The Man Who Invented Christmas Page #6

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What of it?

You're still young. It's not

as if you're an old man.

- [groans]

- You've still got lots of time to be...

[bell tolls]

[bell tolls]

[bell tolls]

Are we in the presence of the

Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?

[rumbling]

- Why doesn't he speak?

- Shh!

You are here to show us the shadows

of the things that have not been,

but will happen,

in the time before us.

Is that so?

[Scrooge] Where does

it want us to go?

I think I know.

I have a bad feeling

about this. I...

[Charles] And then they entered

poor Bob Cratchit's house

and found the mother and the

children round the fire.

[quiet sobbing]

It's okay.

It's okay.

Then Bob came in the door.

[door closes]

You went today then,

Robert?

To the cemetery?

Yes, my dear.

I wish you could have gone

to see how green a place it is.

But you'll see it often.

I promised him that I would

take a walk there on a Sunday.

[sobbing resumes]

My little child.

- My little, little child.

- "...little child."

- No!

- Uh, rude!

- Is Tiny Tim dead?

- Well, of course he is. Imbecile.

He was very ill.

You can't save

every child in London.

And the family

has no money for a doctor.

Then Scrooge must save him!

Me?

- But he wouldn't...

- Why?

- Well, he's too selfish.

- He can change.

There's good in him somewhere,

I know it!

People don't change.

He's been this way

for a long time.

I'm not sure

he can change.

Of course he can.

He's not a monster.

I thought this was a ghost

story, not a fairy tale.

He wouldn't let Tiny Tim die,

Mr. Dickens.

He has a heart,

doesn't he?

It would be

too wicked...

even for him.

[pen tapping on inkwell]

[Mr. Dickens] 'Tis now the

very witching time of night...

[Mrs. Dickens] Hush!

when graveyards

yawn and hell...

Aha, Shakespeare.

[chuckles]

There's a man

who could write.

I doubt he ever

had a blockage.

Self-preservation...

first law of nature.

And that's

just a fact.

[laughing]

Oh, hush.

Oh, Charles! Good evening.

We'll get him straight

into bed, Charles.

We were up the river to Kew, and I

think perhaps it was too long a day.

- Kew.

- Kew?

- What about your newspaper article?

- Article?

Yes, the one you're writing.

It's been over a month.

Oh! [laughs]

Oh, ho! Oh!

No, the, um...

The editor felt that due

to pecuniary complications

of a most complicated

nature,

he felt he could not proceed

with the commission.

So, no newspaper article.

No. However,

I rejoice in saying

I have every hope

something will turn up.

I think it's time you went

back to Devon, Father.

- Indeed.

- As soon as possible.

Of course, dear boy.

We shall catch the

afternoon train tomorrow.

No, sweet.

I can manage

from here.

Thank you.

Good night, Charles.

Ride on, ride on,

over all obstacles

and win the race.

Don't be unkind,

Charley.

You don't know

what he's been through.

He feels it all,

you know.

He would never tell you,

but he feels it all.

[door closes]

That's it. Blood of

iron, heart of ice.

Now perhaps we can finish

this little book.

"Are these the shadows

of the things that will be,

or are they shadows of the

things that may be only?"

That is as far

as I've got.

It's brilliant.

- Are you pulling my leg?

- No. No, of course not.

Well, now...

that's encouraging.

My... My one criticism...

Yes?

- Tiny Tim.

- Go on.

- Are you really going to let him die?

- Aw, not you as well.

It's a Christmas book.

Shouldn't it be hopeful?

I mean, isn't that what... what...

what Christmas is all about?

The hope that in the end, our

better natures will prevail?

You were the one who persuaded

me to kill off Little Nell.

Yeah. Well, I stand by

that decision.

John, my readers

implored me...

But this is different. If Tiny

Tim dies, then what's the point?

- Thank you, John.

- You're welcome.

For reminding me why I never

ask your opinion on my work.

Your services

are no longer required.

- You cannot sack me.

- Why not?

Because I don't work for you.

I do what I do as a friend.

[door opens]

John, please leave.

[sighs]

See you on Friday.

Last chapter's due

at the printers.

Right. Let's run it again from the

scene with Scrooge's debtors.

- Oh, what's the point?

- The point?

We keep stopping

at the same place.

Yes, because

I'm working out the ending.

- Admit it, you're blocked!

- I'm not blocked.

Now, if you take

my advice...

- I'm the author here.

- Allegedly.

[all chuckling]

I'm going out.

- Alone!

- [woman] Aw.

[chattering, laughing]

Forster.

I need your help.

- What is it? The children?

- No. The children are fine.

What's this?

"Candle-scandal, flirt-hurt,

Charlotte-poor heart."

Is that a poem? That's atrocious.

What has got into you?

You look terrible.

What's the matter?

It's the book. I'm struggling

with one of the characters.

Whoo-hoo! Ah!

- Quite a few of them, actually.

- What exactly is the problem?

The problem is, could a man as mean-spirited

as Scrooge, as evil as Scrooge...

Could he become a different

person overnight?

What is so evil about him?

- Well, he's a miser.

- Well, that doesn't make him evil.

- It just makes him cheap.

- He worships money.

- It's the only thing that matters to him.

- Why?

He has nothing else.

No friends? No family?

No one he trusts.

Why?

Because he's afraid.

Of?

[sighs]

Being found out.

- Hello, chaps.

- Thackeray.

Charles, I haven't seen anything

of yours in print for ages.

Don't tell me

you've had a blockage.

Not in the least. I'm neck and

heels into a Christmas book.

- What the deuce is that?

- A story about Christmas.

For Christmas.

A story... about...?

[wheezing laugh]

[chuckling]

How amusing.

Well, best of luck with it.

Oh, dear, my last book has

come out in a Railway edition.

Sold 10,000 copies,

in a week.

"There's gold

in them thar hills,"

as your American friends

would say.

Come on. Let's go somewhere

else, get a real drink.

[men laughing]

She's a big lass, and a bonny

lass, and she likes her beer.

And I call her Cushie Butterfield,

and I wish she was here.

[laughs]

What language is that?

That's Geordie, man.

We're gods.

- Where are we?

- Oh, it's Hungerford Stairs.

Oi, I smell the river.

What's that?

It's a graveyard.

Ah, it's the old Warren's Factory.

They moved from there years ago.

I wonder they've not

pulled it down yet.

Yeah.

Or burnt it down.

Might do it myself

one day.

Why? What have you got

against boot blacking?

Charles.

What is it?

I just have

this recurring nightmare.

Oh, nightmares, aye.

I've got one where I'm being

chased by a giant badger.

[snorts, laughs]

What's yours?

Never mind.

Well, come on.

It's time to go home.

I'll see you at the printers.

Friday morning, nine o'clock.

- I can't.

- Well, why not?

It's the book.

I can't... The characters

won't do what I want.

And I'm afraid.

Of what?

If I can't finish it,

I'll never write again.

Oh, come on, man, come on.

Have some sleep, hear?

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