"I am sorry, madam. Do forgive me. I'm late and have little time." He bent to pick up the parcel, handed it to the woman and met her eyes, transparent eyes as clear as a brook in summer. She nodded, turned and just when Tim thought she would say no word, she turned back to him and lightly touched his arm. "Today. Remember today," she whispered softly then glided away in the rapidly fading light.
Tim stood motionless, watching her vanish in the press of the shoppers.
"Remember? Remember what, and why today? It sounded important although I have no recollection of the lady," he said aloud. A flash of alabaster window hovered at the edge of his mind, but he shrugged it off and walked on to Swallow Street.
Reaching his rooms as the clock struck the quarter hour, Tim hurried through his dressing, snatched up Julianne's gift and those for her parents, and descended the steps once again to hail a cab to the Nevins home. A brightly lit cab stopped, the cabby jumping down to help Tim inside. Tim settled in, hoping Albert would finish his errands quickly and hurry back to warm rooms and a substantial dinner. He could certainly use both.
Several blocks away, Albert was being followed carefully and stealthily. As he passed a narrow, dimly lit alley, he felt a nudge at his back and a shove at his side. Before he could turn to discover what had happened, he was knocked to his knees and pummeled to the ground. He could feel greedy hands rummaging through his pockets. As he fought fists and elbows he thought, I haven't been too careful. More fists pounded his body, and his last thought before being struck with a cudgel was for Tim's concern when he did not return to the rooms. Then the sky darkened and the stars vanished overhead.
Hands quickly removed the pound notes from his pockets, a small knife was next, and finally he was stripped of his new coat and scarf. A final blow was delivered to Albert's head, and the toughs disappeared separately, leaving no evidence of their passing except the bleeding body of a small boy. High above the old city, snow began its descent. Some time later, a thin layer of whiteness covered the ground, lending a grotesque color to Albert's ashen face. The alley was very quiet, the air was very still. Albert lay as one dead. The snow fell silently.
Across the city, Tim was knocking on the Nevins' door. As it opened, he heard a clock chime the hour. Hoping to be early enough to speak with Julianne, he was shown directly into the dining room. Five pairs of eyes raised themselves to his face, the violet pair most inquiringly. Tim, moving around the massive mahogany table, shook hands with Sir Humphrey, kissed the cheek of his lovely wife, clapped Jonathan Babbington on the shoulder, and shook the hand of a tall, black-haired young man who was introduced to him as Member of Parliament, Adam Fezziwig. The name went past him while his heart sought Julianne. She held out her hands, taking both of his in her own. No words passed between them, but Tim felt a sudden uneasiness of spirit. He helped Julianne to her seat, sat where Sir Humphrey directed him and prepared to partake of the evening's sumptuous offerings.
Well, he thought wearily, it was all to no avail. There is still no time, still too much to do and now too much to explain. I cannot but feel anxious and concerned. Everything weighs upon me. The pleasures of the day brought no resolution and but little respite. I shall take comfort in the work before me, though my soul is bowed. Tim's conversation dwindled, his attention faded and his chin drooped toward the table.
Jonathan noticed Tim's anxiety and tried to bring the talk round to Tim's attention. Sir Humphrey worried over the pale aspect of Tim's face, his minimal appetite and his air of distraction. Mrs. Nevins, maternally troubled, waved servant after servant toward Tim, each bearing a platter more inviting than the last. When food did not tempt Tim's appetite, she began to speak of Miss Nightingale's ideas for the advancement of nursing care methods. Adam Fezziwig, M.P., grandson of a young Ebenezer's jovial employer, wondered why on earth Sir Humphrey had invited him to talk to this distracted young Cratchit of his plans for medical reform. There is no stimulating dinner conversation to be found here tonight. At least, thought Adam, Dr. Humphrey sets a grand table.
Julianne, mourning Timothy's silence, kept her head down, eyes fixed on her plate, speaking only when addressed. Her thoughts were focused on the part she must play after this interminable dinner ended. As much as her heart denied her resolve to return Timothy's ring, her mind warned her that there was no other way to unburden him from the unhappy bonds they had created. His career would evolve and grow with Adam Fezziwig's aid, and she would have no place in its rise. Better to end this now before further plans were made and before she could not bring herself to extinguish her care for him.
