace, to take his gruel.

Greg’s feelings of unease did not decrease, and he found himself looking wildly around the room. In the corner, there was an old bell that had once served some purpose but now had gone unused for so many years that dust has completely overtaken it. Suddenly, it began to swing until the sound of bells ringing filled the room. Once they ceased, the sound was replaced by a thunking sound, as if someone were walking up the stairs dragging chains and crates.

“Humbug!” Greg cried out. Just then, the door flew open, and in shuffled the ghost of Rhod Gilbert, letting out a terrifying, Welsh-tinged howl.

He looked exactly the same as the day he died: Same hair, same clothes, same face. The only differences were that Greg could see straight through him, and the chain that was looped around Rhod’s waist (in life Rhod was usually the one tying other people up).

“How now!” said Greg, caustic and cold as ever. “What do you want with me?”

“Much!”—Rhod’s voice, no doubt about it.

“Who are you?”

“Ask me who I was.”

“Who were you then?” said Greg, raising his voice.

“In life I was your partner, Rhodri Gilbert.”

“Can you—can you sit down?” asked Greg, looking doubtfully at him.

“I can.”

“Do it then.”

“You don't believe in me,” observed the Ghost.

“I don't,” said Greg. “I was there when you died. I saw you out.”

“No, you didn’t. Besides, what evidence would you have of my reality beyond that of your senses?”

“I don't know,” said Greg.

“Why do you doubt your senses?”

“Because,” said Greg, “a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheat. You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of hot toothpaste pie, a fragment of an underdone potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!”

Rhod laughed, or what passed for laughter from a ghost. “That’s not your kind of joke, that’s more the kind of thing that little ferret clerk of ours would say.”

Greg let his guard down for a second and laughed as well; but no sooner had the sound come out, than it was overshadowed by a horrible wail from Rhod’s ghost.

“Mercy!” Greg cried. “Dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?”

“Do you believe in me or not?” Rhod shouted.

“I do,” said Greg. “I must. But why do spirits walk the earth, and why do they come to me?”

“It is required of every man,” Rhod returned, “that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellowmen, and travel far and wide; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. It is doomed to wander through the world—oh, woe is me!—and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness!”

Again, the spectre raised a cry and shook its chain and wrung its shadowy hands.

“You are in chains,” said Greg, trembling. “Tell me why?”

“I wear the chain I forged in life,” replied the Ghost. “I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to you?”

Greg trembled more and more.

“Or would you know,” pursued the Ghost, “the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? It was full as heavy and as long as this, seven Christmas Eves ago. You have laboured on it, since. It is a ponderous chain!”

“Rhod,” he said, imploringly. “Old Rhodri Gilbert, tell me more. Speak comfort to me, Rhod!”

“I have none to give,” the Ghost replied. “It comes from other regions, Gregory Davies, and is conveyed by other ministers to other kinds of men. Oh! captive, bound, and double-ironed,” cried the phantom, “Not to know that no space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunities misused! Yet such was I! Oh! such was I!”

“But you were always a good man of business, Rhod,” faltered Greg, who now began to apply this to himself.

“Business!” cried Rhod, wringing its hands again. “Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were all my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!”

Greg was very much dismayed to hear the spectre going on at this rate and began to quake exceedingly.

“Hear me!” cried the Ghost. “My time is nearly gone, and this has taken a nasty turn.”

“I will,” said Greg. “But don’t be horrible to me. Please, Rhod. Haven’t you tortured me enough?”

“How it is that I appear before you in a shape that you can see, I may not tell. I have sat invisible in your closet many and many a day.”

It was not an agreeable idea. Greg shivered and wiped the perspiration from his brow.

“I am here tonight to warn you, that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. A chance and hope of my procuring, Gregory.”

“You were always a good friend to me,” said Greg. “Thank you”

“You will be haunted,” resumed the Ghost, “by Three Spirits, I expect.”

“Is that the chance and hope you mentioned, Rhod?” he demanded, in a faltering voice.

“It is.”

“I—I think I’d rather not,” said Greg.

“Without their visits,” Rhod replied, “you cannot hope to shun the path I tread. Expect the first tomorrow, when the bell tolls one.”

“Couldn't I take ’em all at once, and have it over, Rhod?” hinted Greg.

“Look to see me no more; and look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us!”

Rhod’s ghost motioned to follow him to the window. When he did, Greg saw dozens of other spirits dragging their chains in the street below, with no hope of relief. Rhod opened the window and seemed to float down to join them. Greg shut the window in haste and closed the curtains. Then without even taking off his dressing gown or indeed getting under the covers, he lay on his bed and fell immediately asleep.

Notes:

I hope you all enjoyed the first stave.
I hope Rhod Gilbert lives a long, full life, but there was no one better to haunt Greg and I think he'd agree with that!

Chapter 3: Stave 2: So Full of Hate

Summary:

The Ghost of Christmas Past drills down into Greg's past.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Greg half-woke in the middle of the night and opened one eye as he listened to the church bells ringing out. It was 1 o’clock, the time that Rhod had told him the first ghost would appear. Greg had just about managed to convince himself that he had dreamed the whole thing, but he was still a bit on edge.

He kept his one eye open for another moment, then released a long breath. Settling back into his pillow, he let himself relax. At that precise moment, the curtains on his bed flew open and the room filled with a bright light.

The spirit was not what Greg was expecting. They seemed to be all things at once and yet also none of them. The most striking thing was the spirit’s hair, which was not hair to speak of. Instead, it was pure light and flame, and the spirit carried a large cap that looked like an extinguisher. The apparition looked at Greg without any pretense and for what felt like ages. At last, Greg spoke.

“Are you the spirit whose coming was foretold to me?”

“I am,” the spirit replied. “I am Mae Martin, the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

“Long past? ” Greg asked.

“No. Your past,” Mae replied.

“What has brought you here?” Greg asked.

“Your welfare,” Mae said, simply.

“Perhaps a night’s unbroken rest would be more beneficial to my welfare,” Greg grumbled, standing to look the spirit in the eye.

“Your reclamation then,” the Ghost replied. “Take my hand,” they said, leading Greg to the open window.

“But, spirit, I am mortal and liable to fall.”

“Just a touch of my hand and you will fly,” Mae responded, gripping his hand tightly. “Welcome to Crossing to the Other Side with Mae Martin.” And they were off.

Greg and Mae floated for what seemed like ages, through space and time and towards a bright light. The city of London disappeared behind them, but where they would end up, Greg was still unsure.

“Good Heaven!” said Greg, clasping his hands together, as he looked about him. “I was bred in this place. I was a boy here!”

Mae gazed upon him mildly. Their gentle touch, though it had been light and instantaneous, appeared still present to the old man's sense of feeling. He was conscious of a thousand odours floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long, forgotten!

“Your lip is trembling,” said the Ghost. “And what is that upon your cheek?”

Greg muttered, with an unusual catching in his voice, that it was a pimple; and begged the Ghost to lead him where he would.

“You recollect the way?” inquired the Spirit.

“Remember it!” cried Greg with fervour—“I could walk it blindfold.”

“Strange to have forgotten it for so many years!” observed the Ghost. “Let us go on.”

As they walked, Greg pointed out the different sights. “Look! That’s where I used to play Snorkel Parka Music Practice Room!” he said gaily. “And there’s where I had my first fight.”

Just then, he saw a boy he knew. “Chinese Dave!” he shouted but the boy walked by as though he wasn’t there.

“These are but shadows of the things that have been,” Mae explained. “They have no consciousness of us.”

As the boys continued to run past them, the school became more and more deserted.

“The school is not quite deserted,” Mae said, as if reading his mind. “A solitary child, neglected by his friends, is left there still.”

The pair entered the schoolhouse, a dilapidated old building with broken windows and a damp chill about it. They walked through the rooms until they came upon a single solitary boy reading near a feeble fire. Greg sat beside the boy and wept to remember how lonely his childhood had been.

Greg thought of the sole caroler yesterday and felt overcome. He let out a small sigh.

“What is the matter?” Mae asked.

“There was a boy singing a Christmas Carol at my door yesterday. I should have given him something.”

Mae smiled slightly, then said “Let us see another Christmas!”

