Tim Cratchit's Christmas Carol (2 page)

“I don't believe it,” Mrs. Cratchit declared. “That old miser would die before he parted with an extra farthing.”

“It's true, dear,” Bob Cratchit insisted. “I've never seen Mr. Scrooge like that. We sat for an hour this afternoon, talking. He asked a lot of questions about our family, Tim in particular.”

“I'm surprised that he even knew you had a family, Bob.”

“I was, too, dear, but he seemed to know a good bit about us. Why, from a few things he said about hoping we had a good Christmas dinner, I think he's the one who sent the turkey yesterday. Who else could have done it?”

“Well, I hope you're right, Bob. I'll not believe any of it until I see the proof.”

Tim smiled at the recollection of his mother's skepticism. She had always been the realist in the family, Bob the optimist. Tim had shared his mother's doubts. She and the children had despised Ebenezer Scrooge, blaming his greed for the family's struggles. But with his stomach filled to bursting with turkey left over from Christmas dinner, Tim dared to hope that his father was right, and that old Scrooge might truly have undergone a change of heart. After all, it was Christmas, a time when good things were supposed to happen.

The sudden stop as the carriage arrived at his front door shook Tim from his reverie. He was out the door before Henry could dismount from the driver's seat and open it for him, a habit that Tim had observed left his coachman more amused than chagrined.

“That's all right, Henry,” he said, waving toward the carriage house. “You and the horses get inside and warm up.”

Entering the large, well-lit foyer, Tim was greeted by his maid. Bridget Riordan was a pretty Irish girl, with long, flaming red hair pinned up under her white cap, numberless freckles on her cheeks and small nose, and green eyes that always seemed to sparkle with happiness. She took Tim's top hat, coat, and scarf. “Dinner will be ready in a half hour, Doctor,” she announced, “so you can rest a bit if you'd like.”

“Thank you, Bridget,” Tim replied, watching her walk gracefully toward the kitchen. He loosened his cravat as he climbed the stairs, thought briefly of skipping the meal and going directly to bed, and decided that he could not afford the luxury since he had a long evening of work ahead of him.

As usual, Tim dined alone. At the time he had purchased the large house, Tim had expected that he would one day need the space for the family he hoped to have. However, the demands of his practice and the memory of his one previous and unsuccessful attempt at courtship kept him from actively pursuing any romantic interests. Now he sometimes wondered whether he would spend the rest of his life a bachelor, without the happiness he had enjoyed as a child in the crowded and bustling Cratchit home.

Solitary meals in the cavernous dining room always seemed to dim Tim's pleasure despite the hot, tasty food that Bridget prepared. When he had hired them after buying the house, he had often insisted that she, Henry, and William, the gardener, join him in the dining room. But the trio had been servants since their childhood, and their previous masters, who had not shared Tim's lack of concern with class distinctions, had impressed upon them the idea that it was improper for servants to associate with their master outside the scope of their duties. The dinner conversations had been stilted, with Tim trying to make conversation and Bridget, Henry, and William replying in monosyllables punctuated by “sir.” Tim had quickly given up the experiment, yet he still could not help feeling a pang of sadness, mixed with a bit of jealousy, every time the sound of their friendly conversation and laughter in the serving room rose high enough for him to hear. Still, he admitted that all three servants had warmed to him over the past two years, and had grown more willing to engage him in informal conversation. Perhaps one day they could dine together without the awkwardness of his previous attempts, he thought.

Shortly after nine o'clock, Tim retired to his upstairs study. There each night he reviewed the next day's cases, looked up information in his medical books that he might need, and, if time permitted, read the most recent scientific journals to keep up to date on the latest advances in medicine and surgery. At one time he had contributed his share of new knowledge to the medical profession, but for the last several years he just could not find the time to do so. He really didn't have the opportunity, anyway. How could he devise innovative treatments, he asked himself, when most of the patients he saw, like the duchess, had nothing seriously wrong with them to begin with?

Having finished his preparation for the next day's work, Tim drew out his pocket watch. Not quite half past ten. He reached across the wide mahogany desk for the latest issue of the
Lancet
, which had lain unread for more than a week. Tim pushed it aside. It would have to wait until he had researched Jonathan's condition. Tim walked over to the bookcase, scanned several volumes, removed a reference book, and returned to his chair. The coal fire that Bridget had stoked was still burning strongly; he would see if he could find confirmation of his suspicions regarding the boy's problem, or alternative, less dire diagnoses, before retiring. Balancing his chair upon its two rear legs, he put his feet on the desk and opened the volume.

