Tim Cratchit's Christmas Carol

by Jim Piecuch

  “More telegrams, Doctor?” the gardener inquired. “Well, then, it’s a good thing I came right back. There was a pub calling to me, and I was barely able to resist.”

  Tim smiled and replied in the same good humor. “Well, William, after you send these, I suggest you answer that call. You wouldn’t want to disappoint that pub, would you?” He handed the gardener a sovereign.

  “I’m a gentleman in my own right, Doctor,” William said with a laugh. “And I couldn’t be so rude as to turn my back on a lady or a pub that’s calling for my company.”

  Back in his office, Tim systematically went through every journal that might contain material relevant to Jonathan’s case, and found a few more articles, most of them containing only peripheral information. None of it was encouraging. Most of the articles focused on the dangers of surgery in the vicinity of the spine, with some disheartening reviews of operations that had resulted in paralysis and even death. The surgeon in Edinburgh whom Tim had telegraphed did report in a recent issue of the Lancet that he had on some occasions successfully removed fibrous tumors from muscle tissue, although he noted that it was often necessary to remove a small quantity of muscle to ensure that no part of the tumor was left behind. Even a single cell, if overlooked, could multiply into a new tumor.

  Disappointed in the results of his research, Tim began studying anatomical charts. Using the measurements he had taken that afternoon, he tried to locate Jonathan’s tumor precisely in relation to the spine and spinal nerves. He had just about completed that task when Bridget knocked at the door to report that she and Henry had purchased Ginny and Jonathan two complete changes of clothes and then dropped them at St. Luke’s, where the vicar had found a bed for them.

  “Very good, Bridget, thank you,” Tim said. “I won’t be needing anything else tonight. One question, though: Where did you find this crutch?” He pointed toward it.

  “It was here when I came to tidy up, Doctor,” she replied. “I thought it might belong to one of your patients.”

  “Actually, it belonged to me. You know that I was lame as a child. I always kept the crutch as a reminder of those days, but it was in the garret. I wonder how it got down here.”

  “I don’t know, Doctor,” Bridget answered. “I haven’t been in the garret for months, and so far as I know, neither have Henry or William.”

  “I’m not blaming any of you,” Tim reassured her. “I’m sure you had nothing to do with it. It’s a mystery, that’s all.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll figure it out, Doctor. Are you sure you don’t want me to prepare an evening meal for you? I’ve several Cornish hens and some peas I’d planned to cook tonight.”

  “That does sound good,” Tim conceded. “So long as you don’t mind fixing them, I think I will have a bite.”

  “Very good, Doctor. I’ll fetch you when they’re ready. Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon, Bridget, and thank you for everything.” Tim was curious about what Bridget and Ginny might have discussed during their shopping excursion, but the maid had not volunteered that information, and he thought it impolite to pry.

  Bridget went down to the kitchen, where Henry waited for her. “How’s the doctor?” he inquired.

  “Hard to say. I found his crutch from when he was a child in his office this afternoon. Just now he asked me how it got there, like he knew nothing about it. Something isn’t right with him.”

  Henry reached across and affectionately stroked her hand. “Maybe he got it for the little boy that was here earlier, and then forgot.”

  “Or a prank, maybe,” Bridget suggested without conviction.

  “Possibly,” Henry said. “There has to be some explanation, unless the doctor’s gone daft.”

  Chapter 6

  When force of habit awakened Tim at five a.m. on Sunday, he was struck by the stillness outside. He got out of bed, shivering in the chilly room, and walked over to the fireplace. With the poker he prodded the ashes, found a few hot embers, then added more coal. While waiting for it to ignite, he tugged on his dressing gown for warmth. Stepping over to the window, he parted the curtains and saw that a blanket of snow covered the grounds. Thick flakes continued to fall. The snow seemed to glow in the predawn darkness, and Tim spent several minutes savoring the beauty of the scene. He hoped the snow would last through Christmas, though that was unlikely given the changeability of London’s weather at this time of year. Finally he yawned, closed the curtains, and slipped back beneath the blankets. Soon he was sleeping soundly again.

