by Jim Piecuch
“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.
Deciding not to hold Bridget and Henry any longer, Tim asked the coachman to drop him where he could find a hansom and sent the servants home to eat and rest. Tim took a cab to St. Luke’s Mission, where he found the vicar supervising the after-dinner cleaning and called him aside. His anger had dissipated during the ride, and he politely asked what had happened to Ginny. The vicar’s explanation had him seething again.
“And what did Ginny have to say about the incident?” Tim inquired.
“I didn’t ask her, Doctor,” the vicar admitted. “You have to understand, her word hasn’t any weight compared to Mrs. Glastonbury’s.”
“Let me ask you a question, vicar,” Tim said. “How much did Mrs. Glastonbury donate to support your establishment this year?”
“Why, nothing, of course,” the vicar said. “You know she doesn’t believe in that kind of charity.”
“That’s right,” Tim observed. “Mrs. Glastonbury believes in the kind of charity that makes her feel self-righteous and superior without taking a farthing out of her pocket. I,
on the other hand, have been very liberal with my support.”
“You’re one of our most generous donors, Doctor,” the vicar agreed.
“Well, sir, you will not see another shilling from me.”
The flustered clergyman fumbled for words. “But Doctor, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know—I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble, sir. It’s just that, I’m sorry, Mrs. Glastonbury was so angry, and she insisted. How could I refuse her, sir?”
“You’re as big a hypocrite as Mrs. Glastonbury,” Tim said. “You threw a woman and child out into the cold because Mrs. Glastonbury didn’t like them? Now, that’s godly behavior for a vicar.” Tim walked out and climbed into the waiting cab.
Chapter 9
After his confrontation with the vicar it had been too late to go in search of Ginny and Jonathan, or to check on Molly Beckham and her baby, so Tim reluctantly headed home. He had planned to spend some time that evening reading the telegrams that had arrived earlier in the day, but realized that amid the row with the Langdons, he had forgotten them in his office. He went to bed disappointed with himself for that, for the loss of his temper with Mrs. Langdon and the vicar, and even for failing to notice the decorations hung by Henry and William that day and thus neglecting to compliment their work.
Upon arriving at his office Tuesday morning, he sorted through the stack of papers and removed the telegrams. There were five, all from his London colleagues, and to Tim’s disappointment none had any advice or information to offer in Jonathan’s case beyond what Tim had already learned from his own research. This frustration worsened his mood, and a great weariness settled upon him.
At eight o’clock the outer door opened and Tim looked up to see Dr. Eustace glowering at him. The man’s body tilted slightly forward, and his arms were held out a few inches from his sides, the very picture of rage. Tim sighed audibly and Eustace heard it.
“I can see I am unwelcome, Dr. Cratchit,” Eustace barked, “and we both know why.”
Tim decided not to respond.
“Since you appear speechless, allow me to continue,” Eustace said sarcastically. “It may interest you to know that I had a visit yesterday evening from the Honorable Arthur Langdon, MP, distinguished member of the House of Commons, and Mrs. Langdon.”
Tim resisted the impulse to say, “How nice.”
“According to these esteemed patients, they called upon you last night to obtain treatment for Mrs. Langdon’s dyspepsia. Instead, Mr. Langdon found a foulmouthed scullery maid in place of your clerk, who abused him with sass. And Mrs. Langdon got the same kind of abuse from you, and to top it off, you ridiculed her condition. Dr. Cratchit, I demand to know what is going on.”
Knowing that any attempt to justify his own actions would be useless, Tim ignored that part of Eustace’s ultimatum. However, he felt it necessary to defend Bridget.
“My housemaid was kind enough to fill in for my clerk, who has taken some time off because his wife just gave birth,” Tim said in an even tone. “She was quite polite to Mr. Langdon even though he repeatedly insulted her.”
“As I have constantly tried to point out to you,” Eustace growled, “the success of this practice depends on accommodating our patients. As for your clerk, if he is too irresponsible to show up for work, dismiss him and hire another. I’ll have no more housemaids working in this practice. My own clerk also tells me that he saw a trollop loitering here last week, evidently the same one I encountered on Saturday. I don’t know if this is some foul assignation or a lapse into your former misguided benevolence, but I will not allow you to bring shame upon one of the most prestigious medical practices in London, you can be damned certain of that!”
His tirade over, Eustace folded his arms across his chest and scowled at Tim, awaiting a response.
“It was you who desired me to join your practice, or have you forgotten?” Tim reminded his partner.
“That may be so, but I thought that you had put aside your fixation with the idle classes and were ready to assume your proper station as a gentleman physician,” Eustace stated haughtily. “If you cannot continue to do so, perhaps I will have to rethink our professional relationship.”
