Dr Finlay's Casebook (11 page)

‘Oh yes. Oh yes, dear doctor. I will obey, obey your commands. Please give me the paper.’

‘First, madam, you must give me my fee of three guineas.’

Her face assumed a shocked expression. ‘Dear, clever doctor, you are most ungallant to speak of money to your patient, a lady of distinction, while she is still in her bed. Surely you
understand that your fee will be remitted to you the moment we receive your account.’

‘Madam, I am no Shylock to tear my beard and cry “Give me my ducats”. No, madam, I am a simple country doctor who has several times been swindled by residents of this hotel who
depart without settling their just debts. I therefore have a fixed principle: “No pay, no prescription”.’

She studied him again, seeking a sign of weakness in his stern young face, then in a loud voice she called out: ‘
José, venga aquí
.’

Now for the first time, Finlay saw a little boy with dark eyes in a very pale face lying on his stomach on the floorboards in a corner by the window. Now, very stiffly, he got up, stumbled to
the wardrobe, and after opening the door produced a woolen work-bag which he handed to his mistress. As he returned to his corner Finlay noticed, with horror, that under the thin singlet the little
boy’s back was scarred with ugly red weals.

Meanwhile the Señora was fumbling in her bag with an air of distress. Finally she exclaimed: ‘What a pity! Such a nuisance! Dear doctor, is it not embarrassing for me? I find I have
not enough of small “
vueta
” to discharge your account.’

‘Then I will hold your prescription, dear madam, until you actually have the amount you require.’

Again she studied him. Then, without further delay, she handed Finlay three rather dirty pound notes and three separate shillings.

When he had pocketed the cash, Finlay stood up and, with a bow, handed her the prescription.

She accepted it with a shriek. ‘What! No liquid! No medicamenta!’

‘The excellent chemist in the town, madam, will supply your medicine according to my prescription.’

‘Ha! So I must again pay. The English are all cheats!’

‘Scottish, madam,’ Finlay corrected mildly, turning towards the door which the small boy had already opened for him.

As he entered the passage and the door closed behind him he felt that he had a shadow behind him. Turning, he saw that the boy had followed him out of the room.

‘Señor doctor, I implore you, please heal my wounds.’

Finlay could not resist this pitiful appeal. He removed the boy’s shirt, then gazed in horror at the deep, raw weals that had broken the skin and cut almost to the bone.

‘Who did this?’

‘The master, doctor sir. When I do not please the mistress she reports to her husband.’

Finlay studied the boy in silence. The child was undernourished to the point of emaciation. And pitifully beaten.

Finlay did not reflect even for a moment. Wrapping his coat round the boy’s shoulders, he led him into the lift, then quickly through the swing doors and out into his car. As they drove
off, the boy crouched beside Finlay shaking with tears of joy.

‘How come you understand English?’

‘I study greatly at school, señor, hoping to run away to an English family.’

‘To escape the flogging?’

‘It is not always flogging. I leave to get food.’

‘Don’t they feed you at the hotel?’

‘I am not registered at the hotel, señor. I eat only what madame leave on her plate. If nothing, I lick plate.’

Dear God, thought Finlay. Could anything be worse? He was silent until he reached home, then lifting the child gently from the car he carried him into the kitchen. ‘Janet, dear, this poor
little boy has been maltreated and starved. I see you have porridge on the hob, please give him a big plateful with lots of creamy milk. I’ll be back in a few moments.’

In the surgery, Finlay collected together everything he required, wrapped them in a big towel and left them by the couch, so as to have them close at hand. He then returned to the kitchen. There
he sat with Janet who, entranced, was watching the little boy eat.

‘Oh, Dr Finlay,’ she whispered. ‘The boy is starved to death.’

‘Very near to it, Janet. Give him a second helping if he asks you.’

‘He has already,’ she answered, rising to replenish the empty plate, already licked clean.

‘Lovely, lovely porridge, sir. After more I am again strong.’

‘Are you going to keep him, sir?’

‘Nothing else for it, Janet. He hasn’t a friend in the world. And of course I’ll never,
never
send him back to those South American bastards at the hotel.’

When the second plateful of porridge had disappeared Finlay lifted the boy and carried him to the surgery, where he laid him face down on the couch. It was absolutely essential to clean the
sores, some of which had become infected.

