Dickens offered the list to the boy, but he didn’t take it. “Do you have your pencil?”
Timothy shook his head. Dickens pulled one from his own pocket. “Well, then mine will have to do.” He held them out, prepared to wait all night.
Timothy took them from Dickens’ hand. He pressed the paper against the grave marker, scratching out a few simple words in a slow, careful hand. Then gave it back. There was just enough light for Dickens to read it.
“Oh, dear,” he said. “I’m afraid that wish won’t do at all. You see, that one is already taken—”
Timothy looked at him, crestfallen.
“By me,” Dickens said, standing. “So will you, Timothy? Have Christmas with me?”
The boy turned his head to look up at Dickens. “Will Mamie be there, sir? And the others?”
Dickens lowered his head and shook it lightly. “I’m afraid we are, both of us, orphans this year. But if you’ll share it with me, that would be Christmas enough.”
He reached his arm down and opened his palm to the boy, who stood slowly, circles of snow about his knees, and considered Dickens’ outstretched hand. Timothy wiped his eyes one last time with the back of his fingerless gloves, and took it.
A yes.
43
If ever Charles Dickens met a fine December morning, the sort that sparkles and chatters of things hoped for and blessings to come, here it was now. He and Timothy left Furnival’s Inn for the last time, wishing the desk clerk good cheer and great happiness. Hand in hand, they ambled toward the first flush of Christmas Day, pausing at the corner of what’s-long-forgotten and all-things-possible to watch their shared city yawn to life. The sharp scent of evergreen mingled in their noses with a blast of fish and the wafting aroma of a fresh-baked Christmas pudding.
Church bells pealed. The streets thickened with hansom cabs, omnibuses, costermongers, and muffin men. Eager children gripped their mothers’ hands, standing in long queues at the butcher’s shop, the poulterer’s, the baker’s, the grocer’s, all counting the minutes to the long-awaited Christmas feast. A light wind had snow-kissed the cobbled streets of the city, and what had been smog and soot just days before gave way to a soft winter light that tamed all it touched. The metropolis seemed to sigh with one breath, beat as one holy heart. Even birds caroled overhead. Dickens’ own icy breath floated like glitter on the air.
“Merry Christmas! Good day to you! Merry, merry everything!” he called to passersby with a tip of his hat, or said quietly as he paused to press a coin into every beggar’s hand, even crossing the street to reach them. Timothy called out, too, in his newly regained voice, a little echo beside him. People of all classes craned their necks to get another glimpse of the man who had awakened some long-lost Christmas spirit and the young ragged boy holding fast to his side.
Dickens peered into the window at Bumble’s Toy Shop, relieved to see its proprietor still inside. He opened the door, happily anticipating the jingle overhead. Timothy stood on the threshold, gaping at the bell, afraid to step across. A thin furrow across the boy’s forehead told Dickens he’d only ever been on the looking-in side of the store, never the looking-out. “It’s all right, Timothy,” he said, reaching to ring the bell again, by hand, to announce their entrance. “You’re welcome here.”
At the second jingle, Mr. Bumble looked up from his register, dismayed by the sight of the lately unpredictable Mr. Dickens, and with a street boy beside him.
“Mr. Dickens. I’m soon to close up shop for the rest of Christmas Day.”
But his once-prized customer took off his hat and stepped toward him with a ready hand.
“Your fund for the Field Lane School, Mr. Bumble?”
“Done, sir.”
Dickens took Bumble’s hand in both of his. “Why, not done at all.”
“I do not get your meaning,” said Bumble, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Why, it cannot be done until it’s been doubled … by me!” Dickens leaned in to whisper, “I do not have it now, but am good for it, upon my word.”
The sincerity on his face was unmistakable. Bumble twittered with glee and reached for his ledger to mark it down. Dickens dipped into his pocket and unfolded Katey’s list, handing it off.
“And do you mind? If you’ve time. May I have these few last things for my children?”
“Of course, Mr. Dickens! I’ll have them delivered this very afternoon.”
“It may be they’ll need to go to Scotland.”
“As you wish. I am at your service.”
“And is it too late for some presents for the boys at Field Lane?”
“Never too late, sir. Never!”
