The Judas Tree

by A. J. Cronin

  Wanted for Glenburn Hospital, Cranstown. Resident Phsyician. Salary £500 per annum and unfurnished cottage. Engagement to commence January 1st. Apply the Secretary to the Board Wintonshire Public Health Department.

  He drew a long, deep breath. It was right, exactly right, except perhaps for the date of the appointment – but that, balanced against the other advantages, was a detail, immaterial. He knew the hospital and had often admired it on his weekend excursions from the city. Situated in pleasant rolling country, within a long tram ride of Winton, it was known locally as the ‘Fever Hospital’, having at one time been devoted exclusively to infectious diseases. Now, however, it was mainly given over to the treatment of tubercular children. It was small, of course, no more than four isolated pavilions, holding about sixty beds, with a central office and laboratory, nurses’ quarters, and a neat, red-tiled gate lodge. Nothing could be better: the salary was generous, a house was available, obviously they wanted a married man, and the laboratory would afford him facilities for research. A gem of a place, he kept repeating to himself. He knew, of course, that competition would be severe, cut-throat in fact, and as he got up from the reading-room bench he had the look of one going into battle.

  The campaign which he forthwith conducted was indeed, in its resourcefulness, subtlety and consummate adroitness, fit to be honoured and recorded as the classic example of job-getting. From his University professors he got testimonials and letters of recommendation, from Drummond a personal introduction to the Wintonshire Medical Officer of Health, and through Bryce’s father, who was a baillie of the city, a complete list of the members of the board. He called first on the Medical Officer, whose attitude, though noncommittal, was pleasant, then on the Secretary, who, as a friend and brother Mason of the senior Bryce, was distinctly cordial. Next, he began discreetly, in the evenings, to canvas all the board members at their homes. Here he did well, was even introduced to the sonsie wives of several of these substantial citizens in whom, by judicious shyness, he started warm springs of maternal sympathy. Finally, he cadged a ride in a delivery van to the vicinity of the hospital, made friends with the retiring doctor who was going into practice, shook hands with the head sister and, after a really hard beginning, completely won over the stubby little martinet of a matron. She invited him to tea. The difficulties of his student days, his romantic meeting with Mary, his honours degree, all had by this time been composed into a modest, yet free-flowing tale. In her own cosy sittingroom, over the teacups – it was, he noted, first-rate tea and a delicious homemade sponge – she listened with growing sympathy.

  ‘We’ll have to see what can be done,’ she finally declared, throwing out her well-starched bust until it crackled. ‘And if anyone has influence with that wrong-headed committee, it’s yours truly.’

  He murmured thanks.

  ‘Now I’ll be off, Matron. I’ve taken far too much of your precious time.’

  ‘Not at all. How are you getting back?’

  ‘As I came,’ he said, offhandedly playing an inspired lead. ‘ On Shanks’s mare.’

  ‘Ye walked out from Winton! All that way?’

  ‘Well, to be perfectly honest, Matron,’ he smiled confusedly, winningly, looking into her eyes, ‘I just didn’t have the tram fare. So I’ll walk back too.’

  ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort, doctor. Our driver will take ye in.’ She rang the bell. ‘Nurse, slip down to the gate lodge and fetch Leckie.’

  He rode into the city on the front seat of the old Argyle ambulance. When Leckie returned and reported to the matron, he remarked: ‘I hope we get Dr Moray. He’s such a nice likeable lad. And keen, forbye. If only I get appointed, says he to me, I‘ ll work my fingers to the bone.’

  No opposition could stand against such a virtuoso, pulling out all the emotional stops. A week later his name appeared on the ‘short list’ of ten candidates and, at the meeting of the board on August 21st, he was unanimously appointed.

  Beyond indicating non-committally that he had a possibility in view, Moray had said nothing at Ardfillan of the marvellous prospects offered by Glenburn. Because he had lived so much alone, it was his nature to keep things to himself. Besides, he had been horribly afraid of missing the job. Now, however, with the thrill of anticipation, he prepared for the joys of triumphant revelation.

