Mr. Timothy

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More About This Book

Overview

It's the Christmas season, and Mr. Timothy Cratchit, not the pious child the world thought he was, has just buried his father. He's also struggling to bury his past as a cripple and shed his financial ties to his benevolent "Uncle" Ebenezer by losing himself in the thick of London's underbelly. He boards at a brothel in exchange for teaching the mistress how to read and spends his nights dredging the Thames for dead bodies and the treasures in their pockets.

Timothy's life takes a sharp turn when he discovers the bodies of two dead girls, each seared with the same cruel brand on the upper arm. The sight of their horror-struck faces compels Timothy to become the protector of another young girl, Philomela, from the fate the others suffered at the hands of a dangerous and powerful man.

A different kind of Christmas story, this breathless flight through the teeming markets, shadowy passageways, and rolling brown fog of 1860s London would do Dickens proud for its surprising twists and turns, and its extraordinary heart.

Editorial Reviews

Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“This mix of thriller and literature is as rich as a Christmas cake…a spirited adventure. ”
More Reviews (1) Fewer Reviews
From The Critics
“A first-rate entertainment.”

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780060534226
  • Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
  • Publication date: 10/26/2004
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 416
  • Sales rank: 242,715
  • Series: P.S. Series
  • Product dimensions: 5.31 (w) x 8.00 (h) x 0.93 (d)

Meet the Author

A writer, book reviewer, and the author of Mr. Timothy and The Pale Blue Eye, Louis Bayard has written for the New York Times, Washington Post, and Salon.com, among other media outlets. He lives in Washington, D.C.

First Chapter

Mr. Timothy
A Novel

Chapter One

Not so tiny any more, that's a fact. Nearly five-eight, last I was measured, and closing in on eleven stone. To this day, people find it hard to reckon with. My sister Martha, by way of example, wouldn't even meet my eye last time I saw her, had to fuss at my shirt buttons and stare at my chest, as though there were two dew-lashed orbs blinking out of my breastbone. Didn't matter I've half a foot on her now, she still wanted to be mothering me, and her with a full brood of her own -- six, last I counted -- and a well-oiled husband gone two nights for every night he's home, why would she want more bodies to tend? But she does, and old habits, and let the woman have what she wants, so on this last occasion, I dropped to my knees and looked straight at the sky with that look I used to have, it comes back in an instant, and I sang "Annie Laurie." And Martha laughed and boxed my ear and said Out with you, but I think it pleased her, remembering me smaller, everything else smaller, too.

The iron brace was bought by a salvager long ago, and the crutch went for kindling shortly after -- quite the ceremonial moment -- and all that's left, really, is the limp, which to hear others tell it is not a limp but a lilt, a slight hesitation my right leg makes before greeting the pavement, a metrical shyness. Uncle N told me once to call it a caesura, but this produced looks of such profound unknowing I quickly gave it up. I now refer to it as my stride. My hitch-stride. A lovely forward connotation that I quite fancy, although I can't honestly say I've been moving forwards, not in the last sixmonth. But always better to leave that impression.

I never think of the leg, truthfully, until the weather begins to change. I'll know it's spring, for instance, by the small ring of fire just under the right buttock. Fall is the dull, prodding ache in the hip joint, and winter is a bit of a kick in the knee. The whole kneecap sings for three or four days solid, and no amount of straightening or bending or ignoring will stop the music.

It's winter now.

The twelfth of December, to be specific, a date I am commemorating by staying in bed. I can't say bed rest does the knee any better, but if I lie still long enough, the knee merges with the rest of me and dissipates. Or perhaps I should say everything else dissipates; I forget even how to move my arm.

Many years ago, a doctor with violet nostrils and kippery breath informed my mother that the paralysis in my leg would, left untreated, rise through me like sap, up the thigh and the hip, through the lower vertebrae, the breastbone, the lungs, to settle finally in the heart itself, little orphan bundle, swallowed and stilled forever. Being just six, and possessing an accelerated sense of time, I assumed this would happen very quickly -- in three or four hours, let us say -- so I made a special point of saying good-bye to Martha and Belinda because they were rather nicer than Jemmy and Sam, and I told Peter if he wanted my stool, he could well have it, and that night, I lay on my pallet, waiting to go, pinching myself every few seconds to see if the feeling had vanished yet. And I suppose after all that pinching, it did. only a matter of time, then, before the heart went. I lay there listening in my innermost ear for the final winding-down, wondering what that last, that very last beat would sound like.

