THE SCROOGE LETTERS

'The Scrooge Letters' first published in Country Squire magazine on the 24th, 25th and 26th December, 2024.

Part One

Dear Mr Scrooge,

I am eleven years old and have no friends here. Usher Stokes said I should keep myself busy during Christmastide by learning to write letters. Since I have no one to write to, I am writing to you, hoping you might have far more friends than I do.

Though I suppose there are friends of a sort—voices that talk to me at night like ghosts, testing my thoughts on all kinds of things, such as how I feel about the book I've been reading lately, A Token for Children, a gift from my father. He told me to learn the lessons in it before sending me off to board here at Coldgrave Hall.

This book, Mr Scrooge, has troubled my mind in ways I did not expect, especially during this time of year, when the world seems merry. Christmas is meant to be a time of joy, of carols, and the warmth of hearth fires, and yet my thoughts are full of its stories, painting a much darker picture in my mind while I stay here in these cold, empty halls of my school.

The book tells of children, no older than I am now, who meet death with such calm and good sense that it unsettles me. They speak of death not as something to fear, but as a passage to be welcomed with prayer and goodness. Yet all I can think of is how cold and lonely it must be to face such an end, all alone. The stories are meant to teach us about right and wrong, about being good, but they weave warnings into every line, warning us against sin with tales where the end is often not happy but final.

One such story tells of a young girl who dies after a life of sin, her final moments filled with sorrow and prayer, her death a lesson to others. It is hard not to think of this when, outside, the snow falls silently and I hear the distant church bells calling in this season of Christmas. Should we, then, spend our days fearing our end, making sure every act is one of goodness, so we might not meet the same fate? The thought of my dying young haunts me more than the ghosts that speak to me at night.

And yet, I cannot turn away from these tales of children who, through their goodness, have their sins forgiven at the last moment. But what if one were not so lucky? What if Christmas and the New Year, with all their promises of new beginnings, come too late for me? The idea that one’s life might be judged so harshly, so soon, is not comforting when the air is filled with the scent of pine needles and mulled wine.

I think about Christmas as a time of forgiveness, much like the tales in A Token for Children. Here, we are told that birth and death are but steps on a path to salvation. Yet these stories make me wonder if the joy of Christmas—the giving of gifts and the sharing of cheer—is only a short break from the unavoidable. Are we all just characters in our own cautionary tales, each day another step toward an end we must prepare for?

The book speaks of children who die with such grace—their last words prayers, their final acts kindness—and it makes me wonder: what would my last moments be like? Would I be as brave, as good? Christmas, with its promise of light in the darkest season, should fill me with hope, but instead, I find myself looking at the candle on my desk, wondering how quickly it burns down to nothing.

But then, there are moments when the tales in the book seem to whisper a different lesson—one not just of fear but of the need to live well, to enjoy the moments we are given. Perhaps these stories are not merely about death but about life: how we should live it, how we should value it, even when surrounded by the cold of winter.

In the grave silence of this school, where the only sounds are the crackling of the fire and the whispers of my ghostly friends, I have decided I must make my own Christmas. I will find joy in small things: in the way the snow reflects the moonlight, in the stories I can write, not just read. Maybe, in my own way, I can change what these eerie tales mean to me—turning them from shadows of death into signs of how to live, how to love, how to celebrate life, even when the night is long.

So, Mr Scrooge, as you read this, perhaps you will think of me—a boy with too many thoughts on death for one so young—trying to find light in the darkness of these stories. I hope your Christmas is filled with warmth, with friends, and with the knowledge that each day is a gift, not just to be lived through but to be lived well.

Yours sincerely,

Ebenezer

December 24th, 1794

Part Two

Dear Mr Scrooge,

I am writing to you as a young man of fifteen years, from my school boarding house, hoping this letter finds you in good health (and wealth!) as an old man—presuming, of course, you have managed to survive the endless, merciless winters here in England, which always seem so viciously cold.

It is bitingly cold here today on Christmas Day, in this old schoolroom—colder still for the lack of surrounding human bodies that usually fill these austere spaces with warmth. Strange as it may seem, I find myself becoming increasingly adapted to the cold—you might say I’ve made it my friend.

Speaking of friends, I don’t wish to alarm you, but I’ve been maintaining a communication of sorts with those strange voices that visited me as a child. They continue to keep me good company, though I’m loath to tell anyone about them but you, whom I trust implicitly—after all, you are me, and I am you. Besides, I’ve heard far too many grim tales of sanatoriums and have no intention of visiting one if I can help it. No, I shall keep these ‘friends’ secret and hope they don’t prey upon me so often that I lose all sense of what is real and what is not.

Lately, I’ve taken to imagining myself much later in life—well-adapted to hardship and never prone to seeking sympathy, which I detest. I shall never seek sympathy for what—or whom—does me wrong, nor shall I offer it to those searching for it in me as though it is expected or guaranteed. Man must make his own good fortune, don’t you think? Yes, in some ways, I am grateful for this solitude in midwinter. It gives me time to reflect on what I lack that others possess—warm company, good cheer, ebullient laughter. This cold air, I sense, is seeping into my soul, making me far stronger than the weak people I see around me. I vow to you, Mr. Scrooge, that I will ensure you have no reason to harbor regrets later in life. You shall have all that a man can desire: a dutiful, loyal wife, a gathering of children, and perhaps friends—just so long as they can be trusted.

In the distance, I hear a choir singing God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen, and I must say it warms the heart to hear it carry from so far away to where I am seated, at my desk, writing these words to you.