Greg watched himself grow older, and the schoolroom become shabbier. Greg watched his teen self walking up and down the floorboards. He looked to Mae and shook his head mournfully.

The door to the room opened, and in walked a young woman who ran up to Greg and threw her arms around him. “Dear brother!” she shouted, for she was Greg’s sister, Roisin. “I have come to take you home.”

“Home, little Rosh?” returned teenaged Greg.

“Yes,” she said full of glee. “Home, for good and all. Home for ever and ever. Father is so much kinder than he used to be. Papa don’t breach! He spoke so gently to me one night that I was not afraid to ask him once more if you might come home; and he said Yes, you should; and he sent me in a coach to bring you. And you’re to be a man!” Roisin said. “And you are never to come back here. We’re going to be together all Christmas long!”

“You are quite a woman, Roisin!” Greg’s younger self replied.

She clapped her hands and laughed and tried to touch his head; but she being too little, laughed again and stood on tiptoe to embrace him. Then she began to drag him, in her childish eagerness, towards the door.

“Always a delicate creature, whom a breath might have withered,” said the Ghost. “But she had a large heart.”

“So, she had,” cried Greg.

“She died a woman,” said the Ghost, “and has, as I think, children.”

“One child,” Greg replied.

“Your nephew!”

Greg seemed uneasy in his mind and answered briefly, “Yes.”

Now they were in London, the schoolhouse and all of the memories left behind. Mae stopped at the door of a warehouse and looked at Greg. “Do you know this place?”

“Know it!” exclaimed Greg, “I was apprenticed here.”

They went in and soon came upon an old gentleman sitting behind a high desk. “Why it’s old Mortimer! Bless his heart; it’s Bob Mortimer alive again!”

Old Mortimer laid down his pen, and looked up at the clock, which pointed to the hour of seven. He rubbed his hands together and called out, “Yo, ho, there! Greg! Russell!”

Greg’s former self, now a grown young man, came briskly in accompanied by his fellow apprentice.

“Russell Howard, to be sure! said Greg to the Ghost. “Bless me, yes. There he is. He was very much attached to me, was Russell.”

“No more work tonight,” called Old Mortimer. “Let’s have the shutters up!”

Russell and Young Greg set to work, clearing out the entire warehouse in a matter of minutes. It was snug and warm and dry, the perfect place for a holiday party.

In came a trumpet player with a music book and went up to the lofty desk and made a band out of it. In came Mrs. Liza Tarbuck Mortimer, with a huge smile and a beautiful Christmas cake. Then in walked the three Miss Mortimers; Aisling, Alice, and Katy, all beaming and lovable. And then there were all the employees, and the cook, and even some of the neighbors. They all set about dancing to the terrible trumpet music that Phil Wang, for that was the trumpet players name, was performing.

Oh, it was a grand party, indeed! There was dancing and mince-pies and beer and singing. People gathered ‘round Old Mortimer to hear some of his famous stories. No one could ever tell whether they were truths or lies but it hardly mattered. Everyone around him was crying with laughter by the end of the night when he performed his famous party trick and tore an apple in half with nothing but his bare hands. Greg watched, beaming to see Old Mortimer perform once again.

As the party began to break up, the Spirit looked at Greg, who seemed like a man out of his wits. His heart and soul were in the scene and with his former self.

“A small matter,” said Mae, “to make these silly folks so full of gratitude.”

“Small!” echoed Greg.

“Why! Is it not? He has spent but a few pounds of your mortal money: three or four hundred perhaps. Is that so much that he deserves praise?”

“That isn’t the point!” Greg cried out. “The happiness he gives us is quite as great as if it cost a fortune.”

Greg paused and it seemed to Mae that he was wrestling with something. They looked at him and without being asked any question, he answered.

“I wish I could say a word to my clerk, Little Alex Horne, right now,” he said quietly.

“My time grows short,” the Ghost replied. “Quick!”

Greg found he was face-to-face with himself. Younger, yes, but fully grown. He was a man in the prime of his life, and he was sitting on a park bench with a beautiful woman, who he hadn’t thought about in years.

“Sally,” Greg cried. “My beautiful Sally. Oh Mae, why would you show me this Christmas?” Mae signaled with their hand to stop so Greg might listen to the conversation that he remembered all too well.

“It matters little,” she said, softly. “To you, very little. Another idol has displaced me; and if it can cheer and comfort you in time to come, as I would have tried to do, I have no just cause to grieve.”

“What Idol has displaced you?” he rejoined.

“A golden one.” She looked at him with disdain as though the golden idol were a gilded copy of Greg’s own head.

“Do you know how hard it is to be poor?” Greg asked. “I am only thinking of you, Sally.”

“You fear the world too much,” she answered gently. “All your other hopes have merged into the hope of wealth. I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by one, until the master-task, Gain, engrosses you. Have I not?”

“What then?” he retorted. “Even if I have grown so much wiser, what then? I am not changed towards you.”

“I remember the day I first saw you, so tall and handsome. After we parted, I got down on my knees and begged to God that you would be mine. And then you were, and we had so many merry times together; drinking absinthe and having special cuddles. But you changed, and I fear there is no other solution but to release you.”

“Have I ever sought release?” Young Greg asked.

“In words, no. In actions, yes. May you be happy in the life you have chosen, Greg.”

And with that she left.

Greg was near his breaking point. “You treat me like I am a puppet and you’re pulling the strings! Show me no more, spirit!” he exclaimed.

“One shadow more,” Mae replied, waving their hands again.

They approached a house with the name “Vesijäähdytin” on the mailbox. Greg had never heard of such a person; it must be a Finnish or Swedish name, he thought. When they entered the modest house there was a girl sitting on the couch who looked so much like Sally, at first Greg assumed it her again. But then he saw Sally, now much older, sitting across the room from her daughter. It was a lovely domestic scene, and Greg felt the stabbing pain of regret low in his belly.

Sally’s beautiful daughter was not the only child. No, there were several, a whole brood of children nearly as beautiful as Sally. Greg watched in silence at the life he could have had.

Just then a handsome man around Sally’s age walked in the door. The man looked familiar, but Greg couldn’t quite place him. He set down Christmas toys and presents for the children who went into a frenzy opening the parcels.

The man sat beside Sally on the sofa and said, “I ran into an old friend of yours today.”

“Who was that?” Sally responded, smiling at her husband brightly.

“Guess.”

“Guess? I don’t know!” laughed Sally. “Greg Davies,” she said at last.

“Indeed, it was Greg Davies! He was alone in his counting-house. I hear his partner, Rhod Gilbert, is near death and yet there he sat alone, working on Christmas eve, all alone in the world.”

“I can’t take it anymore,” shouted Greg lunging at Mae. “Show me no more.” Greg grasped for the extinguisher cap that the Spirit had been carrying around and placed it on their head. The light continued to stream out from under the cap but slowly he became aware of his bed beneath him and collapsed into sleep once more.

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed a walk through Greg's past!
No points for guessing what Vesijäähdytin means.

Chapter 4: Stave 3: A Present for Greg

Summary:

The ghost of Christmas Present is here to show Greg how Christmas is celebrated as far away as the sea, and as close as the home of his faithful clerk/assistant, Little Alex Horne.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Greg woke with a start, wondering when the next spirit would approach. Though Rhod had told him when, he was beginning to doubt whether he even understood time anymore. Everything was a jumble in his mind. Finally, Greg heard a commotion in the next room, so he got out of bed and approached the door with trembling hands.

“Come in, and know me better, babes!” a loud voice shouted. Greg opened the door to find a huge feast in the room and a spirit dressed in a deep, velvety green robe sitting on a throne eating grapes. There were plates of food piled high around the room, holly festooned every available surface, and a large fish fountain stood in the center of the room.

“You’re not like anyone I’ve ever seen before,” Greg said, more amused than frightened.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Present, but you can call me Judi Love, or Queen Zafufu, whichever you prefer.”

“Names befitting of you, I’ve no doubt,” Greg said, deciding to err on the side of flattery.

“Come in, and know me better, babes!” she said again.

“Yes, you said that already.”