‘I must hurt you a little, José. It is necessary.’

‘I will not cry, sir.’

Using pure ether, Finlay thoroughly cleaned the sores, then covered the child’s entire back with damp boric lint and carried him back to the kitchen.

‘Janet! This is your boy as well as mine. Could you spare him a wee corner o’ your bed? And if you have an old chemise, that could serve him as a night-shirt till I get him some
proper clothes.’

Janet flushed with pleasure. ‘I can certainly see to him, sir. He’ll be real cosy wi’ me forbye.’

Receiving the child from Finlay she disappeared through the doorway that led to her room, just behind the kitchen.

Finlay could now hear Dr Cameron moving about the surgery and it became necessary to consider the main business of the day. His list of visits, already made out, was on the hall table.

‘Good morning, sir,’ he called loudly. ‘Have you any more calls for me? I am just starting out.’

‘No, I have no calls, so I’ll do the surgery. But Finlay, have ye had your breakfast?’

‘I was out early, sir, and forgot about it. I’ll have my coffee now.’

Back in the kitchen, his coffee and fresh roll awaited him. Janet, with a portentous air put a finger to her lips as she whispered, ‘Our wee laddie is fast asleep, sir. But I’m sorry
there’s nae parritch left, he’s ate it a’.’

Finlay had no serious cases on his list and he finished his round before midday. He then drove into the centre of the town and drew up before the double-fronted shop which bore
the sign: GENERAL AND CHILDREN’S OUTFITTERS.

For about half an hour Finlay remained in the shop, emerging with the manager, who deposited a bundle of parcels in the back of the car, then remarked, with a significant smile, ‘Your
other order for the buttons uniform will be ready for the try-on by the end of next week.’

With a glance at his watch Finlay saw that he still had enough time to make his final visit. Leaving the car he walked across the street to the Central Police Station.

Here Finlay remained for another thirty minutes or so and when he emerged he was accompanied down the steps by the Chief Constable.

‘I’ll have a word with the Registrar, Finlay. It will be perfectly simple: father – unknown; adoptive mother – Janet MacKay.’

The two men then shook hands and Finlay got into his car and drove home.

‘Janet,’ he called, ‘here’s lots of good things for your wee laddie.’ Aided by a very bright-eyed little boy, Janet and Finlay unloaded the goods and carried them
to the kitchen where a fire burned cheerfully. As the parcels were unwrapped one by one it was a joy to watch the child’s face, alight with joy and wonder. Everything he needed was there:
little white and blue shirts; underwear; socks; two pairs of shoes, one for the house, the other for out of doors; a little soft hat; two ties; two pairs of trousers, one grey flannel, one blue;
two sweaters; and a lovely blue reefer coat.

As Finlay turned to observe the effect of his purchases, Janet was actually weeping. ‘Oh Dr Finlay, dear Dr Finlay, to think that ye bought a’ these lovely things for my wee
laddie!’

‘And he really is yours now, Janet. I fixed it all with the Chief of Police – and the Registrar.’

‘There’s just one thing that I must humbly thank ye for, doctor: your skill and gentleness that made the birth o’ my bairn absolutely painless. Ye must a gi’en me a great
big dose o’ the chloroform, for it’s the God’s truth I never felt a thing till I woke up wi’ the dear bairn in ma airms.’

Finlay studied her, kindly. Better, yes, better by far to let her cherish this fulfilment of her dream.

Now, indeed, Janet yielded to all her years of frustrated motherhood. A woman too plain to attract a man, yet longing in her heart to have a child. She sat down, holding her little boy tight,
and let the warm tears flow.

Dr Finlay’s Hopes are Dashed

In Tannochbrae winter was at last over, a warm sun had dispersed the lingering mists, and the budding trees proclaimed the advent of spring. This was the season especially
beloved by Finlay – it seemed to herald the joys of the outdoor life, the very soul and substance of his being. Yet there was no joy in Finlay’s heart. He looked sadly at his beloved
guns, and his fishing rods stood unused in their corner of the garage.