  But he was jolted from his slumber only moments later by a thudding sound that echoed through the house, causing Tim to sit up with a start. For a moment he was confused, unable to identify the source of the noise or its cause. As his alertness returned, he realized that someone was banging on the front door. Picking up his watch from the nightstand, he saw that it was a quarter to six. There could be only one reason someone would awaken him in such a manner so early in the morning: a medical emergency. He got out of bed, opened his bedchamber door, and walked quickly to the top of the stairs. Catching a glimpse of Bridget’s red hair in the foyer, he knew it was better not to waste time going down. He turned, reentered his room, and began to dress.

  Early in his career, Tim had learned that unnecessary haste actually slowed rather than speeded progress, whether in surgery or in dressing. The first time he had been confronted with a nighttime emergency, he had rushed to dress, fumbling about, getting entangled in his shirt, failing in his first few attempts to tug on his boots. Now he had achieved the ideal balance of quickness and efficiency, so that when Bridget, wrapped in her dressing gown, knocked on his door two minutes later, he emerged fully dressed and ready to go.

  “It’s Richard Beckham, Doctor,” Bridget gasped, short of breath from racing across the house and then upstairs. “He says his wife is very sick.”

  Tim met his panicked clerk in the foyer. Hair askew, clothing in disarray, eyes wide with fright, everything about Beckham testified to the urgency of his errand.

  “My wife, Doctor,” he shouted as Tim approached. “She’s bleeding badly. She’s going to lose the baby . . . please, please, come quickly. I have a cab outside. You must save her!”

  Knowing the importance of maintaining his composure in such situations, Tim tried to sound reassuring. “I’ll see her right away. Her condition may not be as serious as it looks.” Noticing the hansom waiting outside, he asked, “Is Mrs. Beckham in the cab?”

  “No, Doctor,” Richard replied. “I didn’t think it was safe to move her. She’s at home.”

  Tim already held his medical bag, and Bridget, anticipating him, stood by with his hat and overcoat. A minute later they were in the cab, driving as fast as the weather would permit toward Beckham’s home. The snow, which had seemed so beautiful to Tim barely an hour before, had now become an obstacle to them. Thick flakes still fell steadily, limiting the driver’s vision, and the accumulation of more than four inches slowed the horse’s progress. The pavement underneath was slick, and at every corner the wheels slipped sideways and the hansom seemed about to overturn. Fortunately, the driver was highly skilled and managed to keep the cab upright and on course while maintaining the best possible speed. He was greatly helped by the lack of traffic, since there were few vehicles on the streets so early on a Sunday.

  During the twenty-minute trip, Richard explained his wife’s situation to Tim, his words punctuated by the bumps in the road and the hair-raising turns.

  “She’d been feeling better since you saw her, Doctor, and was up and about most of the day yesterday. I told her to rest, but she said that there was work needing to be done. I kept her as quiet as I could, but about six I realized that with all that was happening, neither of us had done any shopping and there was nothing in the house for Sunday dinner. So I went out to get some bread and meat. While I was gone, she decided that so long as she was feeling good, she
would take out the best dishes and wash them up, so as to have them ready for Christmas dinner when our families visit. The dishes are in the top cupboard, and she had to climb on a chair to get them. She felt faint, and down off the chair she came. When I got back, she was lying on the floor with broken crockery all about. I helped her up and put her to bed, and she said she was all right. After I cleaned up, I checked, and she looked pale. She woke me at midnight, said she was bleeding again. I wanted to fetch you, but she said we should wait, that it might stop. Now it’s got worse, Doctor. It’s very bad.”

  Tim absorbed the information as Richard spoke, processing it in an effort to arrive at a diagnosis. He suspected that the fall had damaged Mrs. Beckham’s placenta, tearing it partially away from the lining of the womb. If the tear was extensive, she could bleed to death and possibly lose her baby as well.

  “I won’t try to deceive you, Richard,” Tim said. “Your wife very likely has a serious problem. There’s a good chance we can save her, and the baby, with a little bit of luck and some more fast driving.”

  Tim was still speaking when the hansom slowed, rolling to a halt directly in front of the Beckhams’ small house.