  He made his plans with characteristic thoroughness. He went, in the first place, to Gilhouse the University Bookseller at the foot of Fenner Hill, and sold all his text-books, also his microscope. Since he had spotted a fine oil-immersion Zeiss in the lab. at Glenburn, he would no longer need his own second-hand Wright and Dobson. With a tidy sum in his pocket he crossed Eldongrove Park to a less salubrious neighbourhood and entered the pawnshop at the corner of Blairhill Street where; over the past five years, he had occasionally been an unwilling client. Now the position was reversed. Taking his time, and wisely rejecting the dubious diamond pressed upon him, he selected from the unredeemed pledges a thin gold ring mounted with a nice little aquamarine. Set in velvet in a red leather case it looked extremely handsome, and it was genuine. With this in his pocket he borrowed Bryce’s bike and set off for Craigdoran. He arrived at eleven in the forenoon.

  ‘Mary,’ he exclaimed, walking straight into the refreshment room and putting his arm round her waist. ‘Shut up shop. Now. At once.’

  ‘But, Davie, I still have two more trains…’.

  ‘Hang the trains, and the passengers in them, and the entire North British Railway Company. You’re coming with me, this very minute. And while you’re about it, put a few buns and sandwiches in a bag.’

  She gazed at him, half doubtful, half smiling, yet conscious of something compelling behind the lightness of his tone.

  ‘Well,’ she conceded finally, ‘I don’t suppose it’ll ruin the company, or Father this once.’

  Ten minutes later they were off together on the bike. He took the Stirling road, turned east at Reston, and about one o’clock, swinging round the outskirts of Cranstoun, came to rest a quarter of a mile along the Glenburn lane.

  ‘This is where we take a stroll, Mary.’

  She was confused, vaguely disturbed, did not understand why they should be here, but she accompanied him obediently down the lane. Presently they reached the sweep of ornamental railings which enclosed the hospital. He halted, wise enough to know that at this stage they must penetrate no further. They both peered through the neat, painted railings. The sun was shining on the enclosure, some children in red jackets were seated with a nurse on a bench beside the green stretch of lawn, a blackbird sang in a nearby forsythia bush.

  ‘What a dear wee place,’ Mary exclaimed.

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Who wouldn’t, Davie? It’s like a picture.’

  ‘Then listen. Mary,’ he said, drawing a deep breath. ‘This is Glenburn Hospital. These four buildings among the trees are the wards. That’s the administrative block in front of them. And over there, with the garden at the back, is the medical superintendent’s residence. Not a bad house, is it?’

  ‘It’s a sweet wee house,’ she answered wonderingly. ‘And such a nice garden. Do you know someone there?’

  Ignoring her question he went on, pale now and breathing rather fast. ‘The medical superintendent has sole and complete charge of the hospital. He has full facilities for research in, the hospital laboratory. His salary is £500 per annum, plus the produce of the garden and a free house, that house over there, Mary, in which he is lawfully entitled to keep his own lawful wife.’ His voice was cracking with excitement. ‘Mary … as from the 1st of January they’ve appointed a new medical superintendent. You’re… you’re looking at him now.’

  Chapter Seven

  He took the return journey slowly, making a wide detour at Overton that would bring them through the Carse of Louden, along the south shore of Loch Lomond, and up across the moors of Glen Fruin. This was a noted route, one of the prettiest in the West, but Mary saw nothing of it … nothing … nothing … not e
ven the majestic crest of Ben Lomond, towering above the shimmering loch. Dumb with happiness, still stricken by all the thrilling wonder of the miracle he had worked for her, she closed her eyes and hugged him to her with all the grateful love of her overflowing heart.

  And he was happy too – how could it be otherwise? – excited by the effect he had so carefully planned and so successfully produced. Yet to his credit, he had regained calm, he did not seek praise, his natural air of modesty remained unchanged. He was in love and had wished to impress less from a sense of self-importance than from the desire to make her suddenly rejoice. Unlike Walter, who, exacting the utmost in adulation, pressed the last drop of juice from every favourable situation, he disliked being fussed over – it offended his fastidious sense and made him uncomfortable. Besides, had he not still another surprise in store for her?

