Tim Cratchit's Christmas Carol

by Jim Piecuch

  Chapter 7

  Sunday also proved to be a busy day for Ginny Whitson. She had not slept well in the dormitory, which was located in the spacious back storage room of a former shop. The thin straw mattress on an iron cot frame provided little comfort, and the stench of thirty women and nearly twice that many children packed into a room thirty feet wide and fifty feet deep didn’t help. Nor did the snoring of many of her fellow residents and the crying of infants, although none of that seemed to interfere with Jonathan’s sleep. She was almost happy when the vicar awakened everyone at seven o’clock, giving them a half hour to prepare for a religious service held right in the dormitory. Afterward, Ginny helped several other women prepare large pots of porridge for breakfast. Some was allotted to the residents, and the rest was carried into the front section of the building, where it was served to people who came in from the streets. The porridge was doled out sparingly in an assortment of old bowls, yet it ran out before all of the hungry people in the long line outside could get some.

  Having helped wash and put away the bowls and pots, Ginny returned to her cot to check on Jonathan. She wished she had some toys or books to amuse the child, since he could not join the other youngsters who were noisily running about the room, playing some kind of game. Her hopes that Dr. Cratchit would find an easy cure for her son’s ailment had been dashed. True, the doctor had promised to search for answers, but the expression on his face had revealed a pessimism that belied his words of encouragement. It consoled her to realize that he felt a sorrow as genuine as hers over Jonathan’s plight. She knew that even if the doctor could not find a way to help her son, he would exhaust every avenue seeking a remedy.

  Ginny sat on the cot, cradled Jonathan in her arms, and sang him a lullaby of her own invention. The boy smiled, and tried to hum along to his mother’s improvised tune. Toward midafternoon, Ginny noticed many of the women gathering up their children and leaving through the back door. She considered going to the front room to ask the vicar if something was going on, but decided not to disturb Jonathan. By three o’clock, only eight women and about a dozen children remained in the dormitory.

  A minute later, the vicar swung open the door leading to the former storefront, admitting three women into the sleeping quarters. They marched down the aisle between the cots in formation, a gray-haired, buxom woman of medium height leading the way, with her two companions close behind on either side of her. Each woman carried a small wicker basket, the handles adorned with red and green ribbons to mark the season, the contents covered by a matching cloth. As they advanced, first one and then another peeled out of their formation, veering toward women on other cots. The leader headed unswervingly toward Ginny. When she reached her destination, she stooped, dusted off an area of the blanket on the cot next to Ginny’s, and sat down.

  “Good afternoon,” she said in a high-pitched voice. “My name is Emma Glastonbury, of the Middlesex Ladies’ Benevolent Society.”

  Ginny introduced herself and Jonathan, then appraised the newcomer with critical eyes. Emma Glastonbury was plump, with short gray hair, neatly cut and smoothly arranged under a round black hat. Her matching dress was made of thick wool, the front covered by a white apron, perhaps to protect it from the grime she expected to encounter in the shelter. She had pale blue eyes, a wide nose, puffy lips, and sagging jowls. Her manner seemed cocky, almost arrogant, and Ginny instantly suspected that her purpose might not be as charitable as the name of her organization seemed to indicate.

  “I see your drunken lout of a husband has beaten you and forced you to find refuge here,” Mrs. Glastonbury remarked to open the conversation after studying Ginny’s battered and bandaged face.

  “Not so, ma’am,” Ginny stated. “I was robbed yesterday morning, that’s how I got hurt. And I don’t have a husband.”

  “Ah—I see,” Mrs. Glastonbury said, drawing out the last word in a tone hinting of disapproval. She tilted her head back slightly and examined Ginny carefully while she calculated what to say next. The scrutiny made Ginny uneasy.

  “Yes, well, I am so sorry,” the older woman commiserated, in a tone that lacked conviction. “Your tragedy of yesterday is all the more reason you will want to listen to what I have to say.” Mrs. Glastonbury then launched into a spiel that she had clearly memorized from frequent repetition.

