Tim Cratchit's Christmas Carol (13 page)

“Well,” she asked Archibald, “are you going to sit there all afternoon, or are we going shopping?”

Chapter 12

T
im, having no appointments after three o'clock, was tempted to go home early. Yet he dared not leave the office empty; if a patient should arrive with a real or imagined emergency and he was absent, Dr. Eustace would certainly learn of it and let loose another storm of wrath.

Unwilling to waste the rest of the afternoon in idleness, Tim spent the remaining hours studying anatomical charts, calculating exactly where the nerves and blood vessels were located in relation to Jonathan's tumor. He diagrammed the size and location of the tumor on a sheet of onionskin paper, then superimposed it on the charts of the circulatory and nervous systems. All of this information would be essential should he decide to operate on the boy. The more Tim pondered Jonathan's case, the more he believed that surgery offered the only hope of improvement. Unfortunately, it was just as likely to end in paralysis, or even death.

Tim jotted several pages of notes, and had just leaned back in his chair when he heard the first chime of six o'clock. Emerging from the office a few minutes later, he found Henry waiting at the curb. The coachman greeted him with an unusually bright smile. Tim almost asked him why he was so happy, considered that it might have something to do with Bridget and therefore was none of his business, and settled for a simple “Good evening.”

At home Tim learned the reason for Henry's cheery demeanor. Tim walked inside to find Ginny Whitson setting the dining room table, while Bridget sat by the fire cradling Jonathan in her arms. The housekeeper greeted him with a smile, her green eyes glowing with delight. She knew how worried Tim had been about the missing pair.

“Good evening, Bridget,” Tim said, “and Miss Whitson, I'm very glad to see you and Jonathan. I've been trying to find you and have been very concerned.”

“That's what the gentleman said,” Ginny replied, without interrupting her work. “He found us last night and gave me money for a cab and told us where you lived. I got the first cab I could find in the morning and came right over.”

“Who was this gentleman?” Tim asked.

“The same kind old man who directed me the day I was looking for your office. White hair and a long nose and pointy chin. I don't know his name, but I saw his initials on his cufflinks. E.S.”

Smart woman, Tim thought. Very observant. He ran through a list of his friends and acquaintances in his mind, trying to match the initials. The only person he could think of, and who might be charitable enough to search for Ginny and Jonathan on a cold winter night, was the Reverend Ethan Strong, vicar of his parish, St. Joseph's. Although he had not told Strong about Ginny and Jonathan, the priest spent a fair amount of time ministering to the poor and might have learned about them from someone in the network Tim had activated. Strong was in his midfifties—Tim did not consider him old—but to Ginny, who was not much older than twenty, he might well have seemed elderly. And while the priest did not have a pointy chin, his nose was certainly prominent. Tim would ask him about the matter on Sunday.

His musings were interrupted when the door to the serving pantry opened with a clang. Tim was amazed to see a young girl, clearly a street urchin although she had obviously been cleaned up, carrying a serving tray. Apparently the door had started to swing shut after she pushed it open, hitting the tray and knocking the cover loose, which had caused the noise. The girl was wearing one of Bridget's frocks, pinned up at the bottom to shorten it, but the skirt still dragged on the floor, forcing the girl to walk carefully. Arriving at the table, she slid the tray across it.

“Bone appeteet, sir,” she said, removing the cover with a flourish. “I heard somebody say that once in a gen'lman's house where I was sewing.”

Tim smiled. She was a plucky little girl. She reminded him of his sister Belinda, and he immediately took a liking to her.

“Good evening, miss,” Tim said with a bow. The girl giggled. “May I ask your name?”

“'Liz'beth, sir, like the old queen. Not the old queen we have now, but the one who was old back in olden times,” she explained. “But I rather be called Lizzie, 'cause I aren't a queen.”

“I suppose not,” Tim said with a grin. “And do you have a last name?”

“Andrews, sir, but I never use it, 'cause I don't like my pa 'cause he took a new wife and they don't want me.”

“Well, I can understand how you feel, Lizzie,” Tim said. “You are welcome here. Now let's see what you've brought me for dinner.”

Bridget had prepared mutton and potatoes for dinner, and Lizzie stared when she saw the large amount of food. Noticing her reaction, and having already observed how thin she was, Tim announced, “There's enough here for all of us. Will you join me?”

“Yes, sir!” Lizzie said, eyes wide with delight. She pulled out the chair to Tim's right, seated herself, took a small plate that had been part of Tim's place setting, and began spooning food into it.