“You’ve not seen the likes of me before!” Judi said as though she hadn’t heard Greg’s last remark.

“Yes, I said that, too.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t seen any of my brothers or sisters before me, there have been over 1800 before me.”

“Wow,” said Greg. “Imagine the grocery bills!”

Judi laughed her big laugh. Greg noticed that she was playing with a small cube unlike anything Greg had ever seen. Judi seemed to notice this.

“My friend the Ghost of Christmas Yet-to-Come brought this to me. It’s called a rubie cubie, I think. It pays to have friends in the future.”

Greg looked at Judi, baffled.

Finally, she set the cube aside and called to Greg, “Come, touch my robe.”

Greg and Judi were transported to Christmas Day in the heart of the city. Despite the cold, the city was full of excitement. The streets were packed with sellers and their wares: carts full of Christmas satsumas, ducks and chickens, potatoes and pineapples, lemons and limes, eggs and aubergines.

The people in the street were merry and good-natured. Old grudges forgotten, daily troubles set aside; all that mattered was Christmas. Before long the church bells started to call out and people hurried in their best clothes to get to the service. Greg felt himself getting swept up in the gaiety of the scene: the warm reunions, happy families, and playful friendships. He also began to feel a stab of regret for what he had become. Could he really change? Or was it already too late?

The Ghost of Christmas Present exuded a powerful energy. She was kind and generous and she exhibited a hearty nature and sympathy to all mankind. She was the kind of soul who could borrow a dog whenever she wanted. And now, she was leading Greg to the house of his faithful clerk and assistant, Little Alex Horne.

“Do you know this place?” Judi asked.

“No, I’ve never been here before,” Greg said as they were transported through the wall and into the small home.

Inside the house, Mrs. Knappett-Horne was wearing a well-worn dress, with ribbons in her long, brown hair. Jessica was a lovely woman, a little clumsy but approachable. She stood in the kitchen, working with her daughter Lolly on the Christmas dinner. Master James Acaster Horne was setting the table. As they worked, two smaller children Josh and Fern rushed in exclaiming about smelling the goose.

“And where is your precious father?” Jessica asked. “And Tiny Jon Richardson? And where is our dear Rose, she’s late back from work.”

“Here’s Rose,” said a young woman with beautiful, bouncy curls as she entered the small home.

Fern and Josh ran to Rose and hugged her.

“Sorry, Mother,” Rose began. “We had so much to get done last night. Those bags won’t crochet themselves!”

“Quick,” said James. “Father is coming. Hide Rose!”

So, Rose hid herself, and in came Little Alex Horne, the father, and Tiny Jon Richardson upon his shoulder. Tiny Jon Richardson wore a threadbare cardigan under his hand-me-down coat and had a crutch to help him walk.

“Why, where's our Rose?” cried Alex, looking round.

“Not coming,” said Mrs. Knappett-Horne.

“Not coming!” said Alex, with a sudden declension in his high spirits. “Not coming upon Christmas Day!”

Rose didn't like to see him disappointed, even if it were only in jest; so she came out prematurely from behind the closet door, and ran into his arms, while the two young Horne children hustled around Tiny Jon Richardson, and took him to the kitchen that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper.

“And how did Tiny Jon Richardson behave?” asked Jessica, when she had rallied Alex on his credulity and Alex had hugged his daughter to his heart's content.

“As good as gold,” said Alex, “and better. Somehow, he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day who made lame beggars walk and blind mice see.”

Alex and Jessica had a quiet moment, and then it was time to get back to making the Christmas dinner. “It will be quite a feast, Alex!” she said giving him a gentle kiss and then rushed back to the kitchen, where several little Hornes were threatening to make a right mess.

Jessica Knappett-Horne brought the goose out to the table, making honking noises as though the goose were still alive. Her husband laughed (which also sounded quite goose-like, all things considered) and Jessica tripped on a chair leg and nearly dropped the goose, and they all had a good laugh.

Greg looked at the meager feast and at the smiling faces of the whole family. He thought about how miserable he was on Christmas every year and how much joy he saw in the faces of the Hornes. “Have you ever seen such a goose?” Alex asked. “Has there ever been such a Christmas?”

After the meal was done, Rose and Lolly cleared the plates and Mrs. Knappett-Horne got the pudding. Everyone watched their father take the first bite, and then watched in silence to see if it was good. Little Alex Horne declared it a triumph, though as Mrs. Knappett-Horne was quick to point out, Alex would eat just about anything. All the Hornes got their pudding and then they sat round the fire with warm cider.

“A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!” Alex shouted or tried to shout.

“God bless us every one!” said Tiny Jon Richardson.

He sat very close to his father's side, upon his little stool. Alex held his withered little hand in his, as if he loved the child, and wished to keep him by his side, and dreaded that he might be taken from him.

“Spirit,” said Greg, with an interest he had never felt before, “tell me if Tiny Jon Richardson will live.”

“I see a vacant seat,” replied Judi, “in the poor chimney-corner, and a cardigan without an owner, carefully preserved. If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, the child will die.”

“No, no,” said Greg. “Oh, no, kind Spirit! Say he will be spared.”

“If he is going to die, then he had better do it and decrease the surplus population.”

Greg hung his head to hear his own words quoted by Judi and was overcome with penitence and grief. His cheeks burned with shame, and he found himself swirling in a hot wave of anxiety. So, he was rather surprised when he heard Alex calling out his name.

“Mr. Greg Davies!” said Little Alex; “I’ll give you Mr. Davies, the Founder of the Feast!”

“The Founder of the Feast indeed!” cried Mrs. Knappett-Horne, reddening. “I wish I had him here. I’d give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and I hope he’d have a good appetite for it.” She tried to speak harshly but she was an approachable woman to a fault, and no one would have believed her threat.

“My dear,” said Alex, “the children; Christmas Day.”

“It should be Christmas Day, I am sure,” said she, “on which one drinks the health of such an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man as that taskmaster you work for. You know he is, Alex! Nobody knows it better than you do, poor fellow!”

“My dear,” was Alex’s mild answer again, “Christmas Day.”

“I’ll drink his health for your sake and the Day's,” said Mrs. Knappett-Horne, “not for his. Long life to him! A merry Christmas and a happy New Year! —he’ll be very merry and very happy, I have no doubt!”

Greg watched as Alex excitedly talked to Master James Acaster Horne about a possible situation for him and Rose told stories about her apprenticeship at a seamstress. They had so little and yet they were so happy. Greg watched, pained with grief and guilt, his eyes lingering on Tiny Jon Richardson until the last.

Now Judi took Greg to see some of the other ways Christmas was being celebrated. The next stop was a place he had never been before. “Where are we, Judi?” Greg asked.

“A place where Miners live, who labour in the bowels of the earth,” returned the Spirit. “But they know me. See!”

A light shone from the window of a hut, and swiftly they advanced towards it. Passing through the wall of mud and stone, they found a cheerful company assembled round a glowing fire. An old, old man named Steve Pemberton, with his children and his children's children, and another generation beyond that, were all decked out gaily in their holiday attire. The old man, in a voice that seldom rose above the howling of the wind upon the barren waste, was singing Greensleeves and his children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren were singing along even though it was quite difficult to make out what song it was.

The Spirit did not tarry here, but bade Greg hold her robe, and passing on above the moor sped to sea. Built upon a dismal reef of sunken rocks, some league or so from shore, on which the waters chafed and dashed, the wild year through, there stood a solitary lighthouse.

But even here, the two lighthouse keepers made a fire and joined their horny hands over the rough table at which they sat, and wished each other Merry Christmas. The elder, Jack, had a face that was damaged and scarred from the hard weather and though he seemed unfeeling, but you could see in his eyes how much he was enjoying his time with the younger keeper. He called her Rosie, and she called him Captain Jackie, though he was not a captain, of course. And they dined together and laughed and made the most of their situation.

Again, Judi sped on, above the black and heaving sea until they came upon a ship. “Brace, brace!” shouted the helmswoman, as a wave rocked the ship. All the members of the crew were working hard because of the storm, but they still had the Christmas spirit about them. From Captain Vegas all the way to the beanpole of a lookout, John. Each of them sang a Christmas tune or shouted stories of Christmases gone by as they navigated the ship to calmer waters. Below decks the cooks Sue and Susan prepared as good a Christmas meal as they could given the circumstances, and kept it warm for the crew until they reached calmer waters. Even at sea, it was still Christmas.

