Tim Cratchit's Christmas Carol (12 page)

Lizzie had a persistent streak, and was prepared to go on knocking until she found someone willing to give her work, but a slow rain began to fall. Not wanting Jonathan to get wet, she bent over him and turned back to Phelps's boardinghouse. The rain increased in intensity as she walked, ducking into doorways occasionally to rest. Jonathan seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. Increasing her pace to a trot, she reached Phelps's at noon. Her arms ached and she was soaked, but at least Jonathan was only slightly damp.

Benny Phelps heard her come in, and generously invited her and Jonathan into his parlor, if such a wretched room deserved the name, to dry off before the fire. Lizzie pulled a crooked chair in front of the fireplace, where a mixture of coal and wood scraps struggled to burn against the overpowering dampness. The weather and the decaying chimney combined to obstruct the rise of the smoke, and most of it drifted back into the room. By the time Lizzie's condition had improved from soaked to just wet, she had had enough. She thanked Phelps and carried Jonathan upstairs. She smelled like the firebox of an old stove.

Ginny stumbled up the stairs at eight o'clock, drained from the day's labors. Turned away at every door for most of the morning, she had finally gone to one of the better neighborhoods, where a woman hired her to clean the drawing room for a Christmas dinner party that was to be held in the evening. The stout lady of the house promised to pay her a shilling for her work, then supervised her every action, shouting and gesturing as Ginny scrubbed the hardwood floor, beat the carpets, washed the windows, and polished the furniture. When the tasks were completed and the room gleamed, the woman pronounced Ginny's work unsatisfactory and refused to pay her more than sixpence.

Lizzie and Jonathan had finished the remaining bread and Ginny lacked the energy to go out for more, so after she had held Jonathan and heard Lizzie's story of their day's experiences, she went to bed hungry. It was an uncomfortable feeling, but one that she knew well. The children quickly drifted off to sleep, and Ginny was dozing when she heard a row downstairs.

At first Ginny thought it was a fight, but it turned out to be much worse. A group of sailors from a merchantman that had docked that morning had come seeking lodging after spending the afternoon and evening in the pubs. From the tone of Phelps's voice, which Ginny could hear clearly through the walls, the boardinghouse owner disliked being awakened but was willing to put up with the inconvenience to collect additional rent. The voices soon subsided to a murmur. Then Ginny heard the clump of many feet upon the stairs.

The door of her room swung open and she saw Phelps standing there, candle in hand, a faceless, shadowy throng on the dark landing behind him.

“Make room, Ginny,” Phelps ordered. “I've got more lodgers, and no place else for them. Seafaring men in need of a berth, as the mariners say. You won't mind a little company.”

One of the sailors, a rangy man with a bushy black beard, stepped past Phelps into the room. His eyes studied Ginny in the feeble candlelight and he leered. A strong scent of rum emanated from him.

“
I
won't mind this kind of company,” he said, chuckling, “and neither will me shipmates. Aye, laddies?”

The question was greeted by hoots and crude remarks. The other men jostled forward to get a look at Ginny, their eyes gleaming with lust. One of them grinned at her, displaying a scattering of rotten teeth, and tugged suggestively at his belt buckle.

“Get up,” Ginny told Lizzie. “We're leaving.”

“Do we have to?” Jonathan pleaded.

“Yes.” Ginny's own experience led her to expect the worst; Jonathan's father had been a sailor. She counted seven men, some of them holding bottles, and she had no intention of allowing them to celebrate their return to port with her, and probably Lizzie, as part of the festivities. Lizzie, eyes wide with fear, had the satchel packed in an instant. Ginny gathered Jonathan into her arms and pushed past the mob of sailors, twisting her body to evade groping hands. Lizzie stuck close to her, clutching Ginny's skirt. Phelps followed her downstairs.

“We'll take the garret,” Ginny said when he reached the ground floor.

“Garret's full up. Share or go,” he said bluntly.

“Then we'll go. And I'll have the two shillings you owe me.”

“One shilling,” Phelps declared. “You gave me three, one for last night, one for tonight, one for tomorrow. You've had the room part of the night.”

Ginny knew that arguing with him would be senseless. Away from the sailors, Phelps gave off his own alcoholic stench, and if challenged he might send Ginny off with a blackened eye in place of the shilling. She held out her hand and he dropped a silver coin into her palm. With Jonathan in her arms and Lizzie in tow, Ginny headed out into the cold night. Lizzie guided them to her shelter under the loading dock, only to find it occupied by a group of boys.

