Tim Cratchit's Christmas Carol (9 page)

“I wish you'd told me earlier,” Ginny retorted. “Now, thanks to their kindness and the noble vicar, Jonathan and I will have to sleep in an alley.”

Chapter 8

T
im felt more refreshed than he had in days when he awoke on Monday morning. After the previous afternoon's reflections, he had spent a quiet evening reading before going to bed early. Bridget prepared a large breakfast for him, and was pleased to see him consume most of it. “I'm not sure when I'll be home tonight,” Tim told her as he climbed into his coach. “Richard will be looking after his wife, so I'll have to stay late and take care of the books.”

When Henry returned from delivering Tim to his office, Bridget was waiting with a large basket and a suggestion.

“I haven't much to do here,” she said, “and seeing as how the doctor is without his clerk, I thought we could drive by the mission and check on Ginny. I've packed some food for her and the boy. Then you can leave me with the doctor. I can help him with the books, and there's a cold dinner in here for him and me.” She tapped the basket.

“That's fine, my dear,” Henry remarked, “but I'm hurt that you'd rather spend your day with the doctor's crabby patients instead of with me.” He smiled.

“You won't have time for me today,” Bridget said with a laugh. “While you were gone, William told me that he had decided to decorate the house for Christmas. He's off now buying about five miles of pine garland and a wagonload of holly. And he's counting on you to help him.”

“You're conspiring with him to keep clear of me. Maybe you have another gentleman courting you,” Henry joked.

Bridget's green eyes twinkled. “You've nearly guessed it. Truth is, I've asked Father Christmas to bring me a prince from one of the European royal houses. By the new year, I'll be living in a castle.”

“And I'll come and visit after the queen makes me royal ambassador,” Henry said. “Now, Your Ladyship, to your carriage.” The coachman bowed, sweeping his arm toward the door.

Tim had been struggling all morning to keep up with a waiting room overflowing with patients. An epidemic of head colds seemed to have struck London's wealthy, and in addition to his regular appointments, a throng of sneezing, runny-nosed sufferers clogged the office, hoping Tim could find time to see them. With his clerk absent, he lost time sorting out who had appointments and who didn't. It was with a deep sigh of relief that he opened his consulting room door at half past eleven to find Bridget at Beckham's desk, presiding over a now orderly if still crowded waiting room. He handed her a sheet of paper on which he had scrawled the records for that morning, along with the payments that had been given to him. Bridget winked and called the next patient.

By quarter after four, Tim had ushered out a patient and looked with a mixture of exhaustion and relief at an empty waiting room. “Your next isn't due for fifteen minutes,” Bridget said, opening her neglected basket. “Have a quick bite of something before you collapse.”

“It's a good thing I managed to get some rest yesterday, or I might have collapsed already,” Tim said. He bit into a thick slice of bread that Bridget had buttered for him. “What a day.”

“Not that I want to add to your burdens, Doctor,” Bridget said after a moment's hesitation. “But there are several telegrams for you.”

“I've been so busy today I'd completely forgotten,” Tim remarked. “I made inquiries to everyone I could think of who might have some information on how to treat Jonathan's condition.”

“Henry and I stopped to see Ginny and the boy before I came here, but she wasn't at the mission,” Bridget told Tim. “The vicar said she made some trouble yesterday, and he had to ask her to leave.”

“What?” Tim laid the stack of telegrams on the clerk's desk. “That's ridiculous. As soon as we finish here, I'm going to St. Luke's and find out what's going on.”

Tim found his mind drifting as he attended to the minor ailments of the rest of his patients during the afternoon. He worried about Ginny and her son. Because Jonathan's case reminded him of his own childhood illness, he felt a strong obligation to do something for the boy. Ginny, too, needed help. Not only for her son, but for herself. In the few days since Tim had met her, she had been robbed and beaten, and now had been cast out of the shelter where Tim had assured her that she would be safe. He needed to learn the cause, and then find the pair before something worse happened to them.

At last the final patient was dismissed, and Tim shut off the gas lamps while Bridget updated the account ledger. Tim had returned to the consulting room for his medical bag when the outer door burst open. The Honorable Arthur Langdon strode into the room. Tall and needle thin, stoop shouldered, with his narrow face almost concealed by an unruly mop of white hair and white muttonchop side whiskers, Langdon carried himself with an imperious air. Tim had long ago attributed it to the great length of time that Langdon had served in Parliament; the MP constantly reminded everyone that he was one of the longest-serving members in England. Given Langdon's appearance, Tim suspected that his service might date as far back as the reign of Henry VIII.

“Who are
you
?” Langdon demanded, addressing Bridget.

“Dr. Cratchit's housemaid, sir, here to help with the books.”

“Indeed,” Langdon huffed. Seeing Tim emerge from the consulting room wearing his overcoat, he began to shout. “Doctor, you
must
wait. My wife is gravely ill.”

“What is the matter, sir?” Tim asked, forcing himself to adopt a polite tone, though all he wanted was to get to St. Luke's and find out what had happened to Ginny and Jonathan.

“Here she is herself, Doctor. She will tell you.”

As Langdon spoke, a woman who was his complete physical opposite staggered into the waiting room, supported by her coachman. Although a stalwart fellow, the coachman was dwarfed by Mrs. Langdon's bulk. She was of middling height, yet at her last appointment she had tipped the scale at just under three hundred pounds. The thick fur coat and massive crinoline she wore exaggerated her size even further. To Tim she resembled a blackened haystack with a head atop it.