  “Cabbie,” Tim addressed the driver as he stepped out of the vehicle. “Come with us. Help Mr. Beckham to start some water boiling and gather clean linens while I attend to his wife.”

  “Now, see ’ere, sir,” the cabbie called down in a Cockney accent. “I’ve got a family of me own to support. Last night was right terrible for business on account of the snow, and I can’t stop work to play nurse.”

  “I’ll compensate you for your time,” Tim called back, having already reached the front door. The words worked their magic, and the cabbie leaped down from his perch and followed them inside.

  “Now, that’s what I call a fair-’anded gen’l’man,” the happy driver replied. “You just wait ’n see how fast we get evrythin’ ready. Like lightnin’, sir.”

  The cabbie proved as good as his word—within a few minutes he had stoked the fire in the cast-iron stove, filled a large pot with water, and set it to boil while Beckham gathered linens. Tim had hurried into the bedroom, where he found Molly Beckham groaning in pain. Pulling back the blankets, he found her wrapped in a blood-soaked sheet. A quick examination showed Tim that the bleeding, though steady, was not profuse, but that his initial suspicion appeared correct.

  “I believe you told me that you’re eight months along, Molly? Is that right?” he asked.

  “A bit more than eight months, sir,” she whispered.

  Tim decided to deliver the baby surgically. He withdrew a syringe from his bag, measured a dose of morphine, and administered the anesthetic to Molly Beckham. Then he brought his surgical instruments to the kitchen, sterilized them in the water that had just begun to boil, and returned to the bedroom.

  “I’d like your help, Richard,” he told his clerk, but a glance at the terrified man told Tim that he would be of no use. Beckham stood against the wall, eyes averted, whispering prayers for his wife and baby.

  “Cabbie!” Tim called. The driver appeared in the doorway, a short, thin whippet of a man.

  “Wash your hands and then come help me,” Tim commanded.

  “See ’ere, sir,” the little man said in a rising voice. “I’m no surgeon.”

  “And you don’t have to be,” Tim answered. “Just stand by me and do what I tell you. What’s your name?”

  “Rodger Hampton, sir.”

  “This lady and her baby are counting on you, Rodger.”

  The cabbie returned in a few minutes and proved a serviceable assistant, handing Tim instruments and wiping blood away as Tim worked. The operation went smoothly, and within minutes Tim had not only stopped Molly Beckham’s bleeding but had also presented Richard Beckham with a healthy baby girl. The clerk beamed with pride and began offering a profusion of thanks.

  “That’s quite all right, Richard,” Tim said as he finished tending to Molly Beckham. When the last suture was tied, Tim stood back and studied the baby, feeling relieved at having saved both mother and child. He was as proud of his success as Richard Beckham was of his new daughter. “A beautiful little girl,” he remarked.

  “Just like her mother, sir,” Beckham replied. He had taken a seat next to the bed, carefully cradling the infant. Tim and the cabbie cleaned up the room and then went to the kitchen to wash.

  “Sorry I was so snippy, sir,” the driver told Tim. “I ’ad no right to be that way. I’m just glad I could be of ’elp.”

  “You did a wonderful job, Rodger,” Tim said. He reached over to hand the man some gold coins, but the cabbie refused.

  “Very kind of you, sir, but that won’t be necessary.”

  Tim thanked the man, but insisted that he accept a sovereign. “Buy a bag of oats for your horse. He earned it getting us here.”

  “That ’e did, sir, but it don’t cost no sovereign for a bag of oats.”

  “Then use the rest to buy your wife a nice Christmas present,” Tim suggested. The driver promised to do so and left after wishing the Beckhams and Tim a merry Christmas. Tim turned his attention to Molly Beckham. She had brown hair, brown eyes, and a soft, pleasant face now that her features were no longer contorted by pain and anxiety.

  “Your wife and daughter should both be fine,” Tim told his clerk. “Mrs. Beckham has lost a lot of blood and will need to rest for at least a week. Give her broth at first and solid food in a few days. Is there a midwife or wet nurse around here who can help care for the baby?”

  “Yes,” Beckham said. “Mrs. Harrison, across the street and three or four houses down.”

