Tim Cratchit's Christmas Carol (14 page)

“I hope you don't mind, Doctor,” Bridget said softly after putting the tray on the table.

“Not at all,” Tim said. “In fact, it's a wonderful idea. It complements the other decorations nicely.”

They all ate together in the dining room, Lizzie dominating the conversation with a minute-by-minute account of the day's shopping excursion.

Bridget finally intervened. “Lizzie, why don't you start bringing the empty trays and dishes to the pantry,” she suggested, earning a grateful nod from Tim.

When the girl left, Ginny turned to Tim. “Thank you for the gown, Doctor,” she said. “That was very generous. And it's really not my place, or Lizzie's, to be at your party.”

“Nonsense,” Tim said. “You're my guests, and you have every right to be there. Christmas is for everyone.”

“That's very kind of you. Have you found out anything more that could help Jonathan?” Ginny inquired.

“Not yet,” Tim said. “A colleague in America thinks that he could help, but I don't think it's wise for Jonathan to make a trip like that. How is he? I notice he isn't here for dinner.”

“He's asleep. No better, no worse that I can see, but sleeping more,” Ginny stated. “I'll feed him when he wakes up.”

“I've been expecting a letter from a colleague in Edinburgh, a very prominent and skilled surgeon,” Tim said. “He wired to say he would send me some information by mail. I hope he will have some helpful advice.”

“You got several letters today, Doctor,” Bridget noted. “I asked Lizzie to put them on the desk in your study.”

“I'll read them later tonight,” said Tim. “So stay hopeful, Ginny.”

“I will,” she answered. “But I do have another question. I've worked in many houses, and people usually had their parties upstairs in the drawing room, but Bridget says you'll be having the party here in the dining room. Why is that?”

“Well, Ginny, when I bought this house, I began converting the drawing room into a laboratory, where I could do medical research. Then my practice became too busy to allow me time for research, so the drawing room is still an unfinished work area,” Tim explained.

“I see,” Ginny said. “Research sounds interesting. Maybe you can get back to it someday.”

“I hope to,” Tim replied. “But right now I have a bit of shopping of my own to attend to.” Christmas was fast approaching, and he had not yet bought a single gift. Bridget offered to find Henry and have him prepare the coach and horses.

When Bridget returned with the coachman a half hour later, Tim already had put on his coat and hat and appeared eager for the excursion. “Do you mind if I go with you, Doctor?” she asked. “I can keep Henry company while you're shopping.”

Tim agreed, and watched with amusement as Bridget climbed up to ride atop the coach with Henry. Darkness had brought a drop in temperature, and the air was quite chilly, but Tim understood why Bridget preferred to brave the cold alongside Henry rather than ride inside the brougham with her employer.

The brougham slowed as it approached Mayfair, London's most prestigious shopping district. Henry found the streets clogged with traffic and did his best to navigate through the array of two- and four-wheeled coaches, cabs, and throngs of pedestrians that filled every road leading to the shops. At last he stopped the coach, hopped down, and opened the door to speak to Tim.

“We're not far from Bond Street, Doctor,” he said, “but you can walk there a lot faster than I can drive through this crowd, if you prefer.”

Tim stepped out of the coach. “That will be fine, Henry.”

“Will you be wanting us to help carry the packages, sir?”

“Thank you, no, Henry,” Tim replied. “I'll have the shopkeepers deliver them on Christmas Eve. That will save you the trouble of having to pick them up.”

“Very good, Doctor,” Henry said. “I'll just drive over and leave the coach by Hyde Park. Do you want me to pick you up here?”

“I'll walk over to the park and meet you when I've finished, Henry,” Tim said.

With that remark, Tim alighted from the carriage and plunged into the mass of shoppers. There was a great deal of jostling, mostly good-natured, and a bit of pushing and shoving, mostly ill-natured. Tim went along with the flow of pedestrians until he reached the corner of Bond Street, where the throng, as if of one mind, turned right toward the nearest shops. Tim knew that there was a toy seller in that direction, and decided to wait until later to visit that shop, when the eager children would have tired themselves out and that part of the street would be less crowded. He continued across the street to the opposite side, weaving through the tangle of horses and carriages. Upon reaching the sidewalk, he turned left. He would start with the shops on that side of the street.

