Tim Cratchit's Christmas Carol

by Jim Piecuch

  “Constable!” he called down. All three policemen looked up. “Send up two men with lanterns, and send someone for a bucket of clean water.”

  “Yes, Doctor, right away,” one of the constables replied. He turned and began issuing instructions to some of the men in the crowd.

  A few minutes later two workmen clambered up the ladder, each carrying a lantern. The first stepped gingerly onto the floor, testing its strength.

  “I hope it’ll hold us, sir,” he told Tim.

  With the help of a lantern, Tim picked his way toward a partially buried man whose head and left shoulder protruded from the wreckage. Tim and the workmen removed the debris, and a quick examination revealed no injuries other than cuts and bruises. Tim told the man to go home and rest.

  Advancing farther into the rubble, Tim reached the prone figure he had noticed earlier. The man rolled onto his back and muttered something.

  “Lie still,” Tim told him. He checked the worker and discovered that the man’s left collarbone was broken. Tim bound his left arm to his body to stabilize the fracture and the worker assured him that he could climb down the ladder without help.

  Tim resumed the search. A protruding nail head caught the left sleeve of his shirt, tearing it. He glanced at his arm and saw that the skin was scraped, but not cut. Good. The last thing he needed was blood poisoning.

  “Here’s another one!” a workman cried.

  Just then a third workman reached the top of the ladder, a steaming bucket of water in one hand and the handle of a lantern held between his teeth.

  “Doctor?” he asked after he had shifted the lantern to his free hand.

  “Over here,” Tim said, as he approached a man with a foot-long splinter protruding from his thigh. An expanding pool of blood on the floor below the leg indicated that the splinter had pierced the man’s femoral artery. Tim knelt in the sticky pool and tied a tourniquet above the wound. He carefully removed the sharp piece of wood, rinsed the area, and sutured the arterial wall and the cut in the man’s skin. Then Tim removed the tourniquet and covered the injury with ointment and a thick dressing.

  Tim turned his attention to another injured man, who was gritting his teeth in pain. Tim’s examination revealed a dislocated right shoulder. He gripped the man’s upper arm tightly and wrenched the shoulder back into place.

  “Oh, the devil!” the man screamed. “That bloody hurt!”

  “I’m sorry,” Tim said as he arranged a sling, “but it’s easier if you don’t see it coming. Rest here until you’re steady on your feet, and then you can go home.”

  While Tim tended to the man with the dislocated shoulder, the workmen found three more victims. One was uninjured and hustled down the ladder as soon as he was freed from the rubble. The second had a broken ulna, the smaller bone in the forearm. Tim splinted the arm and the man climbed down the ladder with great agility.

  “Here’s the last fellow, Doctor,” a workman said. Tim cleared debris from around the man’s head until he could see the bearded visage of a man of about sixty. Tim held the lantern close to the man’s face, which seemed familiar. The man opened his eyes.

  “By heavens, it’s Tim Cratchit,” he croaked.

  “Mr. Barrow?” Tim asked, recognition quickly dawning.

  “Aye. I’m downright glad to see you. I thought it more likely I’d be seeing Saint Peter.”

  “We’ll have you out of here and fixed up in no time,” Tim assured him. Francis Barrow was an old neighbor from Tim’s childhood in Camden Town, a skilled carpenter who had done repairs at the Cratchit home on more than one occasion.

  Tim found that Barrow had suffered three fractured ribs. Truly miraculous, Tim thought, as he bound the man’s chest with a long strip of cloth. So much damage, but everyone had survived and would recover.

  Tim and the workmen helped Barrow and the man with the arterial wound down the ladder. As Tim stepped onto the cobblestone street, a rotund man in a black wool coat strode forward and extended his right hand.

  “Benjamin Wilson, Doctor, the owner of this building,” the man said in a friendly yet serious tone. “I want to thank you for your help tonight.”

  Tim shook the man’s hand. “Dr. Timothy Cratchit,” he stated.

  “Dr. Cratchit? Of Eustace and Cratchit? I’m honored, sir,” Wilson declared. “My wife is one of your partner’s patients, and I’ve called on him a time or two.”