Resuming their wanderings, the little group eventually settled in an empty wagon with a broken wheel that had been left in an alley. The space underneath the vehicle would have provided decent shelter, but Ginny saw that the old cobblestone pavement was rough, and half covered by puddles from the day's rain. She placed Jonathan in the open cart, hoisted Lizzie in, and clambered up after them. The wagon's low sides gave them little protection from the cold night, and the boards were damp, so they huddled together under the blanket. At least, Ginny thought, the wagon driver had propped the axle with timbers, so the surface was level.

About midnight the wind picked up and the temperature plunged further. Strong gusts sliced through the alley, bringing a scattering of snowflakes and whipping the blanket about them. Jonathan, bundled in the extra clothing, slept beside Lizzie, who tossed frequently in fitful slumber. Both children were occasionally jarred awake when the wind tumbled over objects unseen in the dark. Now and again a scrawny dog ambled by, sometimes stopping to sniff at the wagon's occupants before continuing its aimless travels.

Ginny knew that they were in trouble. Lizzie's arms and legs ached from her day's exertions, and a night in a cold wagon would not make them any better. They had only a shilling and sixpence, and the work Ginny could find was barely enough to feed the children, let alone cover the cost of shelter. The dim prospect of help loomed on the far horizon, like a distant, flickering lantern, in the person of Dr. Cratchit. Ginny didn't want charity, just a chance to earn enough to care for her child. The doctor must know someone who needed a maid. She would take the lowest job if need be, and work as a scullery maid in a basement kitchen.

Maybe, Ginny thought, tomorrow she could find a reasonably safe place to leave Lizzie and Jonathan and go in search of Dr. Cratchit. She suddenly worried that he was likely angry at her for disappearing. Who knew what that nasty Mrs. Glastonbury and spineless vicar had told him about her departure from St. Luke's? The other doctor, his partner, did not want her around, that much was clear. If she showed up at their offices he was liable to kick her to the curb. Was there any sense in troubling Dr. Cratchit further? Was it even fair, given all that he had done for them already? Her despair grew as the night wore on, the cold worsened, and these thoughts revolved endlessly in her mind.

Perhaps, she reflected, the old crone she had met a week ago was right, and it would be best if all three of them froze to death and went to heaven. Sometimes she did not believe that heaven existed, but even if it didn't, could death be worse than this life?

Ginny shivered as a chill gust of wind blew over her. Her fingers were numb from the cold and her stomach ached from hunger. Would tomorrow be any better? No. Nothing had changed in the past year, except that Jonathan's health had grown worse. He was all she had, and Dr. Cratchit could not help him. Her son would die, and she would be left alone. If she wanted to see what her future would look like, all she had to do was picture the crone. That would be her in a few years. What was the point of struggling through life, Ginny asked herself, when she had nothing more to look forward to than that? Better to go peacefully, let the cold take them. She closed her eyes, hoping that it was for the last time.

Krrrrt.
Ginny started at the sound of a leather-soled shoe scraping on cobblestone. She raised her head slightly to listen. It was not the wind. Someone was approaching, walking slowly. A peeler, most likely. If he found them, he would roust them and they would probably wander the streets the rest of the night. Ginny quietly positioned herself at the front of the wagon, with her head behind the driver's bench. That way, she hoped, she could keep an eye on the approaching stranger without being seen herself.

The sounds continued until the person reached the mouth of the alley. What, she wondered, if it was not a peeler? Plenty of people roamed London's streets at night in search of mischief. If that was the stranger's purpose, she was defenseless, and the streets were empty—nobody around to come to her aid if she screamed. She would lose the satchel with the clothes, the blanket, her few coins. A gas lamp near the alley's entrance feebly lit the area, and now it outlined the figure of a man. His posture indicated that he was looking in her direction. He held what appeared to be a club in his hand. Ginny tensed as he turned and strode, slowly but purposefully, in her direction.

The man stopped upon reaching the wagon. Despite the darkness, his face was visible, almost as if it had its own internal glow. Ginny heaved an immense sigh and relaxed. She recognized the same old man whom she had met a few days earlier, the one who had directed her to Dr. Cratchit's office. He was holding a walking stick, not a club, and smiling.