Bridget looked at Tim, saw the amusement in his eyes, and said nothing. Instead, she called Ginny back to the servants' pantry, where she handed Jonathan to Henry. Then she and Ginny carried additional plates and silverware into the dining room. William, arriving from the carriage house where he had been repairing his gardening tools, helped. Soon they were all seated in the dining room, sharing a meal. Jonathan sat on Ginny's lap, barely able to hold himself up. Ginny mashed some pieces of potato, soaked them in broth from the meat, and fed them to her son, whose eyes lit up when he tasted the warm meal.

“It's so good!” he murmured to his mother.

Tim smiled. He liked the boy, and he found Ginny's affection for Jonathan endearing. Although she had led a hard life, Ginny's difficulties seemed only to have increased her love for her son.

“I wouldn't feed him too much, Miss Whitson,” Tim cautioned. “It's richer food than he's probably used to, and too much might make him sick.”

“Yes, sir,” Ginny said. She was clearly not used to sitting at the dinner table in a gentleman's home, and kept casting inquiring glances toward Bridget. Oblivious to the violation of etiquette, Lizzie repeatedly broke chunks of bread from the loaf, dipped them in the broth, and alternated bites of mutton with the bread. A trickle of broth ran down her chin.

After dinner, Bridget asked Tim if she could speak to him for a moment. He excused himself and accompanied her to the pantry.

“Are Ginny, Jonathan, and Lizzie staying here tonight?” she asked.

“I hadn't really thought about it,” Tim admitted. He considered for a moment. “I can't think of another option. They can't go to the mission, and I don't want them out on the streets.”

“Then I'll get two of the spare rooms ready,” Bridget said.

When she had finished, Bridget led Ginny, Lizzie, and Jonathan to the servants' wing. Bridget offered Lizzie a room of her own, but the girl frowned at the mention of it. Evidently she had become attached to Ginny, and preferred her companionship to being alone. Henry and William moved an extra bed into the chamber for her.

Tim decided to look in on his guests and make sure they were comfortable; he also wanted to examine Jonathan, and to hear Ginny's explanation of why she had left the mission on Sunday afternoon. He tapped lightly on the chamber door, and Lizzie tugged it open a second later.

A quick check showed no change in Jonathan's condition, though Tim thought that the tumor had gotten a bit larger. Not a good sign. But he did not want to worry Ginny, so he simply told her that her son appeared no worse than he had been when Tim last examined him.

“Ginny, would you mind telling me what happened to you at St. Luke's?” Tim asked after Jonathan was tucked into bed.

Ginny related her confrontation with Mrs. Glastonbury, and the vicar's reaction.

“I'm sorry, Doctor,” she concluded. “I should have bit my tongue and been polite to the lady, even if she was rude to me.”

“Sometimes it's better to speak up, especially when you're right about things,” Tim replied. “The vicar will get no more donations from me.”

A look of consternation crossed Ginny's face. She opened her mouth to speak, then pressed her lips tightly together.

“What is it, Ginny?” Tim inquired.

“Pardon me for saying so, Doctor,” she said, “but it's the women and children there that will suffer, not the vicar.”

Tim paused, pondering the idea. “You're absolutely right, Ginny,” he declared.

After bidding Ginny and the children good night, Tim found Henry in the basement kitchen, where he and William were helping Bridget clean up.

“I hate to ask,” Tim told the coachman, “but would you mind going out with me on another excursion? I need to tell the people I asked to search for Ginny that she's been found.”

The coachman agreed, and went to harness the horses. Tim went up to his office and removed some coins from his strongbox. The weather was somewhat milder than it had been the previous night, but Tim bundled up since he intended to ride atop the coach. Hearing the clash of horseshoes on the cobbled drive, Tim went outside and climbed onto the driver's bench next to Henry, who gave the reins a shake and got the horses trotting toward the East End.

Tim succeeded in locating everyone he had met on his previous visit. He told them that the woman and child had been found, and gave them each a shilling for their efforts. The task completed, Henry steered the coach back toward home. Tim almost asked the coachman to stop at St. Joseph's, so that he could ask the Reverend Strong if indeed it was he who had helped Ginny and Jonathan. At the least he could repay the cab fare the priest had provided them. However, as they crossed the Thames, Tim could see the hands of Big Ben ticking toward eleven o'clock. He decided that his visit to the Reverend Strong could wait.

Chapter 13

A
t breakfast Thursday morning, Tim asked Bridget to take Ginny and Lizzie shopping to buy new dresses for Saturday's party. “I can't very well confine them to their room during the festivities,” Tim said. “And if they're going to attend the party, they'll have to dress for the occasion.”

“I'll take them this afternoon,” Bridget promised.

