A CHRISTMAS COLLAPSE

In the spirit of Christmas, Charles Whatthe rescues the crippled child and sets off to town.

(It might benefit the newcomer to read A Christmas Compact Disc first)

It was an eccentric sight to any passer by, and even in the rarefied atmosphere that existed within miles of Pennypinch Mansion there were a few who dared to tread the hallow pavements in order to become passers-by. Charles Whatthe, still with bleeding nostrils and broken ribs, was struggling along bearing a crooked-legged infant on his shoulders and hoping to make it back to town either before the bank closed or before he died, and the latter felt as though it might be an imminent problem the way various components of his body ached.

“I can walk, mister,” said the child, “I can tell that it hurts you carrying me, so help me God,”

“He won’t help you,” grunted Charles, “but have no fear, Tiny Tim, you hardly weigh anything at all and are no problem to me! It’s as if I was bearing a sack of feathers into town!”

The two struggled along in that manner until there came a cry from behind them. Charles turned slowly round, carefully so as not to dislodge what he saw as his precious load, and scurrying along towards them, wretched and bruised, came the now familiar image of Butler Bones from Pennypinch Mansion.

“He beat me black and blue, he did, and I’ve quit,” he explained breathlessly when he was within shouting range. “I fully appreciate as he owns me and mine, but I’ve had it up to here...” he held a hand level above his own head, “and I ain’t taking any more. That I ain’t! The way he treats folks is a disgrace, but then, he’s a banker and we ordinary mortals ain’t.”

“Hello Mr Bones,” beamed Tiny Tim from his perch on Charles’ shoulders, “don’t I look grand up here?”

“That you does, l’il one, that you does,” acknowledged the recent Butler of the mansion. “Where are you taking Tiny Tim?” he asked Charles.

But Charles was making it up as he went along and wasn’t exactly sure.

“I’m not exactly sure,” he confessed, “but first I want to get to the bank for when the lad’s mother leaves her desk. I’m appalled by their living conditions and recall the sight of her shoes behind her window at the bank, all holes and rips and tatters. I’ve never heard of anything so dreadful!”

“Mr, Whatthe, she belongs to old Pennypinch, and he owns the lot of us, lock, stock and stinking barrel. You see, he owns the whole of the bank and the bank is everything. It is money, it is land, it is ownership, and anyone as threatens it is scum. I’ve heard my master … that is, he who was my master till I quit … say so more times than I’ve had hot meals, which ain’t that often for my wages were never up to buying potatoes.”

“You poor man,” sighed Charles, who was beginning to see that there are worst things in the world than having to pay fifty pence for the loan of a pen. “But tell me,” he added, “what are your plans?”

Bones thought for a moment, then he looked Charles straight in the eyes.

“I’ve been thinking, squire, that you are a man who knows things. You are a man who can separate fact from fiction. You are a man who can do good in the world...”

“There’s no need to trowel it on!” protested Charles, “but I do have a Masters degree, from Cambridge if you care to know, in Society. First class too, it is, and as you might tell I’m proud of it and all the work I put in to earn it, reading and making notes and writing it all down through the lonely hours of night.”

“Then what are we going to do, sir?” asked Bones, “my own degree, from a lesser house of learning, is only in Servility. I can be as servile as any man, allow myself to be thrashed at need, but don’t know a deal about Society.”

“Well, society is people getting along with each other in a decent and honourable way,” began Charles, “and it is caring for the weaker members. That’s important, that is, for in my opinion the degree of glue that holds any society together has more to do with its attitudes to the impoverished, the feeble and the down right down-and-out than it has with gemstones and gold and the like. Society is everyone and not just the few who think they own it.”

“What a fine speech! Pity it isn’t true, blabbermouth,” came a sonorous and very oily voice from behind them. It was unfamiliar to Charles until butler Bones started to shiver and shake and become all servile with rivulets of sweat washing over his bruises, and then he realised this must be the mighty Sir Pennypinch, owner of the greatest banking empire the world has ever seen and an all round bad egg.

“But it is true,” smiled Charles Whatthe, “It’s as true as we’re walking here on this cool winter’s day, for what would you say, Sir Pennypinch, if suddenly and out of the blue the pound was to collapse like currencies can, and there was a mighty run on the bank until everyone had withdrawn all of their own money leaving absolutely nothing behind in the bank’s vaults whilst at the same time the bricks and mortar and fine chimneys of Pennypinch Mansion succumbed to an unexpected Earthquake and fell to an untidy heap on the lovely green lawns that surround it? Now look. We are approaching the local branch of the bank. Let us see whether there has been an unexpected withdrawal of their wealth by the Masses, shall we?”

Sometimes there are coincidences in the affairs of men and women, magical moments during which the possible and impossible meet under a sunny sky. And this was one of those sometimes, for as Charles Whatthe with the child on his shoulders, the ex-butler Bones and the grotesquely portly Sir Pennypinch stood there looking, a queue from nowhere formed at the door of the bank and people in the most alarming hordes starting clamouring to get in, pushing at doors and wafting empty wallets in the air.

“It’s almost as though you might expect to see people feeding the birds,” sighed Tiny Tim, reverently.

“What’s going on?” roared Sir Pennypinch, and he girded his loins and teetered towards the bank.

“I repeat, what's going on?” he demanded.

“We’ve heard,” stammered a man in a trilby, “there’s no money left! It’s on the news and in our dreams! We want ours back before the Prime Minister comes and takes it off us! It’s almost Christmas and we need to feed our families and buy twiddly toys for our kiddies! Why, the damned bank even refused a fine gentleman the use of a pen when he said he didn’t want to pay for the amount of ink used by his signature! Fifty pence, they wanted, fifty whole pence for an inch of ink! That must mean the bank’s broke, that it’s penniless, and we want out money before it vanishes altogether!”

“Ink costs money...” began Sir Pennypinch, which was quite the wrong thing for him to say because it inspired greater pushing from the mile-long queue.

“Excuse me!” wavered the voice of the teller who had wanted fifty pence from Charles for the use of a pen earlier that day, “I need to get home to my little joy and delight, my Tiny Tim. I’ve had enough of this job! The pressure’s almost unbearable and nobody appreciates a soul working her fingers to the bone...”

“Same here!” wailed a second of Pennypinch’s staff, and one by one they trailed out of the bank.

Meanwhile and very suddenly there was a horrendous crashing noise, the sound of either a small nuclear explosion or a mansion collapsing under the weight of all the treasures it contained.

“My home...” gasped Sir Pennypinch, and he started teetering back the way they’d come, “my precious home...”

“I think,” said Charles, seeing that there was little more he could do for the moment, “I think you’d best come home with me for tea.”

“Would you like that, Tiny Tim?” asked his mother dotingly.

“Do you have both butter and Jam for the bread?” asked the boy, licking his lips.

“Not tonight,” murmured Charles, grinning, “tonight it’s fish and chips for all, so come on! This way!”

Tiny Tim had never been happier. In fact, he was so happy that his crippled legs both decided to mend spontaneously and the hair on his head became spiky. And that, friends, is true happiness.

© Peter Rogerson 12.12.17