Yet, there is another chill that grips me—one not of the winter air, but of the fear of time’s relentless march. In my quiet moments, I contemplate the spectre of aging, the inevitable decay of the body, the pain that comes not from the cold but from within. The thought of my joints stiffening, my back bending under the weight of years—haunts me like a ghost not yet born. I dread the day when every step is a reminder of my mortality, when the mirror reflects not the face of youth but the map of countless winters etched into my skin. The idea of my bones aching with every movement, of my hands trembling, unable to pen letters like this one—it is a silent terror that whispers in the night when the world is asleep, but my mind is awake. Will I become one of those old men, hunched over, each breath a labor, each day an endurance test against the ravages of time?

This fear is not just of the physical pain, but of the loss of autonomy. To be dependent on others, to lose the ability to care for oneself, to have the vigor of youth traded for the frailty of age—it is a trade I wish to reject. Yet, I know the terms are not mine to negotiate. I see it in the old caretaker here: his eyes dimmed by cataracts, his hearing dulled by the years, his spirit perhaps still young but trapped in a body that betrays him at every turn.

But then, amidst this dread, I wonder if this fear might be my greatest teacher. Perhaps it is this very apprehension that drives me to live more fully now—to make each moment count before it becomes a memory rather than an experience. Maybe this fear of becoming an old man, groaning under the burden of life’s toll, will push me to seek out joys, to laugh louder, to love more fiercely, to grasp at the fleeting beauty of life with both hands.

I wonder, dear Mr Scrooge, if you, in your old age, have found solace from this fear, or if it still lingers—an unwelcome guest at the feast of your years. Do you find peace in the wisdom that age brings, or does the pain of the body overshadow the mind’s resilience? I hope you have discovered some secret to defying this fear, or at least to living with it, as one might live with an old, familiar companion.

Now, as I write, the choir’s song fades, leaving behind a silence that seems to echo my thoughts. I must not let this fear paralyse me but rather propel me toward a life well-lived—a life where, even if my body fails, my spirit does not.

I shan’t write much more, other than to wish you a very Merry Christmas, old man, and hope you now note how well this letter from your past has aged, like a vintage wine.

Never forget: life, though it may be hard, is always abundant in opportunities to defy its endless miseries. And perhaps, in the face of growing old, the greatest defiance is to live each day as if it were our last—to embrace the pain as part of the journey, to love life even when it aches.

Warmest regards,

Ebenezer

25th December, 1798

Part Three

Dear Mr Scrooge,

It is cold once again, which suits my current state of mind quite well, though I find it less of a friend than I used to. No, I now see the suffering it brings—the incessant gloom, reduced sunlight, and icy air—more as a means of atoning for ever believing that warmth (be it climate or humanity) could be found in this country of ours. We are a miserable people, mostly, and can we be blamed for it? We live on this wet, cold, windblown island with barely a glimpse of the sun and are somehow expected to rejoice that we are the greatest nation on earth. No, we are merely a country of insecure men (and women), desperate not to be consigned to mediocrity, lest we have nothing to declare of our name on our gravestones—hence our ambition.

Case in point: Perhaps it was my own ambition that led to my fiancée, Belle, breaking off her engagement with me.

Now, as I sit here, the cold seeping through the cracks of my office, I’ve come to a stark realisation—one that will guide my path from this day forward. I will not risk loving anyone ever again. The pain of losing Belle, of watching her walk away because of my ambition, my singular focus on wealth and security, has left me with an icy resolve. Love, I’ve decided, is but a folly—a distraction from the true path to success. My heart, once so foolishly given, will now be guarded, encased in the same frost that covers this land, impenetrable to the warmth of affection or the joy of companionship.

I see now the wisdom in those tales from  A Token for Children, where the stories warn of the perils of straying from the path of righteousness or of forming dangerous worldly attachments. While those tales speak of a different kind of peril, I’ve learned my own lesson about the dangers of emotional investment. The joy of love is fleeting, but the pain of its loss is enduring—a lesson I’ll not need to learn twice.

From here on, my focus will be solely on myself. In this world, where the winter seems never-ending and the sun barely peeks through the clouds, I see no reason to share my warmth. If I am to thrive, if I am to leave my mark on this world, it will be by my own hand and for my own gain. I will not seek the comfort of friends or the love of a partner, for what have these brought me but heartache? Instead, I shall amass wealth, power, and influence, ensuring my name is remembered—not for love, but for the legacy of a man who knew how to look after himself.

This determination solidifies with each cold breath I take and each dark day that passes. I will not be like those who, in their folly, believe that life is about sharing, about growing with others. No, I will grow alone, like a tree in the midst of winter: its branches bare but its roots deep, drawing from the earth only what it needs to survive. Let others seek their happiness in the smiles of loved ones or the warmth of a hearth shared; I will find mine in the solitude of my counting house, in the clinking of coins, and in the silence of a life unburdened by the expectations of others.

I’ve watched the world, Mr Scrooge, and I’ve seen how love leads to ruin. Men and women, once vibrant and full of life, become shadows of what they were, all because they allowed themselves to care too deeply. I will not be among them. My legacy will not be one of love lost or friendships betrayed, but of a man who knew how to survive, to thrive, in a world that offers no quarter to the sentimental.

As I write this, the wind howls outside—a fitting echo to the resolve within me. Each gust seems to whisper that I am right, that the path of solitude and self-interest is the only one that leads to true security. I will not look back on Belle’s departure with regret, but rather as the moment I learned to truly see. Love is a luxury I can no longer afford, and even if I once felt its warmth, I now choose the certainty of cold calculation over the unpredictability of human affection.

So, I shall live, Mr Scrooge, with my heart locked away, my emotions a distant memory, and my days dedicated to the pursuit of wealth and the preservation of self. In this, I find my peace and my purpose, and let the world judge me as it will. I am but a man of my time, shaped by its harshness, its cold, its unforgiving nature, and I will not apologise for learning to survive within it.

Yours in solitude,

Ebenezer

26th December, 1815