Patients were few, and Tim spent much of the time between appointments thinking about his party. The event had always been the highlight of his year. Now he envisioned Jane at his side, greeting his family and friends as they entered the house, dining with him, sharing pleasant conversation. The thought brightened his mood. Even an unscheduled and unwelcome visit from the Duchess of Wilbersham failed to dampen his spirits. After suturing the minor incision he had made when performing “surgery” on her the previous week, Tim had simply bandaged it and told her to have her maidservant wash the incision and change the dressing daily. The duchess insisted that she was feeling quite well since the surgery, but wanted to make sure that the incision had not become infected.

“Maids aren't doctors, as you well know,” she told Tim. “I want a qualified medical man to attend to this.”

Tim checked the cut, found that it was healing nicely, and informed the Duchess that he could remove the sutures. She agreed, and after completing that task Tim made a show of washing the area, applying ointment, and bandaging the incision. The duchess proclaimed herself satisfied. Tim actually managed to sound sincere when he wished her merry Christmas as she departed. The encounter was tolerable, he thought, and strengthened his resolution to reconcile himself to his situation, and make the best of his partnership with Dr. Eustace.

At noon a messenger arrived with a telegram from New York. Tim's colleague there said that Jonathan's situation might be corrected with surgery. There was considerable risk, but if Tim could send the boy across the Atlantic, the New York surgeon would be willing to undertake the operation. Tim drew some comfort from the message, which allowed him to hope that surgery could succeed. However, he doubted that Jonathan, weak as he was, could survive the rough winter voyage. He penned a reply while the messenger waited, explaining that the trip was not feasible, and expressing his thanks.

After the messenger left, Tim's thoughts turned to the child. He wondered what further advice might arrive from the two colleagues who had not yet replied to his queries, and how he would proceed if they were unable to help. He had some ideas of his own, based upon his research into Jonathan's condition and his years of surgical experience. Although the New York surgeon had given no details of how he would have conducted the operation, his belief that success was possible boosted Tim's optimism. Yet any surgery near the spine carried the risk of doing nerve damage, perhaps leaving the patient worse off than before the operation. Tim worried, too, about his own skills. When was the last time he had performed a serious operation? Constant practice kept a surgeon's skills sharp, and led to improvements as one became more familiar with actual, rather than textbook, anatomy. Tim feared that his skills had eroded considerably since joining Dr. Eustace's practice. Still, he reflected, it had been a long time since he had performed surgery to deliver a child, but the operation he had done on Molly Beckham had been capable work. She was recovering nicely, with no sign of complications. Maybe his skills were still there, Tim thought.

Richard Beckham would certainly have agreed with Tim's positive assessment of the operation on Molly. On that Thursday morning, he found his wife sitting up in bed, nursing Violet. The color had returned to Molly's cheeks, and the exhaustion she had felt for several days had gone.

“Don't you two look bright and cheery this morning!” Beckham declared, giving his wife and daughter each an affectionate pat.

“I'm feeling very well,” Molly announced. Then, seeing her husband's concerned expression, she added, “but that doesn't mean I'll be up and about. I'll continue to rest, just like Dr. Cratchit advised. We're in capable hands,” she noted, hearing the sounds of Mrs. Harrison preparing breakfast in the next room.

“Since you're feeling so well, and Mrs. Harrison is willing to stay here all morning, I was wondering if I should handle that errand we discussed,” Beckham said. He and Molly had decided the previous afternoon that they should buy a Christmas gift for Dr. Cratchit to show their gratitude.

“Go,” Molly advised. “You've been here with me for days, and you need to get out. Violet and I will be fine.”

Beckham set out after breakfast, walking to save cab fare. The day was overcast but not too cold. He headed to the fringe of the industrial district, where several shops sold professional goods and other items manufactured in the nearby mills.

As he got closer to his destination, Beckham found the sky growing darker, with the smoke from hundreds of factory chimneys seeming to thicken the low-hanging gray clouds. Particles of soot descended slowly and settled on his overcoat. He made a futile attempt to brush them away, but could not keep ahead of their accumulation.

He quickly found the shop he was seeking, where medical equipment was sold. Dr. Cratchit had sent him there occasionally to fetch a few items, although the last such errand had been several months ago, when Tim was still doing a bit of research.

Beckham left the empty street—this was not a district frequented by Christmas shoppers—and entered the small establishment. The shopkeeper emerged from behind a curtain that separated the storage area from the rest of the shop and greeted his customer.

“Can I help you find something?” the balding, middle-aged man asked, smoothing the front of his canvas apron.

“I'm looking for a gift for the doctor I work for,” Beckham explained. “I'm not sure what he needs. Do you have any suggestions?”