Tim had not had time to give any thought to Christmas presents, and as he examined the items in the various shop windows, he found himself bewildered. What should he buy for his family? And he needed to get a gift for Jane to express his gratitude to her for serving as his hostess. Since they were not engaged, nor related, the wrong gift could be considered a breach of etiquette and bring Mrs. Crompton's wrath down on Tim's head. Or worse, Jane's. Whatever item he chose to give her had to send the right message, he thought. A trinket of some sort would say: “I have met my obligation to thank you,” and nothing more. Tim wanted a gift that would also express to some degree the affection he had begun to feel for her.

Having studied the window displays of perhaps a half dozen shops, Tim devised a plan. He would purchase a combination of useful items and luxuries for his family. That, he believed, would satisfy the Cratchit family's strong streak of practicality, as well as the universal desire for pleasant surprises. The exception would be his nieces and nephews. Like every child, they wanted toys, and toys they would get!

The festively decorated shops contrasted sharply with the harried shopkeepers within. They hurried about through the narrow, crowded aisles to attend to their customers' wishes. Tim purchased a selection of household items for his mother and siblings. Practicality satisfied, he turned his attention to items that were more enjoyable. At the vintner's shop he bought an assortment of wines, some for his upcoming party, others as gifts. Following a lengthy debate with himself, he purchased an expensive bottle of Bordeaux for Dr. Eustace and took it with him. He would give it to his partner as a Christmas gift and hope that the gesture would help to heal the rift between them.

Next Tim visited the crockery shop, made a visit to the silversmith's, and went to the toy shop, where he purchased a selection of toys for his nieces and nephews. But he had still not found anything for Jane. He had rejected household items as inappropriate, and did not know if she drank wine. Outside the stationer's shop he considered writing paper and envelopes. No, Tim decided, such a gift was too impersonal. He browsed through several stores that sold clothing, looking at gloves and scarves. But he did not know if Jane needed the items, and knew nothing about women's fashions. He wandered past a jeweler's shop, stopped, and retraced his steps. Tim looked at his watch: twenty minutes at most before the shopkeepers shut down for the night.

Inside, Tim contemplated a selection of silver bracelets, finally dismissing the idea because jewelry might say more than he wished or dared. He was leaving the shop when he saw a row of jewelry boxes. These he decided, were a safe choice. Tim examined several and had almost reached a decision when he noticed an assortment of music boxes on an adjacent shelf. He opened each in turn, winding them to listen to the tunes. One tall gilt box he found especially delightful. When the lid was opened, it revealed a beautiful, hand-painted Christmas tree. A circle of tiny figures danced hand in hand around it while soft chimes played “O Tannenbaum.” Every detail was perfect, a tribute to the Swiss craftsman who had fashioned it. Tim paid for it, tucked the package under his left arm, grasped Dr. Eustace's wine in his right hand, and headed for Hyde Park.

Walking past the coaches that still crammed the streets, now headed away from Mayfair, Tim soon spotted his brougham. The mismatched geldings made it easy to find. He did not see Henry or Bridget as he approached. Looking around, he saw them strolling along a path in the park, arm in arm. He discreetly stepped back behind a massive carriage. One member of its four-horse team looked at him, snorted, and turned away. Tim waited a couple of minutes, then strode forward. Henry and Bridget were now on the sidewalk, their arms no longer linked.

During the ride home, with Bridget again having elected to sit alongside Henry, Tim removed the music box from its package. He stared at the colorfully painted lid—adorned with bright holly sprigs—then wound it and watched the figures spin around the tree. He thought that Jane would like it. He hoped she would. He hoped, too, to have a chance to learn more about her at the party. She would, he felt certain, prove to be as fine a person as he believed her to be.

Back at home, Tim bade everyone good night, and headed upstairs to read his mail. Despite the late hour, he was eager to see if any new information had arrived that might help Jonathan.

