Read by Magnus Rook
My name is Tiny Tim and I hate Christmas. Now I know what you’re thinking: not so tiny any more! But, if you ask me, that nickname was always unfair. It started when I was eight years old — who isn’t tiny at that age?
It was my Uncle Scrooge who first called me that. He’s not my uncle, he’s my dad’s boss. And after eight years of not paying us enough to afford food, he rocked up on Christmas Day 1843 with the biggest turkey I’ve ever seen. That was a weird Christmas. Surely your dad’s boss is the last person you want to see curled up by the fire singing ‘Little Drummer Boy’.
No, not really. Because now we can’t get rid of the guy. Every year on Christmas morning he comes barging in saying: “What day is it, boy?”
You know bloody well what day it is! Worst day of the year. All of a sudden we’re supposed to be merry and bright when we’ve just spent twelve months avoiding the workhouses?
I moved out a few years ago but Scrooge still comes over every Christmas to drop off a card. Tells me the story about that first Christmas he spent with us, when he brought us a turkey that was bigger than me. Which it wasn’t, by the way. I’m just sick of it. So you know what I said to him this year? “Humbug.”
“Bah. Humbug.”
He didn’t like that. He did not like that at all. His face dropped. He went quiet, looked concerned.
“Tim,” he said. “Tiny Tim. Christmas is a time of joy and laughter. Can’t you see?”
“Hum. Bug.” I said.
Uncle Scrooge slowly retreated out the door and cast a sullen look over his shoulder as he walked away.
I’ll admit, I felt bad. I’d clearly touched a nerve with this humbug business. Still, since I only saw him at Christmas — a holiday I’d no longer be celebrating — I didn’t think much of it.
*
The next night, I was lying in bed half-asleep when I heard a strange noise from the corner of the room. I swiped a match to light a candlestick, and to my astonishment I saw a large, ghostly presence floating in midair. I sat up and rubbed my eyes for a better look.
It was Uncle Scrooge standing on the dresser with a bedsheet draped over his head. I could tell because I could see the red leather ‘Christmas boots’ he always wore poking out from under it, and his thick spectacles behind the eye holes he’d cut out.
“What are you doing here, Uncle Scrooge?”
“My child,” he said, in a frankly ridiculous ghost voice. “I am not your Uncle Scrooge.”
Clearly the old man was off his rocker. So I took pity on him and played along.
“Who are you then?”
“I am the ghost of Jacob Marley!” he crowed.
I racked my brains. Nothing. “Who’s that?” I asked.
“I was your Uncle Scrooge’s business partner!”
“Right,” I said. “Well whoever you are, you’d better get down from the dresser. You’re 99 years old, for Pete’s sake.”
He wobbled then leapt forward, crashing onto the creaking floorboards. At this point, he’d managed to scare me. I wasn’t haunted, but I was worried the old man would collapse and die right there on my floor. He found his footing and waved his arms over his head. Then he paused. It appeared he’d lost track of his ruse, so I helped him out.
“You were saying you’re Jacob Marley.”
“No, my friend. I am the ghost of Jacob Marley!”
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr Marley. Now if you don’t mind seeing yourself out, I’m trying to get some rest,” I said.
“Ah, but rest you cannot! For tomorrow, it is Christmas Day!”
“I’m aware,” I said.
“And there is much to be done tonight before then!”
“Look. No offence, Mr Marley, but I don’t really fancy doing anything right now.”
Scrooge produced an oil lamp from beneath his sheet and lit it. Then he swept across the room and opened the door.
“Come with me, I have much to show you,” he said.
Frankly this was an odd situation. But we’re talking about a senile old man here. And since his Christmas obsession started in ‘43, he has been a bit batty. Thing is, the company I work for is a subsidiary of Scrooge & Marley PLC. And I know which side my bread’s buttered. So I had to go along with whatever this little scheme was. I checked the clock. It was midnight. Surely this wouldn’t take long.
“All right,” I sighed, getting out of bed. Uncle Scrooge was buoyed by this. He did a little jump and nearly tripped over the sheet.
“Take this before we go,” he said. “You must wear it.”
He produced a battered grey nightcap and looked at me expectantly until I put it on. I wrapped myself in my nightgown and followed him out of the door.
He led me down the stairs and out into the snow. It was pitch black but for his oil lamp and my candlestick, which cast misshapen shadows all around us. I was concerned, but perhaps not in the way he’d intended me to be. Rather than spooked by the spirit, I was afraid we’d both catch hypothermia. And he was skipping along so fast I was worried I’d lose him.
“Where are we going, Uncle Scrooge— I mean Mr Marley?”
“All will become clear, my boy!”
All did become clear. He was taking me to his office building. I could see it glowing at the end of the lane. As we edged closer to the building, I could hear singing. Christmas carols. Scrooge bounded inside and slammed the door behind him. I raised my candlestick and peered through the window. A happy family sat around a table. It was my family. Only it was my family from twenty years ago. My mother and father looked young and full of energy. My sisters were still in pigtails. And, strangest of all, there I was. Tiny Tim back when I was tiny. Sat on my little stool with my little flat cap and walking stick. My dad gave me a hug and kissed me on the forehead.
