Tim Cratchit's Christmas Carol Read Free Page B

cracked, ancient bricks. Leaning against them was a crutch. His childhood crutch.
    Tim stared at the hearth, baffled, for how long he did not know. Then he started to get up, reaching for the crutch, only to find that his legs were so weak he could not stand. He gazed at his extended right hand. It was that of a child. He leaned back in his chair, rubbed his eyes, and when he looked around again, he was back in his own comfortable study. The gas lamp burned brightly, the fire still blazed in its marble enclave. There was no crutch to be seen. He flexed his legs. They were strong. He shuddered, perplexed at what had occurred. Although he was quite sure that he had not fallen asleep, he reassured himself that it must have been a dream. Not surprising, considering his thoughts about Jonathan, and the unavoidable realization that the boy’s plight reminded him so much of his own childhood illness. Tim stood, uneasy, and dropped the reference book on the desk before heading to bed.
    Standing over the washbasin, he poured water from a pitcher into the ceramic bowl. He wet a washcloth and rubbed his face. Even in the light of the single gas lamp, he could see the creases beginning to form on his forehead, the dark circles under his blue eyes. A few strands of gray were sprinkled through his blond hair. He thought he looked at least a decade older than his thirty-two years. Combined with his short stature and thinness, Tim reflected that in a few years he would look like a wizened old man.
    Too much work, that was the cause, he thought. Unpleasant work. And now he also had to do something about Jonathan Whitson, who had what was likely a malignant tumor. A boy not yet four, probably sentenced to death by nature before his life had a chance to begin. Five years ago, Dr. Timothy Cratchit would have tackled the child’s case enthusiastically and with optimism. Now he was reduced to performing fake surgeries to placate hypochondriacs.
    Ginny Whitson had met him years earlier, and believed in his abilities. He only wished that he shared her confidence.

Chapter 2
    â€œA re you feeling all right, Doctor?” Bridget asked when Tim took his seat at the table for breakfast the next morning. Her eyes showed genuine concern.
    â€œJust tired, thank you,” he replied. “I stayed up a bit later than I should have.” A platter of eggs and thinly sliced beef steamed on the table in front of him.
    â€œYou’ll want to eat all that to make it through the day,” Bridget advised. “I know you’ll have an emergency or two and not get another meal until supper. And you’re too thin already, sir, if I may say so.”
    â€œThank you, Bridget, I will,” Tim said appreciatively. He did not mind her taking liberties with advice, since she showed as much care for his welfare as his mother did. In fact, when Mrs. Cratchit visited, the two women always joined forces to urge him to rest more and eat better. He smiled at the thought.
    â€œAnother thing, sir,” Bridget continued. “Christmas is less than two weeks away. Will you be having your family and friends over as usual for a dinner party? If so, I’ll have to post the invitations soon, and Henry and William will want to decorate the house.”
    â€œI hadn’t realized December was so far along,” Tim admitted, momentarily stunned that in all the bustle of work he had forgotten the Cratchit family’s Christmas tradition. “Please, just go ahead and take care of everything as you do each year. We’ll have the party a week from Saturday.”
    â€œVery good, sir,” Bridget approved, standing by until Tim finished the last of his breakfast. Then she handed him his coat, gloves, scarf, and top hat, and watched from the door as he climbed into his carriage. She heard footsteps behind her and turned to see William coming down the hall, ready for breakfast.
    â€œHow are you today, dear?” the stocky gardener