Tim Cratchit's Christmas Carol

by Jim Piecuch

  “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?”

  “Nothing of the sort, madam. I advise you to keep the cats out of your bedroom, and open the windows whenever the weather permits. That will at least reduce the problem until they can go outdoors again.”

  “Very well, Doctor. I’ll do as you say.”

  Tim turned to Jane. “I couldn’t help noticing that you don’t look well, miss,” he said. “Is there anything I can do while you’re here?”

  Mrs. Crompton answered quickly, cutting off Jane’s response. “She’s fine, Doctor. It’s just that she’s not used to doing the least bit of work. Pampered, that’s the problem. I had to dismiss the house servants again, and Jane has had to do a few chores, that’s all.”

  “You mean she’s taking care of the entire household?” Tim asked. Having made several calls to the vast Crompton mansion when Mrs. Crompton was too ill to come to his office, he knew what a difficult task that had to be.

  “Tut, tut.” Mrs. Crompton dismissed his concerns. “A little cooking, cleaning, and laundry are good for her. She may need those skills. If she expects to marry at this age, it will probably be to a Thames boatman or someone of that sort, and she’ll be a common housewife.”

  Tim bristled inside at the insult. He glanced toward Jane to see her reaction, but she kept her eyes fixed to the floor.

  “Not that I wouldn’t prefer to have servants,” Mrs. Crompton continued, “but they just can’t be trusted. Lazy, Doctor. Drunkards. And thieves! Not even a tin button is safe from a pilfering maid or greedy butler. Well, you know what that class of people is like. I decided it’s better not to have them around.”

  Tim winced at her comments. He had once been part of “that class of people,” and still identified more closely with them than he ever could with Mrs. Crompton’s sort. The woman seized her daughter’s arm and pulled her from the room without another word. Jane, not daring to speak, finally looked at Tim and he could see the sorrow, and what might have been a plea, in her eyes.

  He tried to think of something to say to delay their departure, but Mrs. Crompton was a veritable whirlwind racing through the waiting room as she pulled on her coat.

  “Send the bill to my husband,” she shrilled to Beckham while flinging open the outer door with one hand and tugging at Jane, who had paused to button her overcoat, with the other.

  “Hurry, child,” Mrs. Crompton ordered. She was already outside, one fur-clad arm clutching at her daughter. “If you keep dragging like this, we’ll never get the shopping done for the party tomorrow night.”

  “You’re invited, Doctor,” Jane called to Tim in a barely audible voice as she disappeared through the doorway. Her unexpected outburst shocked Mrs. Crompton, whose frown shifted quickly to a forced smile when she turned toward Tim.

  “Of course, Doctor. Eight tomorrow evening at the mansion. I’m sorry I forgot to mention it, with my illness and being so busy.”

  Taken aback by her unforeseen invitation, Tim stammered a promise to attend. Without another word Mrs. Crompton left the room, tugging Jane behind her, and slammed the door.

  Once she had gotten settled inside the carriage, propping velvet cushions all around her to maximize her comfort during the ride, Mrs. Crompton glared at her daughter.

  “You should not have done that,” she snapped after a few minutes of withering silence.

  “But you said I could invite people to the party,” Jane replied, meeting her mother’s gaze.

  “I meant your young lady friends.”

  Jane’s friends were all daughters of her parents’ acquaintances. “They are already coming,” Jane said. “You invited their parents. We see Dr. Cratchit often, and since you or Father have invited most of your business acquaintances, I thought it proper to invite the doctor as well.”

  “It would have been proper if I had invited him,” Mrs. Crompton observed coldly. “It is certainly not proper for an unmarried young woman to invite a bachelor to any sort of gathering. It gives a man the wrong impression.”

  “But haven’t you told me that I shouldn’t spurn opportunities to meet the right sort of young men?” Jane asked, a hint of defiance in her voice. “And the doctor seems to be a proper gentleman.”

