by AJ Cronin
‘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?’
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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.’
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 gar
den 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!’