Bumble looked past Dickens to where Timothy ogled the shining blade and scabbard of a pirate sword.
“Is that one of them, sir?” he asked in a whisper. “The ragged boys?”
Dickens followed his gaze to Timothy, who had turned from the sword, wide-eyed, to the four-story German dollhouse at the center of everything, a little world unto itself. He was like every child in a toy shop, where hardships and fears fall away to make room for wonder.
“He’s one of mine, Mr. Bumble. And he’s to have anything his heart desires.”
“Of course, sir. A merry Christmas to you both.”
*
Back on the street, turning in to the bustling Strand, the two sang a Christmas tune, crowing like chanticleers.
“Oh, bring us a figgy pudding, oh, bring us a figgy pudding, oh, bring us a figgy pudding and a cup of good cheer…”
They quickly found their voices drowned out by a group of street boys, hats off, arranged like a little choir around a baker-boy cap on the ground in front of them teeming with coins. Despite the dirt and pimples on their cheeks, whiskers sprouting on their lips, they sang with round mouths and delicate harmonies.
“… Sleep in heavenly pe-eace. Sle-ep in heavenly peace.”
Dickens knew them at once and stopped to applaud. Timothy the same. Their captain took a bow; the rest followed in turn.
“Oh, boys. I’m so happy to find you, for I never made good on my grievous mistake.”
The three-coated captain stepped forward, hat to his chest. “We didn’t want to steal yer story, Mr. Dickens. We wanted to be in it.”
Dickens cocked his head, bemused.
“Thought if we made an impression of some sort, might get a mention.”
“That’s why you followed me? All over town?”
“Be famous then, sir. To get a part in a Dickens story. Everybody wants one.”
“Well, not everybody.”
“We’re prepared to pay, sir. Been savin’ up.” He picked up the hat full of coins from the ground and whomped his nearest crony on the chest with it. The lieutenant produced a felted bag, pulled it open by strings, and dumped the jangling pennies into the hat with the others. The captain offered it to Dickens.
“I cannot take your money.”
“Oh, dem what’s parted from it don’t miss it by now,” said the captain. “The way we sees it, money comes and goes. Fame’s what makes a name.”
“But it’s who you are that makes a name.”
“It’s ’ow many people read yer name, sir, and ’ow many times. And you write the longest stories of anyone!” He winked at Timothy, who smiled shyly back.
“I’m sorry, boys. My story is done.”
With a sigh and a shrug, the captain lowered the hatful of coins and scratched his bristle-haired head. “D’ya know a Mr. Thackeray, then? We ’eard ’e’s got a long one.”
“I shall mention it,” Dickens said, offering his hand. “What is your name?”
The boy pumped Dickens’ hand up and down. “David, sir … Copperfield!”
Dickens looked down at Timothy. Timothy looked at him.
“Good name!” he said to the young Copperfield, leaning in. “Never mind Thackeray. I shall put it in my own mental museum.”
And having satisfied the captain that his fame was assured, Di
ckens and Timothy proceeded onward into the snow-lit evening, singing their carol.
“We won’t go until we’ve got some, we won’t go until we’ve got some, we won’t go until we’ve got some, so bring some out here…”
*
The two carried on, singing and kicking up dustings of white powder as they went. Suddenly Dickens stopped, stunned by what lay before them. Four storefronts, from 30 all the way to 34 New Oxford Street, had been joined to make one: MUDIE’S BIG LIBRARY & BOOKSELLER—CHEAPEST BOOKS IN LONDON—TEN THOUSAND VOLUMES IN STOCK—GRAND OPENING! Buffeted by hordes of elegant shoppers flurrying in and out, they stepped closer. It was a vast emporium, two stories tall with acres of windows, Ionic pillars, railed galleries, and cases of books with bindings in every imaginable color, from sober blacks and browns to scarlet-red, pink, green, and even fashionable magenta! Men in tails mingled with women in capacious muffs, all carrying fresh-wrapped stacks of brand-new books.
“This place,” asked Timothy, “what is it?”