“God bless us, every one,” said tiny Tiny Tim.
I was overwhelmed. This couldn’t be real, I thought, as a tear rolled down my cheek. As I reached for the doorknob, a hand landed on my shoulder and I almost jumped out of my skin. When I turned, what I saw brought me crashing back to reality. It was Uncle Scrooge in a new outfit. He wore a large false beard and a top hat.
“Good evening, Tim,” he boomed. “I am the Ghost of Christmas Past!”
Right.
Slowly, I pieced together what was going on. Huddled in my nightgown and nightcap outside the window, I was witnessing a play. The old man, with more money than sense, had hired actors to portray my family and my younger self. Looking closer, I could see the resemblance was not perfect.
“Do you remember this day?” Scrooge asked me.
“Yes,” I said. “But, Scrooge. It’s freezing. Let’s end this and go home.”
“Scrooge? I am the Ghost of Christmas Past!”
“Okay,” I said, resigned. “Very good. This is the past. I’ve seen it now. It was nice. What’s next?”
Beneath his getup, Scrooge looked flustered. “Very well then young man. Let’s move on. Wait there.”
He rushed around a corner and came back, now wearing a Venetian-style mask.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said.
“We’ve met. You’re the Ghost of Christmas Past. You’ve just put a mask on.”
“No, I am the Ghost of Christmas Present,” he said. He scampered away and I chased after him. If he wasn’t pushing 150 I’d have gone home. But I couldn’t leave him.
Before long he had led me to my family home. There were no actors this time.
“This is mum and dad’s house,” I said.
“Indeed,” he replied. “And inside that house, they are celebrating Christmas without you.”
“Inside that house, they’re asleep,” I said.
Uncle Scrooge was thrown, again. “Well, perhaps if you listened you would hear them talking about how they wished you’d join them!”
“What, in bed?” I said. “Are you mad?”
“Okay, okay. Maybe this one didn’t work. But wait until you meet my friend! The final ghost you’ll be meeting on this most transformative night!”
He rushed off again. I shivered alone for several minutes. But he didn’t come back. I called out: “Scrooge? Ghost? Spirit? An icicle is forming on my nose! If you don’t come back I’ll need to leave without you!”
A twig broke behind me and I spun around. A tall, dark figure loomed towards me.
“Is that you, Scrooge?”
He said nothing as he continued his approach. He looked like a bundle of black robes with an empty void beneath his hood. I knew it had to be Uncle Scrooge, but there was something unsettling about the way he seemed to float towards me.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr Spirit,” I whimpered. “I understand now. I love Christmas. No more humbug. I’m a changed man. Can you take me home?”
He slowly raised his arm and pointed. I stumbled in that direction. He followed, arm outstretched, until we reached the gate to the graveyard. Even if you suspect you’re being pranked, a dark graveyard is still a pretty scary place. And at this point I wasn’t even fully sure what was following me. It had to be Scrooge, but this costume was far more convincing than the others.
“Enough!” I said. “I get it! I’ve met the ghosts of past and present. You’re the Ghost of Christmas Future. I’m sure you’ve set up my own grave in there. Perhaps it’s my funeral and no one’s there to mourn me. What, because I hated Christmas? That’s what this is?” I admit this was dramatic, but after a whole night out in the cold I was beginning to lose it. “Please, don’t make me go in there! I want to go back to bed.”
I fell to my knees and wept into my hands. I’ve had prouder moments. Perhaps the old man took pity on me. Because when I turned around, the ghostly figure had vanished.
I made my way home through the eerie streets. When I got there, my clock still said midnight. Scrooge must have jammed it as part of his scheme. I’d had no intention of celebrating Christmas. But seeing those actors play my family did do something to me. Maybe the old man was right.
*
When I arrived at Mum and Dad’s on Christmas morning, I was relieved that Uncle Scrooge wasn’t there. I was ready to tell everyone what a lunatic he was last night. But then I saw my mother crying.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, my hand on her shoulder.
“Oh, Tim,” she said. “It’s so good to see you. But we’ve just had the worst news.”
“It’s Uncle Scrooge,” said my father. “He’s dead.”
I was stunned. “But I saw the old man last night!”
They all looked baffled.
“He was dressed up as a ghost — well, as several ghosts — and he was trying to convince me to enjoy Christmas. And I suppose it worked, in a way, because here I am. Did he die right after he visited me?”
“No, son,” said Dad. “Mr Scrooge has been away in the countryside. His nephew Fred stopped by this morning. Mr Scrooge died a week ago, and the message has just arrived.”
I stared at the turkey on the table. At the tree in the corner with its twinkling candles. At my Mum and Dad, sisters, nieces and nephews, sat around the flickering fire.
“God bless us,” I said. “Every one.”
(c) Ian Aikman, 2024
Ian Aikman is a writer from Kent who lives in London. He currently works as a journalist & video editor at a 24-hour news broadcaster, & was previously a staff writer at a magazine.
Magnus Rook (left) is an actor & voice actor from Freiburg, Germany. He trained at the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland & mostly works in audiobooks these days, narrating everything from spicy romantasy to hard-boiled Swedish detective novels.
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