Tim Cratchit's Christmas Carol (6 page)

Chapter 5

T
im went straight to his office without eating breakfast. He felt guilty for spending so much time at the party rather than researching Jonathan Whitson's case. He hoped that he would have time between appointments to consult his medical journals before Ginny and her son arrived.

He dealt with the usual assortment of minor maladies, bidding farewell to his last patient at quarter to twelve. Richard Beckham had followed his advice and taken the day off, so Tim brought several recent journals and an anatomical chart to the clerk's desk to examine while he waited. Soon he found two articles of some relevance, and looked back and forth between them and the chart, trying to make an exact diagnosis of the child's problem. He was so engrossed in the work that he did not realize how late it was until the clock chimed one. There was no sign of Ginny or Jonathan. Tim opened the front door, checking to make sure the last patient had not accidentally locked it, then strolled slowly down the walk to the street. Ginny and Jonathan were nowhere in sight. He had asked Henry to pick him up at half past one, so he pivoted on his heel, intending to wait another thirty minutes. At that moment he heard his partner locking his office door.

“Ah, Cratchit, glad to see you're still here,” Dr. John Eustace called from the doorway of Tim's waiting room. Eustace was Tim's partner, a man in his fifties who was even more sought-after by London's titled and wealthy inhabitants than Tim. Eustace showed the effects of his easy, profitable practice. Attired in a rich black silk jacket and trousers and starched white shirt, he looked like a fashionable gentleman on his way to the theater. His flabby body lacked any semblance of muscular strength, while his ample stomach testified to his love of fine foods. The skin on his clean-shaven face was as pink and smooth as that of a baby.

Dr. Eustace was something of a pioneer in the medical profession. The third and youngest son of Sir James Eustace, a Lancashire baronet, John Eustace had grown up expecting to live the leisured life of a country squire. He therefore devoted as little time as possible, and even less attention, to the tutors his father hired to educate him and his older siblings, but when the stark reality of his lack of inheritance became apparent, John realized he would need a profession. After a few months of unbearably boring legal study, he pleaded with his father to allow him to switch to the study of medicine, and eventually received his license from the Royal College of Physicians just as the financial support from his father was cut off.

When Eustace went into practice in London his earnings were good, but nowhere near enough to support the lifestyle he wished to lead, which ultimately inspired his innovations in medical practice. Physicians of his day called on patients in their homes, making their rounds on foot or by carriage. Some of the more prominent doctors had reduced the time spent traveling about by receiving patients in their offices on Harley Street, the home of London's medical elite. Eustace figured that if he stopped making home visits altogether, he could see three or four times as many patients in a day, thereby tripling or quadrupling his income. There would be an additional benefit in that those patients who were able to come and see him would likely be in better health than those he saw at their homes, and thus would not tax his rather limited skills. And so Eustace had purchased the house on Harley Street, converted it into medical offices, and soon developed a thriving practice treating wealthy victims of gout and dyspepsia.

When Tim had joined Eustace's practice, he had known his colleague only by reputation, and had expected to be working with a talented medical man. Tim soon learned that Eustace's skills did not match his renown—he was competent to treat simple cases, but was neither brilliant nor dedicated to his profession. Upon becoming partners with Eustace and Dr. Humphrey Jones, Tim had taken over Jones's ground-floor offices while Jones moved to the upper floor. Later, Tim learned that Jones could not abide Eustace and had taken the upstairs rooms to increase the distance from his partner. Less than a year after Tim had joined their practice, Jones left and returned to practicing on his own.

Eustace had made changes in the grounds to keep the practices separate. Two gates in the wrought-iron fence along the street opened into two walkways, one leading to Eustace's rooms and the stairs to the upper floor, and the other to Tim's office.

Tim stood and held the door open as Eustace entered his office, where they studied the week's appointment book, diagnoses, treatments, and fees charged. Their contract required Tim every Saturday to pay his partner rent and twenty percent of fees collected, but Eustace often left early on Saturday or did not come in at all, so that Tim usually saw him only once or twice a month. Though not unfriendly, Eustace disliked trivial conversation, preferring to simply calculate and collect his fees and then leave. That done, he declined Tim's invitation to his Christmas party, but did wish his young partner the joy of the season. “I shan't be in on Christmas Eve, Dr. Cratchit,” he announced as he departed. “I'll instruct my clerk to refer any emergency cases to you.” Tim grimaced; Eustace simply assumed that Tim would work all day on the twenty-fourth, never bothering to ask him if he had other intentions.

It was always the same, Tim thought. Christmas, the summer holiday, whenever Eustace decided he wanted a day or a fortnight off, he simply instructed Tim to take over his practice and expected him to do it. I'm not a partner in this practice, Tim mused. I'm just an employee.

Eustace angled across the lawn to his own walkway. His coach waited outside the gate. Eager to leave, the doctor flung the gate open with such force that it almost struck Ginny Whitson, who was trotting up the sidewalk as fast as she could, her child in her arms. She halted to let him pass, and he glared at her.

“Away with you,” he shouted, waving his arm in a dismissive gesture. “We want no trollops or beggars in this neighborhood. Go ply your trade among your own kind.” He climbed into his carriage, knocked twice on the roof, and his driver cracked the whip. The four perfectly matched black horses sped off.

Undeterred, Ginny waited for the carriage to drive out of sight and then continued to Tim's door. He apologized for his partner's behavior, but Ginny shrugged it off.

“It's like that all the time for me, sir,” she remarked, “no need to get upset. But if I'm making trouble for you, Doctor, I won't come 'round anymore.”