“I'm so glad I found you, miss,” he said, his eyes bright, his voice soft and comforting. “I'm sorry to find you without shelter on such a cold night. Why haven't you gone to Dr. Cratchit's?”

“I've . . . I think I've troubled him enough.”

“Quite the contrary,” the stranger reassured her. “He's quite worried about you and your son, and in fact he was out tonight, asking his friends to keep an eye out for you.”

“And have you been searching all night?” Ginny asked, amazed that an old man would roam the dangerous streets into the early morning hours.

“I have plenty of time and nothing of more importance to occupy me,” the man said. “It is required of everyone to go forth among his fellow men, and assist them when one can.”

“That's very kind of you,” Ginny said, thinking that the man must be a vicar, or some other sort of religious devotee.

“Think nothing of it. In the morning you must go to Dr. Cratchit. I know for certain that he will help you, and Jonathan.”

“How do you know about Jonathan?” Ginny inquired.

“As I said, I'm a friend of Dr. Cratchit, and well informed of his affairs.”

Ginny looked at her sleeping child. She realized with surprise that the conversation had not awakened either Jonathan or Lizzie.

The man unbuttoned his overcoat, removed a thick wool blanket from underneath it, and handed it to Ginny.

“Regrettably, I cannot offer you shelter tonight, or I would gladly do so,” he said. “But my abode is far away. This will help to keep you warm until morning, and this”—he removed a sovereign from his coat pocket and gave it to her—“will pay for a cab to Dr. Cratchit's house.” The gentleman's words were mildly spoken, yet so compelling that Ginny knew she would follow his instructions.

“All right, sir,” Ginny said. “We'll go to the doctor's house tomorrow, if I can find it.”

“I've written down the doctor's address. Just give it to the driver.” He placed a slip of paper in her hand.

“Thank you, sir, thank you so much,” Ginny said.

The man reached out, pulled the blanket back, and patted Jonathan's head. “Everything will be all right, you'll see. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you, sir,” Ginny replied with fervor, unfolding the new blanket and covering herself and the children. When she looked up, the kind old man was gone. She turned and stared down the alley, looking first toward the street, then toward the brick wall where the alley came to a dead end. The man seemed to have vanished. Ginny realized that she had forgotten to ask his name. She would find out from Dr. Cratchit, and write him a letter of thanks. The doctor had not been able to identify him when Ginny had mentioned him at their first meeting. Now, however, she had a clue. When he had extended his arm to caress Jonathan, the old man's immaculate white shirt cuff had extended beyond the sleeve of his overcoat. Ginny had noticed the initials inscribed on his gold cufflink. The letters read
E.S
.

Chapter 11

L
ike an explorer picking his way across a bog pocked with pools of quicksand, Tim trod cautiously up the walk to his office door. He glanced back toward the street, expecting Dr. Eustace's carriage to appear at any moment. The last thing he wanted was to start the day with another confrontation. Usually he arrived at the office hours before his partner, but today he was running late.

Worried about Ginny and Jonathan, he had found it difficult to fall asleep the previous night. Images of the pair huddled in a doorway in the cold kept him awake well after he had heard the hallway clock chime midnight. He had awakened an hour later than usual, and then his drive to the office had been delayed by an overturned wagon blocking the road.

Tim reached his office door and slipped inside without encountering Dr. Eustace. The day was a relatively quiet one, which allowed him too much time to contemplate once again what might have happened to Ginny and Jonathan. He had heard nothing from the people he had asked to look for them, although that was not surprising given the difficulty of locating two people among the multitude of London's poor. How many women were wandering about with a child? Thousands in St. Giles, thousands more in Whitechapel and other impoverished neighborhoods. The likelihood of finding Ginny and Jonathan, even if Tim had a hundred people searching, was minuscule.

Ushering a patient out the front door, Tim spotted a messenger hurrying down the street. The day was cool but not unpleasant, so Tim waited on the top step in the hope that the boy was carrying a telegram for him. Perhaps it was a message from someone who had found Ginny, or a reply to one of his inquiries about Jonathan's condition.

The messenger—a boy about twelve—stopped in front of the building, tried to read the name on the door of Eustace's office, couldn't decipher it at that distance, and then spied Tim. He walked briskly toward him in the hope that Tim was the intended recipient of the telegrams he carried.

The boy looked down at the envelopes clutched in his right hand, holding them a few inches from his stubby nose. “Dr. Cratchit?” he asked.