  As they topped the long hill which led from the loch to Glen Fruin, he checked the machine and turned off the road into one of the grassy sheep tracks which criss-crossed the moor. Following the path for about a quarter of a mile he drew up at the river beside a bank, deep in heather and bracken, sheltered by a clump of silver birches. Beneath them the moor fell away in a great sweep of purple and gold. Now she could see the mountain and the loch, a shimmering landscape that seemed to her of heaven and which she interpreted in her own fashion.

  ‘What a braw spot, Davie.’

  ‘Braw enough for us to eat our grub.’ He teased her. ‘All this chasing around should have given you an appetite.’

  ‘I’m too carried away to eat.’

  But when they seated themselves and spread out their lunch upon the checked tablecloth she had brought, he made her eat her share, the more so since, amplifying his instructions, she had packed a substantial lunch. Besides buns and sandwiches there were hard-boiled eggs, Clydeside tomatoes and a sausage roll, with a big bottle of that famous local ‘mineral’, Barr’s Iron Brew, to quench their thirst. She had even remembered to bring the wooden plug that knocked down the glass marble in the bottle-neck.

  ‘Oh, Davie,’ she murmured, between bites. ‘That bonnie wee house … I can’t get it out my head. Just wait till ye see how I’ll look after you there.’

  ‘We have to furnish it,’ he warned. ‘But we have time before January. Now we’re all settled I’ll take a locum or something over the next four months, which should give us enough cash for a start, anyway.’

  ‘Dearest Davie. You think of everything.’

  ‘There’s one thing I nearly forgot.’ Offhandedly, he dived into his jacket pocket. ‘ Here it is, lass. Better late than never.’

  Watching her as she opened the little red box, he had never been so deeply moved. Completely still she looked at the ring which, like her, was simple yet beautiful. She did not praise the ring, she did not thank him for it, but, turning, she looked into his eyes just as she had done after that day at Gairsay, and in a trembling voice, that he was to remember all his life, she whispered: ‘Put it on for me, dear.’ Then with a little sigh she reached out her arms towards him.

  They lay together on the soft bracken under the hot afternoon sun. Bees were droning faintly amongst the heather flowers, a lark sang its way into the blue, the scent of thyme and the wild orchids filled the air. From far off came the whirr of a risen grouse, then again stillness, but for the quiet ripple of the stream. Her skirt had risen as she lay back and his hand fell upon her knee. Caressingly, he stroked it. Her lips were parted, slightly swollen from the sun, and almost purple against the soft pallor of her face. Her eyelids, masking her doe-soft eyes, had a fainter, bluish tinge. Warm in his arms, she trembled as his fingers, moving upwards, came to rest on the soft bare skin above her long stocking.

  His heart was thudding against his side so hard, the sound of it made a rushing in his ears. Another gentle movement, and his hand would find what it sought. He longed for her, but was afraid. Then, close to him, she breathed:

  ‘If you want… take me, dear.’

  The sun passed behind a cloud, the bees ceased their hum, a circling curlew uttered its mournful cry. They lay still, until at last he whispered humbly:

  ‘Did I hurt you, Mary?’

  ‘Dearest Davie.’ She burrowed her head into him. ‘It was the sweetest pain of all my life.’

  When at last they stirred and gathered up the picnic things he drove off slowly, a trifle sad and sorry, touched by a rueful sense of regret. Had he not been premature, crushing so much joy into so short a time, snatching so early at the first fruits-of happiness? She was so young, so innocent. A fresh surge of tenderness swept over him: should he not have shown restraint and waited? Indeed, from the beginning, had he not rushed on too fast and heedlessly? No, a thousand times no: he banished the thought and lifted a hand from the controls to press once again the softness of her thigh.

