Â鶹ԼÅÄ

A Midsummers' Carol
by Clint Driftwood

This Dickens parody was the winner in the prose section of our Summer Parodies competition, and was originally contributed to the Fantasy Archers topic on The Archers .

Crawford was Dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by Janet Fisher, the clerk, the undertaker and the chief mourner. Aldridge had signed it. AldridgeÂ’s name was good upon anything he chose to put his hand to. Old CrawfordÂ’s body was as dead and as empty of soul as a Simon Gerard marriage vow.

Aldridge knew he was dead? Of course he did. Crawford and he were partners in business for many years. Aldridge was his only executor, his only confidant, his only friend, his only mourner. Aldridge never grieved over CrawfordÂ’s demise; he considered that he had had a good run. And had died with the satisfaction of knowing that he was an excellent businessman; in fact Aldridge had completed a lucrative land deal on the very morning of the funeral as a salute to the memory his colleague.

Aldridge had never acquired a new sign for the office; there it stood years afterwards. Aldridge and Crawford (formerly Boresetshire Land) it said. There are people who still remembered the ‘unpleasantness’ connected with the Aldridge and Crawford ‘take over’of Boresetshire Land. Immoral, underhanded, low tricks were some of the words used to describe it at the time and they still use them now, and others besides that are not fit for polite company.

If Aldridge or Crawford ever heard these utterances I do not know, but I do know they would not have cared. In their eyes there was no place for morals or sentimentality in business. They had conducted themselves then as they continued to do afterwards: and as Aldridge does now, sailing close to the wind as far as the laws of the land were concerned, with no God to answer to but the profit column of his accounts ledger.

Aldridge was mean; if a penny passed grudgingly from his wizened grasp, it was not done without prior consideration as to how many of its kind would accompany it upon its return to the fold. He worked hard and long hours, spent little and expected the same from those in his employ.

There were two urges that drove him, profit and women. In his endeavour for profit he invested his cash wisely. In affairs of the heart he invested only time, for he did not possess a heart in that sense. He relied up on the fact that there were some women who: may it be in the name of desperation born out of disaster, or in the name of blatant fortune hunting would do almost anything for the considerable monetary wealth that it was rumoured, and rightly so, that he had accumulated. None from either category ever lasted long.

He did not care which kind left his bedchamber in the early hours of the morning. To him women were but toys to be played with and tossed aside without a thought when the fascination of their newness was lost on him.

People usually avoided Aldridge those days, only having contact with him when it was absolutely necessary. Yes! Aldridge was unloved, unable to love, and his heart was as cold and dark as basalt. His breast held in captivity a trembling rock that has with the passage of time engulfed his very being from the inside out with its black chill. No cold could cool him further, or sunlight or womenÂ’s gentle touch, warm him. Alas, though Aldridge lived, his body was colder than the corpse of the long departed Crawford that has been lying six feet down in the dank earth these many years since.

But did Aldridge care? It was not in his nature to care. Caring was for the weak and led to unnecessary expense. He had no use for people, only their money. He kept to his own counsel in all matters.

Once upon a midsummerÂ’s eve Aldridge was in his office busy about his labour. It was hot, humid, stifling weather. He could hear through the open window the sounds the happy voices of children at play. The noise burned into his brain like a red-hot poker. "Life will soon cure them of their innocence and then they will sing to a different fiddle." He mused bitterly as he walked stiffly to the window. Rapping the casement with his cane he shouted, "Go! Be off with you!" then turning back to his seat he muttered, "Bah!" Qualifying it with for good measure with," Humbug!"

Aldridge kept the door of his office open that he may keep an eye on his secretary in the small room beyond. Her workroom did not have luxury of a window. On the hot days of summer the air in it never seemed to moved: the heat smothered her as if she were inside a Parish Oven.

Aldridge had the benefit of a small electric fan on his desk. Only on the hottest of days would he switch it on, and then only on it’s lowest speed. His secretary had a fan on her desk. Aldridge controlled it from an extension cable in his office. His form of control was to never switch it on. If she did venture to enquire if it may be turned on, he would bring to bare on her his favourite weapon: her dismissal due to the company being in ‘dire straights’ financially.

These hot days did afford Aldridge some amusement. A sick, perverted, twisted, amusement. He would be at his desk from first light. His secretary would enter the office at eight twenty-five and take up her station at her desk. As the morning grew towards noon and the temperature and her discomfort rose she would find it necessary; though she gained scant relief: to undo the top button of her blouse. That marked the start of AldridgeÂ’s amusement.

She knew he watched her, but she needed the income her position provided. She had to endure. Then as the temperature continued to rise another button would be undone, and another, until her modesty prevailed upon her to go no further.

At this point Aldridge would turn on his desktop fan and wait. He waited until he judged she could stand the heat no longer. Then he would ask, in that snakes hiss of a voice of his "Are you warm my dear? Why not come stand by my fan for a time? I would turn yours on; alas finances wonÂ’t allow such an extravagance. And why use two when one will suffice?" . To which she would bow her head to her task at hand, and reply meekly, "No thank you Mr Aldridge, I am fine." After many such requests by him, and polite refusals by her, her discomfort would eventually win the battle with her sensibilities.

With her clothes sticking to her body she would walk reluctantly to his desk. Aldridge would then turn the fan in her direction saying "There my dear, thatÂ’s better isnÂ’t it? Bend forward a little to get the full effect" This she would do: lifting her head and looking at the ceiling as much to avoid his lecherous stare, as to expose as much of her burning skin as possible to the cooling breeze.

Aldridge would sit and look upon her. She could feel his rodent like eyes burrowing into her very being. He never averted his gaze. He watched as tiny beads of perspiration as they ran from her slender neck to her cleavage. He could feel and he wallowed in her embarrassment. He smiled inwardly at the thought of the power he held over her, a sick, cold, weakling child of a smile that had been born in the cold depths of his dark, wicked, heart.

Read Part Two

More parodies - from Agatha Christie to Damon Runyon