  “To all appearances,” her mother reluctantly agreed after a moment’s hesitation. “Nonetheless, there are proprieties to be observed and you have ignored them. It will not happen again.”

  From the waiting room window, Tim watched the carriage depart and observed the peeved expression on Mrs. Crompton’s face. Clearly she was not pleased with her daughter’s seemingly sudden decision to invite him to the party. Tim wondered why he had been so quick to accept the invitation. Certainly it was not from a desire to see more of Mrs. Crompton. On the other hand, he was eager to see Jane again. His interest, he told himself, was solely that of a medical man concerned about a young woman who appeared to be unwell. The idea was logical enough, but somehow Tim could not convince himself that it was his only reason.

  Tim scanned the empty waiting room. Mrs. Crompton’s early arrival and quick departure had given him a free quarter hour. He turned to his clerk, who now stood beside him, uneasily shifting his weight.

  Tim sighed. “May I ask if there is a problem?”

  Beckham hesitated. “Well, Doctor,” he began after a minute of awkward silence, “my wife is with child, I think I told you that.” The clerk paused.

  “Yes, Richard. Is she all right?”

  “Ah, well, she’s been better, Doctor. These last few days she, ah, hasn’t felt quite right. That’s all.”

  “What do you mean, not ‘quite right’?” Tim prodded.

  “Just, ah, sick to her stomach, is all, Doctor. I’m sure it’s not serious.”

  Having employed Beckham for two years, Tim knew that his wife’s condition must be serious indeed if he was even mentioning it.

  “Richard, did you see that bag of coins that the duchess left yesterday? Open it, take out three or four sovereigns, and then go out front and find a cab. Go home, get your wife, and bring her back here so I can examine her. And do it immediately.”

  The embarrassed clerk stepped back and ran his hand through his hair.

  “But, Doctor, you’ve a full schedule. Lord Glendormond will be here any time, and it wouldn’t—”

  “I’ll handle His Lordship, Richard,” Tim interrupted. “You get your wife, no more arguments.”

  Beckham smiled, pleased at Tim’s response despite his reluctance to accept such a favor. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said with sincerity.

  Tim sat on Beckham’s stool after the clerk had departed. Jane’s face came unbidden to his mind, with its pale skin and the dark circles beneath the eyes. Exhaustion? Possible, at least in part. But Tim worried that some more serious problem might be lurking behind her strained smile. He would find out tomorrow. While her mother preened before her guests, he would have the opportunity to ask Jane a few questions and perhaps arrive at a diagnosis. Something he also needed to do for Jonathan.

  “Merr
y Christmas, Doctor!” The greeting, called out in a thick Scottish brogue, interrupted Tim’s contemplation. Lord Glendormond, a tall, rugged Scottish nobleman and former patient, removed his overcoat to reveal a kilt and tartan sash in blue, green, and red plaid. With his matching tam and red beard flecked with white, he looked like a Highland version of Father Christmas. A vigorous sixty years old, Glendormond appeared twenty years younger.

  “It’s good to see you again, sir,” Tim said with heartfelt warmth. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t look like you’re in need of my services.”

  “Ach, of course not, laddie.” Glendormond chuckled. “I only wanted to stop by and wish you the blessings of the season. But with your busy schedule, I thought it best to make an appointment. I saw the Crompton carriage rolling off down the street on my way here. I’m fortunate to have missed that fine lady.”

  “She can be trying at times,” Tim conceded, not wishing to speak ill of a patient. “Her daughter seems quite pleasant.”

  “Pleasant, and pretty, too,” Glendormond said. “So you don’t mind putting up with the mother for a chance to see the daughter?”

  Tim laughed as though it were a joke, but pondered whether there was any truth to the Scotsman’s remark. After chatting until the next patient arrived, Glendormond departed with the announcement that he had sent an assortment of Scotland’s finest foodstuffs and beverages to Tim’s house as a Christmas gift. Tim then turned his attention to his patient, a ten-year-old boy whose mother was terrified by his mild case of the sniffles.