“We both swore the Hippocratic oath, Doctor,” Tim said, his voice rising in anger. “But that doesn’t mean we’re supposed to spend all of our time with an assortment of hypochondriacs. I can’t ignore those who need my services but can’t afford to pay for them. I’ve fulfilled my responsibility to every patient I’ve seen since I joined this practice. Yet you threaten me for trying to help a seriously ill child even after I delayed doing so to deal with a woman whose only disease is gluttony?”
Eustace’s fury seemed to increase with every word Tim said. He clenched his teeth and wrung his hands as Tim spoke, and then lashed back.
“How dare you address me in such a manner, sir?” Eustace demanded. “You are forgetting who runs this practice, but you are going to remember and conform to my rules. Henceforth, there will be no more servants doing clerks’ work here. And if you insist on treating people like that beggar woman and her child, you will not do it in this office. Nor will you cast aside your regular patients for people of her sort. If I see or hear of a single instance of you violating these conditions, I will terminate our partnership, and I will personally see to it that you are not admitted to any other Harley Street practice. Do you understand me, Doctor?”
“Very clearly,” Tim said coldly, deliberately neglecting to add “sir” or “doctor” to his reply.
“Very well. Given your apparent preference to waste your services on this city’s scum, I am surprised you did not choose to go into veterinary practice. The beasts are the same, be they two-legged or four.” Eustace paused to gauge Tim’s reaction, but Tim maintained his composure and held Eustace’s gaze. “I will expect that, after your vile temper has cooled, you will call on me and deliver the apology that I deserve. Good day.” With that statement, Eustace turned on his heel and left the office.
As the day progressed, Tim reflected on his decision to join the practice in the first place. The cold snap that had brought Sunday’s snowfall broke about midmorning, replaced by a chill, steady rain that turned the snow to slush. Most of the patients whose names were listed in Tim’s appointment book that day had no serious maladies and thus preferred to remain indoors. By noon the waiting room was empty, and the only visitor was the boy from the telegraph office, bringing messages from several people who wished to cancel appointments. Others did not bother to notify Tim; they simply stayed at home. Peering occasionally into the gloom from his waiting room window, Tim observed that Dr. Eustace had no patients, either. Tim imagined Eustace’s discomfiture at the loss of most of a day’s income, and took guilty pleasure in it.
There was something about Eustace that had always put him off, he realized. Perhaps that was why he had resisted joining this practice for so long. True, the man had a good reputation, but now that he had come to know Eustace better, he realized that his reputation was a sham. He recalled an incident that had occurred during his first week working with Eustace. A man had entered his office, his breathing labored.
“Dr. Eustace sent me to you, sir,” the man uttered between gasps. “He said he has an urgent case and can’t see me now.”
Tim examined the man and found that he was afflicted with pneumonia. It was the first of many such cases, and Tim had gradually realized that Eustace shied away from treating those who were truly and seriously ill.
“I wish I had been able to afford to set myself up in practice,” Tim said aloud. “That would have been best.” But, he decided, he could not change the past. Better to stop the recriminations and put up with Eustace, at least until he could find a promising alternative.
Having settled his mind, if not his heart, on that score, Tim turned his thoughts toward more pleasant things. Christmas, for one. The holiday had always been his favorite, the one day of the yea
r when the whole Cratchit family could be together, enjoy each other’s company, and indulge in a feast, even if his childhood feasts had been meager by ordinary standards. Christmas was nearly here. Yet, consumed with work and other cares, he had scarcely given it any consideration. There was much to be done before Saturday’s party, and he could not wait for his servants to do it all. Shopping, for example. Gifts for his family.
The Cratchits were and had always been a close family. Sadly, he thought, he was becoming the exception. He had standing dinner invitations from his mother and married siblings, but when was the last time he had availed himself of them? For that matter, how long had it been since he had seen his mother? His brothers and sisters? Weeks. He had been too busy to call on them, and they had stopped calling on him some time ago. Oh, they had tried, but how many times could you go to someone’s home on an evening or a Sunday, only to find that the person was working late, or out calling on a patient?
Suddenly Tim realized that not only did he miss his family, but he missed his father, too. He had missed him as a child, when Scrooge had kept him working late night after night, until the old man’s mysterious epiphany. Tim wondered what advice his father would have for him now. How would Bob Cratchit advise him to handle his overbearing partner?
Hearing the waiting room clock chime four, and his remaining appointments having been canceled, Tim closed the office. Since Henry was not due to pick him up until six o’clock, Tim pulled up his coat collar, pressed his hat snugly down on his head, and went in search of a hansom. He had neglected to bring an umbrella. When he was a child, boys of his class, whose families could not afford luxuries such as umbrellas and walking sticks, chose to ridicule such devices as useless affectations. Tim had since made his peace with umbrellas, out of necessity, although he still did not own a walking stick. Perhaps, in addition to his youthful aversion to them, walking sticks reminded him too much of his childhood crutch.