  After getting more precise directions, Tim called at the house in question, a neat single-story brick bungalow. Mrs. Harrison, a plump, thirtyish woman, accompanied Tim back to the Beckham home. Tim then prepared to take his leave.

  Richard walked Tim to the door and shook his hand, beaming. “Thank you, Doctor, thank you so much. I spent the whole ride to your house and back here wondering how I’d ever go on if I lost the both of them. I should have known that with you caring for them, nothing could possibly go wrong.”

  “I’m glad I could help,” Tim replied, slightly embarrassed by the praise. He shifted direction by asking what they planned to name the child.

  “Violet, sir, after my own mother, and my wife’s favorite flower. That was something we could both agree on.”

  “A beautiful name,” Tim said. “Now I suggest you tend to Molly and Violet, and get some rest when they are sleeping.”

  “I will, Doctor,” Beckham said. Only then did he notice Tim’s clothing, ruined by bloodstains. “Oh, Doctor, your clothes!” he exclaimed. “Add the cost to your fee, and I’ll pay to replace them.”

  “There’s no fee, Richard,” Tim responded. “I’m glad I could help you and your wife. That’s what’s important, not wool and linen.” Before Beckham could come up with a reply, Tim bade him good day and left.

  It was nearly two o’clock when Tim finally got home, tired but exhilarated. His episode with Molly reminded him of the days when he had roved across London, treating those in real need. Payment came only in the form of gratitude and appreciation, not coinage.

  Tim ate his long-delayed meal in silence, gazing around the luxurious dining room, its elegant furnishings a tribute to his sisters’ good taste. His home was eons away from the humble Camden Town dwelling where he had grown up. Yet, amid the tangible comforts, the house seemed infused with a palpable air of loneliness.

  As he carried his plate to the servants’ pantry, Tim heard his footsteps echo through the room, emphasizing the emptiness of the building. The house had an insufficiency, not of furniture or warmth or light, Tim realized, but of joy. The gladness he had felt earlier in the day evaporated on his return home, as though the walls of the house prevented the entry of any positive emotion.

  That was not tr
ue, Tim thought. The house was not to blame for his low spirits. Two decades ago, he would have thought owning a house like this would have been a source of joy. And it could be, he knew.

  Thinking of Ginny Whitson and her son, Tim rose and climbed the stairs to his office. He could not help admiring the young woman. She had twice made the long journey to Harley Street seeking help for Jonathan. Yesterday she had to brave the foul temper of Dr. Eustace as well. Tim knew that her appearance at the office would make him the target of his partner’s wrath.

  Tim picked up the crutch. “This might be the only relic of my life if not for old Scrooge and the doctors who treated me,” Tim whispered to himself. What would be Jonathan’s relic, other than a wound to his mother’s heart that would never fully heal? Tim gently laid the crutch on the fireplace mantel and thought again of Scrooge. Overnight, his father’s employer had been transformed from a cruel miser into a kindhearted friend. The change had saved Tim’s life, but it could not have been easy for the old man.

  As a child, Tim had been shocked by what happened to Scrooge, but in his youthful mind the transformation did not appear very different from the stories that his mother had told the Cratchit children, tales of poor girls who married princes, and of mistreated apprentices who discovered that they were the sons of dukes. By the time he began his medical studies, however, Tim realized that what had happened to Scrooge was highly unusual. He asked his father if he could explain it.

  “Mr. Scrooge never spoke of it,” Bob Cratchit had said. “I was very curious, and several years passed before I got up the courage to ask him. He only said that he had been forced to reconsider his life, and the experience caused him to change course. It was clear that he didn’t want to say more, so I didn’t press him.”

  Scrooge had paid for Tim’s medical education and expected him to carry on his good works, Tim mused. He had an obligation to his benefactor, who would surely want him to do everything he could for Jonathan. And as a doctor, he had a professional obligation to treat those who needed his help. His skills had saved the lives of Molly Beckham and her daughter. Maybe he could save Jonathan, too. He would make the attempt, and if he failed, at least he would know that he had done his best. If Dr. Eustace disapproved, he was willing to face the consequences.