Not surprisingly, Scrooge became very popular after his Christmas reformation, and it wasn’t long before he met and married a bonny younger woman. He lived just a few months longer, but they were the best months of his life, and he died a happy man.

Knowing how much Mrs Scrooge had inherited, people were surprised at the frugal life she lived after Scrooge was gone. Nobody was ever invited to dinner, or even to visit, these days. In public she was always seen in the same old clothes, which she wore until they practically fell off her back. Fred and his family, once the recipients of such lavish generosity from Scrooge, only ever received token gifts now, and though they continued to be kindly towards her, Mrs Scrooge always kept her distance from them. People whispered that she was just a gold-digger who had inherited Scrooge’s former miserly spirit along with his fortune.

She died of pneumonia - probably from living on poor food and in such a chilled house, the doctor said.

The family were surprised to see the whole church packed out at the funeral service. Even the Cratchit family came, having travelled by uncomfortable coach all the way from that lovely coastal house which had been bought by Scrooge to give Tiny Tim a healthier life. 

‘What a wonderful, kindly lady she was’, extolled Martha Cratchit, who seemed genuinely distressed at Mrs Scrooge’s passing. Fred was glad for her that she hadn’t stayed around to witness the changes in Mrs Scrooge, and was too kind to disabuse her.

But here’s the thing. As Fred and his family stood to shake hands with mourners after the service, many perfect strangers came up to them and expressed the same sentiments. Fred was very confused – until the reading of the will.

After clearing his throat and polishing his glasses, the old attorney advised Fred:

‘Before I read this will, I want to let you know that, over the years of her widowhood, Mrs Scrooge regularly gave very large sums of money to charities and poor families. I was bound by the strictest promises to keep this secret from everyone, as were the recipients of her charity. I consider that promise to be at an end now that she has gone. But I’m sorry to have to tell you, Fred, that even the house was mortgaged to the hilt, and there is nothing left of the great fortune she inherited.’

To which Fred replied,

​‘Mr Hodgkins, this morning I felt only sorrow. My aunt-in-law was just a sad reminder to me of happier times when Uncle Ebenezer was alive, and, try as I might to engage with her, I thought her beyond reach of my love. Now I see her for the truly worthy mate and successor which she had become to dear old uncle. I am happy beyond all measure, because you have just given me the greatest inheritance a man could ever wish for.’

I was just five years old on Christmas Day, 1957, living on the east side of Edinburgh with my mum, dad and much older brother. The curtains stayed drawn at Christmas to retain the heat and save money; I didn’t realise then that my dad’s business was in deep trouble and a lot of debt. Then again, five-year-olds don’t really know what debt is, do they?

​Which makes Christmas 1957 stand out all the more in my memory today. I was desperate for a train set, an expensive toy. My brother didn’t like me playing with his, so I wanted one of my own.

Christmas was much less of a deal in 1950s Scotland than it is today. Many of the shops were open until lunchtime, and there was a mail delivery in the morning. My dad worked briefly on Christmas Morning, too, so we kids had to wait to open our presents until he came home.

There were only two. My brother found a second-hand bicycle hidden in the garden shed, while I was handed a beautifully-wrapped rectangular box. Ripping the paper off, I was thrilled to discover… a Tri-ang model railway set. It had a black steam engine with a tender, two passenger carriages, and enough track for a small oval circuit. It was operated by a small battery-operated controller.

But something was missing: batteries. The controller required three strange, chunky things with screw fittings at the top. And the shops were closing. I was distraught.

But Dad didn’t give up. We made for the nearest newsagent, hoping to get lucky. We arrived as the shopkeeper was just closing, but he listened, concerned, as Dad told him our story. He looked on the ‘battery’ shelves, but, no, he didn’t have any. But he asked us to wait while he disappeared upstairs to see if he had anything in the loft above the shop itself.

A few minutes later, something miraculous occurred. Instead of the newsagent, an elderly man with a white beard appeared, wearing a red cloak trimmed with white fur. In his hands he held not batteries, but a proper mains-powered controller. Santa explained to my dad that his own train set was upstairs, but he’d be too busy delivering presents that day to have time to play with it. I could borrow the controller meantime. I swear that my dad blew his nose for a full minute. Certainly, we both grinned all the way back home.

I played with that electric train all Christmas Day and beyond. I loved it, even although the engine kept falling off the rails on the bends. By 1960, my dad’s business had finally folded, we lost our house to pay off the debts and were homeless for a few years, but that train set followed me wherever I went, now with my very own mains controller. Sixty-six years later, I still have it – I even have the battery controller. Funny thing is, I never yet found any batteries for it.

’Twas the night before Christmas; ’twas quiet as heck;
I’d been down the boozer and felt like a wreck.

The fir tree we’d placed by the living-room door,
had needles cascading like rain on the floor.