“The Ghost of Christmas Future, I’m afraid. But never mind, Timothy,” he said, squeezing the boy’s hand. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
Dickens knew the way well, around a corner, down two alleys, across a frozen dirt thoroughfare to a tavern, not of the fancy variety. It was peopled with men, mostly, who found their Christmas cheer at the bottom of a glass. John Dickens sat at the bar, with a book gripped in one hand and a porter ale in the other.
The son took off his hat and approached him. “Do you like it?” he asked his father’s back.
John Dickens started at the sound of his son’s voice. He set down his tankard and turned around to face him. As a man who often spoke a surplus of words to obscure what was true, here he found only a few.
“I think it your finest book.”
“I’m glad. Because if you didn’t like it, I should consider it a failure.”
“Whyever so?”
“Because you’re my father. And a son wants his father to be proud of him.”
John Dickens stood from his seat and regarded the ground, jostled some sawdust and a few peanut shells with his foot. When he looked up, his eyes were damp.
“Oh, son. I only wish I’d been a better father. And a better man.”
“As does any father. And every man.” He hesitated. “As do I.”
A tipsy man approached, face-to-face with the younger Dickens, scrunching his eyes trying to focus. “Why, yer Charles Dickens!” he said, as if he’d made the literary discovery of a lifetime.
Other patrons looked their way. Timothy, standing by the door, waited for his answer.
“Everyone knows that,” he said, loud enough for all to hear. “But did you know … this man is my father!”
John Dickens held his shabby bowler to his heart, and beamed.
44
In the gloaming eve, Devonshire Terrace was quiet with new-fallen snow that sparkled like diamond shards scattered across the ground. The sky had cleared for the rise of the Christmas moon and enough twinkling stars to light everyone’s merry way, if merry was the way they went. John Dickens gabbled away to Timothy, but his son lagged several steps behind. Neither the young boy nor the old man was aware of the trepidation Charles Dickens felt as he neared his own house, empty of the family he now longed for. He was determined not to show it.
“I myself am particularly partial to turkey, though likewise am game for a goose!” John Dickens declared to the boy. “What about one of each, wouldn’t you think, Timothy?”
“Will it be enough, sir?” the boy asked.
Both Dickens men followed his gaze. They were halted at the gate of One Devonshire Terrace, where a large wreath glistened on the red varnished door. There was light inside, a warm glow from the hearth, a hubbub, revelry, people milling about, a tree—the Christmas tree! As sure as they stood there, as right as the snow, there was the Christmas soiree in all its glory!
“The party!” he said, reaching for the boy’s hand. “Oh, Timothy! My family’s home!”
They rushed inside to find the rousing annual party in progress. Macready was there, Thackeray and his daughters, Wilkie Collins, the Trollopes, the Carlyles, Chapman and Hall, the ever-kindhearted Fred and his wife, and so many more. The long table was set magnificently, with tiered stands, flowers, and candelabras, everything on Catherine’s list and more: stuffed turkeys, a goose, oysters, mince pies, plum puddings, and Christmas cake, timbales, jellies and molds, punch bowls of eggnog and smoking bishop. In the foyer, a magnificent tree nearly two floors tall was strung with candies, fruits, nuts, and trinkets, and a hundred lighted candles.
Dickens’ face lit up like a blazing fire. He surged into the glad crowd of friends and family, who encircled him, calling out cheers and good tidings. He shook hands and patted backs, all the while searching for some sign of Catherine or Katey or Mamie and any of the boys. They must be here, he thought, they’re home!
Thackeray clapped his back. “Whatever differences we’ve had, Dickens, well, this book of yours is a national benefit, and to every man and woman who reads it a personal kindness!”
Thackeray’s elder daughter chimed in, taking her father’s elbow. “We’ve told Father he must write a book like one of yours!”
“But one simply has no chance!” added Wilkie Collins, coming to greet him.
Chapman was not far behind, proffering a gift. “And we’ve brought you a pen!”
Dickens took the pen gladly and shook Chapman’s hand near off at the wrist. “Thank you. All of you! Thackeray! Macready! Hall! And Fred! Dear Fred! How glad I am to see you and your bride! I want to know everything, everything!” He put a warm arm around Fred’s shoulder, instantly relieving him of the burden of thinking he was not the brother Charles wanted him to be, without one word more passing between them.
