by AJ Cronin
‘So you left me to Will Macfarlane, a worthy man according to his neighbours, but sae coarse and insensitive to a woman’s feelings, I was shocked and disgusted with him before the honeymoon was over. Oh Finlay, how often have I missed you and longed to put the clock back. That night of the Reunion when you held me in your arms I could feel you loved me.’
‘I’ll tell ye one thing, Grace dear, I have never looked at or touched a woman since that wonderful night and that is many a year past.’
‘That’s proof ye loved me dearest Finlay. Surely I can see you mair often than I do now?’
‘You’ll be up occasionally visiting your big son.’
‘My big son! He’s as much yours now as mine. Well, darling, my train leaves in an hour’s time. Would you walk up to the station with me?’
‘I will, indeed, Gracie. Just bide here a few minutes, I have a patient waiting for me in the surgery.’ When Finlay had gone Grace did not sit down but stood staring moodily out of the window.
Suddenly a voice made her turn round.
‘So, you are off home tonight to your own dear husband. I thought I would look in to bid ye a pleasant goodbye.’
Grace swung round. She knew the voice. Her face hardened. ‘Don’t you wish me anything pleasant you two-faced, keyhole-listening, auld bitch. You’re the one that botched up Finlay’s chance to wed me. Ye thought it would be inconvenient for the lord and master that ye worship with all the dried-up blood in your veins. You were feared I might cook better, run up and down stairs quicker than you on your auld withered legs. So you frightened my lover awa’ frae me. All for the great god o’ the household. Well let me tell you this. It was not him, with his bottle of rotten physic, that cured my boy. It was Finlay, who diagnosed the case correctly, took him to the hospital and transfused his own blood into my poor bloodless boy. The change was instantaneous. And now that Bob is totally cured, walking miles over the moors with Finlay’s good blood inside him, who gets the credit? Your Lord and Master, whose medicine went down the mickey and who is now struttin’ about the town as though he was God Almighty. And who keeps the secret? The Finlay ye took away frae me. He’s warned my son and me not to say a word, to save your auld hero from being the laughing stock of Tannochbrae!’
As she spoke Janet’s face altered dramatically. The prim self-satisfied expression simply fell apart. Speechless and aghast she gazed at Grace. And in that one dumb look, Grace felt that she had levelled the score with the selfish old woman who had destroyed for ever her one chance of happiness.
There was the sound of someone moving in the lobby, too slowly for Finlay. A few moments later Finlay stepped briskly into the room. Ignoring Janet he said, ‘Have I kept you waiting too long, Gracie? I had two patients not one.’
Taking her arm he led her from the room. As they walked to the station arm in arm, she said, ‘Your extra patient gave me the chance to say a few words to Janet that I’ve been saving up for many a day. I think they’ll do her good.’
Dinner that evening was a silent meal. Dr Cameron seemed preoccupied, Finlay was still mulling over Grace’s visit, and Janet never let a word escape from her compressed lips. When the meal was over and they were drinking their coffee, Dr Cameron took a deep breath and turned to Finlay.
‘My dear, most distinguished colleague, I have asked Janet to bring your morning tea to your bedroom, just as she does for me.’
‘Oh really, sir, that is most kind of you. It’s a bore having to get up, wash, shave, dress and come downstairs before that first delicious sip. I hope Janet won’t mind?’
‘Janet will do as she is told,’ Cameron said concisely. Then, after a pause, he seemed to nerve himself to speak and in a loud voice he said, ‘Coming in tonight, when I was in the lobby, I chanced to hear what I was not intended to hear, and what I most certainly did not wish to hear. And from Grace, who was angrily addressing Janet. I heard all, and I mean all, that you have done to completely cure Grace’s boy. I heard also a very just criticism of my absurd assumption that I had cured the boy, when it was you by your correct diagnosis and splendid self-sacrificing transfusion who had immediately restored him to health.’ He paused. ‘I heard also of your most loyal silence, sparing me a most painful humiliation before the whole town. Dear Finlay, I have always respected you and loved you like a son, and now in gratitude and admiration I will henceforth regard you as a possible partner to myself. Look ahead to that day, my dear lad, when I will place my hand upon your shoulder and declare: “Finlay! You are no longer my assistant. Today, in the sight of heaven, I create you my partner.” ’
Suddenly, from the doorway, there came a wild skirl of laughter. And Janet, who had been listening, suddenly shouted: ‘That will be a day I want to see. And never will. So long as ye dae a’ the hard and difficult work, Finlay, he’ll keep ye slavin’ awa’ under him. That’s the way he’s treated me. Years ago when I was young and bonny he made me hope for something better, but I’m still slavin’ awa’, workin’ mysel’ to daith just to fill his belly and mak’ him comfortable.’
