by A. J. Cronin
‘And the shot – dead true.’
‘How can I thank you, sir?’
‘How can I thank you, doctor?’
Finlay saw them off on the London train. The señora’s eyes were moist as she pressed her doctor’s hand.
‘I am so happy, doctor. And it is all, all due to you.’
The train steamed out of the station and Finlay went home to admire his guns.
Professional Etiquette
In the passage of time, Finlay, from being the timid assistant nervously arriving at Tannochbrae, had come to shoulder most of the practice, which had indeed grown and extended well beyond the village. Dr Cameron was older now and less amenable to strangers, but he still had his patients, old friends who firmly believed in him and would never for a moment have passed him by in favour of his bumptious young assistant. What matter if Finlay were called personally to the posh new Caledonian Hotel ten miles north of the snug little village. Nobody in Tannochbrae gave a good Scottish damn for that swank establishment, stuffed with English snobs and stinking rich foreigners who ‘didna ken one end of a gun frae the other but came back boasting frae the moors wi’ grouse shot by the keeper’.
Such an opinion had indeed been voiced by Bob Mackie the grocer, one of Tannochbrae’s leading citizens, and a lifelong friend of Dr Cameron.
‘What did they ever do for me? Never ordered even a sausage, let alone a joint of my famous spiced bacon. All their stuff comes by special train from London.’
Dr Cameron had the habit of dropping in regularly at Bob’s shop to pick up a piece of this famous spiced bacon to which, when freshly prepared, he was especially addicted and he was, consequently, regularly treated to Bob’s opinion of the Caledonian. However, on this particular morning Bob was strangely silent on his favourite topic. He did, indeed, seem preoccupied and worried to such an extent that Cameron scoffed, ‘Is it the hotel again, Bob?’
‘No, man, it’s not that at all. The fact is, I’m real worried over my young grandson, a boy I’m verra fond of. As ye weel ken, he’s the son of my dochter Gracie, that married Will Macfarlane and moved to Beith. Weel, every summer young Bob – he’s named after me – comes up to Tannochbrae for his holidays. Ye’ll have seen him around.’
‘I have indeed,’ said Dr Cameron. ‘A nice lad. I think Finlay takes him fishing in Gielstone Burn, odd times.’
‘Aye, that’s the boy, and he’s clever at school too. But he’s not looking near so weel this year. In fact I’m real worried about him. So if you wouldna’ mind, while I’m wrapping the ham, I’d be much obliged if ye might take a step upstairs to look at him.’
‘Certainly, Bob. Anything to oblige ye.’
Dr Cameron went upstairs and, most unusually, found young Bob, dressed, but stretched out on his bed.
As Dr Cameron appeared he sat up, looking ashamed of himself.
‘Forgive me, sir, I was up and moving around but suddenly felt queer and had to lie down.’
‘That’s all right Bob. Your granddad just told me you hadn’t been up to the mark lately. Have ye been studying hard at school?’
‘Not more than usual. But the truth is, sir, all last term I felt as if I had no go in me whatsoever. Even here I’m just the same. First thing I did was to go up to the Gielstone Burn – it’s my favourite walk – but if you can believe it, I could hardly get back.’
‘I can see at once it’s a tonic you’re needing, Bob. But let’s have a look at ye. Take off your shirt.’
The light in the room was not particularly bright but when Bob stripped off his shirt, Dr Cameron took out his stethoscope and went over the boy’s heart and lungs thoroughly. The heart did seem a little tired but the lungs were sound. When he put his stethoscope away he smiled at Bob who had flushed nervously during the examination.
‘Now, don’t you worry, Bob. You’re as sound as a bell. Just a bit tired and run down. I’ll give you a tonic that will soon put ye right.’ As he wrote the prescription, he added, ‘It’s a well-proved medicine for hard-working students. I don’t mind admitting to you that I took it myself when I was at college studying for my MD.’
‘Oh, thank you sir, thank you ever so much. I’ll get it from Mr Blair the chemists this morning.’