“Physician or surgeon?” the shopkeeper inquired.

“Both, actually.”

“Are you referring to Dr. Timothy Cratchit?”

“Why, yes,” Beckham said. “How did you know?”

“There aren't many medical men who are both. He was a good customer some years ago,” the shopkeeper observed, “back when he was doing a lot of medical research. How is he?”

“Quite busy, sir,” Beckham replied.

“Well, I'm not surprised,” the shopkeeper said. “If the doctor needs supplies for his practice, you'll find them on those shelves.” He pointed to a series of floor-to-ceiling cases along one wall. They contained stacks of bandages, bottles of disinfectants, suturing thread, scalpels, and other surgical tools.

“Now, if it's things for research the doctor needs, you'll want to look over there.” The man gestured toward the opposite wall, where beakers, microscopes, and other items that Beckham could not identify occupied the shelves.

Beckham studied the goods. His attention was drawn to a row of leather medical bags. Dr. Cratchit's bag was rather battered, and even if a new medical bag might not be the best choice, it was certainly the safest. Beckham knew that the doctor had all the medical instruments he needed.

“Now, here's something a doctor can use,” came a voice from behind. Beckham, who had not heard anyone enter the shop, nearly dropped the leather bag that he was examining. Turning, he saw a neatly dressed elderly gentleman studying a shelf of microscopes.

Beckham walked over to the shelf and examined the devices.

“Now, there's a fine piece for a researcher,” the shopkeeper said, joining them and pointing to a large microscope at the end of the shelf. “Just in yesterday, with the finest lenses ever made, and highest magnification yet.”

Beckham looked at the beautifully designed instrument. It would be an ideal gift if Dr. Cratchit still did research. But even if the doctor was engaged in research, it was clear that the microscope would cost far more than Beckham could afford.

“Dr. Cratchit would like to take up research once again,” the old gentleman said, as if reading the clerk's thoughts. “I am certain he could put an instrument like that to very good use.”

“You know Dr. Cratchit, sir?” the astonished clerk asked. “And how did you know that I'm his clerk?”

“Oh, Dr. Cratchit and I are old friends,” the gentleman said, his tone reassuring. “I have seen you at his office and recognized you as his clerk. Are you here to buy him a Christmas gift?”

“Yes,” Beckham answered. He did not remember ever having seen the elderly man before, though given the large number of patients who called on Dr. Cratchit, that was easily explained. But the man's ability to guess his purpose was somewhat unnerving.

“Then we are on the same errand,” the gentleman said with a laugh, “and we shall pool our resources and purchase this fine microscope. If you would be so kind as to fetch it from the shelf and box it,” he said to the shopkeeper, “we shall take it with us.”

“But sir,” Beckham said to the gentleman when he heard the shopkeeper state the microscope's price, “this is far more than I can afford.”

“If you will be so kind as to contribute what you can, I will take care of the remainder,” the old man said. Beckham, too stunned to speak, removed a few banknotes from his wallet. The elderly gentleman took them, counted out some currency of his own, and handed the money to the shopkeeper.

“Keep the difference, my good fellow,” the old man said. “Merry Christmas!”

Outside the shop, Beckham held the heavy parcel and turned to the generous old gentleman. “Would you like to deliver the gift to Dr. Cratchit, sir? I think it only proper, since you paid the lion's share of the purchase price.”

“No, I shall leave that to you,” the man said, his eyes sparkling. “I am too old to go wandering about with such a heavy package. I might drop it, and where would we be then?”

Beckham nodded, and bade the man farewell with profuse thanks. He had turned away and walked about fifty feet when he realized he had not asked the gentleman's name. He spun around, and to his amazement saw that there was no one on the street.

Tim enjoyed a cheerful homecoming that evening. Lizzie greeted him at the door, grabbed his hand, and tugged him into the dining room. There, in a corner near the sideboard, stood an eight-foot Christmas tree, decorated with white candles and red, blue, and gold glass ornaments that glittered in the gaslight.

“Isn't it the prettiest Christmas tree ever, sir?” Lizzie asked.

“It's absolutely beautiful.”

“When we were shopping I saw a man selling them, and I asked Bridget if we could get one, and she said yes, and we bought some shiny Christmas balls for it, too, and we put it on top of the coach and brought it home, and I never had a Christmas tree before, and thank you, and thank you for the fine gown.” Lizzie spoke in a torrent, until she was breathless and had to pause.

“You are welcome,” Tim said, making a half bow that caused Lizzie to giggle.

Bridget and Ginny entered from the servants' pantry, carrying dinner trays. Bridget smiled at the sight of Lizzie, still holding Tim's hand and pointing out the different ornaments.