When she departed and the kitchen door closed with a deafening slam, Dr Cameron drew himself to his full height and looking benignly at Finlay delivered himself of this brief moral postulate:
‘Even the worm will turn!’
The Shepherd of the Far Hills
Dr Finlay’s love of hard exercise in the open air was well known in Tannochbrae and in the lands beyond. The Caledonia’s gamekeeper would always have him up for a couple of days’ shooting at the end of the season. Often indeed, Finlay would go ranging far beyond the hotel’s private land and come back with a brace of grouse, or maybe a salmon when the fish were running in the upper river. Even in the open season when no sport was possible and the practice was not unduly busy, Finlay would put an apple in his pocket and in thick-soled boots, corduroys and grey woollen jersey take off for a long day’s tramp over the moors and into the wide blue yonder.
It was on one of these excursions that he first came across Willie Semple. Finlay was sitting by a stream eating his apple after a long hard grind that had taken him beyond the moors on to a high, rough stretch of coarse grass, and he was watching a little ripple by the far bank when a voice behind him said:
‘Don’t kill him. He’s fu’ of milt on his way to the lake.’
Finlay flicked a fragment of apple in the direction of the ripple and immediately there was a slow turn over in the water exposing the full side of a heavy fish. Finlay swung round. Close beside him was the oddly-clad figure of a young man, bearded and bare-headed, with long shaggy hair, who was holding a young lamb under one arm.
‘Forgive me for butting in on ye, Dr Finlay.’
‘So you know me?’
‘You’re weel kent, doctor. I’ve often seen ye lower down and hoped ye might come by. I’m Willie Semple.’
The name struck a chord in Finlay’s mind.
‘Are you the fellow they call the shepherd o’ the far hills?’
‘I don’t know what they ca’ me doctor, and I don’t care. I live up here wi’ my sheep.’
‘All by yourself?’
‘No, doctor. Wi’ my mother. And that’s why I took the liberty to speak to you, for it’s far from my custom to talk to strangers.’
‘Is your mother ill?’
‘Very poorly, doctor. I wish you would take the trouble to look at her.’
Naturally Finlay could not refuse. And this strange young lad interested him. They set off up the hill together.
‘You have a stray lamb with you?’
‘Ay! My dear wee Jeannie is a wanderer. But she’ll aye come to me when I blow my horn.’
Finlay now noticed a curved bull’s horn slung from the boy’s shoulders. ‘Would you blow it now?’
‘Ay, I’ll gie it a toot to let my mother know I’m coming.’
Still supporting the lamb he put the horn to his lips and blew a long, deep, melodious note.
Soon they were at the summit of the hill, and there, in
a wide circular hollow, was a low, poor farmhouse surrounded by sheep pens. Willie now released the lamb with a light tap on its rump and the injunction, ‘Don’t do it again, Jeannie!’
They entered the house and at once Finlay was struck by the poverty and disorder of the interior – simply a kitchen and a bedroom.
‘I’m home, mother. And I’ve brought Dr Finlay to see ye.’
Finlay entered the bedroom, which contained a large bed and a narrow cot against the far wall. On the bed an old woman lay, half-dressed and, though struggling for breath, making an endeavour to get up.
‘Lie still, dearie,’ Finlay said. He saw at a glance that the old woman was seriously ill. When she lay back he felt for a pulse in the old withered wrist. Not a sign of one. Without a stethoscope he leaned over and placed his ear flat against the old woman’s breast. Only the faintest flutter was discernible and the breathing was feeble and shallow.