  Tim nodded.

  “Allow me to compensate you for your services, Doctor, and if there is any more that I owe, call on me without hesitation. I am greatly in your debt.” He handed Tim some banknotes and his calling card and departed. Most of the crowd had dispersed. Tim realized how exhausted he was and sank to the curb. One of the constables approached.

  “Are you all right, Doctor?” he inquired.

  “Tired,” Tim said. “That was quite a night.”

  “And part of the morning, too,” the constable observed, checking his watch. “Let me find you a cab.”

  Somehow, the policeman located a hansom. When Tim got home, he found that Bridget had thoughtfully left the gas lamps burning in the foyer. He climbed the stairs, hearing the clock in the upstairs hall chime four. Tim washed his face and hands, removed his shirt, and cleaned the scrape on his left arm. Tugging off his now battered boots and bloodstained trousers, he slipped beneath the bedcovers and in an instant was asleep.

  Chapter 15

  As he slowly came awake on Saturday morning, Tim’s first thoughts were of the previous night’s events. He felt a deep sense of satisfaction at what he had accomplished, along with a renewed confidence in his skills. If he could care for all those injured workmen, surely he could treat Jonathan Whitson. Tim’s thoughts drifted to Jane. He was still perplexed by yesterday’s encounter. He tried to recollect details of his visit to the Crompton house, but soon pain and fatigue from his exertions overwhelmed him. Hearing the hall clock chime a quarter past the hour, Tim reluctantly threw off the bedcovers and checked his watch. Quarter after six. He had barely slept two hours.

  Tim splashed cold water onto his face from the pitcher next to the washbasin. His reflection showed a sorry figure: dark circles under his eyes, hair askew, smudges on his face and hands from moving charred timbers. His whole body ached. He sniffed, and smelled the burned-wood odor on himself. No time for a bath this morning. He poured half of the water from the pitcher into the basin, ducked his head in the cold liquid, and set to work with soap and towels to make himself presentable.

  Bridget knocked softly on his chamber door just as Tim started to dress.

  “Sorry to wake you, Doctor,” she said.

  “I’m up,” Tim answered. “I’ll be downstairs in five minutes.”

  Tim took his seat at the dining room table, scrubbed, dressed in clean clothes, but looking groggy.

  “I’ll bet you didn’t eat anything at all last night,” Bridget said, placing a generous serving of ham and eggs and a steaming mug of coffee in front of the doctor. “What time did you get home?”

  “Near four,” Tim said. “There was a building collapse. By some miracle no one was killed, or even injured too seriously.” Tim ate slowly; Bridget noticed that simply lifting the fork to his mouth required a great effort. But at least the doctor ate a substantial amount. Bridget was glad, knowing he needed the food to maintain his strength.

  “Thank you for the coffee, Bridget,” Tim said. “I need it this morning.”

  “I thought you would,” she replied with a smile. “What time do you want Henry to fetch you this afternoon?”

  “A little past six. Dr. Eustace’s clerk is coming at that hour to settle the books for the week.”

  “How unfair!” Bridget said, her voice rising. “Doesn’t Dr. Eustace know that it’s the Saturday before Christmas, and that you’re having guests tonight?”

  “He knows. That is precisely wh
y Dr. Eustace is sending Penrose as late as possible,” Tim declared. “It’s part of my punishment for angering my partner.”

  “That’s just petty,” Bridget said in an anger-tinged tone.

  “There’s nothing for me except to make the best of it,” said Tim. “If I let myself get angry, I’ll be the only one who suffers, and Dr. Eustace will have won another little victory.”

  A few minutes later, Henry and Tim were on the road. Tim chose to ride alongside the coachman, so that the bitter morning air would make him more alert. The bleak gray sky threatened snow, but Tim did not mind; snow would add to the Christmas atmosphere. He reached his office at the stroke of eight. Sitting down at the clerk’s desk to review the files of the day’s patients, he had barely grasped the first sheaf of papers when Nathan Penrose threw open the office door.

