Read Dr Finlay's Casebook Online
Authors: AJ Cronin
To Joseph’s surprise and delight, Finlay began to sing, and execute a few dance steps of the Highland Fling.
‘Oh, sir,’ the little boy exclaimed. ‘You are pleased and happy!’
‘Both,’ said Finlay, picking up the child and continuing the dance. ‘But tell me, Joseph, have I got a noble face?’
‘You got the best, ugliest face in all the world, ever!’
Finlay’s happiness reached its climax when, very early on the morning of 25th April, he stepped into his car and drove, as fast as he dared, to Southampton. Here, pacing up and down, he
anxiously awaited the arrival of the 11.30 boat. When it arrived he posted himself at the end of the gangway where its passengers would soon be appearing, his heart pounding. First came Italians,
then an elderly English couple, some women without escorts, another elderly couple, more Italians – probably workmen – and finally a small, immaculately attired Englishman.
With a crushing, overpowering sadness Finlay realised that his beloved was not on board. He was about to turn away when the elegant Englishman addressed him in accents of the parade ground:
‘I’m Pimmy. You, I believe, are Dr Finlay.’ He paused. ‘If so, I have a letter for you.’
Finlay was too stunned to answer. Blindly he accepted the letter.
‘Aha! Aha! Bit of a shock for you, old man. She likes dealing them out! Huh! As we are presumably in the same boat, why not a quick one before taking off?’ Clutching Finlay’s
arm, as though he had known him for years, he gently steered him to the refreshment room.
In a welcoming dark corner Finlay was relieved to sit down, while his obliging companion brought two stiff whiskies from the bar.
‘I say, old boy, you looked completely knocked out. Want to hear the worst?’ As Finlay nodded silently, he went on: ‘You know, I believe, that the worthy professor was ill,
kidney or liver, I can’t say which, but he was sufficiently poorly to want to get home. But yesterday afternoon, with everyone set to go, there came an intervention.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Finlay. ‘Please go on.’
‘An Italian fellow had heard of the old man’s illness. He had apparently been a student at Oxford, taught by Professor Lane. He immediately called for a specialist who refused to let
the old man travel. Whereupon our Italian benefactor invited us all to his lovely big villa at Grasse. Naturally I jibbed. I have to get back to my regiment, y’know. But, with almost
sacramental devotion, father and daughter were whisked off to the villa, a stunning great place – six gardeners someone informed me. I also gathered that Don Alphonso, the Italian, is by way
of being a count with an absolutely historic château out in the wilds.’ He broke off. ‘I say old man, you look absolutely ghastly. Do let me get you another reviver.’
He did, and Finlay, who felt like death, swallowed it in one gulp.
‘Well, I think you have the picture,’ said his companion. ‘Do you want to look at the letter and see what the lady says?’
Finlay found the letter, ripped open the envelope and withdrew the small single sheet.
Dear Finlay,
Father is too ill to travel – a specialist has so decreed. And a dear friend, ex-pupil of Father at Oxford, has moved us to his lovely villa where Father will have every comfort and
attention from trained nurses, while the specialist will call every day. Of course I cannot leave him. Naturally I am sorry not to be joining you at the children’s summer home.
With regrets,
Alice Lane.
Father will have every attention from the nurses, noted Finlay, and I will have every attention from Señor Alphonso.
There was a long, vibrant silence. Then Pimmy got up.
‘I say, old man, don’t get into your car for at least half an hour. When you start cursing, it’s safe to drive.’
He held out his hand and gave Finlay’s limp fingers a firm grip.
As directed, Finlay sat in sad, stony silence for the specified time, then he got up, found his car, and slowly drove back to Tannochbrae where his summer home, swarming with kids, was held in
thrall by the old matron with her shrill voice, unpredictable knees and ever-present stick.
Alice Regrets
Finlay had suffered a severe blow from his obvious rejection by the girl on whom he had built his romantic hopes for so long. But when he suffered a hard blow he had the
capacity to pick himself up again, square his shoulders and his chin, then get on with the business in hand. Although he occasionally muttered, bitterly, sarcastically, the words ‘With
regrets, Alice Lane’, he threw himself into the task of making the children happy and, not least, of winning the approval and regard of the old lady with the shrill voice, piercing gaze and
the stick which tapped relentlessly into the most unsuspected quarters.
