You skinflint old bastard.
Oh, can they not read?
The inscription clearly states "rest in peace".
Why am I not allowed any peace?
Well, if I don't see you before Christmas,
do have a very merry one.
And you, too. Oh, we may call after dinner.
Oh, please do. Bring everyone.
You know you're more than welcome.
‐ Merry Christmas. ‐ Mr. Cratchit?
Mr. Bob?
Will you come tomorrow?
I'm afraid I can't tomorrow‐‐ work.
Work, my love?
‐ Tomorrow? ‐ Dad.
‐ You forgot this. ‐ I'm not a "this," silly.
No, I didn't forget old Timmy.
I saw he was offering an extra prayer and I let him be.
For our poor cat that died.
Rest in peace.
Rest in peace, my eye.
He's chasing mice around St. Peter's feet.
Tomorrow's Christmas Eve.
You promised this year you'd stand up to him.
Come on, Cratchit, it'll be a fine do tomorrow.
Children in charge,
blind man's buff and all that.
Bring the whole tribe.
‐ I'm sorry. I'm afraid... ‐ I'm afraid
my husband works for a man with an ice pick for a heart.
Ah, of course, you toil for Old Scratch, don't you?
My condolences. Oh, well.
So be it. Merry Christmas, Cratchit tribe.
‐ Excuse me. ‐ So be it.
Year after year.
Belinda?
Come on, you'll get wet and catch your death.
It's nearly Christmas, Mama.
Yes.
Rag!
Rag bone!
Any old iron or rag!
Rag bone!
Late.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
There.
Beyond reasonable.
The smudge is from the fourth lump.
I have no doubt.
The smudge is from kindness.
Morning, Mr. Scrooge.
And Merry Christmas to you, too, Mr. Scrooge.
I have left an important document
to be copied three times before day's end.
One for London, one for Birmingham, one for Manchester.
Three, not four, sir?
What?
Today appears to be a day for four, not three.
Ah, you mean the extra lump of coal I gave you.
Well, curse the fourth.
Curse gestures.
Just make three copies of the ledger.
And should there be no blots,
no smudges, no stains, you may go home.
At 4:00.
Mr. Scrooge, I‐I thought we had agreed that today,
on account of the day it is, I could go home
at 3:00.
I give you an extra lump of coal...
then straightaway you want to snip an extra hour off the day,
three becomes four,
four becomes three.
I don't care for your revolutionary mathematics.
This is not Paris.
It's frozen, sir.
What is?
My ink.
I'll have to thaw it on the fire.
No, that will waste time.
You can use mine.
Ah, lovely.
A sort of Christmas present,
is it, sir?
Oh, please.
If it were a Christmas present I would have wrapped it
in ribbons and bows to artificially increase your anticipation.
And you would tear it open and gasp and say,
"Oh, my lord, a bottle of ink.
This is exactly what I've always wanted."
And I would shrug and smile and tell you that
of all the ink bottles in all the world,
this is the one ink bottle
I wanted you to have on this
most holy and sacred of days.
Behold.
One day of the year.
They all grin and greet each other when every other day
they walk by with their faces in their collars.
You know, it makes me very sad to see all the lies
that come as surely as the snow
at this time of year.
How many Merry Christmases are meant
and how many are lies?
To pretend on one day of the year
that the human beast
is not the human beast.
That it is possible
we can all be transformed.
But if it were so‐‐
if it were possible
for so many mortals
to look at the calendar and transform
from wolf to lamb,
then why not every day?
Instead of one day good, the rest bad,
why not have everyone grinning at each other all year
and have one day in the year when we're all beasts
and we pass each other by?
Why not turn it around?
Yes, sir.