FOUNDATION
By Tony Noon
“Mr Cratchit ? ” The voice was soft. Not what he was
used to hearing these days .
“ Don’t bother me now “ he huffed without looking
up “ It’s Christmas Eve , and I’ve a lot to get through before dark.”
“ You
don’t understand , I have a message"
Dan Cratchit stopped tapping the keys on
his laptop and looked up.
Usually, people only rocked up at the office if they
had been turned down for a grant , or they were creditors chasing payment.
Either way , they were usually angry and, at the very least, argumentative.
The
young woman in front of him was calm , almost smiling , if a little apprehensive
.
“ Message ? We have e-mail and Messenger for that …"
The visitor smiled “ I
don’t think they have access over there , yet , Mr Cratchit”.
“ Over there ?
Where? Miss , Mizz …”
“ Just call me , Angela , Mr Cratchit .”
“Yes , Yes but
where is over there and who are we talking about ?”
“ Why , the other side , of
course … the great beyond , if you like".
Dan felt his eyes roll up and his brow
furrowing. He really didn’t need this.
Not today…not any day really.
He
considered himself a fair man , even, some would say, a charitable man, but
charity was hard work … and steering a charitable organisation sometimes
required a hard edge.
If the hard edge ever surfaced , the public and press were
difficult to appease.
The Scrooge Foundation had been respected and revered for
more than a century now. Its pioneering ethical investments had driven change
and provided unconditional support for organisations and individuals since the
founder’s “ Great Change”.
Old Ebenezer never spoke of the events which had
turned him overnight from a hard and heartless money lender into the nation’s
greatest philanthropist , but the change was absolute and in the years which
followed , the Cratchit family helped him to create and distribute wealth in an
exemplary manner.
At first it was word of mouth. Someone would hear of a family
down on its luck , and a carpet bag full of money would mysteriously appear on
their doorstep. This led onto the foundation acquiring slum properties and
renovating them to provide acceptable living accommodation at peppercorn rents.
In the twentieth century , they built new model villages in areas of housing
shortage, taking an active lead in improving people's lives and lifestyles. All
the while , they continued to make funds available to families and individuals
in need , but this became increasingly difficult with each new project they
committed themselves to.
“ You don’t look like a medium .” Cratchit continued “
If you’ve brought a message from Tiny Tim , I should tell you that Sir Timothy
Cratchit lived to a ripe and prosperous old age and was loved by millions ,
particularly in the aftermath of the Great War and during the Depression years…”
Angela smiled. She was not , she said , a medium , although she was not sure how
she should have dressed if she had been. Rather , she was dressed for the
December weather, which was wet and windy , with little prospect of snow the
following day. Her hooded coat was burgundy and she had a rolled up umbrella
over her arm.
Dan felt like asking her if she had used it to float in like Mary
Poppins , but he thought better of it.
“ I came by bus” she said as if she had
heard his unspoken words.
Dan chuckled and folded the top down on his computer
before sitting back in his chair to give his full attention to the visitor.
“I’m
not sure how I can help you , Angela , but anyone who has suffered the indignity
of public transport on Christmas Eve deserves to be heard out…”
He beckoned to
her to sit down, but she politely declined. “ I don’t have long. I need to get
back.” she said. Dan Cratchit nodded as if he fully understood.
“Okay, you say
you have a message for me ? Who is it from?”.
“ Well , I’m not exactly sure …
Unfortunately that’s the way with these things. I saw your picture in a
newspaper and I just knew I had to bring it to you…”
Dan continued smiling but
his heart was beginning to sink. He had a mountain of work to get through , and
more to wade through tomorrow. Christmas was all around him in the streets
below. Had been since September , but somehow it hadn’t reached the fourteenth
floor. He didn’t even have a tree in his office suite.
It had all become too
commercial , so Christmas was just another day for him. There was always
someone helping him to fight the good fight in Foundation offices around the
globe on December 25th.
Angela had reached into the pocket of her coat and
pulled out a folded scrap of paper. “ This was given to me by an elderly
gentleman some time ago. He told me that when the time was right I would know
what to do with it…”
By now , Dan was becoming a little tired of Angela’s
mysterious ways. She was beginning to resemble one of those cabaret clairvoyants
who are so good at reading the moods of their audiences.
Dan was not one of the
faithful. Although he tried to be a good person and a benefactor to his family
and the many people whom the foundation had helped, he believed that it was
human endeavour and ingenuity which made it all work.
He had no real time for
people who believed otherwise , although his good manners prevented him from
ridiculing them.
“ And this is the right time ?” he said , slightly raising an
eyebrow.
“Well, Christmas is always a little special , isn’t it , Mr Cratchit ?
Your foundation would not be here without it, after all …”
She smiled as she
placed the paper on the desk and pushed it towards him. He took off his reading
glasses as he reached for it.
Folded neatly into four , dust dropped from the
folds as he opened it.
The paper itself seemed old and the shaky handwriting
could well have been scratched onto it by the old gentleman himself.
It was the
choice of words which made the note as memorable as it was anachronistic.
It
simply said “ Chill Out and take tomorrow off… P.S. Don’t forget the turkey …”
Dan couldn’t suppress the belly laugh the note provoked.
He was only a little
surprised, a moment later ,to note that Angela had vanished quietly into the
approaching evening.