The children, many of whom had been there before, were soon Finlay’s boon companions. He would often play their games with them: rounders, hide and seek, French cricket; races of all
descriptions, from sack to egg-and-spoon while, with every consideration of safety, and on the low branches, he taught them the noble art of tree climbing.
His efforts did not pass unnoticed by the old matron, who gradually began to like this enthusiastic and generous young man and when he arranged that she should have the ‘elevenses’
of coffee and hot buttered toast to which she was long accustomed, she finally took him to her heart. To Janet, who now brought in the ‘elevenses’ she would remark ‘What a fine
young man you have here!’
‘Have ye only discovered it now, matron. If ye kenned how he manages almost all the practice, now that the auld doctor is a’most by wi’ it ye might think even mair o’
him.’
‘Is he a Christian, Janet?’
‘He’s no’ a kirk Christian, matron, if that’s what ye mean, turnin’ up his eyes at what he doesna like. But he’s got a’maist a’ the Christian
virtues. If he sees a hard-workin’ woman in distress, he’ll step in and take some of the burden off her back.’
‘I can see that he has helped you, Janet, as he has helped me.’
‘Ye have spoken a true word, matron. And a’ the time, if I’m ony judge, he is suffering himsel’.’And as Janet moved away she placed her hand, significantly, on her
heart.
Some weeks passed in this fashion, all well with the children and the practice. The fine sunny weather had cut down the number of patients while, revived by the glorious weather, Dr Cameron had
been stirred to some activity and would even answer calls to the dreaded Anderston Buildings.
One fine morning in July, Janet burst in upon Finlay with the local newspaper, the
Tannochbrae Herald
.
‘Dr Finlay, sir, here’s a piece of news that might interest
you.’ She handed him the paper where, already marked by a cross under the heading ‘Social Events’ he read the following:
Tannochbrae welcomes the arrival of Count Alphonso and his Countess who are staying at the Caledonian Hotel. The Countess is, of course, the lovely Alice Lane, who won all
our hearts by her splendid work for the children at the Summer Home inaugurated by our own Dr Finlay. While rumour had it that the attachment of these two was more than professional, the
noble Count and the blue Italian skies deprived our well-loved local hero of his merited reward.
When he had read the paragraph Finlay returned the paper to Janet without a word – with an expression that deterred all questions. After a long pause he said, simply and
firmly: ‘We will not see them down here!’
For almost a week Finlay’s observation remained true. But on the following Monday a taxi drew up at the front door and a woman, quietly dressed, stepped out and rang the bell.
Janet, who answered the summons, admitted the woman, who asked to see Dr Finlay as a patient.
‘And the name, madam?’ asked Janet.
‘Don’t you know me, dear, kind Janet? Have I changed so much?’
Janet looked again then cried: ‘You’re our own Miss Lane! But Lord, how you have changed.’
‘Yes, dear Janet, I am greatly changed. And for the worse.’
This, Janet could not deny. In silence she showed her into the consulting room.
And it was here, some minutes later, that Finlay found her weeping with her back to the window. Before he could speak she turned and said: ‘This is not a sentimental visit, doctor. It is
purely professional, since I have great need of your aid.’
Finlay, who had set his mind firmly against tears and kisses, was deeply moved.
‘You are in some physical difficulty, madam?’
‘In such atrocious difficulty I would expose it, and myself, to no other doctor but you. Because,’ she added, ‘I know that as well as being skilled, you are
good
.’
At this, Finlay sat down beside her, and took her hand.
‘Tell me everything. You have my complete confidence.’
There was a silence; then, haltingly, she began: ‘You are aware of my unexpected marriage, when carried away by the title, the luxury and sense of position, I gave my consent to a man I
knew absolutely nothing about, except superficially, for I was blinded by his good looks and Latin charm. Now,’ her voice expressed bitterness and disillusion, ‘now, I know, to my cost,
that man to be the destruction of my life.’
