Adventures in Two Worlds

by A. J. Cronin

  I felt my eyes misting. A great emptiness possessed my whole being. And then under my searching knife the thin white tube sprang into view. Swiftly I incised it, and in the instant the child’s gasping ceased. Instead, a long clear breath of air went in through the opening. Another – another. The cyanosis vanished, the pulse strengthened. Swept by a terrific reaction, I felt that I was going to collapse. Afraid to move, I kept my head down to hide the smarting tears that sprang into my eyes. I’ve done it, I thought; oh, God, I’ve done it after all!

  Later I slipped the tiny silver tracheotomy tube into the opening. I washed the blood from my hands, lifted the boy back to bed. The temperature had fallen a point and a half. As I sat by the bedside, watching, cleaning the tube of mucus, I felt a queer, benign interest in the child – I studied his little face, no longer strange to me.

  From time to time the mother replenished the fire so silently she was like a shadow in the room. Jamie and Lachlan were asleep upstairs. At five in the morning I gave another 4,000 units of serum. At six the child was sleeping, far less restive than before. At seven I rose and stretched myself. Smiling, I said:

  ‘He’ll do now, I expect!’ And I explained to the mother the method of cleaning out the tube. ‘In ten days it’ll all be healed up good as new.’

  Now there was no terror in her eyes, but a gratitude moving – and inarticulate – like the gratitude of some dumb creature to a god.

  The horse was harnessed, the gig brought round. We all drank a cup of tea standing. The rain had stopped long since. And at half past seven Jamie and I were off, striking through the pale glory of the morning. Strangely, Jamie was no longer taciturn; he had a word for this and that – a word of comradeship which fell graciously upon my ears.

  It was close on nine when, tired, unshaven, and clutching the mud-splashed bag, I stumbled into the dining-room of Arden House. Cameron was there, fresh as a new pin, whistling a little tune softly, between his teeth – he had an exasperating habit of whistling in the morning! – as he inspected a dish of bacon and eggs.

  He looked me up and down; then with a dry twinkle in his eye, before I could speak, he declared:

  ‘There’s one guid thing has happened anyway! Ye’ve taken the newness off your bag.’

  Chapter Six

  The village, as the spring came, lost all its bleakness. Wrapped in soft airs, the blue sky feathered by fleecy clouds, the cottage gardens filled with the scent of honeysuckle and the hum of bees, the hillsides alive with the bleating of lambs, Tannochbrae became a sweet and pleasant place. Trout were leaping in the mountain burns, and whenever I had a spare hour I sought them with all the throbbing eagerness of an insatiable fisherman. I was happy in my work, becoming attached to my crusty old colleague, free, on my occasional day off, to travel to Glasgow to visit the girl I could not forget, who still was attending medical classes at the University. I even felt myself winning some faint signs of favour from our primly disapproving housekeeper when, unfortunately, I was involved in a serious and most worrying dispute.

  An outbreak of scarlet fever had occurred in the district, starting in the month of May, a severe form of the disease, affecting chiefly the children of the village, and it showed no signs of abating in the ordinary way. As the days passed, and one case followed another despite all our efforts at treatment and isolation, I lost patience and told myself I must get to the root of the matter. Some specific factor was definitely disseminating the disease, and I pledged myself to find it.

  At the outset I realised that I could expect little help from the public health authorities. At this time the post of medical officer of health to the county was vested in the person of Dr Snoddie, a rather self-important practitioner who lived in the neighbouring town of Knoxhill. This worthy doctor was not a Highlander – he came from the Borders – but he had married a Knoxhill woman, a rich widow slightly older than himself. Since his marriage he had set out to cultivate the best ‘county’ families. He wore a cutaway coat and kept a brougham. He had come to regard his public office as a sinecure and was content to draw his honorarium of fifty guineas a year without in the least exerting himself to earn it.

  There was one point common to all the cases I had met, and that was the milk supply, which came in every instance from the from adjacent to Tannochbrae known as Shawhead. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that the Shawhead milk was the origin of the epidemic. I had no proof, of course, merely a suspicion, but it was enough to make me resolve to act. On the forenoon of the following Tuesday, as I was passing Shawhead, I drew up the gig and called in at the farm.