  “Dr. Cratchit, where have you been?” Penrose demanded, his voice raised to almost a shout. “Mr. Johnston, one of Dr. Eustace’s patients, had an eight o’clock appointment and arrived early. Since Dr. Eustace has decided to take the day off, I sent Mr. Johnston here, and he found the office shut up and empty. You arrived late. Deliberately, I assume.”

  Tim pointed to the clock. “It’s not even five past eight now, so Mr. Johnston cannot have been seriously inconvenienced. Send him over.”

  Penrose heaved a sigh of feigned frustration and stalked out.

  Jane was concerned as she prepared breakfast. There had been quite a crowd of women at the dressmaker’s shop when she finally arrived there the previous afternoon. Fortunately, Jane quickly found a gown that she liked, and after taking measurements the seamstress announced that she could have the alterations finished by the time the shop closed at eight. Jane spent the intervening hours shopping for Christmas presents, enjoying the time alone although her mind kept returning to Tim’s visit and its abrupt and disconcerting end. She had let Howard take control of the situation and had come off looking rude as a result.

  At least James Howard would no longer be a problem. As they rode into town after lunch in awkward silence, Jane had focused her attention outside the coach window. From the corner of her eye she saw that Howard stared intently at her. His mind was clearly at work, and his thoughts were reflected in his facial expression, which shifted from sulky to pensive and finally to bemusement. He cleared his throat.

  “Ahem. It seems I’ve gotten off on the wrong foot with you, Miss Crompton. I daresay you found my manners rather annoying. Though I hate to admit it, I attribute my behavior to a bad case of the jitters. It may surprise you to know that it has been a long time since I found myself in the company of so lovely a young lady, and an eligible young lady at that.”

  “If that was an apology, I accept,” Jane said, turning to face him.

  “How very kind of you,” Howard said, leaning forward in a partial bow. Jane sensed a slight tinge of insincerity in his voice. When she made no reply, Howard spoke.

  “Allow me another chance to make a better impression,” he said. “I would like to see you again. Would you and your parents care to join me for tea at my hotel on Sunday afternoon?”

  “That’s very kind,” Jane replied, “but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.”

  “It’s that doctor, isn’t it?” asked Howard. “Your mother told me about him. She thought you were smarter than to take an interest in such a fellow, and so did I, or I would not have wasted my time calling at your house. Very well, I shan’t keep you from your doctor.”

  He rapped on the roof of the coach and the driver reined the horses to a stop. Howard paused after exiting the coach and thrust his head through the door. “When you come to your senses about that doctor, Miss Crompton, you shall see the great opportunity you have missed. And by then I shan’t be around or interested. Plenty of fish in the sea, as they say.” To Jane’s surprise, he closed the door gently and walked away.

  Jane had felt relieved to be rid of him. Beneath his veneer of wit and charm, she could clearly see his boorish and short-tempered personality. He was right about one thing, though, she mused. Howard had sensed that her rejection of him had more to do with Tim than with any other cause, and, she realized, he was right. She needed to explain the incident at her house to Tim. His visit had taken her by surprise, and she had not treated him as politely as she should have. Instead, she had allowed Howard to interpose and the barrister had practically ordered Tim to leave. Tim had appeared disturbed when he left, probably by her behavior as much as Howard’s. She felt badly about the episode and knew that she needed to apologize to Tim. She hoped that he would understand. If not, her mother’s ploy of bringing Howard to lunch would still have been a success.

  Joining her parents at the breakfast table, Jane asked her father what had detained him on Friday night. He had still not returned home when she went to bed.

  “One of my ships arrived yesterday afternoon,” Archie Crompton explained. “I didn’t expect her for another week. I wanted to get the cargo unloaded so it could be sent to the shops today, get the goods on the shelves while people are still shopping for Christmas.”

  “Jane waited up for you to come home,” Mrs. Crompton said, although it was not true. Mrs. Crompton had been asleep when Jane returned. Jane had been relieved, knowing that her mother would be furious to learn that she had no interest in Howard. “Your daughter had quite the pleasant day yesterday,” Mrs. Crompton continued, “and couldn’t wait to tell you about it.”