A silence followed. Finlay could not speak. She quietly resumed:
‘After my marriage, with all the ceremony the Italians excel at, it was not long before I discovered that my husband was . . . not a normal man . . . but in matters of sex an unkind,
unspeakable maniac. My wedding night was a nightmare, but I bore it, thinking it would soon be over, that he would change, but no, again and again, every night . . .’ She paused and then
forced herself to continue her harrowing story. ‘My husband,’ she laughed bitterly, ‘the man I married, is given to uncontrollable rages, and as soon as we are alone in the
evening he beats me unmercifully.’ She saw Finlay’s expression of shocked incredulity. ‘You don’t believe me? He is careful to aim his blows where his friends cannot see
them and realise what kind of man he is . . .’
‘Stop, you mustn’t go on torturing yourself like this . . .’
‘No, let me finish what I have to say. You have no idea what a blessing it is to have a friend to confide in after all this time. At first it was hard to believe that he could do such a
thing, but now I realise that he actually found some kind of perverse pleasure in it . . . God! This last week has been the worst . . .’
Finlay was again silent, overcome by inexpressable compassion and disgust.
‘You poor wounded creature, I’m afraid that it is essential for your own safety that I examine you without delay.’
Without a word, she removed her clothes and lay down on the surgical table. As she did so, he was painfully reminded of that wonderful morning of their first meeting not so long ago, when she
lay flat on the living-room floor, with her skirt over her head.
My God! thought Finlay, torn between shock and disgust. The area from her creamy neck to her delicate knees was a mass of cuts and purple bruises. Something must be done at once.
He reflected for only a moment then left the room, took up the telephone and dialled.
At once a female voice answered: ‘The Convent of Bon Secours, Maberley. Who is calling please?’
‘Dr Finlay. May I speak to the Mother Superior?’
‘Oh, certainly Dr Finlay. Just one moment please.’
There was a brief interval, then another voice came on to the phone, gentle yet commanding. ‘My dear Finlay, at last you condescend to telephone me. I hope this is the preface to one of
your rare visits.’
‘Yes, dear Mother Superior, I am coming to see you at once. And I am bringing with me a lady, one of my patients, who urgently requires your care. Have you a vacant room?’
‘For you, dear doctor, we can always find a place. Who is your patient?’
‘She is a Scots girl who chose to reject me and marry an Italian count.’
‘And now she is ill and regretting her mistake.’
‘It is nothing so trivial, Reverend Mother. The man she married has turned out to be a brute. She has now the most horrible injuries inflicted on her by her husband. As I feel that no
ordinary hospital would be suitable, so I thought immediately of you and your infinite mercy and compassion. You alone can tend her horrible wounds, and heal the terrible damage to her soul. Do
this, I beg of you, my best and holiest friend.’
‘Dearest Finlay, you sound exactly and precisely as did your uncle the archbishop when he wished a favour of me.’
‘And I am sure, Reverend Mother, that you granted it.’
‘Ah! He was a most endearing man, as well as a holy one. We nuns would have done anything for him. Now tell me at once what you want of me.’
‘The best room in your house, not in the wards though, Reverend Mother. And expert medical attention.’
‘When will you be coming?’
‘We shall be with you in an hour.’
‘All will be ready for your patient, dear Finlay, do come. And the Lord be with you.’
Exactly one hour later Finlay passed through the well-kept grounds and gardens and drew up before the Convent of Bon Secours.
Turning in his seat he took the hand of his patient, who lay on the back seat of the car.
‘This is the end of our journey. No one shall know that you are here, where you will find undisturbed, peaceful rest, and skilled treatment of your wounds. I will personally ensure that no
one disturbs you in this lovely spot.’ As two nurses appeared bearing a stretcher, he added: ‘May the good Lord heal and bless you.’
Skilfully she was borne away and into the hospice. Finlay then parked the car at the main entrance, jumped out and made his way to the Mother Superior’s office.
‘Dear Finlay!’
‘Dearest Reverend Mother.’ He picked her up and kissed her on the brow, before returning her to her official seat at the desk.
‘All this show of affection won’t give you absolution in advance dear Finlay. Now tell me, what is this load of trouble you have just brought me?’
Finlay did not hesitate. He began with his friendship and affection for the lovely girl who had come to help him in the garden with his crippled children. Then on to Italy, the sudden death of
her father and her intimacy with Count Alphonso which quite soon led to their marriage. And now this. ‘She is broken in heart and spirit. And . . .’ he added in a lower voice,
‘her body has been brutally beaten and abused. Now she needs such care, treatment and reconstruction of her life as you alone can give her in the peace of your convent, Reverend
Mother.’