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Franklin's Grand Adventure                          

by R. T. Tracy

Conclusion  
                                                                                                                                                                          

rriving at the airport in the middle of the afternoon on Saturday, the day before Christmas Eve, without much sleep for the previous 24 hours, Franklin battled his weariness as he put up with long lines of people who were traveling for the holidays.  Eventually clearing passport and customs, he found the service known as Hotelink and was soon aboard a small van heading for central London’s hotels.

Fascinated by the sights and sounds of a foreign land, the first such experience of his life, he fought to remain awake at least until he could check in to his hotel room.  Once there, he lay down on top of the bed and fell promptly asleep.

At half past eight he awoke and noticed that a thick fog had moved in during the evening.  He could see only grey soup outside of his windows.  After a quick shower and change of clothing he wandered down to the ornately decorated lobby.  The hotel desk staff, once they learned what he wanted, produced a map and told him that the Old Curiosity Shop was only about ten to fifteen minutes away on foot.

“Though it won’t be open at this time sir,” said the night manager.  “You could make a visit tomorrow, or later in the week.  It shall be easier to find by daylight, and the fog is growing thicker with each passing minute.  There is some danger of losing your way out there tonight sir, if you are not familiar with the area.”

“Not to worry,” Franklin replied.  “I work for a company that does a large amount of printing, and one of our biggest sellers is a line of street maps for the cities of the world.  I thoroughly reviewed this whole neighborhood a week ago.”  He smiled with the self-confidence that the London hotel staff tended to associate with Americans, a self-confidence that the night manager frequently found irritating.

“Nevertheless, sir” said he, drawing himself up to his full height of six and a half feet and glaring down his long, thin nose at Franklin, “Being in the midst of reality is not always the same as what you see on a map.  It’s easy to get lost, especially in fog as thick as it is tonight.  Even we who grew up in this district sometimes get lost in such a fog.”  He fixed his eyes directly on Franklin’s, who seemed puzzled by the animosity.

“I hear ya’,” he said slowly, “but I think I’ll be fine.”  With this he smiled once more, turned sharply on his heels, and walked out of the lobby whistling the tune to The Battle Hymn of the Republic as he passed out into the fog-blinding night.

The first few yards of his journey were no problem at all.  He made the turn as he was supposed to and noted on the street sign that he was where he was supposed to be.  “Who needs these lily-livered head waiters?” he said out loud with a smile as he struck boldly ahead.  He knew where he was and where he was going.  Didn’t he?

He didn’t see any other street sign for some time, and was starting to feel anxious as he had yet to see another living soul, when he blundered upon a sign that indicated he had arrived at the British Museum.  “Now how in heck did I do that?” he asked of himself in a loud voice.  “I must have made the wrong turn back at that last intersection.”  He had been walking almost exactly opposite to the way he wanted to go. He was heading away from Portsmouth Street and The Old Curiosity Shop.

He made what he thought would be the necessary correction to his journey, and went on walking rapidly to make up the time.  The fog seemed to be thickening, resulting in the lack of visibility one would have if suddenly immersed into an ocean of pea soup.  Franklin had heard that comparison of thick fog to pea soup, but he had never appreciated it until now.

He began to whistle once more, but quickly stopped when an enormously large, lighted Christmas tree hove into view, emerging suddenly from the fog as a ghostly, glowing giant.  Each of the tree’s many lights glistened with multi-layered halos in the thick fog, giving the strange impression that the entire tree was quietly vibrating and winking coyly in the foggy December air.

“Covent Garden” he said to himself in an astonished tone.  From his research on the world wide web during the past few weeks he knew that a large lighted tree was put up each Christmas season at the former fruit and vegetable market that in modern times had emerged as a place for leisure and entertainment.  He was still going in the wrong direction.

“C’mon, Doyle” he said to himself in a loud and angry voice, “get a handle on yourself.  You’ve always been good at directions.  I studied the map thoroughly.  I can find my way.”  Then suddenly looking around, he began to fear that someone would see him talking to himself.  Still, no one was there.  This fact was beginning to spook him.  He hadn’t seen anyone at all since his conversation with the hotel manager.  Did that guy put some sort of a curse upon him?

He kept walking in the direction he thought would get him back to the hotel.  He’d given up trying to find Portsmouth Street.  He began to feel that the irritating night manager had been right, and he had been wrong.  He should have waited until tomorrow, or at least for the fog to lift.

