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Allan Woodcourt had known when he chose to practice medicine among the London poor that it would involve high risk, long hours and little pay, but he had had no idea how it would weigh on his spirit. As he looked into the anxious face of a mother over the head of the fragile six-year-old in her arms, Allan already knew he would not sleep easily that night.
“Why don’t you go play outside with the twins, love?” Mrs. Cratchit set the child carefully on his feet. “While I speak to the doctor.”
“But I want to know,” said Tim, turning big gray eyes up at them both.
“I’ll tell you later,” she said, with a mother’s loving authority. “Now get along.”
Tim sighed and limped out the door. A swarm of neighbourhood children could be heard playing in the street outside, laughing and running about. Allan could not help imagining how Tim must feel, watching them and knowing he could not join in.
All the confidence Mrs. Cratchit had worn in front of her son faded away. She turned to face Allan with a pleading look in her eyes, twisting her hands together as she waited for his diagnosis.
“Your son has rickets, ma’am,” he said plainly. “A weakness of the bones. It’s a treatable disease if caught in time, but it can be fatal if left untreated.”
“What must I do, sir?”
He looked around at the small, shabby room, the smoky street outside, the woman’s patched clothes and prematurely grey hair, and he already knew there was a high chance his advice would be useless. Still, it was his duty to speak.
“Cod liver oil would strengthen his bones, and so would fresh fruits – oranges, lemons, and so on … also, if you could spend time in the country where the smoke is less thick, so he could play in the sunshine … ”
Mrs. Cratchit let out a bitter, disbelieving laugh, just as he had feared.
“And how are we to pay for all that?” She threw up her hands. “My husband is a clerk and we’ve five more children besides. If we could afford to live like the gentry, don’t you think we’d be doing so already?”
“I am only telling you what I know, ma’am,” said Allan, making an effort to keep his voice even.
Medicine. Oranges. Sunshine. Such simple things, for God’s sake, so why shouldn’t the child have them? And yet, hothouse fruit was expensive, so were country vacations, and a clerk’s salary was generally small even without a wife and six children to support. It was maddeningly unjust, and he could not blame the woman for losing her temper.
“Do you mean to say he’ll die without these things?” asked Mrs. Cratchit.
She sounded grimly matter-of-fact about it, as women of her class often were – it would not have surprised Allan to learn that she had already lost children – but her she was blinking back tears as she spoke. She loved her son; that much was obvious. Allan felt hopelessly inadequate as he replied.
“Not necessarily, but he will be more prone to injury than other children, and more vulnerable to other diseases. You will need to be very careful with him, as I’m certain you already are. May I suggest a crutch? I notice he favours his left leg, so that should take some of the weight off, at least. I could bring you one tomorrow.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said, somewhat stiffly, but again he could not blame her. This was hardly the advice she must have hoped for. “Forgive me if I was sharp with you just now. It’s hard, you know … seeing my Tiny Tim like this.”
“I can only imagine.”
“Excuse me.” She wiped her eyes on the edge of her apron. “I’ve been sewing at night. My eyes get weak.”
“Of course.” Allan knew better than to tell her she should light more candles. They cost money too, and besides, he had seen this sort of “weakness” in people’s eyes before, and it was not physiological in origin.
She pulled a purse out from her apron pocket and began counting coins out of it – his consultation fee. He could see the frown lines on her face deepen as her lips moved soundlessly, probably calculating the household accounts. His heart sank as he wondered what the Cratchit family would be going without in order to pay him. Whatever it was, he had the feeling that, like many mothers, she would be the one to go without it.
“That’s quite enough.” He scooped up some of the coins she had laid out on the table with a rueful smile and shrug, doing his best impression of an absent-minded scientist. “It seems I’ve miscalculated the fee. Silly of me, I know.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.” He took her hand under the guise of a farewell handshake, closing her fingers over the coins she still held. “I bid you good day, Mrs. Cratchit. I need not tell you to take care of your family, as I know you will, but please take care of yourself.”
She smiled faintly, and he could see that she must have been pretty once. “That’s kind of you, Mr. Woodcourt. God bless you.”
He bowed to her, put on his hat and headed out into the street.
It was a warm July day, which meant it was relatively safe for Tim to be outside since he wouldn’t catch cold, but the smell of refuse was thick in the air. Allan had lived in London long enough to grow accustomed to it, and the locals probably did not even smell it anymore, but he still breathed shallowly as he emerged.
He nearly tripped over the small figure of Tim, who was sheltering from the sun by sitting on the front steps beneath the eaves of the house. Before Allan could move on, the child caught hold of his trouser leg and looked up at him with stubborn determination.
“Am I going to get better?”
Allan was severely tempted to lie, or else break away and run, but he fought both impulses down. “I don’t know.”
“Why not?” said Tim. “Why can’t I run like my brothers and sisters?”
A heartbreaking question, and the answer would be even worse. How was he supposed to explain to a child of six that his parents could not afford to give him what he needed?
“Because your body is made that way, that’s all. But, you know, it’s not always such a bad thing to be different. There must be things you can do that the other children cannot.”
Tim thought about it for a long moment, frowning in much the way his mother had while counting her money earlier. “I can sing, and I can tell stories. Papa says I’m old for my age, but I’d rather be tall.”
Allan cracked a smile. He could guess what Mr. Cratchit must have meant by “old for his age”; the child had a bright mind that should not go to waste.
“Every family needs its singers and storytellers, trust me.” Allan usually kept his accent under control, but now he let it out for Tim’s benefit. “I’m from Wales, you see. We honour musicians in my country.”
