Dr Finlay's Casebook (13 page)

A silence fell in the little office, then the Reverend Mother said quietly, ‘Dearest Finlay, looking at you now I recognise you as a splendid product of Stonyhurst where, amongst other
distinctions, you were captain of the School Football XI. You were also Head Boy in Classics, much to the satisfaction of your reverend uncle, then Bishop, now Archbishop Finlay.’ She paused,
then went on, ‘With all this in mind I find it hard to understand why you are never present at our Holy Mass, ten o’clock, every Sunday and Holy Day in the year.’

There was a silence, then Finlay said, humbly and contritely, ‘You have a strong case against me, dear Mother. The truth is simply this, I am often as busy on Sundays as I am on weekdays
and if I am not working I am tired and need rest. If there were a Catholic Church in Tannochbrae I would certainly drop in at ten or eleven o’clock, but as this is the nearest place of
worship, the thought of the long drive here and back tends to rather get the better of me.’

‘If other matters “got the better of you” so easily you would not be so highly regarded as you are now.’

‘One other little difficulty, Reverend Mother. If in Tannochbrae I were to acknowledge myself as a Catholic I would be
shunned
, an outcast.’

She laughed sarcastically. ‘My poor little Finlay – no longer regarded as a hero.’ Her tone changed, hardened. ‘In the name of God, wasn’t our dear Lord Jesus
shunned and despised, mocked, flogged, and crucified between two thieves? Did he say he was too tired when he took the long, hard, uphill walk to Calvary?’

There was a pause then Finlay said:

‘You bring tears of shame to my eyes.’

‘You know that I love you as a mother, dear Finlay. But your success, your easy friendly manner, your physical attributes, your skills on the moors in shooting and fishing, yes, even your
success in your practice, all these have made you too secure, too proud. If a man insulted you, without hesitation you would knock him down. Finlay, can’t you see that your public image has
become your god and you would defend it with your life?’

‘Dear Reverend Mother, your estimation of my character is only too true. Even at school I wanted to score the winning try. Is that a fault?’

‘Would it not have been a nobler action if at the last moment you had passed the ball to the weakest member of the team, a boy unsure of his place, and allowed him to score?’

‘If I had passed to him he would almost certainly have dropped the ball in sheer surprise.’

Irresistibly she laughed, and Finlay joined her.

Silence followed this almost profane merriment.

‘Finlay,’ said the Reverend Mother, taking his hand, ‘just promise me this: if your patient should decide to join us here when she is well again, would you come to our
celebration when she is accepted as a postulant in our Order?’

‘That I definitely promise you. And I have one good quality amongst my many sins, I never, but never, break my word.’

When Finlay reached home that afternoon and had garaged the car he went immediately to the telephone. He had one more duty to perform, to thrash the villain responsible for this unspeakable
crime. He rang the Caledonian Hotel.

‘I wish to speak immediately to the Italian Count Alphonso.’

‘But, Dr Finlay, he is no longer here!’

‘What!’

‘Yesterday, suddenly and in great haste, he left the hotel. We understand he had a reservation on the evening train.’

Finlay replaced the receiver. Such a man could only be a coward at heart.

So Finlay’s life continued, undisturbed by external events. He carried on, in his usual thorough manner, with the practice, yet in his spare time his thoughts reverted to
his patient at Bon Secours. All seemed well with her, and it was apparent that the rest and the complete security there had healed her both in body and in spirit. Although she was often on his
mind, Finlay thought it better not to visit her. Moreover, he occasionally had word from the Mother Superior which confirmed the wisdom of his decision.

After a short and verdant spring, summer came in a blaze of sunshine that lit up the colours in Finlay’s garden, where the children that occupied all his free time laughed and played to
their hearts’ content. This was enough to engage Finlay, and to distract his thoughts from more serious affairs.

Yet serious affairs were impending and would not be denied. On the morning of 7th July he was called to the telephone.

‘Finlay, dear boy, I have some wonderful news for you.’

‘Yes, Reverend Mother?’ He had recognised the voice at once.

‘First of all, dear Finlay, you will be pleased to know that your patient here is now fully and completely recovered. Yesterday she played the entire game of hockey between the Juniors and
the Seniors. And what’s more she scored a winning goal that decided the game in favour of the Juniors.’

‘Dear Reverend Mother, I am overjoyed! Such wonderful news. Soon, she will be back in circulation.’

There was a pause then, ‘Not exactly! Within the next few days you will receive a splendid gold-edged invitation card.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re arranging a dance, Reverend Mother.’

‘Not exactly,’ she replied, laughing. ‘I am so happy. I rejoice to tell you that your Alice has decided to become a postulant in our Order. The ceremony of her acceptance will
take place at eleven on the morning of Saturday 14th July and will be a truly joyful occasion.’

Finlay took a long breath to steady himself, then, repressing all personal feelings and with all the fervour of a noble heart he said, ‘That is the best decision she could make. I rejoice
with you, dear Reverend Mother, and you may be sure that I shall most certainly be there.’

This news was too much for Finlay to take sitting down. Replacing the receiver, he got up, went into the garden and with a deep frown began to walk up and down the gravel path, taking vicious
kicks at various perfectly innocent pebbles. Suddenly little Jeannie, his special favourite amongst the children, came skipping up to him gaily.

‘Weel, what do ye want of me now, ye wee pest?’

Her face fell instantly and she seemed ready to cry. ‘Oh, what have I done wrong? You look so angry.’