He couldn’t say what time it was, or how long he’d been walking, because he didn’t wear a wristwatch and had forgotten to put his cell phone into his pocket when he changed clothes at the hotel.  He knew he couldn’t call anyone unless he could spot one of those distinctive tall London phone booths of red.  Yet, strangely, he hadn’t seen a phone booth for some time.

In fact, for some time he hadn’t seen much of anything that seemed familiar.  The thickening fog seemed to bring with it an eerie silence.  He no longer heard the sound of automobile engines trying to find their way on the nearby roadways.

And still, he had yet to hear a human voice or see a person on the fog-filled streets of the city.  And, most disturbing of all, the surrounding buildings seemed to have shrunk down, growing squatter, darker, more ominous looking in the all-enshrouding darkness of heavy fog.

Franklin had always been such a careful, prudent, cautious man.  That’s why he had delayed so long in asking Veronica to marry him.  Too long, in fact, as she finally had left him.  It wasn’t his style to act precipitously, he would tell her often.  Finally she did act precipitously, and left him completely alone.

But now that he had acted on a whim, in a major way, his world of reality was collapsing around his head and shoulders.  Feeling chilled, he tightened the collar of his light jacket around his neck and tramped on into the silence of the night.

Finally, a voice came up at him out of the pervasively cold and dark fog.

“’ere ya’ar govner” it said, “this way.  Master Scrooge is waiting fer ya.  Come this way.”

A flaring torchlight of fire approached him out of the darkness.  Within the glow of the burning torch Franklin saw a ruddy-faced young man dressed in what appeared to be the costume of a workman from the early nineteenth century, 200 years ago.

“’ere now,” he said, “just follow me.”  Glancing back over his shoulder, he smiled and added, “we don’t get too many Yanks nowadays, not since the war ended.”

“Who is we?” Franklin asked, falling into step behind the torch bearer.

“You’ll see” said the strangely dressed young man.  “You’ll see.”

The sound of horses’ hoofs approached from behind them, echoing hollowly in the surrounding fog.  Suddenly the man ahead of Franklin jumped sharply to the right.

“Out of the way!” shouted a voice from high up and behind them.  “Get out of the way.  You there, move to the right.”

Franklin felt, rather than heard, the wheezing of several horses close behind him, the warmth of the air escaping from their nostrils.  He leaped quickly to his right, conscious of an enormous wooden mass moving past in the darkness and the fog.

He turned to look, in time to see glowing carriage lamps sliding by and, from inside the carriage of the large, wooden omnibus, the faces of several people, men with whiskers and wearing high silk hats, women in bonnets, their eyes wide with surprise as they stared out at the frightened Franklin, dressed in jeans and a blue nylon jacket, scrambling to get out of their way.  Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the omnibus was swallowed up by the impenetrable fog, gone forever into the mists of time.

The sound of horses’ hoofs echoed slowly away in the cold night as Franklin stood up and brushed himself off.

“My God, what was that?” he asked the grinning torch bearer.

“Look to yer own safety, govner,” he said, “master Scrooge will be very upset if I don’t bring you in alive tonight.  You’ve come such a long way.”

Franklin stared at the workman.  “Who is this Scrooge?” he asked.

“Master Ebenezer Scrooge is your protector and benefactor,” he answered.

“Ebenezer Scrooge?  But he’s a fictional character.  He isn’t real.”

“Tell that to him,” said the workman, striding ahead confidently despite the thick fog.  Franklin increased his pace to make sure he didn’t lose sight of the flaring torch the man was carrying.

Together, they plunged on into the thickening fog until they came to an old, soot-encrusted gateway behind which a gloomy, low building breathed slowly in the fog.  At least to Franklin the low building seemed to breathe in the foggy night air, wheezing and gasping, like the flow of air into and out of Darth Vader’s lungs.

Then, as they approached the elaborate front door, Franklin realized that he was listening to his own agitated breathing.  The fog-obscured old house was silent and still as a tombstone, unlighted and unloved.  Franklin stopped to examine the knocker on the heavy wooden door.  No sign of Marley’s ghost.

“Everybody doest that,” said the workman.

“Doest what?”

“Looks for Marley’s face.  It only happened but once, almost two hundred years ago.”