  “Your mother told me that you had a visitor,” Archie Crompton prompted.

  Jane shared with her father the details of Howard’s visit and their subsequent coach ride. She could see her mother’s face reddening with every word.

  “I think you made the right decision,” Archie said, provoking a frown from his wife. “In any case, you’ll see Dr. Cratchit tonight. He’s a good fellow, and I’m glad he’s courting you.”

  “I’m not sure he is,” Jane admitted. “He’s been very nice. But he’s also said that his interest is professional, that he’s concerned about my health.”

  “He may have said that,” Archie agreed. “Though from what you told me about his reaction to Howard, I’m not sure it’s true. I suspect his interest in you is more personal than he lets on. He seems a rather cautious fellow in such matters, and fear of your mother has likely made him even more careful.”

  “Posh!” Mrs. Crompton shouted, rising to her feet. “Why would he or anyone else be afraid of me?”

  “Certainly not because of your sweet temper, dear,” Archie chided as his wife stormed out of the room.

  “I do like Dr. Cratchit,” Jane said to her father after the hall door slammed. “I’d like to get better acquainted with him. I should have plenty of time to speak with him tonight. He may give me a clearer indication of his intentions.”

  “And if not, and if you are seriously interested in him, you’d better press him a little,” Archie Crompton advised, taking his daughter’s hands in his. “You’re probably going to have to make a decision soon, before your mother finds you another prospective husband.”

  Throughout the morning, Tim thought excitedly about his party. He needed to talk to Jane, to find out why she had been so abrupt with him. He was also eager to see his family. Unfortunately, he had little time for such musings. He could not have guessed that Eustace had scheduled so many appointments for a Saturday and then passed them on to him. Tim wondered if Eustace had done so deliberately to make his day more difficult.

  Tim was taking care of the bookkeeping at noon when a messenger arrived with a telegram. Tim tore open the envelope to find that it was from his colleague in Paris, Monsieur de Valmont. He scanned the terse message.

  Consulted von B, it read. Said he has written you. Nothing I can add. Joyeux Noel.

  Tim considered the words. Their implication was neither good nor bad. The Parisian surgeon had deferred to Count Ulrich von Bergsdorf as the acknowledged Continen
tal expert. Von Bergsdorf had sent a letter to Tim, and Tim could only wait to learn what his colleague had to say.

  While Tim studied patient files between bites of the bread and cheese that Bridget had packed for his noonday meal, and struggled to keep awake to face the long afternoon, his former partner, Dr. Humphrey Jones, prepared to close his office early. Jones had relocated his practice to a middle-class London neighborhood. No longer shackled to Dr. Eustace, Jones could set his own hours and fees. True, his former partner had done everything possible to destroy Jones’s reputation, but the elderly physician had managed to establish a successful, if not lucrative, practice. He had decided to stop work at one on Saturday afternoon, and not return until the twenty-sixth. Several minutes after his last patient left, he emerged from his consulting room.

  “Were there any other appointments after Mrs. Simms?” he asked his clerk.

  “No, Doctor,” the clerk said.

  “Then you may go. Merry Christmas.”

  The clerk departed after wishing Dr. Jones a joyful holiday. The doctor began turning off the gas lamps. Moving to his right, Jones noticed a person seated in the corner of the waiting room.

  “I am sorry, sir,” the doctor said. “I did not notice you, and my clerk did not tell me anyone else was here. How can I be of help to you?”

  The man stood. Dr. Jones saw that he was quite old, a good ten or fifteen years beyond Jones’s age of sixty-seven. The fellow was well dressed, with bright eyes that seemed to glitter in the light of the one lamp that remained illuminated.

  “I am not here as a patient, sir, have no fear of that,” the old man said. “Rather, I have come to make an inquiry in the interest of your former partner.”

  “Sir, I will ask you to leave,” Jones barked, his politeness vanishing in an instant. “Dr. Eustace may be my former partner, but he is not my friend, nor is any friend of his welcome here. Good afternoon!”