  It was a pretty place, as snug and sonsy as any man could wish, with whitewashed farm buildings, against which rambler roses were already beginning to bloom. Everything, as far as the eye could see, was sweet and clean, the yard orderly, the out-buildings sound, the surrounding fields well cared for and in good heart.

  Small wonder it was that Rob Hendry should be so proud to own this fine dairy and the pedigree Ayrshire herd which often won him prizes at the local show. Known colloquially as Shawhead – taking the name from the land that was his patrimony – Rob was something of a character, a big, craggy man of about fifty, with iron-grey hair. Shaw head’s whole life was bound up in two interests: his farm, that had come down to him in the family line, and his young wife Jean, whom he had recently married and whom, for all his dourness, he plainly adored.

  Much sly gossip went the rounds of Tannochbrae over Shawhead’s fondness for his young wife, who was of humble birth and had been his dairymaid before Rob put the ring upon her finger, and the saying, ‘Nae fool like an auld fool’, was freely bandied among the cronies. But Shawhead was quite content and could afford to snap his fingers – a customary gesture! – in the face of local gossip.

  When I knocked at the bright green-painted door of the farm, it was Jean herself who answered, and at my question she smiled and shook her head.

  ‘No,’ she answered, ‘the good man’s out. He’s gone to Ardfillan market with some calves. He’ll not be back till this afternoon.’

  She was a bonny lass, the new mistress of Shawhead, plump and brisk, with pink cheeks and fine coppery hair braided trimly behind her ears. Not more than twenty-three, she had an air that was both innocent and buxom. Her skirt, kilted in the true kailyard fashion, revealed a petticoat of striped cloth, beneath which her ankle, for all its coarse hand-knitted stocking, was well turned and firm. Her sleeves, rolled up above her elbows, exposed clean, competent arms. As I surveyed her against the background of the well-kept steading the suspicions I had formed began to waver.

  ‘So Shawhead’s out,’ I temporised.

  ‘Ay,’ she answered, ‘ but he’ll be home the back of four. Will, you look in then, or is there any message I could give him?’

  I hesitated.

  ‘As a matter of fact, Mrs Hendry, it’s rather an awkward business I’ve come about. This outbreak of scarlet fever … It’s spreading, you know, and I find that in all my cases … well, not to put too fine a point on it – the milk has come from Shawhead. I want to be quite open with you. I wondered if I might look into things, and see if, by any chance, the cause of the trouble might be here.’

  At my words, though they were spoken gently, her frank expression altered. Her face clouded, she tossed her head.

  ‘The fever!’ she cried indignantly. ‘To mention it even … in the same breath as our good milk! To be sure, Doctor, if it’s that you’ve come about, you’d better see the master.’

  And without further parley she closed the door sharply in my face.

  Discouraged by this setback and, for some obscure reason, inclined to be annoyed myself, I got back to the gig and continued my morning round. I had half a mind to let the matter drop, but at the next house when I found that the Prentice boy, one of my fever cases, had taken a turn for the worse, and that his brother showed signs of sickening with the complaint, I felt I could not abandon my original purpose. In fact, at midday, when he got
home, I mentioned my intention to Dr Cameron. Cameron listened; then the corners of his mouth drew down dubiously.

  ‘It looks like the milk,’ he said slowly, ‘when you reason it that way. And yet I can’t think it either. Shawhead has a model place out there.’ He paused. ‘Go and see him, by all means, but be careful how you set about it. He’s a touchy deevil, and his temper’s like tinder.’

  That afternoon I returned to Shawhead farm and knocked once again on the bright green door. There was no immediate answer, and imagining that Shawhead might be in the dairy, I wandered across the yard, past the barn, and into the dairy, which, however, contrary to my expectations, was empty. I then turned into the byre.

  As I entered the byre, the cows were at that moment brought in by the byreman in preparation for the evening milking.