Greg watched with interest when suddenly he heard a familiar laugh. He blinked and the scene was transformed again, this time to his nephew, Ed’s house, where his Christmas party was in full swing. Ed laughed gaily, holding his sides, rolling his head and twisting his face in the most extravagant contortions. And his wife, Greg’s niece-in-law, laughed solidly as well, and they seemed very happy.

“He said that Christmas was a humbug, as I live!” cried Ed. “He believed it too!”

“More shame for him, Ed!” said Lou, indignantly.

She was very pretty and tall, Greg couldn’t help but notice. She had eyes like deep pools, easy to get lost in. Greg had never seen her before, and he wondered what else he hadn’t seen whether before his eyes or not.

“He’s a comical old fellow,” Ed said, grinning smugly.

“He’s a rich old fellow,” Lou replied. “At least you always tell me so.”

“What of that my dear? His wealth is of no use to him. He doesn’t do any good with it. He doesn’t make himself comfortable with it.”

“I have no patience for Greg,” Lou replied, clearly exasperated.

“Oh, I have!” said Ed. “I am sorry for him; I couldn’t be angry with him if I tried.” Lou shot him a look. “Well, maybe I am sometimes angry with him. But who suffers because of his behavior? He does! He takes it in his head to dislike us, and he won’t come and dine with us! And what a fine dinner it was, don’t you agree David?”

David Baddiel, continual bachelor and party crasher, stammered out some kind of answer, then looked over at Lou’s sisters, Morgana and Victoria and made puppy eyes at Morgana as if to say, please save me from this bachelor’s life. Morgana giggled and looked away.

“Enough of this talk of my uncle!” Ed said at last. “It wouldn’t be Christmas without some games. Shall we play?”

Everyone bustled about and prepared the room to play. “For the first game, we’ll be in couples. Each couple will get an egg. One member must bring the egg to the partner on the other side of the room without touching or breaking the egg. Then their partner must bring it back to where they started. Fastest wins, your time starts… now!”

Morgana, paired with David, dropped the egg about halfway across the room, having tried to balance it on a spoon. Several other couples were eliminated the same way. Ed, having thought about the task ahead of time, decided on an egg cup which he was able to scoop the egg into, but when Lou brought the egg back, she got bumped into and flung the egg into the air, causing it to break. Victoria Coren Mitchell and her husband ended up winning by putting the egg into a wine glass and walking it across the room, looking ever so posh.

“How would you have done it?” The Ghost of Christmas Present asked Greg.

“How the devil should I know? I’d be rubbish at games like this!” But even as he complained, the Ghost observed the corners of his mouth turned upwards and he had a sense of concentration about him.

The next game was some kind of drawing guessing game. Ed, ever the attentive host, went to prepare more drinks for his guests, while Lou formed two teams. Each team gathered around a large piece of paper with a pen, and they had to guess what their teammate was drawing.

Ed passed out the drinks and was beckoned over to his team. He looked at the group and groaned. He turned to Lou. “Can I just check; have I been placed on a team with David Baddiel?” Lou laughed, because of course she had done it on purpose, both because she didn’t want him on her team and because she knew it would ruffle Ed.

They took their spots and played the first few rounds drawing things like hounds and holly and presents and houses and carriages. When they had run out of prompts, the drawers started making up their own. Ed drew for his team, while Victoria drew for hers. He drew a man sitting at a desk with coins lined up on either side.

“Greed!” David shouted. “Money! Miser! Avarice!” Ed made an exasperated face.

“It’s your Uncle Greg!” Lou shouted. Her team jumped up and cheered, while Victoria returned the pen to its ink bottle and sat down beside her husband with a smug look about her.

David Baddiel laughed off the loss. “It didn’t occur to me that it would be a person,” he told Ed, who immediately repeated it to the others. The room was filled with laughter and chatter and Greg couldn’t help but laugh along, even though it was not a very flattering portrait of his character.

Greg looked at Judi and realized that though he was the same, she had aged many years in this single night. Or maybe it had been many nights. Greg could scarcely tell. They now stood in a courtyard in some part of town Greg had not been to before. Judi’s dark hair was tinged with white, and wrinkles had developed on her face and hands.

“Are Spirits’ lives so short?” asked Greg, concern in his voice.

“My time upon this globe is very brief,” Judi replied. “It ends tonight.”

“Tonight!” cried Greg.

“Tonight at midnight. The hour is drawing near.”

Suddenly, Greg noticed something odd under Judi’s robes. “Forgive me, Spirit, but have you got something under your robe.”

Judi opened the robe and brought forth two children; wretched, abject, frightful children. There was a boy and a girl, both fair-haired and fair-skinned, a pair of Aryan twins.

“Look at them!” Judi cried out.

Greg looked in horror. He tried to be polite, to say they were fine children, but his words were caught in his throat, so he continued to blink at Judi at the children, until he finally managed to ask “Spirit! Are they yours?”

The spirit gave her best “mortal, please” look. “They are Man’s,” she responded at last. “The boy is Rob, but he is better known as Ignorance. The girl, Sara, is better known as Want. Beware them both but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is doom!”

“Mummy says we’re good at puzzles,” the boy said cryptically.

“Have they no refuge or resource?” cried Greg.

“Are there no prisons?” said Judi. “Are there no workhouses?” Then she turned away from him as the clock stroke twelve.

Greg looked about him for the Ghost, and even for the sickly children but they were all gone. Greg looked around, remembering what Rhod had told him and soon spotted a solemn Phantom covered in dark cloth slowly making its way toward Greg.

Notes:

Did I write an entire book for the joke "Come in and know me better, babes." Maybe. Do I have regrets? Absolutely not.

Chapter 5: Stave 4: Ok, Just One More Thing

Summary:

The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come takes steps (what are steps) to save Greg's soul. Will her grim picture of the future be enough to change Greg's ways?

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached. She looked like some kind of cowboy, like a gunslinger from the American West, but all in black. She walked in a strange, halting way, as though she didn’t know what normal steps were. Greg dropped to his knees.

“Am I in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?” Greg asked, trembling.

The Spirit did not speak, but nonetheless seemed to communicate directly with Greg. Greg understood her name was Bridget and that she was indeed the third and final Spirit.

“You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us,” Greg pursued. “Is that so, Spirit?”

Bridget raised a cooking pot she was holding and banged on it with a spatula.

Although Greg was getting used to keeping company with ghosts, he feared this silent shape so much that his legs trembled beneath him, and he found he could hardly stand when he prepared to follow her. The Spirit seemed to understand this and waited for him to recover.

“Ghost of the Future!” Greg exclaimed. “I fear you more than any spectre I have seen. But, as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me?”

Bridget gave no reply but continued to bang on the pot.

“Lead on,” Greg relented at last. “The night is waning fast, and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead on, Spirit!”

Bridget stopped before a cluster of businessmen, colleagues of Greg’s. She pointed at the group and Greg went closer so he could hear what they were saying.

“No,” said Dara O’Briain. “I don’t know much about it, either way. I only know he’s dead.”

“When did he die?” inquired his associate, Hugh Dennis.

“Last night, I believe,” the large, bald man replied.

“Why, what was the matter with him?” asked Sophie Duker, a look of disgust evident on her face. “I thought he’d never die.”

“God knows,” Dara replied with a yawn.

“What has he done with his money?” piped up Frankie Boyle, red-faced.

“I haven’t heard,” said Hugh. “Left it to his Company perhaps. He hasn’t left it to me. That’s all I know.”

They all laughed at the thought.

“It’s likely to be a very cheap funeral,” said Sophie. “Upon my life, I don’t know a single person who would go to it.”

“I don’t mind going if fish finger sandwiches are provided,” Dara replied, miming wiping his mouth with an imaginary napkin.

They laughed again.

“Well. I am the most disinterested among you, after all,” said Hugh. “He didn’t live when he was alive, why should we mourn him? It would be like throwing toast in a toaster.”