‘Nothing, my wee darlingest.’ Relaxing, he picked her up and cuddled her. ‘If a’ the lasses in the world, big and wee, were as sweet as you, there wad be a lot less
bother. Come on, now, and I’ll gie you a big high swing.’

When this was accomplished, with mutual screams of delight, Finlay carried her into his office.

‘Which is the right and proper place to find something for my own wee Jeannie?’ She pointed to the lower right-hand drawer which, when opened, revealed a delicious-looking fruit
sweet, gaily wrapped in coloured paper depicting some lovely strawberries.

‘Oh, my favourite kind!’

‘Don’t eat it till after your lunch.’

‘No, I won’t.’

With the sweet tucked safely in the pocket of her pinafore, she kissed Finlay and ran off to the garden to join the others.

With a strange expression on his handsome face, something between a smile and a frown, Finlay moved towards his office, muttering.

‘The poor wee Mother Superior is just kidding hersel’. That lass in there fully recovered and sae fu’ o’ beans she scores goals at hockey, would nae mair be a Postulant
in her Order than I wad’ be the Pope in Rome. It’s no my place to tell her so, but before long she’ll find out to her cost.’

The Escapee

In the children’s garden several days passed in complete tranquillity and, as the practice was very light due to the holiday season. Dr Finlay spent much of his time
there. When Dr Cameron had seen the few patients in the surgery he would watch benignly as Finlay played with the laughing children, filled with consciousness that all this childish gaiety was by
his special permission and consent. Janet, too, when she had cleared and washed the breakfast dishes, would often step out for a few minutes to stand respectfully behind the doctor, making such
comments as might propitiate and please.

‘’Tis a cheery scene, sir, and yin that is maistly due to your good self, allowing Finlay the time off.’

‘I am lenient, Janet, in a good cause. Even if it puts a greater burden on my shoulders. Finlay, you know, is still a boy, and it benefits him to run and tumble with the bairns.’

‘While you do the hale o’ the surgery, sir.’

‘Tut, tut! My dear Janet! In all our many years together you must have perceived that I have a most generous, yes, even a sacrificial nature.’

‘Ay, sir, ye are good tae us all. Just for example, this verra morning, there was a hale fried kipper left over at breakfast, since Finlay hadna ate his. Weel, I knew I could have it. So I
took it to the kitchen, boned it and made a real tasty kedgeree for ma lunch. Now in maist big houses that kipper wad have to have come up again next morning. But not in yours, sir.’

‘Ha, ha, hum,’ said the doctor testily. ‘I’m gey fond o’ kipper kedgeree, masel’. Maybe you . . .’

‘I couldna for one moment think of offering ye Finlay’s leavins’,’ said Janet quickly. ‘Now, I’ll away and see if the post is in.’ And briskly she set
off to the front door where, although the postman had not come, the daily paper, the
Tannochbrae Herald
, was stuffed through the slit in the letterbox.

Janet picked it up, straightened it, then cast an experienced eye over the front page. Suddenly she started, her entire frame vibrating from the impact of a piece of news. ‘Weel,
weel!’ she muttered audibly. ‘Did ye ever in your life hear o’ such a thing.
She’s flown the coop!
’

Excitedly she moved into the adjoining waiting-room, sat down and read the item again and again, as if attempting to memorise it. Then, sitting back, she said aloud, ‘Cameron mustna’
see this. I’ll pass it to Finlay in the gairden.’

Quickly she opened the front door, closed it quickly behind her, then stealthily made her way round the front of the house into the garden. Here, she buttonholed Finlay and led him into the
summer-house.

‘Finlay,’ she whispered impressively, ‘I’ve a rare bit o’ news for ye. It fair puts my back up. After all ye have done for her, she’s gone,
escaped!’

With this she handed the paper to Finlay, pointing to the article:

While Finlay was reading the account of her adventures, Alice Lane awakened from a delicious sleep to find herself the heroine of Tannochbrae. Idly she rang for breakfast, which appeared
immediately, a very different meal from the plain fare she had unwillingly endured in the Convent of Bon Secours. To say that she enjoyed it, while at the same time reading that portion of the
Herald
dedicated to herself, would be an absurd understatement. She revelled in it, stretching her beautiful long legs against the fine linen sheets as she drank the finest mocha and
crunched on the excellent toast with her strong white teeth.

When the breakfast tray was removed by none other than the head waiter himself, she turned to the telephone and rang the local Scottish Provincial Bank, where she was immediately assured that
her balance of £2000 remained intact. She replaced the receiver with a self-satisfied smile. How wise she had been to secure this from her beastly husband in the early days at the Caledonian
Hotel. Indeed, her next call was to that same hotel, where the manager not only promised to send on her brass-bound trunk from storage, immediately, but suggested a change of air to his own Guest
Suite.

If these attentions had not sufficiently convinced our little escapee of her news value she was certainly assured and reassured by the proliferation of attentions and invitations now showered
upon her over the telephone and by the masses of letters brought into her on a tray by the first postal delivery. With these her natural discretion and
savoir faire
came into play. Requests
that she should address the Philatelic Society, the Young Women’s Club, the Anti-Popery League and the Boys’ Brigade went instantly into the waste-paper basket. There were others,
however, demanding further attention. And on reflection she committed herself to a Press Luncheon and, above all, to a dinner party, given for her at his private house by Mr Albert Caddens, a
gentleman of high standing and considerable substance (in more ways than one).