From upstairs I heard my two young daughters jawing
into their i-Phones, whilst their Mama was snoring.

Then out by the patio came a rum sound,
of swearing, glass breaking, and guess what I found?

A fellow, be-masked, with a sack on his back,
had entered the kitchen attired all in black.

“Who goes there?” I asked. “I’m expecting St. Nick;
if you’re an intruder, I’ll go fetch a stick.”

“No! Wait!” cried the young man, an overgrown boy.
“I’m Santa’s apprentice. I’m here to bring joy.

“These gifts are for you,” and he passed me the sack.
So I said, “Come on in and partake of a snack.”

We placed all the presents safe under the tree,
then sat on the couch watching Christmas TV.

My new friend was eager to tell me his tale,
lest I get the wrong notion and send him to jail.

“St. Nick’s overworked,” he explained, “for the Earth
has too many kids, and of Santas a dearth.

“He hires, for this reason, an army of folk
like me to assist him - I swear it’s no joke.

“But red’s not my colour, and chimneys are blocked,
so I climb through the windows since doors are kept locked.”

I may be a cynic, but felt without doubt
he was Santa’s trainee, not a low, thieving lout.

So I fetched him some cookies and milk in a glass;
but he said: “If you don’t mind I’ll give them a pass.

“It’s cold out! My toes, I can feel them no longer,
I think I’d prefer a libation that’s stronger.”

I knew what he meant, so together we downed
two bottles of schnapps - then next day I was found

asleep by my wife and my girls on the couch,
beside Santa’s trainee, for whom I did vouch.

Alas, ’twas too late, the police had been phoned
about an intruder exceedingly stoned.

The lads and the lasses in blue came at once,
heard my story and promptly proclaimed me a dunce.

“This bloke,” said their sergeant, “is a thief much renowned,
who’s stolen from lots of the folks here around.

“Your neighbours, for instance, those presents are theirs;
the parents had hidden them under the stairs.”

And surely enough, they were not girlish toys;
it turned out the gifts were all purchased for boys.

In handcuffs the Christmas imposter was led
away to the station and a cell’s cheerless bed.

And me? I was left feeling heavy of heart,
till my neighbours pronounced me both cunning and smart.

I’d saved their sons’ presents whilst detaining a thief,
I’d captured a felon causing much yuletide grief.

I’m now deemed a hero, I’ve brought festive cheer;
Merry Christmas to all and a Happy New Year.

As a girl, when Marie experienced discomfort, her mother would retrieve a cobalt blue cruet, uncork it and sprinkle droplets of water wherever her daughter was ailing.

Each time, Marie’s pain would subside.

The little girl was amazed.

“What is that, Mama?”

“Holy water.”

“Where did you get it?”

“It’s been in our family for generations. My mother sprinkled it on me when I was a girl, and my grandmother sprinkled it on my mother when she was a girl.”

“Where did it come from?”

“France, where your great grandmother was born.”

“What makes it holy?”

Her mother smiled.

“Someday, I’ll tell you.”

Marie didn’t press, but she stayed curious. She’d heard about the holy water of Lourdes and how people claimed to have been cured by drinking or bathing in it. Maybe that’s where my family got this water, she thought.

As she grew up, Marie had fewer bumps and bruises. But her tender heart was easily hurt. Schoolyard taunts, slights, unkind words. Such insults made Marie sad.

Seeing this, her mother would bring out the cruet, sprinkle water on Marie’s chest and place her hand over her daughter’s heart.

“The sacred heals us,” she would say.

And Marie would feel better.

When she became a teenager, though, her heartaches got worse. Mean girls and immature boys sent Marie home in tears.

Her mother was always waiting, her blue cruet close at hand.
​

Years later, Marie had children of her own. They too experienced bumps and bruises.

“Mama, may I borrow your holy water?”

“Of course.”

“Mama, you said someday you’d tell me what makes this water holy.”

“Yes, I did, and I suppose it’s time you know. Marie, there’s nothing special about the water in this cruet. It’s true that it originally came from France. But that water was used up long ago. I’ve refilled it from our tap, just as my mother did and her mother before her. It is holy water. But what makes it holy comes only after I’ve sprinkled it on your body. It is you who make the water holy.”

Marie was stunned.

“Mama, why didn't you tell me this before? Why did you keep it a secret?”

“When we’re young, we believe God is out there,” she said, outstretching her hands. “This is true. It’s how we begin to learn about the divine. But in time, we come to understand God also lives within us, that we ourselves are sacred. This is a deeper truth, and it takes time for us to grasp it. Now you know. I hope you’ll share this with your children one day.”

“I will, Mama.”

“But not too soon,” she said, handing Marie the cruet.

“Yes,” Marie said, kissing her mother’s cheek. “Not too soon.”