  The rest of the day passed with the usual tedium as a parade of Britain’s wealthiest and most noble citizens passed through Tim’s office seeking relief from an assortment of minor, and in many cases imaginary, complaints. The only exception was Richard Beckham’s wife, Molly, who it turned out was still working as a housekeeper in the eighth month of her pregnancy. She had fallen from a stepladder while dusting a chandelier the day before, and was experiencing pain and some bleeding. A thorough examination showed no serious injury, but Tim ordered her to stop working and sent her home with her husband. He asked Beckham to send a telegram to the Cratchit house, telling the coachman not to pick him up until seven o’clock that night.

  After his last patient of the day had left, Tim checked his watch and saw that it was ten minutes past seven. He realized that the whole day had passed and he had not had a moment to investigate Jonathan’s case. A good thing I told Ginny Whitson Saturday, and not today or tomorrow, Tim thought.

  “I’d hate to have her come all the way over here and have nothing to tell her,” he muttered to himself.

  “Sir?” Henry asked from the waiting room doorway. Tim had not heard him enter.

  “Nothing, Henry, just too much work and too little time.” He began turning down the gas lamps. “That’s enough for tonight.”

  At home that evening, Tim picked at his supper. He did not feel hungry, and ate only enough to make sure Bridget wouldn’t accuse him of starving himself. He then hastened to his study before she reappeared. Scanning his bookshelves, he removed several volumes and stacked them on his desk. He pored through each in turn, and the little information he found that was relevant to Jonathan’s case only confirmed his worst fears. Finally he pushed the books aside. Even the newest medical texts were outdated, he mused, given the time it took to get the material compiled and printed. Anything more recent, and thus possibly more useful, would be in the quarterly journals. Tomorrow he would examine those, and perhaps he might also find some information that could help Jane. Some doctors on the Continent had proposed connections between stress and the melancholia that appeared to afflict Mrs. Crompton’s daughter. As he thought of Jane, a smile unconsciously curled his lips.

  Chapter 3

  As was his custom on Fridays, Tim spent the morning traveling about the fashionable areas of London, calling on those of his patients who were too ill to come into the office. If he had any patients in hospital, he would also have checked on them, but most of the people he treated preferred to be cared for at home. Tim completed his rounds before noon, and when he arrived at the office he was surprised to find Beckham there, updating the appointment book.

  “I only came in this morning because I knew you’d be out on your rounds, Doctor,” the clerk explained when he saw Tim shake his head. “My wife is quite better today, and now that you’re here, I’ll go right back to her.”

  Tim thanked his dutiful clerk and went into the consulting room, making sure all of his equipment was in order. He left the door ajar so he would know when his first patient of the afternoon arrived. Soon the waiting room began to fill, and the afternoon passed quickly. After the last patient was gone, Tim quickly checked the contents of his medical bag and left without bothering to update any records or post the day’s transactions, wanting to arrive early at the Cromptons’ dinner party. He knew that as soon as the party got under way, it would be difficult to find an opportunity to pull Jane aside long enough to ask about her health.

  Tim stepped from his cab in front of the Crompton mansion just before eight o’clock. The massive brick edifice, with its towering white columns, blazed with light. He barely had time to strike the brilliant brass knocker against the plate when a stiffly formal butler pulled open the oak door. Tim followed the man into the foyer, which was draped with pine garlands and holly. Muted sounds of gaiety reached Tim’s ears from the upper floor, the volume rising briefly when the butler, having ascended the ornately carved staircase, opened the door to present Tim’s carte de visite.