‘How do you feel, Mother?’
‘I feel this, doctor. I’ve done my best for my boy, but I canna do no more.’
For a moment Finlay considered the possibility of moving her to hospital, then dismissed it. She was too far gone. She had given everything for her son. Nothing was left.
‘I’ll send a nurse to you. Just to look after you for a while.’
‘There’s nae nurse will ever put a finger on me, doctor. My son can do all that is required.’
‘But you’ll take the medicine I send you. And let me look in to see you when I’m on the hills next week.’
‘Ye may come if ye wish, doctor. But I’ve never taken physic in my life and I never will.’
Finlay remained for some moments, stroking the poor old emaciated arm, then he stepped into the kitchen.
‘Willie, your mother has put up a good fight but now the battle is over. In my opinion she cannot go on much longer. Any day now. Any minute. I could send a nurse, but she would only be able to help you with the funeral.’
Finlay felt his hand clasped in an iron grip. ‘You’re a good man, doctor. I read it in your eyes.’
‘But what will you do, Willie? When you’re all alone?’
‘I can make shift masel’, doctor.’
‘Never, Willie. You’re too young to be a hermit o’ the hills. I’ll see about that for you when the time comes.’
The time was not long in coming. Two weeks later the poor old woman went to her eternal rest and was buried in Tannochbrae churchyard. Willie was persuaded to sell his stock to an adjoining farmer who also bought the house and furnishings for his own occasional use. But Willie persistently refused to sell his favourite lamb, Jeannie, who had grown so attached to him that, suitably shorn, she followed him about like a little dog.
Finlay thought it wise to make some adjustment in Willie’s appearance before exposing him to the public eye in Tannochbrae. He presented him with a safety razor and instructed him in its use. Although Willie refused to have his hair cut he allowed a slight trimming of the edges. And he accepted gratefully one of Finlay’s suits, a soft brown over-check which Finlay had put aside as a mite too dashing for his own use.
Shaved, tidied up and wearing the suit, which fitted him perfectly, Willie Semple, with his dark eyes, flowing hair and fine aesthetic features, even without the lamb, was indeed a striking figure. Finlay felt proud of his creation and bravely chose the right moment to introduce him to the rest of the village. One Sunday, well after noon, when the churches were emptying and the streets were full of people in groups standing to talk, or promenading slowly in the middle of the road, Finlay and Willie appeared at the head of the town. Quietly followed by the lamb, they began to stroll slowly along the main street, across, into and around Victoria Square, then back and down to the far end of the town, where they vanished along the quiet, secluded residential part of Tannochbrae, known to the élite as Dunbarton Villas. Opposite one of these houses Finlay paused and, by a discreet movement of his left foot, directed Jeannie to the large grassy lawn where the intelligent animal, whose breakfast had been rather delayed, set to work. Finlay then mounted the three broad steps and discreetly pulled the bell.
A smiling maid, small and dressed for the street, answered the door and without interrogation admitted the two finely turned-out young men to the large drawing-room where a fire, by considerable skill, had been kept aglow.
‘Mr Cairns will be down presently, sir. I am to tell you that he has thought over your telephone call and may be able to give you an answer.’
Looking about him Finlay decided that Cairns, corn-chandler for Tannochbrae and the surrounding countryside, had done well for himself and his grown-up daughter. At that moment the man of the house entered the room, shook hands with Finlay and, after close scrutiny, with Willie. As he seated himself, Finlay said quickly, ‘I am sorry, sir, to be intruding on your privacy, especially on a Sunday, but when I phoned you last night you said I . . .’
‘Don’t apologise, Finlay,’ he smiled. ‘From what I see on my front lawn the case is remarkably urgent.’ He reached for a pipe from an adjacent rack, filled it from his pouch, lit up and, after a few satisfactory puffs, saw that it was drawing well. ‘Now,’ he continued, ‘from what you have told me it is quite evident that your young friend would never be content in a town job. I’m fully aware of the circumstances before his mother passed away when he worked hard and weel wi’ his bit of a sheep farm. He’s a countryman, born and bred.’ Another pause while he puffed.