Well, you can imagine how alarmed I was to awake the next morning and find the ticker still jigging. Felt a bit cheated, if you must know. And perhaps by way of compensation, I've been dreaming ever since that the longawaited ending has at last come. I dream I'm back in Camden Town, except now I'm too big for everything: the stool, the bed, the crutch. Even the ceiling crowds a little, I have to stoop or lean against the wall. My feet are rooted to the ground. The sap is rising. I've already lost the feeling in my hands, the last draughts of air are being squeezed from my lungs, and my heart is thumping loud enough to wake the dead-and I realise then that the heart doesn't shut down at all, it keeps beating long after everything else has stopped, it's a separate organism altogether, and in a fury of betrayal, I grab for it, raking my fingers along the rib cage, and my lung squeezes out one last accordion blast of air, and that's when I cry out. I'm never sure whether I've actually cried out or whether it's part of the dream, but it always leaves me feeling exposed in some deep and irreversible fashion, so I must spend the next five minutes inventing plausible excuses for the neighbours who will come pounding on my door any minute, demanding an explanation.

The neighbours never come, of course. I have the great fortune of sleeping in an establishment where loud cries are part of the ambience. indeed, in Mrs. Sharpe's lodging house, one might scream "Murder!" several times in quick succession and elicit nothing more than indulgent smiles from the adjoining rooms. Murder here being simply another fantasy, and fantasy being the prevailing trade.

The only person within earshot of me most nights is Squidgy, the droopshouldered, hairy-eared gentleman with a tonsure of white hair who comes three times a week to be punished for the infractions he committed in public school half a century ago ...

Mr. Timothy
A Novel. Copyright © by Louis Bayard. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

Reading Group Guide

Introduction

Mr. Timothy Cratchit has just buried his father. He's also struggling to bury his past as a cripple and shed himself of his financial ties to his benevolent "Uncle" Ebenezer by losing himself in the thick of London's underbelly. He boards at a brothel, and spends the rest of his nights dredging the Thames for dead bodies and the treasures in their pockets. His life takes a sharp turn when he discovers the bodies of two dead girls, each seared with the same cruel brand on the upper arm. The sight of their horror-struck faces compels Timothy to become the protector of another young girl, the enigmatic Philomela. Spurred on by the eager enthusiasm of a street-smart, fast-talking homeless boy who calls himself Colin the Melodious, Timothy soon finds that he's on the trail of something far worse -- and far more dangerous -- than an ordinary killer.

Topics for Discussion

  1. Do you find Louis Bayard's grown-up Timothy Cratchit believable, and does he think, talk and act like you would expect him to, from what you know about his character as a child?
  2. How do you feel about a writer picking up a thread from those who have gone before them and spinning it into an entirely new story?
  3. Is Tim happier with the family he ends up with than the one he began with? Do you think he'll play any role in Philomela's life in the future?
  4. What is Colin the Melodious' role in the book? What do you think the author had in mind when he created this character, and in what way, if any, is he reminiscent of the characters Dickens created in A Christmas Carol?

About the Author

Louis Bayard is a writer and book reviewer whose work hasappeared in The New York Times, the Washington Post, Nerve.com, and Salon.com, among others. He lives in Washington, D.C.

Customer Reviews
Average Rating 4
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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 22, 2007

    A reviewer

    When I first picked up this book I wasn't too sure of what to think about it. It was a sequel in a way that I wasn't sure a sequel should ever be, it being written by a completely different author and all, but that suspicion was torn away with the first paragraph. I fell in love with the book and could not put it down. It never dulled me and it seemed to gain new life with every incident(and there are many incidents). Each characters has a place and they are nowhere near boring. I highly suggest that anyone who hasn't pick up this book right now.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 20, 2004

    Dickens meets Andrew Vachss

    Which you would understand, if you ever read either Mr. Dickens OR Mr. Vachss. In any event, if you read no other part of this enjoyable Christmas mystery/read, take in pages 297-303, for what may be the most profound and moving exploration into the ethos that composes the father and son relationship that ever I have read or heard.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 3, 2004

    I loved this book!

    I had to stop myself from gobbling this book up. It has to be savoured like a good wine or better chocolate. It's Dickens with blackened teeth. It was moving, gross and funny; real and a little scary. A good tale of the Victorian class system and its underbelly.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 28, 2004

    Definitely enjoyed the twist...

    I truly enjoyed the twist to a Dickens character... who would have guessed it could be so interesting. I hope he continues with the characters. I think the characters of Philomela and Colin could enhance the life of Tim Cratchit. I plan to read other books by this author. I found myself wanting to go back and re-read Dickens classics for the viewpoint of child labor (so inhumane and unfair to society, but was tolerated during that era).

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 15, 2010

    A wonderful read

    The writing style, originality, character development make this one for my bookcase. Keeping in mind that my preference leans toward the historical fiction, I find Bayard, as a whole, is able to immerse me into a time beyond "Hollywood," bringing in the grit and filth of daily life with ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances.

    If you're a fan of this genre, I think you'll find yourself quickly consuming all his works. My only regret is the lack of books.

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