The Man Who Invented Christmas Page #5

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of another. I know.

- For all his faults, you won't find a kinder man.

- [grumbles]

How long he is

growing up to be one.

[Mr. Dickens

continues shouting]

Here we go!

Full sail ahead!

[whispering]

Why are you here?

You'd better come and see

who's just turned up.

Charles?

Just a bit of indigestion.

Go back to sleep.

Mmm.

Tell him who you are.

I am the Ghost

of Christmas Past.

Follow.

Not bloody likely.

- Why not?

- Mucking around in the past? What's the point?

You might learn something.

Well, I already know

everything I need to know.

- Uh, take him, why don't you?

- Me?

- Yes, if you're so keen.

- It's not about me!

Well, you're the author,

aren't you?

Follow.

Don't cry. We'll be back

when the debt's paid.

- Why can't I stay with you?

- You're a big boy, Charley.

You're the breadwinner now.

You'll see.

It'll be an adventure.

- You'll hardly think of us at all.

- [sobbing quietly]

- [banging on wagon]

- [man] Time to go!

Now, sir,

enough of that.

Stand up tall.

Blood of iron,

heart of ice.

- Huh?

- [whip cracks]

- [horse whinnies]

- And remember!

You're the son

of John Dickens!

A gentleman!

You be sure

and tell them that!

Well, come on then!

Blood of iron,

heart of ice.

[gasps]

- Good morning.

- What? Oh.

You were tossing and turning

all night, you know.

Yes. Bad dreams.

What about?

I don't know. Shadows.

Well...

a little daylight

will cure you.

[cackling]

Now, Constable,

shall we ask Mr. Punch where

the baby's daddy's gone?

I bet he knows.

- Oh! Where's the baby's daddy gone?

- Where's he gone, Mr. Punch?

[Mr. Punch] Daddy's off to prison!

[cackling]

[Judy]

Off to prison? Oh-ho!

Come on. We're wasting time.

Let's get to work.

I am working.

- Here?

- Yes. Gathering inspiration.

[chuckling]

Gathering what?

- What do you see when you look around?

- Well, it's a market, you idiot.

What else?

Hot pies!

Eel, beef or mutton pies!

- Buyers and sellers.

- What else?

Never say die.

Have a look, sir.

[Scrooge]

Thieves and ruffians.

Highly interesting murder,

gentlemen!

[man] Hold! Hold!

Clear the way!

Clear the way, lads!

- [laughing]

- Mr. Fezziwig!

- [laughing]

- [fiddle playing]

Life, Mr. Scrooge.

It's London. The great

theater of the world.

- It's all here.

- Bah. Humbug!

I'm a man of facts,

of calculations.

Realities, not fancy.

What the devil is that?

Here you go, sir.

- Must go.

- Where to?

It's time to write.

- [laughing]

- [fiddle continues playing]

- Come along.

- Good night, children!

Bye! Shoo!

[laughs]

[exhales]

Well, looks as though Charles

won't be joining us. Again.

- We may as well start.

- Oh.

Ah, the parties.

We used to keep such hours.

Balls, dinners, champagne.

First-rate capon,

Mrs. Fisk.

Oh, thank you, sir.

I'll let the cook know.

And the chairs

had turned legs,

with green squabs

to match the curtains.

What was that story,

Mother?

Oh, I was just telling Kate about the

dining room set we used to have.

Rosewood.

In the most approved taste.

You mean the one

we pawned?

Oh! [laughs]

Charles! [laughs]

You are a satirical monster.

- Is that a joke, Charles?

- Not a very amusing one.

Is that a new waistcoat,

Father?

What? Oh, yes. It's Persian crimson.

A little more expensive.

But as I always say, people

will believe anything

if you are properly dressed.

Kate, will you ask Tara to bring

a tray up with something on it?

- I'll bring it up.

- No. I need Tara to do it.

I'll get her, sir.

Tara!

[Mr. Dickens] That's the

spirit, my boy. Hmm?

Procrastination is the thief of

time, eh, Charles? [chuckling]

Collar him!

We must not

disturb the poet

when the divine frenzy

is upon him.

[chuckles]

Hmm.

Know the place?

Was I apprenticed here?

Clear the way, lads! Clear the way.

It's Friday night.

- Why, it's old Fezziwig.

- [fiddle:
jig]

[laughing]

- [knocking]

- [fiddle stops]

[sighs]

Who is it?

It's Tara, sir,

with your dinner.

Tara.

Come in. Come in.

Close the door.

Sit. I want to

read you something.

Oh... Oh, I... I don't think Mrs.

Fisk would...

Ah! Skittleshins

to Mrs. Fisk.

Come. Sit.

[humming]

Now, since you

like ghost stories,

see if this can rival

Varney the Vampire.

[Charles]

"With cherry-cheeked apples,

juicy oranges,

luscious pears,

immense Twelfth cakes

and seething bowls of punch

that made the chamber dim

with their delicious steam.

In easy state, upon this couch,

there sat a jolly giant..."

- The second ghost.

- The second ghost.

[laughter]

I am the Ghost

of Christmas Present.

These are the gifts

of abundance, goodwill,

and of generosity.

Uh-huh.

Of course, you wouldn't understand

much about that, would you?

Unlike these good people.

My dear Mrs. Cratchit, you have

outdone yourself this year.

Oh, everyone pitched in.

Even Tim.

- I set the table.

- [laughing] Yes, you did.

I didn't know Cratchit

had a crippled son.

Didn't you ever think

to ask?

A merry Christmas

to us all, my dears.

- And may God bless us.

- God bless us, every one.

He's my clerk. I don't pay him to

tell me about his personal life.

- You hardly pay him at all.

- Fifteen shillings a week.

For a man with a family,

not to mention a sick child?

[coughing]

That's the market rate.

Do you really believe

that every inch of existence

is a bargain

across the counter?

Observe this family.

They don't have much, but they're happy,

grateful, contented with their lot.

Whereas you are miserable

and content with nothing.

Never heard such folly.

[bell tolls]

Heed well what I've said.

Farewell.

[Charles]

And... intermission!

- Thrilling performance.

- That's very kind. Thank you.

And that is as far

as I've got.

- Tara.

- Hmm?

[chuckles]

- How do you do that, sir?

- Do what?

Make a world come alive.

I could almost see

and hear them people.

Especially that Tiny Tim.

Poor mite.

Um... [clears throat]

A word in your ear.

- About what?

- The scene.

- It's very one-sided.

- What? One-sided?

Well, my character doesn't get

to explain his side of things.

- So I've taken the liberty of writing a short speech.

- No.

- Something about the rational self-interest...

- [sighs]

and the natural tendencies

of free markets...

No. No. And no.

Well, what sort of book

is this anyway?

[angry grunt]

No! It's too... Ew.

It's too gloomy.

The Ghost of Christmas

Present should be wonderful.

Warm, jolly!

- Jolly?

- Yes!

A jolly ghost?

That's it.

- What's this?

- Find another artist.

We don't want

another artist.

A jolly Christmas ghost?

What's that mean?

I can't draw

what I don't understand.

Well, it is everything

that's best about Christmas.

He's the soul of kindness

and generosity. He's...

Well, he's Forster.

Eh?

With a beard.

Come on. Jolly.

[women shouting]

In shops by Christmas?

That'll be a miracle.

Go away.

Three flops in a row.

Up to your eyeballs in debt.

I'd think you'd be glad

of some advice.

So, you've had a few flops.

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