“Umph,” said Franklin as they passed into the entrance hallway and began to climb up a flight of stairs wider than any he’d ever seen before.  At the landing they approached a cobweb encrusted doorway that didn’t in any way betray what was behind it.

The door began to open slowly, of its own accord, and the atmosphere inside the house underwent a drastic change.  Laughter flew out upon the air, deep, belly-wrenching laughter that made Franklin smile to hear it.  And as he smiled the glow of fire from an enormous hearth filled the passageway, warming him thoroughly and illuminating every detail of the old wooden hallway.

“Go through, govner’” said his companion, “they’re waiting for you.”

Franklin entered into the cavernous room that he’d seen on his computer a month earlier and an ocean away.  He was even more astonished than he had anticipated.  The hearth seemed larger, the mountain of food seemed broader and filled with more varied foods than he remembered, the steam from the punch bowls moistened and clouded the air with a warmth equal to that of the fire, and there, atop this mountain of goodies, sat the Ghost of Christmas Present.

“Come in,” said the ghost, still laughing, “We’ve been expecting you.

Waiting in the room, along with the enormous Ghost of Christmas Present who was outfitted in his loosely fitting green robe and holding aloft his burning torch, were two figures standing next to the giant hearth.  Each of these two eyed Franklin closely.  One of the men Franklin knew immediately as the reformed Ebenezer Scrooge.  There was no mistaking him.  The second was a stranger to him.  Though, somehow, the visiting American sensed that this personage was one of his countrymen.

“Howdy Franklin,” said the stranger, “my name is Ezekiel Oddbody.  I’m from the American embassy.”

“Oddbody,” repeated Franklin, “somehow that name sounds familiar.”

“I’m the grandson of Clarence Oddbody, who helped to save George Bailey from jumping off that bridge to his death in the movie, It’s A Wonderful Life.”

“Oh yes, how do you do Mr. Oddbody” said Franklin, feeling as though he must be asleep and in the midst of a dream.

“Just fine, thank you.  Shall we get started?” said the American to the other two spirits in the room.  “We’ve got a number of cases to deal with before Christmas arrives.”

“Right you are,” said the Ghost of Christmas Present.  “First we should know if Franklin has any idea why he’s here today.  Do you know why we summoned you to appear before us, Mr. Doyle?”

“No sir.”

“Think, man,” chimed in the energetic, smiling Ebenezer Scrooge.  “What sort of harsh thoughts have dominated your feelings this past Fall?”

“Well,” Franklin said slowly, “sometimes I’ve started to wonder why bother going on with my life. I mean, there doesn’t seem to be any particular reason for my existence.”

“Life is the reason, man,” Scrooge responded immediately.  “That’s the lesson of the three spirits who visited me.  Look around, are there any chains attached to my spirit?”

Franklin could see no attachments of the sort that encumbered Marley’s ghost.

“No sir,” he said.

“That’s because the spirits taught me that the purpose of life is to live fully in the present, the past, and in the future.  To engage fully in life.  We must embrace our lives, we should not shy away from our difficulties, we should struggle on.  We should help our fellows with their struggles as well.  That is life.

Ezekiel walked over to Franklin, took him by the arm and led him to a large, comfortable wing chair closer to the hearth with its roaring, warming fire.

The visitor from the Twenty-first century sat down and relaxed, feeling the warmth of the blaze penetrating into the sinews, organs and bones of his body.  He inhaled the sweet odor of the steaming goblets of punch, a steam that moistened the heat of the hearth fire, making it more soothing, as though he had just stepped out of a shower that featured aroma therapy.

He sighed happily, feeling completely relaxed after his desperate wanderings in the cold and darkness of an impenetrable fog.  Glancing up, he noticed the eyes of the Ghost of Christmas Present.  He was smiling broadly down at Franklin.

“Do you feel better?” the ghost asked.

“I do,” said Franklin.

“Are you going to contact Veronica when you get home?” asked Ezekiel, “are you going to go after her aggressively?”

“Should I?” asked Franklin.

“My God man, I said engage” said Ebenezer.  “We all must learn to involve in life.  Do what you can with what you have where you are.  Don’t waste your time complaining and feeling sorry for yourself.  Find someone who is in need of whatever help you can provide, then start helping.  One thing we spirits have all learned is that the life of the flesh goes by very quickly.  It’s now or never.  Instead of thinking about self-destruction, try to figure out who needs your help.”