“Yes, that's me,” Tim answered. The messenger walked briskly to the bottom of the steps, stopped, and extended his arm with the two envelopes. Tim noticed that he was squinting. This young fellow needs spectacles, he thought, but decided not to mention it. Such a remark might cause the boy embarrassment.

“Telegrams for you, Doctor.” Tim took the envelopes and gave the boy a shilling.

“Thank you, sir,” the lad said, touching his hand to his cap as he eyed the gratuity with a mixture of surprise and pleasure.

“Merry Christmas,” Tim said.

“And the same to you, sir,” the messenger replied, pivoting on his heel and scurrying down the walk to his next destination.

Back in his office, Tim sat at his clerk's desk and opened the first of the two telegrams. It was from another of his London colleagues, the last of that group to answer, and had no help to offer. The physician pronounced Jonathan's condition fatal.
Treatment a waste of time
, the terse message read.

The contents of the second telegram were slightly more encouraging. It was from Hamish Baird, who had been Tim's primary instructor in surgery many years earlier.
Prognosis not good. Perhaps not hopeless
, Baird had written.
Letter to follow
. Tim felt just a shade more optimistic about Jonathan. Even the slightest chance of helping the boy was better than consigning him to a slow and painful death. Before Tim could ponder the matter further, his next patient arrived.

While Tim's afternoon passed quietly, affairs in the Crompton household were in turmoil. Mrs. Crompton had insisted that her husband take the afternoon off from work and take her Christmas shopping. Archibald Crompton had reluctantly consented, and arrived home expecting to eat his noon meal and then venture out for an afternoon pursuing his wife's ever-changing whims through London's most fashionable and expensive shops. He arrived in the dining room to find a plate of bread next to a dish of butter. A cold cup of tea sat beside them.

“Before you say one word about the meal, you will just have to make do,” Mrs. Crompton declared as she charged in from the servants' pantry. “I had to dismiss that worthless lout of a cook you hired on Monday. She can't fry an egg!”

“She came highly recommended by the Pembertons,” Crompton said evenly. He knew it was useless to debate the issue. If Queen Victoria sent over the royal chef, his wife would find something to complain about. He sat down, cut a slice of bread, covered it thickly with butter, and took a bite. His failure to make a more overt challenge to his wife's decision left Mrs. Crompton momentarily speechless.

“Where is Jane?” he asked, taking advantage of her silence to inquire.

“At the butcher shop and the grocer's,” Mrs. Crompton replied.

Through a mouthful of buttery bread, Crompton said, “I thought she might be shopping for a new dress for Saturday.”

“You have the manners of a dockworker,” Mrs. Crompton sniffed. “People of
our
class do not talk with their mouths full.” She hesitated a moment, studying her husband's face as he crammed another bite of bread into his mouth. Observing her expression, Crompton braced himself. Something was coming, and he had a pretty good idea what it was.

“Our daughter is not going to that dinner party, and that's all there is to it,” Mrs. Crompton announced at last. “It will ruin her reputation to go to the home of a bachelor and act as hostess.”

Archibald Crompton pushed his chair back from the table and looked at his wife, who had picked up his cup of tea, gulped it down, and was now waving the porcelain cup like a battle flag. His first thought was to say that he had forgotten something at work and make a dash for the door, but he felt compelled to stand up for his daughter. With a deep sigh, he addressed his wife.

“Be reasonable, dear,” he began, as if reason might have the least impact on Mrs. Crompton's attitude. “Dr. Cratchit is a gentleman and a highly respected medical man. We will be there. The doctor's family will be there. What can you possibly be worried about?”

Mrs. Crompton waved the cup even more furiously, sending the remaining droplets of tea spattering across the white linen tablecloth. One of her cats, which had somehow found its way back into the house suspecting that the cup might contain milk, leaped onto the table. Finding no milk, the long-haired feline seized upon the butter as the next best option and pounced onto the dish. The cat took a large bite, apparently found the butter unsatisfactory, and tried to spit out the greasy gobbet. Succeeding at last, it then raised its hindquarters, lowered its face, and began wiping its mouth on the tablecloth.