  Leaning against the doorway, I observed the fine sleek animals as, breathing softly, they took up their places quietly in the stalls. I then watched the byreman, David Orr, known familiarly as Davit, take the three-legged stool and, sitting close to the first animal, press his cheek against its dappled side and began the milking.

  My eyes dwelt in a kind of fascination upon Davit, for Davit had a pale and sickly look, and round Davit’s throat was wrapped a twist of red flannel.

  Advancing cautiously, I greeted Davit, who looked up with a kind of rustic simplicity.

  ‘It’s you, Doctor!’ said Davit. ‘I’d no idea you were here. Are you after a glass of milk?’

  Unsmiling, I shook my head.

  ‘I’ll have no milk today, Davit.’ And then, indicating the red flannel casually, ‘What’s like the matter with your neck?’

  Davit paused in his milking and gave a conscious laugh.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing – nothing at all, ye ken. I had a sore throat some weeks past, and it’s left me kind of poorly, but it’s nothing at all nothing at all.’

  My gaze became more intent.

  ‘A sore throat!’ I echoed; then slowly, ‘Did you have any rash, Davit, with the sore throat that ye had?’

  ‘Rash?’ echoed Davit stupidly. ‘And what in the name of wonder might that be?’

  I made to explain, to press my inquiries; then all at once I caught sight of Davit’s hands and stopped short. Now there was no need to seek further. The answer came from Davit’s hands, so busily employed in milking the cow, for from each of those hands fine particles of skin were peeling.

  The evidence was conclusive – the fine powdery desquamation, like a dust of bran, which invariably follows scarlet fever, and which, coupled with the fact of the sore throat, convinced me beyond all shadow of doubt that David had had the disease in ambulant form – a mild yet most dangerous type – and that he had not only contaminated the milk, but had almost certainly infected the udders of the cows.

  Suddenly a loud voice broke the stillness of the byre.

  ‘So you’re here, are you? Spying around and shoving yourself into other people’s business?’

  Shawhead himself had appeared, dark with anger. Behind him stood his wife, gazing resentfully at me. It was a painful moment, yet now I could not possibly avoid the issue.

  ‘I’m sorry, Shawhead. I’m not here from choice. It’s plain necessity.’ I pointed to the staring byreman. ‘David here has had scarlet fever, probably a slight attack, but enough to do a lot of damage.’ I tempered my words as best I could. ‘ It looks as if you might have to shut up your dairy for a week or two.’

  ‘What!’ Shawhead exclaimed, between amazement and indignation. ‘Shut up my dairy!! God in heaven, ye’re not blate!’

  ‘Be reasonable,’ I pleaded. ‘ You’re not to blame. But the fact remains, it’s here the infection has come from.’

  ‘The infection! How dare you, man. We’re all clean folks in this farm.’

  ‘Yes, but Davit…’

  ‘Davit’s as clean as the rest of us,’ cried Shawhead. ‘He’s had a bit sore throat and no more. He’s better now: Better, d’ye hear! It’s rank lunacy to make out we maun shut up because o’t.’

  ‘I tell you,’ I persisted, with as much patience as I could muster, ‘that he has had scarlet fever. He’s scaling all over his body. That’s what is contaminating your milk.’

  Here the veins on Shawhead’s forehead stood out. He could not contain himself.

  ‘That’s enough! I’ll hear no more from ye. The very idea! My fine milk contaminated! It’s pure sweet milk, and always has been. Don’t ye know we drink it ourselves?’

  And in an access of indignation he took the dipper and plunged it in the milk. Raising the brimming measure in a gesture of defiance, he drank half himself, then gave the rest to Jean.

  ‘There!’ He flung down the dipper. ‘That’ll show you. And if you speak another word you’ll bitterly regret it.’

  There was a pause. I understood the farmer’s wounded pride. But I had my duty. I turned away in silence.

  That afternoon I went to the house of Dr Snoddie in Knoxhill and put the matter before him, asking that he take steps immediately, in his official capacity, to meet the situation.

  The health officer, seated at his desk, pressing his finger tips together, inspected me over his gold-rimmed pince-nez. He had little love for Dr Cameron and was obviously pleased that I had come to seek a favour of him in his official capacity.