  A few minutes later the butler returned, took Tim’s coat, and escorted him upstairs to the drawing room, a vast space that took up the entire sixty-foot length of the upper floor on that side of the house. The room was already filling with men and women resplendent in formal attire, the women in colorful gold, red, and green gowns in keeping with the spirit of the season. Along one wall, polished mahogany tables groaned under silver trays heaped with every kind of fruit and pastry imaginable. Covered dishes held warm meats, sauces, and vegetables. Behind one table, a waiter busily poured fine wine and expensive whiskey into the guests’ crystal goblets. Tim guessed that there were fifty candelabras interspersed among the food and drink, so that the very food seemed to glow. Pine garlands and holly adorned the walls and ceiling, and formed an arbor in one corner of the room, under which two violinists and a flautist entertained the company with seasonal music.

  A young servant girl in a black dress with a white apron, one of half a dozen in the room, approached Tim with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Tim declined the proffered delicacies, but was glad that Mrs. Crompton had temporarily put aside her dislike of servants in order to make a favorable impression on her guests. It would save Jane a great deal of work tonight.

  Tim had just begun to scan the room for her when he felt a hand clutch his right arm like the talons of a falcon. He turned to find Mrs. Crompton, smiling with delight. Apparently she had overcome her anger at her daughter’s decision to invite him. She wore a gold satin gown with a red sash and a gold turban decorated with a sprig of holly. She looked like a brightly wrapped Christmas package, albeit one that Tim knew concealed a lump of coal inside.

  “Welcome, Dr. Cratchit!” she shouted. “It’s such a pleasure to have you here. Merry Christmas!” With his arm still in her clawlike grip, he politely accompanied her as she escorted him through the room, introducing him to her guests. Several were patients of his, and most of those who were not knew him by reputation, and appeared impressed. Tim now understood why her anger at Jane’s invitation had vanished; she relished each introduction of “my good friend Timothy Cratchit, the famous Harley Street doctor.” Tim, like the food, servants, musicians, and Mrs. Crompton’s garish diamond jewelry, had been relegated to a status symbol. He was contemplating bolting for the door, or perhaps even diving through a window to escape, when Archibald Crompton joined them.

  Unlike his wife, Arc
hie Crompton was a likable person. He had inherited a prosperous merchant firm from his father, and had the foresight to recognize that the growing interest of the British upper class in all things Chinese offered great profit potential. Investing in sturdy ships designed for the Asia trade, Crompton had filled his warehouse with Chinese tapestries, pottery, and furniture just when it seemed that every wealthy Briton wanted to convert one chamber in their manor to an authentically decorated “Chinese room.” Crompton’s fortune grew by leaps and bounds in the succeeding years, yet he remained a hands-on manager. Now in his middle fifties, tall and stocky with a bushy black beard sprinkled with gray, he exuded good-natured energy.

  “Good Dr. Cratchit,” he bellowed, pumping Tim’s hand. “Welcome to my home, sir. I wish I saw more of you, Doctor, but my good health won’t allow it!” He chuckled deep in his chest.

  Mrs. Crompton noticed a couple entering the drawing room and walked over to greet them. When she was too far away to overhear, her husband continued wryly: “Then again, you see enough of my wife. Perhaps more than enough, I daresay!”

  Tim smiled at the remark but said nothing, not wanting any part of such a dangerous conversation. Lord Glendormond, however, who had frequent business dealings with Crompton, had once observed to Tim that the reason the merchant spent so much time at work was because it kept him away from his wife. Tim shrewdly seized upon Crompton’s comment about his health to steer the conversation in that direction by asking to what he attributed his well-being.

  “It’s the work that keeps me healthy, Doctor. Why, yesterday two of my warehouse men never showed for work, and there were a dozen wagons to be loaded. ‘What will you do?’ my manager asked me. Why, I stripped off my coat and cravat right there, rolled up my shirtsleeves, and went to work! He looked at me like I was daft. ‘Get to it,’ I said. ‘If I can load wagons, so can you!’ And he did, Doctor, though I daresay he hadn’t much fun. Good with figures he is, but a pip-squeak of a man!”