“Who gives a fuck?” Frankie said at last, and the group went about their morning.

Bridget guided Greg along through the streets. Greg spotted another pair of men he knew well. It was Mike Wozniak and Lee Mack.

“How are you, Mike?” Lee asked.

Mike nodded. “How are you?” he replied.

“Well,” Lee said. “Old Scratch has got his own at last, hey?”

“Oh, I hadn’t heard, are you sure?”

“Come on Mike, would I lie to you?” Lee returned, a twinkle in his grey eyes.

“Well, I’d better get off to the market. Need more ingredients for the Christmas casserole.”

“Good morning!” Lee replied. And that was that.

Greg was first inclined to be surprised that the Spirit should attach importance to conversations apparently so trivial; but feeling assured that they must have some hidden purpose, he set himself to consider what it was likely to be. They could scarcely be supposed to have any bearing on the death of Rhod, his old partner, for that was Past, and this Ghost’s province was the future.

He looked in the square for his own image. Surely, he would be there at this time of day. But he saw no likeness of himself among the multitudes. Good, Greg thought. Perhaps this means I have changed, maybe I am with family, celebrating Christmas.

They left the very busy scene, and went into an obscure part of town, where Greg had never been before. The ways were foul and narrow; the shops and houses wretched; the people drunken and dressed in rags.

Finally, they came to a run-down old shop selling people’s old scraps. There were piles of refuse iron all over the floor, scraps of cloth, and other more sinister prizes. Sitting among the wares she dealt in, by a charcoal stove, made of old bricks, was a red-haired rascal nearly seventy years of age.

Greg and the Spirit came into the presence of the shopkeeper just as a woman with a heavy bundle slunk into the shop. But scarcely had she entered, when another woman, similarly laden, came in too; and she was followed very closely by a man in black. When they saw each other, they all laughed to see the laundress, the charwoman and the undertaker having all met here without meaning it.

“Blimey, that’s ironic,” said Richard, the undertaker.

“You couldn’t have met in a better place,” said old Jo Brand, removing the pipe from her mouth. “Come into the parlour,” she beckoned.

“What odds then, what odds Mrs. Giedroyc?” said Sarah Millican, the charwoman. “Every person has a right to take care of themselves. He always did. He had power; he had money; what he didn’t have, that I do, is likeability."

“That’s very true, indeed!” said Mel. “No man more so.”

“Why then, don’t stand staring as if you were afraid. Who’s the wiser?”

“No, indeed!” said Mrs. Giedroyc and Richard at once. “We should hope not.”

“Very well then!” cried Sarah. “That’s enough. Who’s the worse for the loss of a few things like these? Not a dead man, I suppose.”

“Oh gang,” said Mrs. Giedroyc laughing. “No, indeed.”

“If he wanted to keep ‘em after he was dead, a wicked old screw,” pursued Sarah, “why wasn’t he natural in his lifetime? If he had been, he’d have had somebody to look after him when he was struck with Death, instead of lying gasping out his last there, alone by himself.”

“It’s the truest word that ever was spoke,” said Mrs. Giedroyc. “It’s a judgement on him.”

“Open that bundle, old Jo,” Sarah said. “I’m not afraid to be the first, nor afraid for them to see. We know pretty well that we were helping ourselves before we met here.”

But the gallantry of her friends would not allow of this; and the man in faded black, Richard Osman, produced his plunder. There wasn’t much, a pencil case, a pair of sleeve-buttons and a brooch of no great value at all. They were examined by old Jo, who chalked up the sums on the wall. Richard tried to make a deal with Jo but she held firm on the price.

“That’s your lot,” said Jo, “and I wouldn’t give another sixpence if I was to be boiled for not doing it. Who’s next?”

Mrs. Giedroyc was next. Sheets and towels, a dressing gown, two old-fashioned silver teaspoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and some wax seals. Her account was stated on the wall in the same manner.

“I always give too much to ladies. It’s a weakness of mine, and that’s the way I ruin meself,” said old Jo. “Now fuck off. I mean thanks.”

“And now undo my bundle,” said Sarah.

Jo opened the parcel slowly and dragged out a large and heavy roll of some dark material.

“What do you call this?” said Jo. “Bed-curtains!”

‘Ah,” returned the woman, laughing and leaning forward on her crossed arms. “Bed-curtains!”

“You don’t mean to say that you took ‘em down, rings and all, with him lying there?” said Jo. She sounded shocked, yet also impressed.

“Yes, I do,” Sarah replied. “Why not?”

“You were born to make your fortune,” said Jo, “and you’ll certainly do it.”

Jo pulled out the next item in the bundle. “His blankets?” she asked.

‘Whose else’s do you think?” Sarah replied. “He isn’t likely to take cold without ‘em I dare say.”

“I hope he didn’t die of anything catching. Eh?” said old Jo, throwing the blankets back down on the pile.

They all laughed. Jo set the blanket aside and pulled up a shirt now.

“You may look through that shirt till your eyes ache; but you won’t find a hole in it, nor a threadbare place. It’s the best he had, and a fine one too. They’d have wasted it, if it hadn’t been for me.”

“What do you call wasting it,” asked old Jo.

“Putting it on him to be buried in, to be sure,” replied Sarah with a laugh. “Somebody was fool enough to do it, but I took it off again. If calico isn’t good enough for such a purpose, it isn’t good enough for anything. He can’t look uglier than he did in that one. He certainly doesn’t get any style points.”

Greg listened to the dialogue in horror. Jo got a flannel bag with money and gave them each their share, and they all laughed again, except for poor Richard, who’d hardly gotten any money at all for his troubles.

“Spirit!” said Greg, shuddering from head to foot. “I see, I see. The case of this unhappy man might be my own. My life tends that way now. Please, show me comfort Spirit. Is there any person in the town who feels emotion caused by this man’s death? Show me that person, Spirit, I beseech you!”

The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come still did not speak, but she did whistle a strange, haunting tune, as they were brought to their next stop: A room where a mother and her children were huddled.

She was expecting someone with anxious eagerness. She kept looking up at the door, as though willing it to open. At last, it did, and her husband walked through the door. He was a man whose face was careworn and depressed, and it bore a most curious expression; a kind of serious delight of which he felt ashamed.

“Tim!” she cried, embracing him in the doorway. She fetched him a plate of food and let hm settle in before she finally asked for the news.

“Is it good?” she said, “or bad?”—to help him.

“Bad,” Tim Key answered.

“We are quite ruined?”

“No. There is hope yet, Kerry.”

“If he relents,” she said, amazed, “there is! Nothing is past hope, if such a miracle has happened.”

“He is past relenting,” said her husband. “The giant is dead.”

“Bosh!” she shouted, before thinking better of it. But she was happy that he was dead. She prayed forgiveness the next moment and was sorry; but the first was the emotion of her heart.

“To whom will our debt be transferred?”

“I don't know. But before that time, we shall be ready with the money; and even though we were not, it would be bad fortune indeed to find so merciless a creditor in his successor. We may sleep to-night with light hearts, Kerry!”

Yes. Soften it as they would, their hearts were lighter. The children's faces, hushed, and clustered round to hear what they so little understood, were brighter; and it was a happier house for this man's death! The only emotion that the Ghost could show him, caused by the event, was one of pleasure.

“Let me see some tenderness connected with a death,” said Greg, through his tears.

So, Bridget took him through the streets toward Little Alex Horne’s house, Greg recognized the way from his previous trip. But though they were going to the same house, everything felt very different indeed.

Inside, the children were quiet, and they sat huddled around their mother. James was holding a book but had paused in his reading because his mother had begun to cry.

“The colour hurts my eyes,” Jessica said softly, referring to the knitting she was working on as James read.

“What the devil does that mean?” Greg asked. “Oh no, not Tiny Jon Richardson. Bridget, say it’s not so.”

Bridget did not speak, but pointed her bony hand to the scene again, to get Greg to quiet himself.

“They’re better now again,” said Jessica. “It makes them weak by candlelight; and I wouldn't show weak eyes to your father when he comes home for the world. It must be near his time.”

“Past it rather,” James answered, shutting up his book. “But I think he's walked a little slower than he used these few last evenings, mother.”