“Wales?” The boy grinned. “Where all the sheep live?”
Allan’s proud mother would be outraged by this proof of English ignorance, but he shrugged it off. “Exactly.”
Tim made a peculiar noise that only a town-bred child would mistake for the bleating of a sheep. Allan laughed.
“I will see you tomorrow, young man. Perhaps then I could listen to you sing.”
“I’ll practice. Goodbye, sir.”
Tim picked himself up off the steps and made a stiff little bow. Allan returned the gesture, lifting his hat as he would to a gentleman. Children enjoyed being treated like adults, and besides, replacing the hat over his face was an easy excuse to hide his eyes. They were beginning to sting, in much the same way Mrs. Cratchit’s had, and for the same reason.
Allan walked away with his head down, as quickly as the heat would allow. Thinking of the boy’s mother reminded him of the way he’d undercharged her. If his teacher, Mr. Bayham Badger, ever found out, he would laugh at Allan for being a sentimental fool. You really must learn to harden yourself, my boy, the older man had told him more than once. These people will take advantage of you whenever they can. Besides, he could have used the rest of that money. Mrs. Cratchit was not the only one with accounts running through her head.
He did not want to harden himself, though. Not when the alternative was to become like Mr. Badger. The only thing worse than feeling too much would be feeling nothing at all.
/
Seventeen months later, Allan found himself walking along the same street on a cold, dark January afternoon, with an even deeper cold and darkness inside him. Esther had rejected his offer of marriage, not because she didn’t love him - he could have endured that, if it meant she would be happy elsewhere - but because she felt duty-bound to marry Mr. Jarndyce. Besides that, Allan was desperately worried about his patients, several of whom were also his friends. Miss Flite’s Chancery madness was growing worse. Richard was in the final stages of consumption. Caddy’s baby might not live out the year. Sometimes he wondered how much longer he could continue in his profession, if all he could do was stand by and watch people suffer.
The night was so foggy, the gas lamps so far apart, and Allan himself so lost in thought that he did not even notice the sound of running footsteps until they almost bowled him over. He jumped aside just in time.
“Sorry!” called the boy, waving his mittened hand, only to stop short and stare. “I say, sir, don’t I know you?”
Did he?
Allan looked closer. The boy did look familiar. It was that piercing stare of his that seemed to take the measure of everyone he saw. He was considerably taller, dressed well and warmly for the weather, his cheeks had a healthy flush, and he carried the crutch Allan had given him so casually, he hardly seemed to need it anymore, but …
“Tim Cratchit, is that you?”
“Yes!” The no-longer-so-tiny Tim beamed from ear to ear. He turned back over his shoulder and waved grandly at two men coming up the street. “Papa! Uncle Scrooge!” he called. “It’s the medical man! The nice one, remember?”
Allan, who had made several house calls in the past, recognized one of the men as Mr. Cratchit. He still wore his absurdly long scarf, but had acquired a coat to go with it. He looked more cheerful than Allan remembered seeing him in a long time. The other man – a relative or family friend, perhaps – was older, about seventy perhaps, with white hair and sharp features, but his blue eyes lit up with affection at the sight of Tim, just as Mr. Cratchit’s did.
“Mr. Woodcourt!” Mr. Cratchit smiled and shook Allan’s hand. “Delighted to see you. How do you do, sir?”
“Well enough, thank you,” said Allan, and in that moment, it was true. “How about you?”
“Couldn’t be better,” said Mr. Cratchit. “May I present my employer, Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge of Scrooge & Marley?” The old man lifted his top hat and smiled. “Mr. Scrooge, this is Mr. Allan Woodcourt, the young surgeon I spoke of.”
“Ah, yes.” Mr. Scrooge had a voice like a rusty gate, but its tone was not unfriendly. His handshake was much stronger than Mr. Cratchit’s, for all his age. “I take it we have you to thank for the advice that restored our Tim to health?”
This was the first Allan had heard of that. He blushed. “It was nothing.”
“Nonsense,” snorted the old man. “It was much more than that. Here.”
Before he could blink, Allan found himself holding a business card with Mr. Scrooge’s address on it. “If you need anything, call on me.”
Allan was reminded of Mr. Jarndyce, who was also unfailingly generous and yet always trying to make light of it. Such men were often lonely. Hopefully the Cratchits could alleviate at least some of it. “Thank you, Mr. Scrooge.” He pocketed the card. “I may take you up on that.”
Mr. Scrooge smiled. “I hope you do.”
Meanwhile Tim, who had been standing beside his father and honorary uncle and making obvious efforts not to fidget, tugged on his father’s sleeve and said in a perfectly audible whisper: “How much longer, Papa? Supper’s getting cold.”
“Timothy,” said Mr. Cratchit reproachfully, but Mr. Scrooge chuckled.
“Far be it from us to stand between Tim and his mama’s cooking, gentlemen. Shall we?”
With a final exchange of good nights, as well as greetings sent to Mrs. Cratchit, the family and their guardian continued on their way home while Allan continued on his. They really had taken his advice, but how could they afford it?
The answer, once he thought about it, was obvious – Mr. Scrooge. As Mr. Cratchit’s employer, the old man must have given him a substantial pay raise sometime within the last year and a half, and not only that, but made himself personally responsible for the family’s welfare. He had saved Tim, and given all the credit to Allan, asking nothing for himself except friendship.
Allan looked back at the golden light streaming from the Cratchits’ window, where a healthy child would be digging into his supper, and smiled.
Moments like this were the reason he’d chosen medicine as a career. The next time he despaired, he would have to remember this.