Tim did not know how long he had been reading. It seemed he had gone over the same paragraph a dozen times without registering the information in his mind when he felt how cold the study had become. He glanced toward the fireplace, where a single small log emitted a parsimonious warmth. The room seemed dark—looking over his shoulder at the gas lamp, he was surprised to see only a candle in a tin wall sconce, flickering in a chill breeze that came through a cracked windowpane. Strange, Tim thought, he was certain Bridget had closed the curtains. And when had the window broken?

His eyes better adjusted to the gloom, Tim turned back toward the fireplace. His surprise turned to shock when he looked down at his legs and saw that the new black trousers he had been wearing were now coarse brown cloth through which he could see the outline of his legs, withered and weak. The elegant marble of the fireplace had been replaced by cracked, ancient bricks. Leaning against them was a crutch. His childhood crutch.

Tim stared at the hearth, baffled, for how long he did not know. Then he started to get up, reaching for the crutch, only to find that his legs were so weak he could not stand. He gazed at his extended right hand. It was that of a child. He leaned back in his chair, rubbed his eyes, and when he looked around again, he was back in his own comfortable study. The gas lamp burned brightly, the fire still blazed in its marble enclave. There was no crutch to be seen. He flexed his legs. They were strong. He shuddered, perplexed at what had occurred. Although he was quite sure that he had not fallen asleep, he reassured himself that it must have been a dream. Not surprising, considering his thoughts about Jonathan, and the unavoidable realization that the boy's plight reminded him so much of his own childhood illness. Tim stood, uneasy, and dropped the reference book on the desk before heading to bed.

Standing over the washbasin, he poured water from a pitcher into the ceramic bowl. He wet a washcloth and rubbed his face. Even in the light of the single gas lamp, he could see the creases beginning to form on his forehead, the dark circles under his blue eyes. A few strands of gray were sprinkled through his blond hair. He thought he looked at least a decade older than his thirty-two years. Combined with his short stature and thinness, Tim reflected that in a few years he would look like a wizened old man.

Too much work, that was the cause, he thought. Unpleasant work. And now he also had to do something about Jonathan Whitson, who had what was likely a malignant tumor. A boy not yet four, probably sentenced to death by nature before his life had a chance to begin. Five years ago, Dr. Timothy Cratchit would have tackled the child's case enthusiastically and with optimism. Now he was reduced to performing fake surgeries to placate hypochondriacs.

Ginny Whitson had met him years earlier, and believed in his abilities. He only wished that he shared her confidence.

Chapter 2

“A
re you feeling all right, Doctor?” Bridget asked when Tim took his seat at the table for breakfast the next morning. Her eyes showed genuine concern.

“Just tired, thank you,” he replied. “I stayed up a bit later than I should have.” A platter of eggs and thinly sliced beef steamed on the table in front of him.

“You'll want to eat all that to make it through the day,” Bridget advised. “I know you'll have an emergency or two and not get another meal until supper. And you're too thin already, sir, if I may say so.”

“Thank you, Bridget, I will,” Tim said appreciatively. He did not mind her taking liberties with advice, since she showed as much care for his welfare as his mother did. In fact, when Mrs. Cratchit visited, the two women always joined forces to urge him to rest more and eat better. He smiled at the thought.

“Another thing, sir,” Bridget continued. “Christmas is less than two weeks away. Will you be having your family and friends over as usual for a dinner party? If so, I'll have to post the invitations soon, and Henry and William will want to decorate the house.”

“I hadn't realized December was so far along,” Tim admitted, momentarily stunned that in all the bustle of work he had forgotten the Cratchit family's Christmas tradition. “Please, just go ahead and take care of everything as you do each year. We'll have the party a week from Saturday.”

“Very good, sir,” Bridget approved, standing by until Tim finished the last of his breakfast. Then she handed him his coat, gloves, scarf, and top hat, and watched from the door as he climbed into his carriage. She heard footsteps behind her and turned to see William coming down the hall, ready for breakfast.

“How are you today, dear?” the stocky gardener inquired.

“Quite all right, considering I don't sleep half the morning like you do,” she teased. William was a conscientious worker, despite not being an early riser. “You'll have to earn your pay now, trimming the house for Christmas.”