“I have known him walk with—I have known him walk with Tiny Jon Richardson upon his shoulder very fast indeed.”

“And so have I!” cried Lolly. “Often.”

“But he was very light to carry,” she resumed, intent upon her work, “and his father loved him so, that it was no trouble—no trouble. And there is your father at the door!”

Alex walked in and the change was so evident to Greg that he could feel his heart breaking for the man. Greg had never paid Alex any attention before this long night had begun, but now he felt that he knew Alex intimately, like he could see into Alex’s soul. Greg wept as the scene unfolded before their eyes.

Fern and Josh climbed into Alex’s lap and hugged him close. “I went to visit today. I wish you all could have gone. It would have done you good to see how green a place it is. But you’ll see it often. I promised him that I would walk there on a Sunday. My little child!” cried Alex. “My little child.”

He broke down all at once, he just couldn’t help it. When he had composed himself again, they talked beside the fire and Alex told them of the extraordinary kindness of Mr. Davies’ nephew, Ed, whom he barely knew at all. He had run into Ed on the street that day and saw that Alex looked a little down and inquired what had happened to distress him.

“And he told me how sorry he was for all of us and asked me to pass on his well-wishes to all of you. And then he told me that he has a job for Master James. Some kind of job with food that will pay twice what he is earning now!”

“That’s wonderful news!” said Mrs. Knappett-Horne.

“And then,” cried Rose. “James will be keeping company with someone and set up for himself.”

“Expect the unexpected, baby!” retorted James, grinning.

“There’s plenty of time for that my dear. But however and whenever we part from one another, I am sure none of us shall forget poor Tiny Jon Richardson, or this first parting that there was among us?”

“Never, father!” they all cried.

“I am very happy,” said Little Alex Horne. “I am very happy,” he repeated as though trying to convince himself. Greg found himself struck with a tender affection for his assistant of these many years. How foolish he had been, to not be kind to Alex, who was such a kind and gentle soul himself. Greg stared at Alex for a long time before he finally spoke to the spirit again.

“Spirit,” said Greg, “tell me who that poor soul was who we heard all of those people talking about.”

The Spirit did not respond, as is her way, but pointed a finger away from Greg’s counting house.

“Please, Spirit,” Greg pleaded. “I would like to see what I am doing in the future. I want to go to the counting house.”

Bridget did not move; she did not take even one strange, faltering step. Instead, she continued to point toward a churchyard, drawing Greg to the spot with her other-worldly powers.

The Spirit stood among the graves and pointed down. Greg advanced towards her trembling. The Phantom was exactly as she had been, but he dreaded that he saw new meaning in its solemn shape.

“Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point,” said Greg, “answer me one question. Are these the shadows of the things that Will be, or are they shadows of things that May be, only?”

Bridget stubbornly continued to point downward to the grave by which she stood.

“Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead,” said Greg. “But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change!”

The Spirit was immovable as ever.

Greg crept towards the grave, trembling as he went, and following the finger, read upon the stone of the neglected grave his own name, Gregory Davies.

“No, Spirit! Oh no, no!” Greg wept.

“Spirit!” he cried, tight clutching at her gunslinger getup, “hear me! I am not the man I was. Why show me this if I am past all hope?”

For the first time the hand appeared to shake.

“Good Spirit,” he pursued, as down upon the ground he fell before her: “Your nature intercedes for me and pities me. Assure me that I yet may change these shadows you have shown me by an altered life!”

The kind hand trembled.

“I will honour Christmas in my heart and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me I may sponge away the writing on this stone!”

Greg held up his hands in one last prayer to have his fate reversed, just as Bridget disappeared, and everything went black.

Notes:

Hope you enjoyed all of the cameos in this stave. Final stave and epilogue coming Monday, I think!

Chapter 6: Stave 5: I Do Everything for Him

Summary:

It's Christmas morning at last, and Greg is a new man!

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Yes! The bedpost was his own. The bed was his own, the room was his own. Best and happiest of all, the time before him was his own, to make amends in!

“I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future!” Greg repeated as he scrambled out of bed. “The Spirit of all three shall strive within me. O Rhodri Gilbert! Heaven, and the Christmas time be praised! I say it on my knees old Rhod, on my knees!”

“They are not torn down,” cried Greg, folding one of his bed-curtains in his arms, “they are not torn down, rings and all. They are here: I am here: the shadows of the things that would have been may be dispelled. They will be. I know they will!”

“I don’t know what to do!” cried Greg, laughing and crying in the same breath. “I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an angel, I am as merry as a schoolboy, I am as giddy as a drunken man. I feel like I am off my tits on sugar!”

Greg ran to the window and opened it. He felt the cold air on his face and looked down into the snowy street, smiling with all teeth showing, eyes crinkled. He spotted a small boy down in the street and called to him.

“What’s today, young fellow-me-lad?” Greg asked gaily.

“Eh,” returned the boy.

“What is today, my fine fellow?” he asked again, louder.

“Today? Why it’s Christmas day!”

“It’s Christmas Day!” Greg said to himself. “I haven’t missed it. The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like. Of course they can. Of course they can. Hello my fine fellow, what’s your name.”

“Nick,” said the boy, in a soft, sweet voice.

“Nick, such a fine young lad,” Greg said fondly. “Do you know the Poulterer’s, in the next street but one, at the corner?”

“I should hope I did,” replied Nick.

“An intelligent boy!” said Greg. “A remarkable boy! Do you know whether they’ve sold the prize turkey that was hanging up there?”

“What, the one as big as me?” Nick asked.

“What a delightful boy!” said Greg. “It is a pleasure to talk to him. Yes, my buck!”

“It’s hanging there now,” Nick replied.

“Is it?” said Greg. “Go and buy it.”

“Are you daft?” Nick asked.

“No, I am in earnest. Go and buy it and tell ‘em to bring it here, that I may give them the directions to take it. Come back with the man, and I’ll give you a shilling. Come back with him in less than five minutes and I’ll give you half a crown!”

The boy was off like magic.

“I’ll send it to Little Alex Horne’s” whispered Greg, rubbing his hands and splitting with a laugh. “He shan’t know who sent it. It is twice the size of Tiny Jon Richardson!”

He wrote down the Hornes’ address and went downstairs to wait for the poulterer. As he stood there waiting, the knocker caught his eye.

“I shall love it as long as I live!” cried Greg, patting it with his hand. “I scarcely ever looked at it before. What an honest expression it has in its face.” He gave the knocker a cheeky little kiss, just as the poulterer and Nick rounded the corner.

“Why it’s impossible to carry that to Camden Town,” said Greg. “You must have a cab.”

Julian, the poulterer, took the address and money from Greg. “Oh, I know that chap, he bought a goose just the other day. Bit of a goose himself.”

Greg laughed.

Julian studied him. “Alex Horne has a friend? Imagine that.”

“I can only hope to be a friend to that wonderful little man,” Greg said, his heart bursting with love.

Julian made a face, but money is money, and he took the turkey in the cab and off they went.

He gave Nick the money he promised and ruffled his hair with one of his massive hands. “Merry Christmas, young Nick!”

“Merry Christmas!” the boy cried out before running off again.

Greg went back into the house and dressed in his finest black suit. He combed his hair as best he could, but found he could scarcely keep still to do it. He put on his long coat and went out into the streets, saying Merry Christmas to every man, woman and child on his way.

As he walked, he spotted the gentlemen who were collecting money the day before, Mark and Nish. Greg felt a stab of guilt at how he had treated them, but he was determined to make amends.

“My dear sirs,” Greg began. “How do you do? I hope you succeeded yesterday. It was very kind of you. A Merry Christmas to you, sir!”

“Mr. Davies?” Mark asked hesitantly.

“Yes,” replied Greg. “That is my name, and I fear it might not be pleasant to you. Allow me to ask your pardon. I’m always seeing you and Mr. Kumar do cool stuff. I’d like to try my best now, though it won’t be good enough.” He thought for a moment and then whispered a number in Mark and Nish’s ears.

“How do you like them apples?!” Nish shouted. “My dear Mr. Davies, are you serious?”

“Genuinely!” Greg said. “And not a farthing less. A great many back-payments are included in it, I assure you. Will you do me that favour?”

