Mr Cratchitt's Secret

Mr Cratchitt sat watching the busy street. Part of the interior was
reflected in the glass. He played a little game with the passer's by,
trying to stop them colliding with the furnishings.

Left a bit, watch your knees. Look where you're going. He winced,
screwing up his wrinkled face as a small child's head connected with
the edge of the counter and ploughed into a stack of sachets containing
granulated brown sugar.

He shook his head remorsefully. Got to look where they're going. That
was the thing, people had to look where they were going.

Mr Cratchitt extracted some dirt from underneath the nail of his left
index finger. His fingers smelled of pinewood and varnish. His right
hand encircled the mug of coffee. Warm. Just right, and not too
strong.

He flicked the gunge from under his nails onto the floor and then felt
guilty about it. Can't pick it up, that would look ridiculous. Arse in
the air, scrabbling under the tables. The vision was appalling.

The couple in the corner who had taken the comfortable sofa were still
talking. Even from the reflection it was clear she wasn't happy.

"But if it's going to be like this every time, why, why should we
meet?"

Her male companion rumbled something that could not be heard over the
sounds of the street.

"That's just it. You don't love me. You have to stop playing this game
with yourself, with us." She was becoming shrill.

Mr. Cratchitt turned his attention to other matters. Two dogs had met
across the other side of the street. They were cautiously sniffing one
another nose to nose. Not the bottom sniffing, please not the bottom
sniffing.

Suddenly at some signal, he supposed, one of them bolted away. The
other gave chase and they weaved in and out of the afternoon
shoppers.

Two Japanese girls were standing in the street. They looked about them
with an air of indecision. The taller girl balanced a large camera in
one hand. The strap was caught up in her hair. She was wearing a thick
blue jacket. Puffa jackets, they called them, didn't they?

The other girl, wrapped in a full length duffel coat, was pointing
towards the market.
A siren in the distance was merely a fly buzzing in another room.

He craned his head around to see whether the cathedral was visible from
here. It wasn't. The line of shops with their garish windows, topped
with red brick were blocking his view.

He wanted to find a little local coffee shop, somewhere that gave a
homely impression. He preferred freshness to cleanliness he decided,
Godly or no. Some of these places were so stale.

The door opened to admit more customers and he felt a blast of cold
air. Strange name Cratchitt. He'd seen a play with someone called
Cratchitt in, what was it now?
He didn't want to go out into the cold air. He imagined staying here
overnight.

The shop was closing and the two men in aprons behind the counter were
wiping down the surfaces.

"We'll have to throw you out in a minute," remarked one. He didn't
move. The threat was repeated.

After some further cajoling, one of them picked up a telephone. A few
moments later the manager came downstairs.

"You understand sir, that if you refuse to leave the premises we'll
have to call the police," said the manager to him. Mr Cratchitt did not
even shift his gaze from some distant spot.

"I'm sure we can reason with him," said the other man who had not
spoken yet. But it became evident that Mr. Cratchitt would not see
reason.

The manager picked up the phone. He told the story and then paused
expectantly. Then he began to raise his voice and gesticulate. What a
passionate man, Mr Cratchitt thought dimly.

"What is it John?" one of the men asked.

"They just laughed at me, said the police have better things to do. And
I have to get off urgently. I've got to pick Martha up."

The manager approached Mr. Cratchitt, leant in very close and said,
"Leave now. Go! Or I'll..."

"Why don't we just leave him here overnight. That would teach him a
lesson. He can't do any harm. All the money 'll be gone from the
tills."

"We can't leave him here overnight." The manager seemed a little
strained. "What a ridiculous idea."

"What if we tied him up? I can't imagine he'd do any damage."

"You can't just tie people up in a shop on the middle of town."

But after some persuasion the manager agreed. He disappeared into a
backroom and returned with a pair of handcuffs. He made a flippant
comment about him and his girlfriend and then secured Mr. Cratchitt to
the railing next to his stool.

"There we go now sir, is that satisfactory?" The three men departed and
Mr Cratchitt was left to himself.

He was ignored until around two in the morning when a group passed by
singing at the tops of their voices. They spotted him and came over.
They peered at him. Some of them pulled ugly faces. They mouthed
questions through the glass the meaning of which Mr. Cratchitt was
unaware of.

By the second day Mr Cratchitt had grown a bit of coarse stubble. The
Eastern Daily Press had sent a photographer. The woman had been so
consumed with fits of laughter that she had had to make several
attempts to take a usable photograph.

She shook so much that Mr. Cratchitt had heard her bracelets
jangling.

He still took his coffee and a solitary danish every morning at around
eleven o'clock. Chaining him was unnecessary. He only left his spot to
relieve himself, gliding up the stairs with a light tread. He spoke to
and looked at no one.

Within three weeks he had a small group of disciples. He ignored them
utterly and was barely aware of their presence. They watched him with
ardour as he nibbled tentatively at his pastry and drank with slow
deliberation.

The more serious amongst them spent the daylight hours constantly by
his side. It was decided though, that it would be a sacrilege to
disturb his night time vigil. Moreover negotiating with the manager to
spend the night was difficult.

As he said, "One esoteric weirdo did not disturb business, but a coven
of fanatics made cleaning and general upkeep somewhat difficult."

Mr. Cratchitt finished his coffee and walked out into the cold,
afternoon air.