As if in contrast, activity in the house, such as the annual spring-cleaning, had never proceeded with greater gusto and good-humoured thoroughness. Janet, the leader of the assault, had never
been in better form. Aided by Joseph (no longer José), she scrubbed, scoured, swept and polished as though she were twenty years younger. Complimented by Finlay in these terms she nodded in
agreement and said, ‘It’s a true word ye’ve spoken, Finlay, sir, I’m a new woman since I had ma braw son.’

‘And he’s a great help to you, Janet.’

‘A help and a comfort, sir, you should see how he snuggles in to me in bed. I sleep far better nor I ever did.’ She smiled tenderly. ‘And then in the morning, he’s up to
bring me my cup o’ tea the minute I’m awake!’

‘He’s growing up a fine boy, Janet. And since he’s got his smart new buttoned uniform it’s a treat to see him answering the front door bell and showing the patients to
the waiting room.’

‘Och, sir! He’s a help everywhere. You should see how he tidies our bedroom. Even empties my chanty for me.’ She paused and suddenly began to shake with laughter. ‘Sir,
this will kill ye. At first when my wee laddie didna ken ony better he lifted the chanty, fu’ to the brim, and shooshed it out through the open window just as Dr Cameron was passing! Och,
sir, it was a near shave. As I served lunch the boss says to me: “Janet, the roof gutter is leaking. Have it seen to at once. I nearly had a bath this morning.” ’

Finlay rejoiced in the old servant’s happiness. Yet, in his own heart, there was no such joy. Now was the time to reopen his house as a holiday home for the children. But though this had
been such a wonderful success last summer, he could not bring himself to take the decisive step. Where would he find a matron? No, he could not face the prospect of the old dame from the hospital,
hobbling round with the help of her stick. Perhaps she would send one of the senior nurses, all starch and spectacles? Finlay shuddered at the thought. Nothing would match that wonderful summer of
a year ago, when every day was a joy – or a joyous battle.

On the first day of April, when Finlay had finished the morning surgery, Janet directed his attention to a group of workmen standing by a pantechnicon outside his house.

‘They’ve been shouting across the gairden for ye, sir.’

Finlay strode towards the half dozen workmen but before he reached the group the foreman touched his hat and said, ‘It’s just the key, sir, that we’re wanting, to get into your
house.’

Finlay recognised the man. ‘Andy, who sent ye?’

‘Hoo should I ken, Finlay? The word musta came tae the office. The manager just stepped oot tae the yaird and says: “Finlay’s hoose, lads, exactly the same as last year.”
’

‘But, Andy, I never said a word.’

‘Then it musta came frae the weans’ hospital, sir.’

A dull feeling of acceptance came over Finlay. He had set the pattern, yes, he must accept it. He followed the men as they entered the house and watched as they expertly set about their work,
removing and storing his lovely rugs and fine china, then rolling out the drugget over the polished floors. Suddenly he heard the tapping of a stick and a high-pitched voice pierced his eardrums,
‘I wish to assure myself that all is perfect . . .’ That was enough for Finlay. He shut himself in one of the lavatories, shot the bolt and sat down on the seat to brood. Yes, it was
the old matron. He had let himself in for it. Well, it was too late now. He must stand aside and let her go ahead.

A copy of the children’s paper
Comic Cuts
was on the floor, left by one of last year’s cheerful horde. On the upturned page was a drawing of a sad little fat man left with his
baggage on a pier, while a liner was steaming away into the distance under clouds of smoke. The caption read, ‘The man who missed the last boat for Kingdom Come.’

I am that fellow, thought Finlay. I had the chance of sublime happiness and let it sail away from me.

At last he picked himself up from his ignoble throne and, from force of habit, flushed it.

Back home he took the evening surgery, a very light task as the good weather had largely reduced the number of his patients. Upstairs, he found little Joseph awaiting him with a smile.
‘Nice postcard for you, sir. Of course I do not read it, but the picture is most funny.’

While the boy watched him with a smile, Finlay took the postcard and studied it with a diagnostic eye. The postmark was San Remo and the picture, in the crudest of colours, depicted a pretty
young woman in negligible bathing attire fleeing along a beach, hotly pursued by an elderly man in a top hat and frock coat. With the card there was a letter written in a very small, neat hand,
immediately recognisable, which made his heart beat frighteningly fast.