“My dear sir,” Mark began, shaking hands with him. “I don’t know what to say to such—”

“Don’t say anything then,” Greg retorted. “Come and see me. Will you come and see me?”

“We will!” they both cried. And it was clear they meant to do it.

“Thank you,” said Greg. “Fifty times. Bless you!”

Greg spent the rest of the morning wandering around town, greeting people and observing the hustle and bustle of Christmas morning. He walked down streets he had been down hundreds of times and saw them as though they were brand new.

Finally, it was about time for Ed’s Christmas party. Greg approached the house nervously. He was let in by a servant and stood awkwardly in the foyer waiting for her to fetch Ed, since he had never been there before, and they weren’t expecting him.

“Why who could that be?” he heard Ed’s voice ring out.

“Ed Gamble!” Greg cried out.

“Hello Uncle!” Ed replied and he grasped Greg tightly. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve finally come to my senses, and I’m hoping to make up for lost time,” Greg replied, tears in his eyes.

In a moment, Lou, whom Greg had never met, joined them and Ed introduced them. Greg kissed her hand and said, “Can you forgive a pig-headed old fool, for having no eyes to see with, no ears to hear with, all these years?”

“Oh yes,” said Lou. “You’ve made Ed so happy, Uncle Greg, so happy indeed.”

And so, Greg was welcomed into the party, and everyone was delighted to have him there. When David arrived, he greeted Greg with open arms, as did Morgana, and Victoria, and even Victoria’s husband who himself could perhaps use a good haunting as well.

And Greg danced, and played all of the games, managing to steal Morgana away from David Baddiel and win the egg competition! Greg had more fun during that single day than he’d had in the last ten years of his life.

The next morning, Greg arrived early at the office. He needed to get to the office before Alex for his plan to work, and he had his whole heart set on the plan. He was going to catch Little Alex Horne arriving late and then he would give him a fun little scare.

Greg sat at his desk giggling to himself like a madman, waiting for Alex to make his appearance. The clock struck nine and there was no sign of his little assistant. At a quarter past he still wasn’t in the office. It wasn’t until nearly twenty after that Alex finally burst through the door.

He tried to make it seem like he had already been there, coat and hat already off, pen in hand, but of course Greg knew better.

“Well, well,” Greg cried out, in as much of his old grumpy tone as he could muster. “It’s… Little Alex Horne! What do you mean by coming here at this time of the day.”

“I’m very sorry, sir,” said Alex, softly. “I am behind my time.”

“You are?” repeated Greg. “Yes, I think you are. You’ve been a very naughty boy. Step this way please.”

Alex approached Greg’s desk, shaking. “It’s only once a year, sir,” pleaded Alex. “It shall not be repeated. I was making rather merry yesterday, sir.”

“Now, I’ll tell you what, my friend,” said Greg, barely able to contain his laughter. “I am not going to stand for this sort of thing any longer. And therefore,” he continued, leaping from his stool, “and therefore. I am about to raise your salary!”

Alex stared at Greg in disbelief. He considered shouting for help, for he believed Greg had gone quite mad.

“I haven’t taken leave of my senses,” Greg said, having read Alex’s terrified expression. “No, indeed, I have come to them. Merry Christmas, Little Alex. I’ll raise your salary and endeavor to assist your family, and we’ll discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over a Christmas bowl of rum punch. What do you say to that?”

“I… I…” Alex stammered out, so taken aback by this unbelievable turn of events. “I genuinely want to kiss you right now.”

Greg smiled. “Do you? Come on then!” and Alex met his lips in a gentle, yet comical kiss.

“Now, make up the fires and buy another coal-scuttle before you dot another i, Alex Horne!”

Greg was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Jon Richardson, who did NOT die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, as good a man, and as good a daddy, as the good only city ever knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. He became a part of the Horne family, through and through, and his relationship with Alex became one of ultimate love and companionship.

Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe for good at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset. His own heart laughed; and that was quite enough for him.

He never saw Rhod Gilbert’s ghost again, though every day he smiled at his door knocker, and checked his closet just in case. He never saw Mae, Judi, or Bridget again either, but he kept their words and stories in his heart forever. It was always said of him that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us. And so, as Tiny Jon Richardson observed, God Bless Us, Everyone!

Notes:

Look, I deserve a medal for making it this far before they kissed.

Chapter 7: Epilogue

Summary:

We return to the studio for one final task!

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Rhod, Ed, Mae, Judi, and Bridget are on the stage, in front of a large bag. Each is holding a large, red stocking. Alex is standing to their right holding a task. Greg is sitting on his throne facing the stage.

Greg: Welcome back. We hope you enjoyed our little take on A Christmas Carol. We’ve got one last present for all of you. How about a live task?

Alex: Great idea, Greg! Who would you like to read the task?

Greg: How about Bridget since she didn’t get any lines in the story.

Alex hands Bridget the task.

Bridget: Get as many presents out of Santa’s sack and into your stocking as you can. You have 100 seconds, your time starts now.

A frenzy begins onstage. Judi starts shoving a present in the stocking and gets her arm stuck. Ed complains because his bag of presents isn’t as big as the others’. Rhod tries (and fails) to contort his sack so it will fit directly into the stocking. Bridget slowly puts one present in at a time as though the clock is not ticking. Mae quickly figures out to unwrap the presents, which are all in much larger boxes than their contents. Rhod notices and attempts to copy their technique, but Alex blows his whistle and time is up.

Greg: Alright, let’s see what that’s done to the final scores!

The scene cuts to everyone taking their seats.

Greg: Okay little jolly boy, how did they do?

Alex: Well, Rhod only ended up with three presents in his stocking. Judi had four, though she also somehow tore a hole in the stocking. Bridget had five, Ed had seven. But the winner was Mae Martin who had twelve presents in their stocking. One for every day of Christmas!

Applause

Greg: That just about does it for our Taskmaster Christmas Special. What have we learned today? Well, we’ve learned that it’s never too late to change, that you should always make sure to see your friends out, and we’ve learned that rich people have to be haunted by actual ghosts before they’ll help others. Thank you everyone for joining!

Alex: Wait, but what about a winner.

Greg: Well, I am the one who changed my evil ways and everything, I think I’m the winner.

Alex: Sounds like you might need another round of haunting.

Greg: laughs That’s it for us, and as Tiny Jon Richardson observed, God bless us everyone!

The end credits start playing as Alex fetches everyone a present from under the Christmas Tree. He brings one to Greg, who pulls one out from behind his throne for Alex. Alex looks genuinely surprised. The camera pans to the contestants shaking the boxes and starting to open them. Then they pan back to Greg and Alex just in time for Alex to get out a bunch of mistletoe from his throne drawer. He holds it up over himself and Greg. Just as their lips touch, the camera fades to black.

-------

Cast:

Rhod Gilbert- Marley’s Ghost

Greg Davies- Ebeneezer Scrooge

Alex Horne- Bob Cratchit

Ed Gamble- Scrooge’s Nephew, Fred

Mark Watson and Nish Kumar- Charity Workers

Joe Wilkinson- Desperate Man

Joe Lycett- Christmas Caroler

Mae Martin- Ghost of Christmas Past

Roisin Conaty- Scrooge’s Sister, Fan

Bob Mortimer- Fezziwig

Russell Howard- Dick Wilkins

Phil Wang- The Violinist (Here as a trumpeter)

Liza Tarbuck- Mrs. Fezziwig

Aisling Bea, Alice Levine, and Katy Wix- The Fezziwig Daughters

Sally Phillips- Scrooge’s Old Flame, Belle

Judi Love- Ghost of Christmas Present

Jessica Knappet- Mrs. Cratchit

Lolly Adefope- Belida Cratchit

James Acaster- Peter Cratchit

Rose Matafeo- Martha Cratchit

Fern Brady and Josh Widdicome- Assorted Little Cratchits

Jon Richardson- Tiny Tim

Steve Pemberton- Old Miner

Jack Dee and Rosie Jones- Lighthouse Keepers

Jenny Eclair- Helmsman

Johnny Vegas, John Robins- Sailors

Sue Perkins and Susan Wokoma- Chefs

Lou Sanders- Scrooge’s Niece

David Baddiel- Topper

Morgana Robinson and Victoria Coren Mitchell- Scrooge’s Niece’s Sisters

Rob Beckett and Sara Pascoe- Ignorance and Want

Bridget Christie- Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come

Dara O’Briain, Hugh Dennis, Sophie Duker, and Frankie Boyle- Businessmen

Lee Mack and Mike Wozniak- Other Businessmen

Jo Brand- Joe the Shopkeeper

Mel Giedroyc- Mrs. Dilber

Sarah Millican- The Charwoman

Richard Osman- The Undertaker

Kerry Godliman- Caroline

Tim Key- Caroline’s Husband

Nick Mohammed- Kid at the Window

Julian Clary- Poulterer

Notes:

This was an absolute joy to write. Thank you to everyone for your support and comments. Hope you enjoyed!