Dr. Nevins cleared his throat and addressed Adam Fezziwig.
"Well, Adam, tell us of your most recent speech. Jenner tells me it drew cheers of support and cries of disapproval. Whatever did you say to your worthy colleagues?" Dr. Nevins smiled and tried to draw Tim's glance.
Adam Fezziwig, of intelligent mien and intense expression, smiled boyishly, his eyes crinkling with delight and purpose.
"Dr. Nevins, it is kind of you to ask and more than kind of you to support my plan. I've spent many months reading Jeremy Bentham's treatises, talking to nursing sisters, perusing government reports on the sanitary conditions of the poor, visiting hospitals, and researching the century's various epidemics and their causes. All this information I have shared with Lord Shaftesbury who will be helping me formulate legislation to put before Parliament. My last speech to that august body was to inform them of my research, to warn them of my plans and to persuade them to my support. Many of them applauded my efforts and sought me out after the session to offer aid and encouragement. Others tried to shout me down, called me a young fool and threatened to dump me in the gutters with the poor I appear to `love so much.' Few appeared to remember Bentham's admonition that `anything that influences or affects the health of a country is the concern of the legislature.' They forget that I still serve as a member of the General Board of Health. All in all, sir, a most interesting day, one that my grandfather would have enjoyed as much for the energy as for the proposed service to his fellows. I, like my grandfather, enjoy a good set-to, and many more are in store for us all." Adam smiled hugely and turned to Tim for a response. When he received none, he directed a question to the taciturn young doctor.
"Mr. Cratchit, where do YOU stand on the legislation to bring better living conditions to pass for the poor of England? Your benefactor, Mr. Scrooge, was known to be unfailingly concerned with the plight of London's poor. He was as generous a man as ever lived, according to my grandfather Fezziwig, who in his last years, took great delight in telling stories to all and sundry about Ebenezer Scrooge's days with him as a young apprentice. He honored Scrooge all his days and helped him to set up the distribution of charities from the merchants and bankers of the City. They remained good friends until my grandfather's death several years ago. The plight of the poor was very close to both their hearts."
Somewhere out in the still winter's darkness, a clock was heard to chime the hour. Adam Fezziwig looked to Dr. Nevin, turned his glance again to Tim and spoke questioningly, "Mr. Cratchit?" Tim sat quietly, unaware of the conversation around him, looking up only when he heard his name the second time.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said. "I am not myself this evening." He glanced at his watch, stood abruptly and turned to Mrs. Nevins. "Please forgive me, Ma'am, but I find I must get to the hospital immediately. I thank you for your hospitality and wish you a Happy Christmas. Mr. Fezziwig, I hope we may meet again." Placing his napkin on the table by his untouched dinner plate, Tim rose to his feet and turned to leave the room.
Adam Fezziwig looked both taken aback and uncomprehending. Dr. and Mrs. Humphreys were startled into stillness and thunderstruck by Tim's abrupt behavior. Jonathan Babbington was instantly concerned, and Julianne stood quickly, taking Tim's arm and moving to the door of the dining room.
"I shall return in a moment, Mother, please excuse us." Calmly but firmly she moved with Tim out into the hall, across the foyer and in
to the library. Softly closing the door behind her, she stood against it as if for support. Tim faced her distractedly across the small, warmly lit room.
"What is it, Julianne? Can it not wait until tomorrow? I've work to do now," urged Tim anxiously. "I must get to Ormond Street!"
"No, Timothy, this cannot wait any longer," she responded stiffly, clenching her hands together. "I have thought about this for many weeks, and it must be said now, tonight, while I still have my courage and resolution about me." Her voice faltered, and she drew a long, deep breath to steady herself.
"For some weeks now I have seen very little of you, and even when we have time together, you are not present. Oh, your physical self is here, but your thoughts and dreams and feelings are far from me. I have no part of you any longer. All of you belongs to Great Ormond Street, your ambitions, your heart, your life. There is nothing left for me. So I release you from the bonds we established and wish you well in your career. My father will see you into prominence, and I shall find activities to fill my time and heart. I wish you only joy and bear you no ill will. Just think of me sometimes and remember that I will never stop loving you."