Seating himself behind his desk, Tim looked at the two letters that awaited his attention. One, postmarked Edinburgh, was clearly from his former surgical instructor, Hamish Baird. The second, from Liverpool, was from Scrooge's nephew, Fred. Tim opened the letter from Scotland first and studied the contents carefully.

The skilled Scottish surgeon suggested that Tim remove Jonathan's tumor, but warned that the operation was unlikely to restore the child's health permanently.
The difficulty with this kind of tumor
, Baird wrote,
is that any fragments left behind are likely to regenerate into new tumors
. This Tim already knew.
In one case I treated
, the Scotsman continued,
the patient improved considerably for several months. Unfortunately, the remnants of the original tumor regenerated into five more. I removed them as best I could, but it is nearly impossible to get every bit, especially in cases like the one you describe, where the tumor is located so close to the spine and it will probably be too dangerous to attempt a complete removal. Nevertheless, my patient is still alive, and though upon my last examination I find it doubtful he will last many months more, the surgeries have extended and improved his life. A limited operation will extend the life of the boy and improve his health, and that is the best you can hope for. Yet fortune may smile upon you, and you may find the tumor less extensive upon internal examination, and may succeed in removing it entirely
. Baird closed his letter by urging Tim to act quickly, and wishing him luck with the procedure.

Tim raised his head, staring at his crutch, which still leaned against the wall of his study. He realized how fortunate he had been as a child to find that his own illness could be treated, and to make a complete recovery. He had to make the attempt to help Jonathan, regardless of the risk or the possibility that the boy's improvement would in all probability be short-lived. Bob and Martha Cratchit had thought Tim was dying, but had never told him. Instead, they had done their best to make his life as pleasant as possible. Had he known the threat he faced, Tim was certain that he would have wished to take any chance for a few more days of life. Jonathan, much younger than Tim had been and blissfully unaware of his situation, would undoubtedly feel that way, too, if he were able to have a say in the matter. Tim believed that he owed the child the same chance he would have wanted.

Putting those thoughts aside, Tim picked up the letter from Scrooge's nephew. It was heavy, indicating that Fred, as usual, had written a long and detailed report of his and his family's activities during the past year. Tim slit the envelope with his letter opener, unfolded the seven sheets of paper, and began to read.

Fred's business had prospered since his move to Liverpool and continued to do so. His wife and children were well: his oldest son was learning how to manage the company and his oldest daughter was engaged to be married. The news pleased Tim, and he enjoyed reading all of the details, feeling a closeness to the family that he had known so well while they had resided in London. As he came to the end of the letter, Tim found that Fred had chided him, ever so gently, for failing to write last Christmas.

“I have no doubt that the success of your practice keeps you very busy,” Fred had written, “but I hope you have not forgotten one who still considers himself your dear friend, and will find time to dash off a note and let us know how you are doing, news we eagerly await.”

Tim, a bit surprised to realize that he had never gotten around to replying to Fred's letter of the previous year, resolved to rectify that omission. He removed an envelope and several sheets of paper from his desk drawer, picked up his pen, and began composing a letter to Fred. In reporting all the news of the past two years, Tim found that when he was finished, he had surpassed the length of his friend's letter by a good two pages. Satisfied with that accomplishment, he retired to his bedchamber.

Despite being tired from the evening's shopping, Tim found it difficult to sleep. A parade of thoughts trampled through his mind: guilt at his failure to answer Fred's letter last year, concern over Jonathan's health, excitement over the Christmas party and the chance to see Jane—now less than forty-eight hours away—and worry over his damaged relations with Dr. Eustace. Finally he got up, tugged on his dressing gown, and went downstairs to see if William had brought the box down from the attic. Tim had forgotten to ask him to do it, but he knew William was acquainted with this tradition and presumed he had taken care of the task.

In the foyer closet, Tim found the old wooden box; William had indeed remembered, and had even pried off the top boards and laid them aside. Tim stooped and reached around the box, which was about three feet by two feet in size. He carried it into the dining room and placed it gently on the floor in front of the dying fire.