  “You are obviously aware, young lady, of the pitfalls of poverty. The unfortunate incident you experienced will not be a complete loss if you learn from it. You must see it as a turning point, a sign from above that the time has come to change the ways that have brought you so low. That is why I am here to help you, my dear. We in the Ladies’ Benevolent Society devote our Sunday afternoons to helping poor girls such as yourself improve their lives. It can be done, it has been done, and I am going to show you how.”

  Mrs. Glastonbury picked up her basket and pulled back the cloth cover. Seeing her movement, Jonathan’s eyes widened in expectation of her plucking out a piece of candy or some other treat. Mrs. Glastonbury registered his reaction and gave him a stern glance. From the basket, she withdrew a small printed tract.

  “We do not give handouts, child,” she told Jonathan. Turning to Ginny, she explained why. “It is a known fact that giving handouts to the poor accomplishes nothing, except to make them more dependent upon charity. As a wise man once said, ‘Give a poor man a fish, and he will sit around the next day waiting for you to give him another, but teach him to fish, and he will go off and spend all day fishing rather than work, but at least he will be able to feed himself.’ ”

  Ginny did not think Mrs. Glastonbury had quoted the saying accurately, but did not contradict her.

  “That is what I am here to do today, Miss Whitman. I am here to help you recognize that your poverty is your own fault, and show you how to rise above it by practicing the Christian virtues of temperance, chastity, hard work, and thrift.” Mrs. Glastonbury unfolded the tract. “If you can read, you can follow what I have to say in this pamphlet, and keep it for future guidance.”

  “I can read. I went to school for three years,” Ginny said curtly, angered at the woman’s condescending presumption.

  “There, you already have a good start, then. Now, let us start with temperance. Strong drink is the devil’s own potion. It eats away at the soul as well as the body, it—”

  “I don’t drink,” Ginny declared. “I never have.”

  Her tone indicated that this topic was closed, so Mrs. Glastonbury moved on. “Second, we have chastity. Since you have a child but no husband, it is obvious you have problems in this regard. You must learn to control the sinful desires of the flesh. If you do not, they will overcome you as surely as drink will.”

  “Four years ago, I made a mistake,” Ginny conceded, feeling a need to defend herself. “He convinced me that we were to be married and . . .” She paused. “Well, anyway, I had Jonathan, and he never came back. I learned my lesson. That’s all.”

  “Good, good,” Mrs. Glastonbury soothed. “You have learned from your mistake, and that is what matters. If you have achieved temperance and chastity, it will be all the easier for you to focus on the third virtue, hard work. Everyone knows that poor people are averse to toil. I want you to know that there is nothing wrong with labor. I realize that it is easier to wait for a handout, but that is no way for a moral person to behave.”

  As Mrs. Glastonbury proceeded through this lecture, Ginny’s face reddened and her fists clenched. Having heard all that she could tolerate, she interrupted the speech.

  “How do you know I don’t work?” she demanded.

  “Tut, young lady, hold your temper,” Mrs. Glastonbury admonished. “It is perfectly clear: if you worked, you would not be poor and living here.”

  Ginny reached out and grabbed Mrs. Glastonbury’s hands, pushing them up in front of the pompous woman’s face.

  “Look at this,” she said forcefully, giving the older woman a chance t
o see her own soft skin and neatly trimmed nails. Then Ginny held up her own hands, rough, nails broken, with several cuts and abrasions.

  “Do you think my hands got this way from doing nothing? That’s from soaking in hot water doing laundry, cuts from chopping food, calluses from carrying wood. If you think hard work is such a virtue, why are your hands so smooth and soft?”

  Momentarily flustered, Mrs. Glastonbury was at a loss for a reply. Ginny took the opportunity to press her case.