She removed his ring from her finger and stepped forward to return it. His hand rose, palm up, fingers together. She laid the delicate gold band carefully in his hand and closed the fingers around it. Looking up into his eyes, she lifted his hand to her lips and left a light kiss on the closed fingers.
"Be happy, Timothy," she whispered, "and remember me." Moving swiftly to the door, she opened it slowly, then closed it behind her without a sound.
Tim stood mutely in the room where she had left him, unable to move or comprehend what had happened. When the realization of her actions finally registered in his mind, he moved swiftly to the door. The hallway was silent; he heard no voices, saw no one. Sick at heart and bowed with pain, he found his coat and scarf and left the house for the wintry street outside.
For a few moments, Tim stood staring at the door. A light went out, first in one front window and then in the other. Tim felt his spirit falter and his heart lurch. Julianne, he whispered, Julianne. He moved slowly down the street, limping strongly and stumbling like an ailing man. Fog quickly shrouded his form, and he faded into the dim gloom of the street. A white lace curtain moved slowly back into its accustomed drape, effectively concealing the young face behind it. A tear moved crookedly down a white cheek as Julianne, head bent, walked out of the empty room. Somewhere in the old city, a clock chimed the quarter hour with heavy, solemn strokes.
As Julianne moved dazedly from the window, Tim walked unsteadily through the maze of the city streets, seeking the lights and familiar sounds of Great Ormond Street Hospital. There he would find solace, there he would find purpose and peace. He stumbled on through the snow and murk of the night, finally reaching the wide steps of the hospital. As he entered the brightly lit doorway, the matron looked up from her desk.
"Oh, Mr. Cratchit, we have been waiting for you. Two cases in the East Ward require your immediate attention, young boys, sir, badly injured." She motioned him across the hallway. "Are you quite well, sir? Shall I find Mr. Babbington?" Shaking his head, Tim hurried down to the doctor's room to remove his coat and then made his way to the East Ward.
A nursing sister was standing between two small beds, turning from bed to bed, gently covering the two small boys who lay there. Tiny mounds, wrapped with heavy bandages, small still forms.
"A carriage accident, sir; everything has been done. Mr. Sereside has ordered a watch for them and laudanum regularly. His notes are on Matron's desk. I shall be about; please call if you need me." She moved quietly away to the bedside of another patient, lines of weariness etched into her young face, her soft smile set.
Tim leaned over the young boys, catching his breath on a remembered image. He knelt by the beds, touched their faces, seeking for a pulse, his mind searching for another form of treatment. The boys lay as if already dead, and suddenly Tim knew that nothing further could be done for them, only their pain eased until death released them.
In his despair, he wept, hands clenched, head bent. Drs. Jenner and West moved softly into East Ward. Young Cratchit, thought Jenner, I should have known. He takes the act of death too much to heart and cannot admit that death, the master of Life, has a blessedness all its own. He has much to learn.
The doctors stepped to the bedside and lifted the young man to his feet. Dr. West said, "There is peace in the death of a suffering patient, Timothy, when that is all the world finally holds for him." Tim looked up into the calm, serene face of the great man of medicine, his own eyes wet, and clutched his shoulder. West proceeded with a gentle lecture on the nature of death, the calling of the physician. He then touched on the talents and characteristics that would enable Tim to be a successful doctor and a sensitive, generous man. Patting Tim's shoulder, he insisted that he go home to rest so that he might spend his Christmas with Julianne.
Tim looked up into the great man's face, "You have told me this before, sir, and you have given me a great gift. The kindness of your words shall stay in my heart always. I shall make my way home as soon as have made sure that these young boys have finished their last weary journey. Thank you, sir." He turned back to the beds and motioned the nursing sister close.
Dr. West and Dr. Jenner, puzzled by his speech but comforted that he had regained his senses, left him to his work.
Tim gave additional orders to the sister, asked for a cup of tea and settled down to sit with the boys until they had no further need of him. He had not long to wait, for just as he finished his tea and was bending over them to check their pulse, both boys breathed their last. Tim straightened their covers and again motioned the sister to him.