“You're not the one who's making the trouble,” Tim said, his tone carrying the bitterness he felt toward Eustace. The greedy physician hated Tim's penchant for treating the occasional poor caller, since such patients could not pay and deprived Eustace of a commission. He had said as much to Tim on several occasions.

“That's no way for a gentleman to behave,” Tim continued. As he spoke, Tim looked at Ginny, and his shock at her appearance immediately chased away his displeasure with his partner. A dark red slash crossed her forehead above her right eye, and her left cheek was bruised and swollen. Her lower lip was split, a bloody scab covering most of it. The blanket she had worn as a cloak was missing, and the shoulder of her frock was torn.

“What happened?” Tim asked. “Were you attacked?”

“Yes, sir, but it's nothing for you to worry about,” she answered, his concern making her uncomfortable. Tim, however, pressed for an explanation, and, feeling obliged to him for his willingness to treat her son, Ginny reluctantly told the story.

“It was early this morning, Doctor. Jonathan and I had just started on our way here, and we passed a hot soup cart. I bought a cup of broth for the baby's breakfast. There were two men standing across the street, and when they saw my bag of coins, they tried to steal them. I fought, but they were too strong. They hit me, stole the money and my cloak. But I'm all right, sir. The soup man was kind enough to give me another cup of broth, seeing as how the first one got spilled in the fight. At least Jonathan wasn't hurt—I held on to him the whole time.”

“Were the constables able to find the men?” Tim inquired.

“I never called them, sir. I didn't know the men who robbed me, and the peelers wouldn't have done much for the likes of me, anyway. That's just how it is.”

Once Tim had Ginny and her son in the consulting room, he cleaned her cuts and bandaged her forehead. Then he turned his attention to Jonathan. He carefully pressed and prodded the swelling, measured its size and its exact location on the boy's back, and examined the surrounding area. Each time Tim touched the swollen point, Jonathan groaned. Ginny watched the procedure with intense interest. When Tim was done, he turned to her and excused himself.

“I need to check something in one of my books,” he explained. “I'll be back in a moment.”

Tim stepped into the waiting room, closing the door behind him. He took a deep breath. He did not need to check anything. The diagnosis was clear. The boy had a fibrous tumor, and the fibers were beginning to impair function in the nerves leading to Jonathan's diaphragm. That was the reason the boy had trouble breathing, and the problem would continue to worsen until he eventually died of asphyxiation. Without treatment, Jonathan had no more than one or two months to live, if Ginny had accurately described the tumor's rate of growth. How could he tell a mother that her child was going to die? Tim barely knew Jonathan, yet he was overcome with sadness at the impending loss of a life that had barely begun. Ginny would be devastated. Tim decided to withhold the worst part of the diagnosis. He would do what he could in the following weeks to ease Jonathan's pain, and slowly prepare her for what was to come.

After several calming breaths, Tim reentered the consulting room. Despite his effort to compose himself, his expression sent a wave of fear coursing through Ginny's body.

“It's bad, isn't it, Doctor?”

“Yes, it is,” Tim conceded, wishing that he had been able to conceal that fact. “Jonathan has a fibrous tumor. It's growing quickly, and some of the fibers are spreading from the main tumor into nearby parts of his body. The tumor and these tentacles are choking off the nerves and blood vessels, so that he can't walk.”

“But you can do something to help Jonny, can't you, Doctor?” Ginny pleaded.

“I'm not sure,” Tim said honestly. “This is a rare condition, very difficult to treat. I'm going to need time to do more research before I can promise anything. If I rush ahead, it's likely to do more harm than good.”

Ginny began to cry. Tim wanted to console her, but the words would not come. How could he raise false hopes, only to see them dashed within a short time? Aware that something was wrong, Jonathan also began to cry. Tim lifted the child from the examining table and held him to his chest, fighting back tears of his own.

One thing he could do, Tim knew, was keep Ginny and Jonathan off the streets, away from the danger and cold and hunger. Perhaps that would distract her from her child's illness for a while, giving him time to try and find a remedy for Jonathan. Food and shelter would also help the little boy build up his strength, improving his odds of surviving if Tim decided to perform the surgery necessary to remove the tumor.

Ginny stood, took Jonathan from Tim, dressed her child, and wrapped him in the blanket fragment. Her tears had stopped, though she still sniffled as she addressed Tim.

“We'll be going, then, Doctor,” she said in a surprisingly firm voice. “I'm sorry to have troubled you, but thank you for what you've done.” Despite her disappointment and tattered condition, her bearing reflected an inner dignity. All of the harshness of life on London's streets had hardened her, but it had not yet destroyed her pride. She had the same mixture of defiance and resignation as the captain of a sinking ship who put on his dress uniform and stood at attention by the wheel, watching the churning waters inexorably rise about him yet refusing to wail and thrash against a fate he could not alter. Tim sensed that if Ginny could somehow find a way to overcome her circumstances, she would prove to be a remarkable person.

“Wait a moment,” Tim said as Ginny grabbed the knob of the consulting room door. “I didn't say I couldn't help Jonathan, only that I need more time to see how I can proceed without making him worse. There are books, and other doctors, I want to consult. Until I do, you must stay close by. The tumor is growing rapidly, and if it turns out I can operate, I have to do so as soon as possible.”

Ginny uttered a short, bitter laugh. “Sure, we'll just set ourselves up right near your office and be very welcome. Hah! You heard what that
gentleman
told me when he saw us here.”

“He doesn't speak for me,” Tim declared. “My coachman must be waiting outside, and he'll take you and Jonathan home with me. Bridget, my maid, will have a meal for us, and then she and you can go shopping and get some warm clothes for you and the child. I'll check with an old friend of mine, a vicar who runs St. Luke's Mission, and see if he can give you a place there for the time being.”