“Ah, so he did remember,” William said, sauntering alongside Bridget toward the serving room. “The poor fellow's so distracted, I thought he might not get around to thinking about it until July.”

“He's distracted, it's true, and I'm worried about him,” she said. “He works too hard, never laughs anymore, and he's getting thinner by the hour. Sometimes I look at him and he's so pale, I think he's a ghost.”

William stroked his bushy mustache, contemplating her words. “I've worked for a half dozen different masters,” he finally said, “and the doctor's by far the best of the lot. Some of them were cruel, others cold and dismissive, and one I almost never set eyes on, so when I came to work here, I thought, This fellow is just a good and decent man. And he is, but he's not the same as he used to be. I don't know how to explain it.”

“I agree,” Bridget said, heaping food on William's plate and then sitting down and pouring each of them a cup of tea. “It's the small things that have changed. He always used to ask me about my family, compliment me on my work. Now he hardly says a word. It's rush off to his office in the morning, hurry upstairs after supper, six days a week. He almost never has guests anymore, hardly sees his family. It's not good for him, if you ask me.”

“You've put your finger on it, dear. But it's not our place to say anything to him about it.”

“Well,” Bridget declared, “proper or not, if this goes on much longer, I'll have a word with him. Or with Mrs. Cratchit. It's for his own good, after all. If he doesn't stop working 'round the clock, he's liable to suffer a nervous collapse before we get too far into the new year.”

Tim arrived at his office as the first rays of sunlight began to brighten the day. The cold wind had died down, and wisps of fog had begun to coalesce once again, promising another round of gloomy darkness by afternoon. The darkened building, a rectangular Georgian mansion like Tim's own house, loomed at the end of the walk. The ground floor had been divided into two office suites, Tim's on the left and his partner Dr. Eustace's on the right. The third member of the practice had once occupied the upper floor, which since his departure had become the residence of Eustace's clerk.

Tim entered, lit the lamps, and sat in his consulting room, leaving the outer door locked. Opening the desk drawer in search of reference books that might shed more light on Jonathan's condition, he removed an unfinished manuscript and scanned the first few lines. From his experience treating the poor, he had concluded that there was a link between the many respiratory diseases that afflicted them and the choking fog that plagued London. The smoke from innumerable coal fires and the ash and foul particles that poured from hundreds of factory chimneys seemed the chief cause of the fog, and therefore of the multiplicity of lung ailments. He had written a draft of the article, intending to publish it as soon as he finished comparing the number of cases of respiratory diseases in the worst parts of London with those in the countryside, where the air was clean. It was just a question of finding the time.

The thundering of fists against the outer door interrupted Tim's thoughts. A glance at his watch told him that it was a quarter to eight, fifteen minutes before his first patient was due. He opened the door to find the rotund figure of the Honorable Thomas Thorne, member of Parliament for Middlesex, arm raised to strike the door another blow.

“Why do you lock out your patients when you are inside?” Thorne asked in a huff. Tim apologized and ushered the ponderous Thorne into the waiting room.

“At least you're here, Doctor,” Thorne boomed by way of his own apology. “I simply cannot afford any delay. The House will be in session in a few hours, and I have a meeting before the session with a group of merchants about the export subsidy bill.”

Tim escorted his patient into the consulting room, where he asked the reason for Thorne's visit. “My ankle, Doctor,” he replied. “Since the onset of this cold weather, it has not ceased to be stiff and painful.” Thorne, whose cheeks and nose were marked by a web of red lines that testified to his fondness for drink, had fallen down the stairs one night after imbibing too much. Tim had set the broken tibia and fibula, and the bones had healed nicely.

“Of course, sir, the weather is partly responsible,” Tim explained. “But as I've told you, you absolutely must walk every day to strengthen the muscles and relieve the stiffness. Remember, too, what I said about overindulging in food and drink.”

“You're quite right, Doctor,” Thorne acquiesced. “Yet it's so unpleasant to go about on foot in this cold. And with all the festivities of the season, it's difficult to limit one's consumption of food, or to refuse the offer of drink. When the new year arrives, I assure you, I will eat less and walk a mile each and every day!”

“Excellent, sir,” Tim enthused, even though he knew that Thorne had no intention of keeping his promise. The patient came slowly to his feet, then very deliberately reached for a sack and removed a brightly wrapped package. It was tall and round, and Tim easily guessed its contents.