“That is the secret of true happiness,” added the Ghost of Christmas Present.  “The more we help another, the more we help ourselves.  The spirit of the festival that celebrates the birth of the Son of Man is to give, as He did during his brief lifetime.  In giving of ourselves, each of us fulfills our destiny as human souls outward bound on a voyage to eternity.  In giving our life to our fellow human beings, we find the true purpose of our existence.  That, ultimately, is what Christmas is all about.”

Ebenezer and Ezekiel burst into applause at the ghost’s stirring words.  Franklin felt curiously changed by the effect of the fire’s warmth and the steaming bowls of Christmas punch as well as by the words of the Ghost of Christmas Present.

He sensed something going on deep within himself, though couldn’t yet say what it was.  A sort of rearranging of his basic attitudes and perceptions.  He felt less cautiously anxious about life, and more willing to lend a hand wherever he could be of help to anyone.

“And one more thing,” Ezekiel said.  “Tell your neighbor to bless the marriage of her mother, not to block it.  It was meant to happen.”

“Miss Saunders?” said Franklin.  “Her mother is getting married?  But she’s 98 years old.  She’ll never get to see her grandchildren.”

“Don’t be so literally linear, Franklin” said the man from the American embassy.

“And don’t forget man, engage in life!” added Ebenezer, who seemed to be fading in and out of focus in the steam-clogged room.  He faded more, and suddenly was gone.

Franklin grinned, perplexed, and kept looking up to see a jovial faced man in a wig beaming down upon him.  “Why, I’ll bet it’s old Fezziwig,” he thought to himself.

“C’mon, Franklin,” said old Fezziwig.  “Let’s dance.  Christmas time again.”

The room had filled with people, at least forty or more, and two fiddlers.  The music started as people arranged themselves into couples.  Franklin was yanked out of his chair and found himself facing a smiling young woman of flashing, dark brown eyes and blonde hair.  He began to dance, finding that he knew the steps without having been taught.

Franklin would remember this evening as one of exhilaration and glorious happiness.  From the warmth of the fire-heated room to the delicious odors of the steaming Christmas punch to the smiles and merriment of the numerous dancing couples dressed in the styles of the 1840s, Franklin gave himself fully to the celebration of the Christmas season in Victorian London.

He danced until he dropped, literally.  Falling into the comfortably large wing chair following his twentieth dance, Franklin soon fell fast asleep as the riotous fiddling, dancing and happiness stormed on around the room.  He snored away with a big smile on his face.

He was still smiling broadly when two London policemen escorted him into the lobby of the Thistle Bloomsbury Hotel.

“We found this Yank in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, fast asleep under a tree,” explained the older bobby to the tall night manager.  “He claims to be a guest at this establishment.  Is that right?”

“That’s right.  He is.”  The night manager smirked, as though adding silently “I told you so.”

Franklin’s grin widened when he recognized the man who had told him not to go out into the fog the previous night.

“Quick, what’s your name, man?” he asked of the hotel employee.

“Nigel.”

“Well, Nigel,” said the grinning Franklin as he leaned forward to shake hands, “let me be the first to wish you a Merry Christmas Eve.  You were right, I was wrong.  But I’d do it all again if I had the chance.  The most enjoyable time I ever had anywhere.  And the fog made it all that more exciting.  Remember, there’s more to this life than is dreamed of in your philosophy, Nigel.”

The puzzled hotel employee shook the hand of his guest, the smirk gone from his face.

“You find sleeping outside under a tree in December exciting” asked the younger bobby, who’d been told by his parents that all Americans were slightly daft anyway.

“It was the dream I dreamed,” answered Franklin.  “If it was a dream.”

At that precise moment he noticed a distinguished looking, well dressed man exiting from the hotel lobby.  Franklin knew he had seen him recently, but where?  The gentleman paused before going out the door.  Looking back at Franklin, he smiled, winked and went out.

“Scrooge!” shouted Franklin.  “Why, it’s Ebenezer Scrooge alive in the Twenty-first century and dressed in modern clothing.”  He burst away from the two policemen, ran across the lobby and out onto the sidewalk in front of the hotel.

“Blimey” said the older bobby, “I do believe he’s daft.  Ebenezer Scrooge!  Blimey.  Maybe we should call the hospital.”  The two policemen looked at each other, then took off in hot pursuit across the lobby and out onto the sidewalk.