  ‘I’m all yours now, Davie.’

  She snuggled against him, laughing softly in his ear. No mournful, injured wistfulness for her! She was renewed, confident, more than ever alive. Half turning, he saw that her eyes were firesh and dewy; he had never known her so radiant. She seemed to sense instinctively his vague depression, and gaily, tenderly, possessive as a mother, she lifted him up.

  They had reached the summit above Ardfillan when suddenly the heavy cloud that obscured the sun broke upon them in a drenching shower. Hurriedly he slipped the gear lever into neutral and coasted rapidly down hill. He was at the shop in no time, but not before he was unpleasantly damp. Mary, behind him, had escaped the worst of the rain.

  Upstairs she insisted that he change into a suit of her father’s, but he passed the matter off. He was not really wet he said, there was a good fire in the room, he would soon dry off. In the end they compromised: he put on the baker’s carpet slippers and an old tweed jacket Mary found in a cupboard.

  Presently the shop was shut and Aunt Minnie appeared, followed a few minutes later by Douglas. The four sat down to the evening meal. Willie, it appeared, was away, spending the weekend at the Boys’ Brigade Camp at Whistlefield. At the outset, as the teacups were passed in silence, Moray was painfully embarrassed, asking himself if some intangible evidence of guilt, a lingering aura of those delirious moments of consummation on the moor, was not observable in Mary and himself. Mary’s cheeks were flushed, his own, he felt, were pale, and Aunt Minnie was directing oddly suspicious glances from one to the other. The baker, too, seemed unusually reserved and more than usually observant.

  But when Mary ended the silence the general tension relaxed. Moray had promised to let her break the news of his appointment in her own way, and she did so with a brio and a sense of drama which far surpassed his own effort of the morning.

  First she displayed her ring, which was admired – though grudgingly by the aunt, who remarked, aside: ‘I hope it’s paid for.’

  ‘I don’t think we need worry about that, Auntie dear,’ Mary answered kindly, with just a hint of patronage. She began forthwith to describe the hospital at Glenburn, painting it in colours rather more glowing than reality, and working without haste towards the climax, which was tremendous.

  A long pause followed, then Douglas said, deeply pleased:

  ‘Five hundred pounds and a house… and the bit garden for your vegetables.… It’s fine, man, it’s downright handsome.’

  ‘Not to mention the laboratory and the chances of research,’ Mary put in quickly.

  ‘This,’ the aunt drew in her lips with a hiss of satisfaction, ‘ will be gall and vinegar to the Stoddarts.’

  ‘Hush, Minnie.’ The baker offered his hand to Moray. ‘I congratulate you, David. If ever I had a doubt about you and this whole affair, it’s gone now, and I can only ask your pardon. Ye’re a fine lad. I’m proper glad my daughter is marrying you, and proud to have you as my son-in-law. Now. Minnie, don’t you think this calls for a celebration?’

  ‘Without a doubt!’ Minnie was won at last.

  ‘Run down then, Mary, to the wee back press – ye’ll find the key in the top drawer –
and bring up a bottle of my old Glenlivet.’

  The bottle was brought and the baker, using sugar and lemon, and with due regard to the varying dilutions of the aged spirit, mixed for each of them a glass of good hot toddy. It was a comforting drink but it came too late for Moray. All evening he had felt his shirt clinging damply to his chest. The toddy made his head hot but his feet were leaden cold. He was relieved when they persuaded him to stay overnight, but when he went to bed he was shivering. He took his temperature, 101˚, and knew he had caught a chill.

  Chapter Eight

  Moray spent a restless, fevered night, and when he awoke from the snatch of sleep into which he had fallen, towards morning, he had no difficulty in diagnosing his own case; he was in for a bout of acute bronchitis. His breathing was tight and painful, even without a stethoscope he could hear the râles in his chest, and his temperature had risen to 103˚. He waited with commendable self-control until nearly seven o’clock, then knocked on the wall which separated him from Mary’s room. He heard her stir, and a few minutes later she came into his room.