"Please have them taken away quickly, Sister, and do not cover their faces so as not to disturb the other children who may see them." He stumbled out of the ward into the hallway.
Light flared over his head as he walked under the lamps lining the corridor. Each one stirred his memory of Albert and a dark-clad woman with brook-clear eyes. A brilliantly lit window caught the corner of his vision, and as his mind strained to catch the image, his memory of the woman seared his mind. Stopped as if by a blow, he lost his footing and slipped sideways into a doorway. Images, blizzard-like in intensity, swept over him, swamping his mind and senses. He half moved, half fell into the doctor's comfort room.
Again he heard the spirit's words, saw the images of the young boys in the ward, of Drs. Jenner and West, of Albert with his brothers and Julianne excluding him away from her heart. All the joys of the day swept over him; then the terrors of the previous night beset him and the bleakness of his heart confounded him. Breath forced itself from his lungs, his heart pounded erratically in his chest. He saw in full measure his errors and his conceits. Stumbling to a divan, he forced himself to sit still, catch his breath and calm his heart.
A few minutes later he lurched to his feet, moved into the corridor and fled from Great Ormond Street as quickly as his legs would allow. I must find respite, I must go home, he thought, I must go home. Tim moved doggedly into the fog-tangled and dying night. From far across the old city, Big Ben spoke, waves of solemnity vibrating into the mist. As the big clock spent itself, silence, thick as the Thames winter ice, buried the old city completely.
It was midnight on Christmas Eve.
CHAPTER 5
THE THIRD AND FINAL SPIRIT
The clatter of hooves on stone was deadened in the turbid fog. A carriage moved down the street, the coachman a faceless, hunched figure. Swallow Street was empty, sparingly lit by small slashes of light escaping through snugly drawn draperies. Tim's lodgings on the street had never been a place to contain one's loyalty or to be thought of as more than a place to lay one's head on a long, chill night after a harrowing session on ward duty. This night, however, as Tim labored up the dimly lit staircase to his door, he felt more closely tied to home than ever before. Was it perhaps because he needed a refuge? Because Albert would be wa
iting for him, teacup in hand, chin sticky with sugared sweet buns? Because he needed the peace of anonymity: his own silence to enfold him; warmth to remove the chill of emptiness; rest to drug his senses; a retreat into his own, known world?
Opening the door proved difficult for his trembling hands. The face on the doormat winced as he wiped his feet. He turned the key in the lock and slowly entered the chill room. Removing his coat and scarf, he turned first to the tea table. No trace of Albert's dinner marred its fresh white linen. No packages and no unusual outdoor garments crowded the divan or rested upon the carpet. Tim moved the fireguard, checked that there was sufficient wood and then sat deeply into his favorite wing chair; he would wait for Albert. He should be here at any moment, for the shops were just closing.
How tired I am, he thought. He shut his eyes, but when images crowded into his brain, he forced them open again. I cannot rest, I will not remember this evening and Julianne, he thought, not when I am all alone. I shall wait for Albert. His gaze wandered around the room, noting the little fir tree, the decanter of brandy, the small knobby package on the mantle -- Scrooge's gift, still unopened) -- and the window that looked out onto the street. The drapes had not been shut against the cold, but Tim did not move.
The window quivered, crystallized into solidity and then wavered again to transparency. Tim quickly averted his gaze to stare blindly into the fire. Ebenezer Scrooge's face filtered through the blur of his soul's stupor. Images of light and darkness forced jagged shards of memory into the young man's consciousness. He bent his head and wept, tears of grief and pain, loss and fear. Blackness engulfed him, and hope fled his heart. Despair ate at him, smothering love and joy, light and life. The only sounds in the room were the hard, gasping sobs of our young Doctor Tim.
He believed himself completely alone, outside humanity and isolated by time, carried away on a searing tide of anguish. How long he sat he did not know. As his tears eased, Tim sighed raggedly and raised his head, spent and empty. His grief had left no mark upon the room; it all looked strangely the same. How could it be that all the world had not stopped at his pain?
The Very Name of Christmas Page 7