  ‘I’ll look into it, of course,’ he remarked in a patronising tone. ‘But, frankly, I cannot see that you have any real grounds for your request. There’s no positive evidence – no rash, no fever, nothing but a mere supposition on your part. You must remember that it is an extremely serious matter to shut down a man’s business on what may be merely unfounded conjecture.’

  I flushed hotly.

  ‘Conjecture be hanged! That farm is the focus of the trouble. I’ll swear to it.’

  ‘Indeed!’ said Dr Snoddie, with an astringent smile. ‘Well, we shall see.’ A suave gesture of dismissal. ‘You’ll hear from me in the course of a day or so.’

  Fretting under this manifestation of officialdom, I had, nevertheless, to make the best of it. For twenty-four hours nothing happened; then, on the day following, as we sat at lunch, the expected note was delivered by hand.

  I read it, then passed the paper to Dr Cameron, who studied it, gazed at me covertly, and sighed:

  ‘It’s what you might expect of friend Snoddie. But what can we do? If he won’t close we must sit tight and hope for the best.’

  ‘And find ourselves with a dozen more cases? No, thanks!’ I spoke with sudden violence. ‘ If we can’t get official action, we’ll do it the other way.’

  ‘Now, be careful,’ remonstrated Cameron. ‘He’s a dangerous man, is Shawhead.’

  ‘No more dangerous than his milk.’ And before Cameron could reply I walked out of the room.

  All the stubbornness in my character was aroused. In the course of my visits during that day and the next I asked my patients, guardedly yet emphatically, to refrain from using the Shawhead milk supply. Despite my vexation, and a burning sense of being ill-used and misunderstood, I spoke with discretion. Like a young fool, I had forgotten what my older and wiser colleague would undoubtedly have foreseen. Far from being treated as a confidence, in no time at all the news went round, the place rang with my words.

  The resultant storm thoroughly dismayed me. All the excitement which local controversy arouses in a small community was in active operation. People took sides, tongues wagged, the dispute became the chief topic of interest in the district.

  Sustained but little by the consciousness that I was in the right, I could do no more than stick grimly to my guns. But on the Friday of the same week a document arrived which shook me even more severely. It was no less than a writ issued by the farmer through Logan and Logan, Knoxhill solicitors, for slander. In the local parlance, Shawhead was ‘having the law on me’.

  Without delay I took the ominous blue parchment to Dr Cameron, who studied it in silence.

  ‘I can justify myself,’ I muttered. ‘You kno
w I acted for the best.’

  ‘Well,’ said Cameron slowly, ‘ that’s what you must tell the court.’

  Slight encouragement, perhaps, for Cameron said no more. Yet I knew, for all his reticence, that the old doctor was behind me. Nevertheless, as the days went on and I became more fully aware of my position, realising that I must go into open court to face the charges laid against me, with my reputation hanging upon the decision that was to be given, I was far from confident.

  Had I been correct in my diagnosis? Had I been justified? Did my motives spring from devotion to my profession, or merely from an obstinate desire for self-justification? No, I told myself fiercely, a thousand times no. But the very emphasis of my answer did not save me from sleepless nights and days which were a misery of uncertainty and suspense.

  I found people looking at me oddly, even in the streets of Knoxhill. Dr Snoddie, driving past in his brougham, avoided my gaze with an obviousness which told me I should receive no support from him.

  Another day passed, and the silence which existed between Cameron and myself at mealtimes was more than I could bear.

  And then, late the next afternoon, as I sat moodily in the surgery, worrying over all that had passed and all that must so shortly take place, my colleague came in with a strange expression upon his face.

  ‘Have you heard?’ He spoke in a low, restrained tone. ‘She’s down with it. Acute scarlet fever. Shawhead’s wife, Jean Hendry herself.’

  One astounded instant. Then a terrific wave of vindication swept over me. In a flash I remembered Shawhead’s defiant gesture as he passed the dipper of milk.

  ‘They’ll never go on with the case now,’ Cameron meditated. ‘They tell me Shawhead’s near off his head with anxiety. It’s a judgement.’