“My dyspepsia, Doctor,” she said hoarsely before belching. “This attack is more than I can bear.”

Tim struggled to conceal his disgust. Mrs. Langdon was a prodigious eater, consuming immense quantities of food that she washed down with equally copious amounts of wine. As a result she complained constantly of dyspepsia. Tim knew that these factors were more than sufficient to interfere with her digestion. If the prevailing gossip was true, and she literally swallowed her food in gulps with scarcely any chewing, that could only worsen her symptoms. Without a word Tim opened the door to his consulting room and the coachman managed to get the woman seated in the patient's chair, which seemed to express its displeasure with a series of creaks.

Familiar with the routine, Mrs. Langdon unbuttoned her coat, emitting another loud belch that filled the room with the smell of wine and onions. While Bridget relit the lamps, Tim removed a stethoscope from his medical bag. He could not suppress a frown and carefully kept his face turned away from the woman while he listened at various points along her digestive tract. He could hear nothing, because Mrs. Langdon launched into a monologue, interrupted by frequent belching, about how her condition had ruined a marvelous early dinner. Tim half listened to her, his anger growing by the second, as she inventoried her meal, which might have fed a regiment or two.

Finally realizing that Tim had not yet spoken a word, Mrs. Langdon addressed him. “Dr. Cratchit, you are silent as a graveyard. Is it worse than I thought?”

“No, it is not,” Tim said, exasperation creeping into his voice. “You have been here time and again for this complaint, and I have told you time and again to reduce the amount you eat, chew your food thoroughly, and limit yourself to one or two glasses of wine. Furthermore, I have told you to keep a quantity of bicarbonate of soda on hand, and to take some when you feel one of these attacks is about to begin. Yet you ignore my advice in every respect, and then charge in here after business hours, interrupt me when I am about to leave on an urgent errand, and then expect small talk.”

Tim had turned and was mixing bicarbonate of soda with water as he finished speaking. He handed her the glass and found her staring up at him, the foremost of her several chins set firmly in indignation, eyes narrowed within the fatty flesh around them.

“You have no right to speak to me that way!” she declared. “You are a physician whose job it is to treat the sick. I am sick and you shall treat me, whenever and wherever I desire it. Know your place, sir, and keep it!” She practically inhaled the liquid he had handed to her.

“Do you know how many people there are in this city who are actually sick and want to be well, not creating their own illness as you are? Who would benefit from a physician's care and advice? Hundreds of thousands. And they get no care because all my time is consumed by the likes of you!”

Tim felt the heat in his face. His body was rigid. His feelings were a mixture of righteous anger and embarrassment. While he felt a welcome sense of relief at finally releasing his rage, he realized that he should have kept his temper in check. He was contemplating an apology when he saw that the coachman, leaning against the wall by the closed door, wore a broad smile across his weathered face. He obviously felt that his mistress deserved the tongue-lashing and he had enjoyed hearing it. As his eyes met Tim's, he raised his hand to his forehead in salute. Tim, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, found the gesture incredibly funny, and, despite his best efforts to control himself, burst out laughing.

“Oh, and it's funny, is it?” Mrs. Langdon raged. She leaned forward and struggled to rise from the chair, but could not do so unaided. The coachman stepped forward, took both her hands, and tugged. She reached a half-sitting, half-standing position, teetered for a moment, and then stood as the coachman leaned back to counterbalance her weight. She brushed her hands on her dress as if to cleanse herself of the servant's touch.

She turned to Tim, her lips curled in a false and malevolent smile. “Enjoy your laugh, Doctor Does Not Know His Place. I assure you, not many days will pass before you are knocked down a peg or two. As for me, I will consult Dr. Eustace from here on. You may be interested to know that he has a much better reputation than you among
my
class of people.” She hobbled out, supported again by the coachman.

Tim shut the door behind her.

In the waiting room, Mrs. Langdon found her husband to be equally miffed. “What do you think of a physician, Mrs. L., who uses a scullery maid for a clerk?” Langdon asked.

“That is probably to be expected, in keeping with the rudeness of that
physician
,” his wife replied. “I will tell you about it on the way home. I will not spend another minute here.” They walked out the door, the coachman casting a sympathetic glance in Bridget's direction. Langdon did not bother to shut the door.

Tim emerged from his office a moment later, looked at Bridget, and saw that her eyes were red-rimmed and she was holding back tears. “It looks like we each had our quarrel with the Langdons,” Tim said dryly.

“I tried to be polite, sir,” Bridget explained. “He said that no respectable businessman would use a scullery maid for a clerk. I said I knew how to keep books, and he raised his hand and said he'd brook no sass from a wench. I thought he was going to hit me.” As she recounted the story, her fear of that moment returned. She paused to compose herself, and decided that she had said enough. Too much, perhaps, because Henry, entering quietly, had come in to inquire about their delay.

“Why, the old scoundrel!” Henry exclaimed. “If he'd taken a hand to you, I'd have given him a thrashing.” He put his arm around Bridget to comfort her and she leaned into him. Tim raised his eyebrows in surprise at this unexpected act of familiarity.

On the way out, Tim described his own encounter with Mrs. Langdon and got them all laughing, albeit uneasily. All three knew that the Langdons could make serious trouble for Tim.