Tim Cratchit's Christmas Carol by Jim Piecuch

Author:Jim Piecuch
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pocket Star

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.

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