“A Christmas gift for you, Doctor,” he announced. “Enjoy it with my compliments.”

Tim opened the door to the waiting room, and relaxed a bit on seeing his clerk, Richard Beckham, seated at his desk. Two more people were already in the waiting room, and Tim suppressed a groan. Mrs. Archibald Crompton, wife of one of London's wealthiest merchants, and her daughter, Jane, rose to enter the consulting room. Mrs. Crompton, attired in a blue velvet dress over a massive crinoline, looked like a bell that had escaped from a cathedral tower. She carefully maneuvered herself through the doorway. Her daughter, who was clad more simply in a black frock, followed behind.

Mrs. Crompton was a tall, thin woman with a haughty air. Although she dressed in the finest silks and furs that her husband's money could buy, her luxurious attire could not disguise the fact that she was absolutely devoid of either outer or inner beauty. Her closely spaced eyes looked down a long, pointed nose with disdain on anyone she considered inferior, which was nearly everyone she encountered. Above her prominent chin, a wide mouth with thin lips was set in a permanent frown. Her facial expression mirrored her attitude, reflecting the displeasure she felt at virtually everything she set her eyes upon.

Tim did not particularly like Mrs. Crompton, but his antipathy toward her was mitigated by the presence of her daughter, Jane, who always accompanied her mother to Tim's office. Tim watched Jane as she approached. She was slim and blond, and he considered her very pretty; he found her green eyes captivating. Unlike her mother, she seemed to have a pleasant personality, at least so far as Tim could judge based on their limited earlier conversations. Tim had been attracted to Jane's understated beauty since the first time the pair had visited, and had tried to get to know her, but her mother seldom let either of them say more than a few words. Mrs. Crompton preferred to monopolize any discussion, keeping the focus on herself. Tim suspected that her mother's insistence upon dominating every situation might explain why Jane was still unmarried at the age of twenty-six, and why Jane almost constantly wore a serious expression. Tim had seldom seen her smile.

Tim appraised both mother and daughter at a glance and concluded that today Jane was the one in need of his services. Her skin was pale, and the circles under her eyes were as dark as those he had seen beneath his own eyes the previous evening. Jane offered him a strained smile when she noticed that he was observing her.

“Good morning, Miss Crompton,” Tim said. “Please come in.”

Mrs. Crompton had nudged Jane aside at the doorway to make certain that she entered the consulting room first. When they were seated, Tim asked Jane how she was feeling.

“I'm all right, Doctor,” she replied after a moment's hesitation. “Just a bit—”

Before she could say anything more, Mrs. Crompton interrupted, making it clear that she, and not her daughter, was the one suffering from another of her interminable string of maladies.

“Doctor,” she intoned in her shrill voice, skipping any kind of greeting, “you absolutely must do something for my condition. For the past two days I have been afflicted with the most terrible eye irritation, sneezing, and congestion. It is simply intolerable.”

After an examination failed to reveal the slightest trace of these symptoms, Tim suspected that they were an allergic reaction to something in the Crompton house. The large number of cat hairs on his patient's gown allowed him to deduce the cause. “Do you have cats, Mrs. Crompton?” he asked.

“Why, yes, Doctor,” she replied. “I am the proud owner of seven Persian cats. I acquired them a few months ago, and they are absolute beauties. However, I fail to see what that has to do with anything. I suggest you devote your attention to my illness, not my pets,” she said with asperity.

Struggling to maintain his composure despite his mounting frustration, Tim explained that his question had been intended to help diagnose her condition. “And where do these cats stay, madam?” he risked asking.

“Normally, Doctor, they have the run of the house and grounds, though I fail to see what that has to do with my affliction. But now that it's gotten so cold, I keep them indoors all the time. The little darlings spend most of their time in my room.”

“There is your problem, Mrs. Crompton,” Tim explained. “You clearly have a mild allergy to cats, or, more specifically, to their fur. When the weather is good and the cats are in and out of the house, and the windows open, you have no symptoms. But with the cats confined to the house, and especially with them in your room for long periods, the hair triggers your allergic reaction. I'm sure you've noticed that you have no symptoms now that you're out of the house.”

Mrs. Crompton pondered the unwelcome information. She could not deny its accuracy. “I suppose you're right, Doctor,” she admitted. “What do you suggest I do? Surely you don't expect me to get rid of my darlings?”