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Comments

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Trillion_G on Chapter 1 Fri 29 Nov 2024 07:26PM UTC

Oh I’m screaming internally. The Maltesers, the pants!!!!!, the tombstone. God you’ve got this down. I can see it. I can HEAR it.

Last Edited Fri 29 Nov 2024 07:26PM UTC

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1. Steely_Danielle on Chapter 1 Fri 29 Nov 2024 10:55PM UTC
  
  Thank you, I'm so glad I decided to add a frame story. It was so much fun to write!
  
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Vernacula on Chapter 1 Sat 30 Nov 2024 04:04AM UTC

Oh I am FEELING THE SPIRIT!

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1. Steely_Danielle on Chapter 1 Sat 30 Nov 2024 04:31AM UTC
  
  🎄🎅
  
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whimswept on Chapter 1 Sun 05 Jan 2025 11:52PM UTC

Everyone’s voice comes through beautifully! The banter is uncanny. Delighted to see where this goes.

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1. Steely_Danielle on Chapter 1 Mon 06 Jan 2025 02:44AM UTC
  
  Thank you!!
  
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sanguis_ludere on Chapter 1 Wed 19 Mar 2025 10:48PM UTC

Holy shit you've got their cadences down perfectly!

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1. Steely_Danielle on Chapter 1 Wed 19 Mar 2025 11:21PM UTC
  
  Thank you so much!
  
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Random_Reader72 on Chapter 1 Mon 19 May 2025 02:06PM UTC

This characterisation is so good!!! I can hear it all in their voices!

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1. Steely_Danielle on Chapter 1 Mon 19 May 2025 02:18PM UTC
  
  Thank you so much! I had so much fun with it!
  
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Trillion_G on Chapter 2 Fri 29 Nov 2024 07:38PM UTC

“Fuck Christmas”
“Please don’t take it away from me”
“I saw you out”
Hot toothpaste pie!
In my mind the carolling boy is Lenny

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1. Steely_Danielle on Chapter 2 Fri 29 Nov 2024 10:56PM UTC
  
  It's supposed to be Joe Lycett but I couldn't find a good way to name him!
  
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IheartBingo0_0 on Chapter 2 Fri 29 Nov 2024 08:46PM UTC

Oh this amazing! Reads exactly like Dickens and the characters are perfectly chosen!

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1. Steely_Danielle on Chapter 2 Fri 29 Nov 2024 10:57PM UTC
  
  Thank you so much, I hope you enjoy the rest of it!
  
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Kim_Tey on Chapter 2 Fri 29 Nov 2024 10:24PM UTC

This is absolutely brilliant! I cackled at ‘I saw you out!’ Perfect casting. 😌

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1. Steely_Danielle on Chapter 2 Fri 29 Nov 2024 10:58PM UTC
  
  Thank you. I will periodically remember it and also "When your friend dies.... Check" and then just start laughing like a crazy person.
  
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Vernacula on Chapter 2 Sat 30 Nov 2024 04:23AM UTC

I could not be happier. What a treat you treat us to! The Giant Christmas Fic of Doom indeed - absolutely elating. PERFECTLY cast throughout. When Ed walked in, my heart grew 3 sizes. He's the nephewiest nephew imaginable.

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1. Steely_Danielle on Chapter 2 Sat 30 Nov 2024 04:31AM UTC
  
  Just wait, the best is yet to come!
  
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whimswept on Chapter 2 Sun 05 Jan 2025 11:58PM UTC

I love this blending. The substitution of “a crumb of hot toothpaste pie” in the “more of gravy than of grave” quote made me laugh out loud.

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1. Steely_Danielle on Chapter 2 Mon 06 Jan 2025 02:47AM UTC
  
  Thanks, it was so much fun trying to find all the spots to work the references in.
  
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WhatsYourConcern on Chapter 3 Fri 06 Dec 2024 07:13PM UTC

Love this! It’s so well written!

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1. Steely_Danielle on Chapter 3 Fri 06 Dec 2024 07:36PM UTC
  
  Thank you! Dickens did most of the heavy lifting 😂
  
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getawaynassau on Chapter 3 Fri 06 Dec 2024 11:46PM UTC

I know Dickens could simply not blend "papa don't breach" in with emotional dialog, because if he could he would've - it's all very Steely Danielle could write A Christmas Carol but Charles Dickens could not subvert expectations by casting Taskmaster contestants as cleverly referential characters expect for the role of Sally's husband. That is instead an even cleaverer reference in the form of a watercooler's finnish humansona! I also love how much this reading experience is elevated by a healthy amount of WILTY knowledge

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1. Steely_Danielle on Chapter 3 Sat 07 Dec 2024 02:16AM UTC
  
  😂😂 Thank you, you are too kind.
  
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Vernacula on Chapter 3 Sat 07 Dec 2024 03:58AM UTC

Chortling happily all the way through. Delight delight delight!

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IheartBingo0_0 on Chapter 3 Sat 07 Dec 2024 07:56PM UTC

So much fun. Love all the contestants and the little references.

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Trillion_G on Chapter 3 Wed 11 Dec 2024 08:54AM UTC

You’re still just PACKING in the references! Liza’s cake, Mae pulling Greg’s puppet strings, snorkel hoodie practice room. !!!

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1. Steely_Danielle on Chapter 3 Wed 11 Dec 2024 09:13PM UTC
  
  And many more to come! For a fic with no smut it really is all masturbation lol
  
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Trillion_G on Chapter 4 Fri 13 Dec 2024 05:21PM UTC

Fabulous!! Tiny Jon Richardson!!!!
Jack and Rosie in the lighthouse!!!!!!!!!

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1. Steely_Danielle on Chapter 4 Sat 14 Dec 2024 02:31PM UTC
  
  As Tiny Jon Richardson observed, "God bless us, everyone."
  
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getawaynassau on Chapter 4 Fri 13 Dec 2024 09:40PM UTC

The second I read the word babes I was excited to see which Judi brag was about to be referenced, and "She was the kind of soul who could borrow a dog whenever she wanted." is just an excellent sentence!

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1. Steely_Danielle on Chapter 4 Sat 14 Dec 2024 02:31PM UTC
  
  Thank you!!
  
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WhatsYourConcern on Chapter 4 Sat 14 Dec 2024 12:38AM UTC

Jack! More Ed! The Sues! So excited and happy

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1. Steely_Danielle on Chapter 4 Sat 14 Dec 2024 02:33PM UTC
  
  I wish I could have found a bigger role for the Sues!
  
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Vernacula on Chapter 4 Sat 14 Dec 2024 04:44AM UTC

“Come in, and know me better, babes!”
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I have never laughed that hard before reading fanfic. This chapter slayed me repeatedly but that line is one for the annals. 😂 I’m still laughing.
Glorious glorious glorious! Perfection upon perfection.

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1. Steely_Danielle on Chapter 4 Sat 14 Dec 2024 02:42PM UTC
  
  Haha, thank you so much!
  
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Kim_Tey on Chapter 4 Sat 14 Dec 2024 05:36AM UTC

Iconic Judi. Truly. Not the rubie cubie and everything! Loved this one <3

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1. Steely_Danielle on Chapter 4 Sat 14 Dec 2024 02:43PM UTC
  
  In general, I tried not to bring in too many anachronisms but it's not Judi without a rubie cubie!
  
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