Miss Marley: A Christmas ghost story - a prequel to A Christmas Carol. Rebecca Mascull

awful circumstances. Whatever work he got, she knew, the money would go towards paying back the loan, rather than on food for Elsie, now asleep in her father’s arms. She felt like a slug at the bottom of a drain. She and Jake were better off in comparison, but they had nothing to spare these people.

      Jake had warned her not to get involved, and now she understood why. Her heart was breaking, just when she needed to harden it.

      ‘Next week, then.’ She rose and fled out into the rain, Max scurrying on his short legs to keep up.

      How on earth will I tell Jake? she wondered.

      His reaction was utterly predictable.

      ‘You agreed what?’

      Tired, his feet aching, and stinking of fish, he slumped down beside the fire and glared at Clara. She poured him a cup of stewed tea, without milk.

      ‘I’m sorry. I know you’re right, but—’

      ‘I am right. You are putting us at risk with your sentimentality. We are not running a charity for destitute women. The sooner you realise that, the better. Or we will find ourselves right back in the gutter.’

      She had never heard such coldness in his voice before.

      ‘Yes, Jacob.’ She rarely used his full name, but he suddenly seemed much older. By the candlelight, she had a vision of how he would look in middle age.

      Unsettled and close to tears, she said, ‘What shall we do?’

      ‘We shall collect the payment in full next week and never lend to them again. That is a new rule. No one ever gave us a second chance, and we shall give none to others. Everyone knows where they stand. That’s good business.’

      ‘But, Jacob, what about kindness? Shouldn’t we care about what happens to others worse off than ourselves? What about … humanity?’ Her words sounded silly and empty, when they were in a struggle for sheer survival. Maybe such things were luxuries, to be afforded only when one had a full belly, clean sheets, and warm feet. Her own were wet and freezing. She pushed them closer to the fire, but it was giving out more light than heat.

      ‘I ask you, when did anyone ever show that to us? We would have died in that workhouse, like so many others, and no one would have shed one tear. You see those fine ladies and gentlemen hold their noses and step over the starving. What about the kindness and humanity for two orphaned children? No, Clara. Your feeling is misplaced. Everyone in this world looks after themselves, and none other. That is what it takes to survive. And I mean for us to survive.’

      ‘But,’ she said, worn down by the weight of his arguments, ‘what about at Christmas time? Is that not a special time, when people come together to share what they have? The one time of the year when we can care for others, whatever our own struggles … and whatever our wounds from the past?’

      He said nothing for a moment, but if anything, his face grew even harder. ‘Christmas. Don’t talk to me about Christmas. Religious nonsense dressed up in sentiment. Humbug, I say. Pure humbug.’

PART II: THE MIDDLE

Chapter 4

      Clara stood in the street and eyed her handiwork with satisfaction. The window of Mr Quoit’s toy shop glowed. There was barely any space between the jumble of carved boats, the bucket of tin whistles and the stand of wooden swords, yet all gave way to the magnificence of the doll’s house which took centre stage in the display. Now that she handled the window displays, Clara could indulge her study of the doll’s house, the same as before. Now, instead of a blinding pain, the sight of it produced a dull, persistent ache in her heart. Despite the hefty price tag, it had sold many times over, and Mr Quoit always ensured that the carpenter provided a new one in time for Christmas every year. Her dream was to own it one day.

      There were moments when she wished that some genie would shrink her to mouse size, so she could live in it with Mama and Papa again – and Jacob, of course.

      He was so busy these days, having taken over the running of the lending business from her, that they only saw each other at breakfast. It was their hectic time of year. As Christmas approached, many of their debtors spent too much – mostly on drink – and worked too little, recovering from it. Jacob worked even harder as the holiday drew near. She worried for him, as he often took dinner at the Lion’s Head and then carried on working into the night. He was so thin, compared to the solid little boy he had been. She felt it was time to give up the lending business. The competition had become more intense recently. Even with protection, they could expect to be threatened and even robbed on a regular basis. And she could no longer stomach the visits to customers, taking money from those less well off than themselves. Jacob would say, ‘The reason they’re less well off is that they’re not willing to do the things necessary to get on in this world.’ Although she knew he was right, she sensed that he was ready to move on too. There was a new weariness in his gait, a stoop in his shoulders from hours spent over the ledgers. Now that they could afford two rooms, at a better address just above the toy shop, more things became possible. They had come so far in only a matter of years; their time as beggars was like a terrible nightmare, and the time before that – at their childhood home – like a beautiful dream. Now she was a working woman, both times seemed as insubstantial to Clara as a will-o’-the-wisp.