  “Let me tell you something about lazy poor people like myself. I was one of six children. We lived in one room, eight people, no water or gas. My father worked in a textile factory, piecework, running all day to manage six looms. Fourteen hours a day, six days a week. When he got home at night, he was so tired he could barely scrape the food off his plate. In a good week, he earned thirty shillings. Ten of those went for rent. The rest went for food and sometimes clothes. Many a night he and my mother went to bed hungry so that we children might get a little supper.”

  Seeing that Mrs. Glastonbury was still speechless, Ginny continued.

  “We were barely getting by, and then came the American War. Hardly any cotton coming in because of the blockade. Nearly all the factory hands were dismissed, including my father. He looked everywhere for work. Once in a while he found odd jobs for a few pence. He got so frustrated that he started drinking. He got drunk one night and froze to death on the street. But he wasn’t poor because he drank, he drank because he was poor.

  “My two older brothers went north to work in the coal mines. They promised to send money back, but they barely made enough to support themselves. My other brother joined the navy, and we haven’t heard a word from him since. My two sisters worked as maids, laundresses, anything they could find, finally they married men as poor as themselves. My mother took in a man as a boarder to help with the rent. A sailor. It was him that was going to marry me.”

  Ginny paused for breath and Mrs. Glastonbury, having regained some of her poise, spoke up.

  “Well, I am sure your version of events is comforting to you, Miss Whitman,” she petulantly remarked. “It is always easier to find excuses and blame others than to face the truth about ourselves.”

  “My version?” Ginny’s voice rose and her face flushed with anger. “Every word I’ve said is the truth, not that you’d know it! Have you ever been poor? Not likely, by the look of you. You come in here, all nicely dressed and self-righteous, and tell me how easy it is for me to do better if I listen to your advice.” Ginny stood and pointed a finger at the woman. “Well, I’ve some advice for you! Come live with me for a week, and work as hard as you can for people like yourself, and get paid almost nothing, and go hungry, and sleep in doorways. See how much good your basket full of tracts will do you. You’ll burn them the first night to keep warm, and after a few days, I’ll wager you won’t be quite so smug.”

  Mrs. Glastonbury rose slowly to her feet, picked up her basket, and arranged the cloth over the tracts. She looked at Ginny with disdain.

  “Miss Whitman,” she declared in her high-pitched voice, “you are a tramp and a guttersnipe. You are living the life you deserve, and I have not one scrap of pity for you. One of these days you are going to wake up in a morgue, and then you will wish that you had heeded my advice. Only then it will be too late.” She turned and marched stiffly down the aisle in a display of affronted dignity.

  “And just how does anyone ‘wake up’ in a morgue?” Ginny shot after her.

  Mrs. Glastonbury stopped and pondered a reply, quickly deciding that it was beneath her dignity to engage in an argument with such a vile young woman. She beckoned to her companions and the trio left the dormitory. Ginny heard raised voices in the front room, but could not make out what was being said.

  Fifteen minutes later, the door opened and the vicar entered. A tall, thin man with a fringe of white hair around his bald head, he looked at Ginny through his gold-rimmed spectacles. “I’m sorry, but I must ask you and your child to leave immediately,” he announced in a solemn tone. “You have insulted Mrs. Glastonbury, and upset her badly. I cannot tolerate that kind of behavior.”

  “Of course you don’t want to hear my side of it,” Ginny declared. “I don’t regret a word I said, seeing as she’s the one who insulted me. I suppose you’ll still sleep well tonight, vicar, and so will she, seeing as neither of you has a conscience.” Without another word, Ginny gathered up the new satchel filled with the clothes Bridget had bought for her, took Jonathan in her arms, and walked out into the chill twilight of the evening.

  In the alley, an old woman who had left the dormitory moments before Mrs. Glastonbury and her companions arrived saw the anger on Ginny’s face.

  “Looks like you’ve ’ad your fill o’ them fancy ladies,” she said with a toothless grin. “I should’ve warned you to steer clear o’ them birds. Them’re nothin’ but trouble.”

  “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

  Tim 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.