Mrs. Crompton watched the scene in horror. Recovering from her shock, she ran shrieking into the servants' pantry, emerging a moment later with a broom. Waving it furiously, she charged the cat. Realizing that it had outstayed its welcome, the agile feline evaded the swinging broom and leaped to the floor. It ran through the open door of the servants' pantry with Mrs. Crompton in hot pursuit. The closed back door blocked the cat's escape, and it turned, hissing, one paw raised with claws exposed to defend itself. Quickly sizing up the situation, Mrs. Crompton reached for the knob and threw the door open. The cat, seeing this opportunity, chose flight over fight. Mrs. Crompton took a final swipe at it as it retreated down the back steps, then she slammed the door shut.

Returning to the dining room, Mrs. Crompton was greeted by peals of her husband's laughter.

“Oh, it—is funny, is—it?” she asked, pausing between words as she panted from her exertions.

“Last week those cats were your ‘precious babies,' and if I had done what you just did, you'd have broken a vase over my head.” Archibald Crompton chuckled. “Now you've got no use for them. Ha!”

“That was before I learned I was allergic,” she replied, having caught her breath. “Anyway, do not change the subject. We were talking about Jane and why she should not attend Dr. Cratchit's party. As I was trying to tell you, Jane is very naïve. She does not understand the ways of the world. That doctor might try to lure her into some kind of romantic entanglement that would be beneath her.”

“Beneath her?” Archibald Crompton asked incredulously. “How would it be beneath her to become engaged to Dr. Cratchit, assuming that they do decide they want to be married? He has a prosperous practice and is well regarded by all who know him.”

“Jane can do better,” his wife declared.

“No one who courts Jane will ever be good enough in your opinion,” Crompton said, thumping his fist on the table as he reached the limit of his ability to tolerate his wife's carping. “Every time a decent man has so much as smiled at Jane, you've frightened him off with your criticism. Are you really protecting her, or are you just trying to keep her tied to you, tied to our home? If you have your way, she'll end up as a worn-out old maid, not that it matters to you, so long as she's doing your bidding.”

“I'm simply trying to train her to keep house properly, so she won't be taken advantage of by lazy servants,” Mrs. Crompton retorted. “And I don't want to keep her here forever. I want her to get married, to someone who will take care of her properly. Her marriage will determine whether she can enjoy the life of leisure and luxury that is appropriate for her.”

“Have you ever used any of the leisure that our marriage provides you to ask your daughter what
she
wants?”

“Jane does not know what she wants,” Mrs. Crompton asserted. “Left to herself, she is likely to choose the wrong husband, someone beneath her station.”

“You may mean well,” her husband conceded, “but it's Jane's life, and you mustn't keep forcing her to conform to your views. In any case, we shall honor Dr. Cratchit's invitation—all three of us.”

Mrs. Crompton groped for ammunition to continue the battle. After a moment's thought, she returned to the fray.

“We know nothing about this man's family. Where does he come from? For all we know, he arose out of the dregs of London, and that makes him unsuitable for Jane. And reflects poorly on us as a result, don't forget.”

“Like it made me unsuitable for you?” Archibald Crompton asked. “You well know that my grandfather was a humble brickmason, and my father a shopkeeper. When I took over the business I invested wisely in the China trade, and profited by it. I don't recall you asking if I was the descendant of an earl once you learned that I had an ample bank account.”

Mrs. Crompton's face reddened; the truth of her husband's words stung. Seeing he was gaining the upper hand for one of the few times in their many arguments, Crompton drove home his point.

“Since we are discussing families, why not yours as well? Your father was quite the prominent barrister before he started spending more time at the card tables and gaming houses than at the Inns of Court. And what kind of dowry did you bring to our marriage? Not a farthing! As I recall, it was I who had to come up with near ten thousand pounds to keep old Dad out of debtors' prison and avoid a public scandal.”

Rendered speechless by her husband's unexpected outburst, Mrs. Crompton stomped out of the dining room. Archibald Crompton was not worried about his wife making any further effort to keep Jane from attending the party. If she did, he had one weapon left in his arsenal—the threat to refuse to pay the numerous bills that she incurred at the dressmaker's and all of the other shops where she spent much of her time and much of his money. But, he thought, it would not come to that. His wife would show up at the dinner party with a cheery smile and flatter Dr. Cratchit shamelessly. She had a remarkable talent for that kind of acting. Should she ever bankrupt him, he thought, she could easily find work on the stage.

As if confirming her husband's thoughts, Mrs. Crompton returned to the dining room a few minutes later. All trace of her anger had vanished.