It’s the Christmas season in 1860s London, and Tiny Tim, now twenty-three, and known as Mr. Timothy Crachit has just buried his father Bob. Thanks to the medical treatment, paid for by the “galloping hordes of doctors” by Tim’s now philanthropic and amateur fungi expert “Uncle Ebenezer,” known as “Uncle N.” by the Crachit children, Tim is no longer crippled but does walk with a slight limp, a constant reminder of a more memorable Christmas long ago.
Uncle N. did more than pay for Tim’s therapeutic treatment in Bath and Brighton, though. He showered the Crachit children with “gifts, tokens, and knickknacks” so much so that it simply became too much for Tim to bear. As the narrator in MR. TIMOTHY puts it:
As the months pass, and as the attentions increase, another possibility dawns on [Tim]. Perhaps this gentleman [Scrooge] has divined something in him - some germ of potential waiting to be cultured. And in this way, the boy becomes slowly acculturated to his own mythos, and over time, so does the rest of his family. With mysterious unanimity, they accept the central premise of the story - that great things are expected of this boy.
It certainly isn’t “great things” that Timothy Cratchit delivers, however. After the recent death of his father, Tim, still haunted by his father’s ghost (sometimes literally), moves about the underbelly of Victorian London trying to find his way in the world and distance himself from the surviving Cratchits and even his now kindly Uncle N.
Short on money, to put it mildly, Tim takes up living quarters in a brothel in exchange for teaching the madam to read. His nights when the madam is particularly busy, are spent dredging the Thames at low tide and rifling through the pockets of the dead bodies he finds for anything worthwhile. One night, however, Tim finds more than he bargained for: the dead bodies of two ten-year-old girls, one dredged from the Thames, the other sprawled in an alleyway, and both branded with the letter “G.”
Assisting Tim in discovering who’s behind the grisly murders are three characters who, if I didn’t know better, I would swear were created by Dickens, himself. The first is Philomela, a ten-year-old Italian girl that Tim rescues from a menacing man in a carriage and who is also branded with the mysterious letter “G.” Next is the street urchin, Colin the Melodious, so named for his beautiful singing voice, and then there’s the retired seafarer, Captain Gully, who remains cheerful and energetic despite having a wrench for a hand.
The plot of this book will be predictable to many readers, and many will figure out what’s going on and who’s behind it long before it’s revealed by the author. There are several plot twists, and Bayard does a wonderful job of evoking Victorian London. The very best thing about MR. TIMOTHY is Bayard’s writing, which, like his characters, could have been penned by Dickens, himself. The paragraph below, which describes Augustus Sheldrake, a lawyer hired to defend Mr. Timothy is, I think, one of the best passages in the book:
Augustus Sheldrake squeezes his way through the station-house door. A stout, whey-skinned man with a decamping hairline and advancing whiskers, soldierly red on both fronts. The hand he presents to me is quite damp, and there is a prevailing humidity all about his person: wet eyes, wet lips, wet teeth…and, exhaling from his pores, an effluvium that, unless my nostrils deceive me, represents the final gaseous iteration of imported Jamaican rum.
If you like Dickens, you’ll probably like MR. TIMOTHY even though “Uncle N” only makes a cursory appearance. And thank goodness, at least as far as I’m concerned, Bayard doesn’t populate his book with all the grimy, starving, big-eyed waifs that over-populate almost every book Dickens wrote. You won’t find Philomela holding up a bowl and asking, “Please sir, I want some more.” I like children and I like Dickens, and I realize starvation was rampant in Victorian London, but enough is enough. I’ve had my fill of big-eyed waifs and then some.
MR. TIMOTHY is a book with an average plot, above-average characters, and wonderful, evocative writing. It wasn’t the best book I’ve ever read, but it was certainly good enough to cause me to explore Bayard’s other work.