Over Fred’s shoulder, Forster parted the crowd to get near. He had an empty champagne glass in each hand. “Don’t blame me, Charles, if I love you for your talent! And your goodness!” Forster barrel-hugged him hard, not letting him go, possibly ever. “So, for God’s sake, let us be friends again! I simply cannot get along without you.”
“Nor I, you, John,” said Dickens, returning the hug with full force. “It’s I who beg your forgiveness.”
“But that’s what Christmas is for!” said Forster, taking a bottle of champagne from a tray and pouring their glasses full. “Forgiveness and friendship all around!”
Dickens toasted, all the while keeping one eye out for any of his brood. “Have you seen Catherine?” he whispered into Forster’s ear.
Forster shook his head and put a sympathetic hand on his friend’s shoulder. Topping was pushing through the crowd.
“Topping! Are they home?” Dickens shouted over the din.
“Not a word, sir.”
“Then who did all this?” he asked, when Topping reached his side.
“Invitations’d been posted, sir. There were no stoppin’ it. So I took it on my own account that it was the right thing to do.”
“Oh, it was. It was.”
“Mr. Forster helped. And his Mary. Thackeray’s daughters did more than their part. Really, everyone.”
“I don’t know how to thank you—”
“No need, sir. Is there anything wanted at all?”
“No, no,” he said, covering. “I can’t think what would be missing.”
He turned to the lighted tree, strung with cranberry vines and glowing with the teardrop flames of little wax candles. How his children would have loved it.
“The tree’s a triumph, Topping,” he said bravely, but his courage was dipping. He handed his champagne glass to his groom. “You know, I’ve a wonderful Christmas cognac I should like to share around. I’ll just be a moment.”
Dickens passed the dazzling tree and stood on the first stair, turning back to look out over the good people who’d come, and brought the party with them. He searched for Timothy and found him happily, hungrily filling a plate with meat
s and candies and filberts under the guidance of John Dickens, who was busy pointing out the things he mustn’t miss, elucidating the merits and marvels of everything.
Dickens climbed the stairs to his study. There were fresh flowers on the table, everything dusted and just right. The gilt rabbit, the dueling bronze toads. Why, even the fusee clock was there on his desk, bruised and glued together, but back where it belonged. Surely he had Topping to thank for that, too. He wound it three times to the right with its heart-shaped key, pleased by the sound of its simple tick-tock. Begin again, he thought. Second chances, everywhere. He gazed out at the garden, resting under a blanket of peaceful white.
The cognac he found on a bookshelf. He gripped the bottle’s neck, unable to pull himself away from the miniature portraits of his children. How perfect they were in their little gilt frames, with their bows and ringlets and stiff collars, not a hair out of place. But how he missed their imperfections, all. At last, his eyes settled on a portrait of Catherine. With the pad of a finger, he touched her eyes, her nose, her lips.
“My darling Cate,” he whispered, leaning his head against it.
He felt someone watching him and turned to find Timothy a few feet away, standing in the open door. The young boy’s chin was lowered, as if he somehow understood the intermingling of loss and hope, that only young children who have lost and hoped can know.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Dickens, if it’s not enough Christmas.”
Dickens took in a rough breath that ended with a sigh and a shake of his head. He collected himself and mussed the boy’s hair gently, lifting his chin to look him right in the eye. “It’s a fine Christmas, Timothy. A fine Christmas, indeed.”
Timothy stepped beside him to gaze on the little portraits. Dickens reached for his hand. “But what I would not give for a kiss from any of my children. All the sovereigns in the world for just one sticky hug.”
Topping appeared in the door, chirping with excitement. “Sir! Outside! Can you hear it?”
Dickens closed his eyes. He did hear it, the faintest sound of jingling bells and horses’ hooves crunching downy snow. Timothy looked up at him, eyes round. Still holding his hand tight, Dickens rushed out of the study to the upstairs parlor overlooking the front of the house. He opened a window and leaned his head out as far as he could without falling, as a large park-drag coach rounded the corner of Devonshire Terrace and pulled up to the house. Dickens and Timothy shared a quick glance.
Mr. Dickens and His Carol Page 21