‘I have gone through the list of a’ my customers.’ A pause. ‘And there’s just one likely farm that may fit the bill. The auld Macrae place, way out by Bridge. Ye’ll maybe ken it.’
‘Oh, I do sir, why it’s past the . . .’
‘Exactly,’ Cairn cut in, unwilling to share his choice. Then, after a few puffs. ‘Since auld Jock Macrae died, it’s run down to the bone. The widow hasna bothered much for she’s plenty o’ money, but they still have sheep and raise a field of taters, but the rest o’ the lands are completely run down. There’s nae son, just a dochter awa’ at some fancy school who’ll hardly show her face there. But what am I thinkin’ of? Let me offer ye some coffee. I’m wantin’ some myself.’ He gave the bell handle on the wall a violent pull that sent a tremendous jangling through the house.
Almost at once a pretty young woman came into the room. ‘What do you think you’re doing, Father? Deafening the ears off me. Didn’t ye ken Cathleen has gone out to that church o’ hers?’
‘I’m sorry, dearie,’ Cairns said humbly, ‘I clean forgot. Like myself these two young men fancied a cup of coffee. Ye ken Finlay I believe.’
‘I certainly should. He tried to kiss me often enough at the Reunion Dance. Is the other lad his brother?’
‘No, Jessie. He’s Willie Semple, a fine young man who’s just lost his mother and is looking for a job. I thought he might work his way up on the Macrae farm.’
‘That dump! Nae mair than a run-down potato patch, where the mother is aye at the bottle and the daughter a stuck-up bitch. This fine young man would be wasted out there.’ She came into the room and seated herself beside Willie. ‘Is that your wee lamb that just came in the kitchen? I gave him a big bowl of corn grits and milk. He’s sleeping now before the kitchen fire.’
Willie flushed and smiled. ‘Thank you most sincerely, Miss Cairns. You are as kind-hearted as you are beautiful.’ He leaned forward, took her hand, and kissed it. The action was so simple and unpremeditated no one thought it peculiar. But Jess Cairns looked into Willie’s eyes long and deep, and what she saw there caused a rich colour to mount in her tough little face, then fade, leaving her very pale. Then she in turn took Willie’s hand and after a long moment she turned to her father.
‘Dad! You’re not sending this fine young man to waste and wither at that God-forsaken place. Ye can see at a glance he’s worth more, much more than that. Now listen to me. Ye’re aye complaining that ye need help in the yard and come home groaning about your back after lifting the heavy corn sacks. Why don’t you take Willie a
s your assistant. I’ll swear to you on my very life that he’ll be worth it.’
Six months later Finlay received an invitation to the wedding of Jess Cairns and William Semple, Junior Partner in the firm of Cairns and Semple, Corn Chandlers and Stock Salesmen.
Perhaps Finlay was a trifle piqued to lose the beautiful Jess, but he consoled himself by sending the happy bride an expensive wedding present, a brooch consisting of a white-gold lamb with two little diamonds for the eyes.
The wedding of Willie and Jess was the great event of the season in Tannochbrae. The church was packed to the doors. Everyone who was anyone was there.
When Willie and Jess stood together before the minister, a sweet little creature with a curly fleece and bow of white ribbon round her neck and another on her tail slipped up and stood behind them.
A low murmur of appreciation and suppressed laughter rippled through the congregation. All eyes moved towards one figure, who stood reverential and absorbed in the first pew. In his buttonhole was a little white bow exactly the same as the one sported by the lamb.
As to the lamb herself, the origin and cause of this tale, she was induced to join a handsome young ram at one of the finest farms in the shire. Their first lamb was called Jess.
Janet is Not Herself
Readers of these chronicles must have observed, I trust with sadness, or at least mild regret, the slow deterioration, not in Janet’s physical activities alone, but in that indefinable quality known in Scotland as ‘her temper’. Now Dr Cameron was inclined to be indulgent to an old servant who had been with him for so many years but there came a day when even he had to admit that she had gone too far. This particular morning his breakfast egg was stone cold and in the good doctor’s own words ‘hard as a bluidy brick’.
Indeed, Dr Cameron took steps to settle the matter later that day.