They found Franklin looking anxiously all around him.  Nowhere to be seen was the man who had just winked at Franklin and walked out of the hotel.  The policemen each grabbed one of Franklin’s arms and escorted him back into the hotel lobby.

It took more than an hour for Franklin to convince the bobbies that he wasn’t insane, that he was merely feeling the after effects of having spent the night outside because he got lost in the cold and the fog.  They finally relented, recorded his name and address, told him to enjoy his vacation in London and to contact the American embassy if he felt anymore strange urges or saw anymore “characters from stories” winking at him.

Franklin said he would follow their advice.  He thanked them for their help and wished that everybody enjoyed A very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Then he enjoyed a lavish and traditional English Christmas Dinner, as detailed in the stories of Charles Dickens, at the hotel dining room.  Courtesy of the Thistle company, on the recommendation of the night manager, the dinner was the most memorable holiday meal that Franklin ever had.

The next day was Christmas.  He spent the holiday and the day after, known as Boxing Day in Great Britain and several of her former colonies, seeing the sights of Central London after attending church to honor the significance of Christmas.

He walked to Portsmouth Street to finally visit The Old Curiosity Shop, then branched out.  He went to the British Museum and Covent Gardens, marveling at the magnificence of the large tree, though thinking the Rockefeller Center tree slightly larger.

Each of these places seemed so much nicer in the clear light of day than they had been in the fog.  And he gloried in the presence of so many people on holiday and out and about, jostling elbow to elbow.  During his experience, it was the loneliness that bothered him most.

He went on during the next few days to visit St. Paul’s Cathedral, The City, Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace, The Globe, Trafalgar Square, Hyde Park, the new and gigantic Ferris Wheel known as the London Eye, and enjoyed numerous other sights before heading back to Heathrow.

On his way home he reread, for probably the fortieth time, A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens.  This time, though, he felt as though he were reading a letter from old friends whom he had known since childhood and whom he had recently revisited.  And, in a way, he was.

At his apartment a note was waiting from his neighbor, who had traveled out West to see her mother for the holidays, as she always did.  As requested in the note, he traveled to the veterinarian hospital to pick up Lord Fauntleroy and Felix, who were so happy to see him they didn’t stop purring, and eating his food, for the next several days.  They were noticeably fatter when their owner finally arrived home from Arizona.

“It was a beautiful wedding,” said Miss Saunders, “I haven’t seen mother so happy in forty years.  And he’s a lovely man.  I just don’t know why I was so worried.  Mother has such magnificent sense.  That’s where I get mine from, y’know.”  She smiled.

Franklin coughed politely, and grinned, not knowing what else to say or do.

“Have you heard from Veronica, by the way?” asked Miss Saunders.  “She called here right after you left for London.”

“I called her from the airport on my cell phone.  We’re to get together for dinner this weekend.  We may discuss getting back together again” said Franklin, wondering if the influence of the spirits was at work in this.  “We may formalize our arrangement with a ring.”

“Oh Franklin, that’s wonderful,” said Miss Saunders.  “And guess what.”

“What?”

“I met someone at mother’s wedding.  The son of my new stepfather.  He’s a widower with two grown children and he said he’s coming east in the Spring, just to visit me.”

“So that’s why you let the wedding take place.”

“What?” said Miss Saunders, pretending not to hear Franklin’s nasty comment.

Franklin immediately felt bad for his unprovoked comment.  It was an unfortunate habit of his, severely judging the behavior of others merely because his life was boring.  Who was he to pass judgment on anyone.  He thought of the Ghost of Christmas Present, and of Scrooge, and relented.

“I said,” Franklin continued, “that your mother’s wedding may not be the only one to take place in your family this year.”

“Oh Franklin,” said Miss Saunders with a big, toothy smile, “you’re just too nice.”

“Maybe,” muttered Franklin under his breath, “and maybe not.  Time will tell.”

Author's note:  This story is presented with due respect for and gratitude to Mr. Charles Dickens, whose genius not only furnished materials for my modest effort at seasonal entertainment of family and friends, but whose immortal story A Christmas Carol has given me so much unvarying pleasure each year for more than four decades, despite the ups and downs of my existence.  It is a story that, for me, has indeed often awakened some loving and forbearing thoughts, never out of season in a Christian land.  (Sentences in italic print are direct quotes from A Christmas Carol.)

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