‘Good lad! Mind you, it takes time to work so see that ye give it a fair trial.’
When Dr Cameron returned downstairs, the butcher looked at him anxiously.
‘Nothing serious I trust, doctor?’
‘He’s a bit run-down, Bob. But I have given him something that will put him right. Mind you, it might take time to work but a couple of bottles should do the trick.’
‘Thank you, doctor, most sincerely. I’ve wrapped up your ham and I picked one specially for ye.’
‘Thanks, Bob. I’ll look in and see the boy in say a week or ten days.’
With the big parcel under his arm, Dr Cameron strode proudly down the High Street. He was not ashamed to admit that he liked a good ham, and indeed the rich aroma of the bulky package would have revealed the fact even had he attempted to conceal it. At lunch that same day he said to Finlay:
‘I was up to Bob McKie this morning to fetch your breakfast for the next month.’
‘Oh, thank you, sir. Did you not bring something for yourself?’
‘And when I was in the shop,’ Dr Cameron continued, ignoring the interruption, ‘Bob asked me to have a look at his grandson who’s up as usual for his holidays.’
‘Oh, good! I must get him out for some fishing. But tell me, is he not well?’
‘A bit run-down from his studies, but I gave him something that will soon have him jumping over the burn with his rod.’
‘What was your prescription, sir?’
‘Did ye ever hear o’ McKie’s Tonic?’
‘No . . . o . . . o, canna say I did, sir. What does it contain?’
‘Weel, I’ll enlighten you, m’lad. It’s a standard tonic that we students used when we were run-down with examinations and hard work at the hospital wards. McKie’s Tonic. Man, it’s a famous remedy.’
‘Can’t say I ever heard of it, sir. But naturally I’ll take your word for it.’
‘Keep an eye on Bob Macfarlane and ye’ll not need to take my word for it. Ye young doctors think ye know it all, but apparently ye never heard o’ Dr McKie.’
After this discussion Finlay determined that he would keep an eye on his young friend. He was busy all next day but on the following morning, after his morning round, he walked up the Gielstone Burn and there, as anticipated, he found young Bob Macfarlane.
But Bob was not fishing. His rod was propped against a tree and he was sitting disconsolately on the bank.
‘But you’re not fishing, Bob!’ cried Finlay, seating himself beside the boy and putting a friendly arm around his shoulders.
‘Oh, I’m glad to see you, Dr Finlay. I hoped you might come up here. Yes, I did try a couple of casts then I had to sit down.’
‘As bad as that! Are ye not takin’ your tonic?’
‘I have tried a few doses sir, but the truth of the matter is this. It makes me sick as a dog. In fact I brought up the last couple of doses. Vomiting something terrible, I was.’
‘Then ye maun stop it Bob, on my authority. While ye sit there – don’t get up – let me have a look at you.’
Bob submitted in silence while Finlay took his pulse, then peered into the boy’s white, tense face. Finlay spent some time examining the boy’s eyes in particular, everting the lower lids and studying the conjunctiva, which was not a healthy red but pallid and bloodless.
My dear old boss has missed this, Finlay thought, and it’s the certain clue to the boy’s condition.
‘Tell me, Bob, did you have an accident of any kind before your holidays?’
‘Yes, I did, sir. On the last day of term we were larking about in the carpentry room when another boy, quite by accident of course, stuck his cutting chisel into my bare arm. Well, I bled like a pig and before they could get the master with a proper tourn
iquet I had made a pool on the floor that was fearfully large. They wanted to fetch a doctor but I said no and they sent me home in a cab.’
‘Good God, lad! And you came on here the very next day.’
‘I didn’t want to tell anyone sir. I felt such a fool. So I just came, but I admit, I felt awful in the train. And to tell the truth I still feel peculiar. Don’t have a kick in me.’
And my dear old boss gave him a bottle of McKie’s Tonic, thought Finlay, then aloud, ‘Bob, you’re coming with me to the hospital lab. Just wait here quietly till I return.’
Finlay took Bob’s bicycle and rode down the glen to his car, which stood outside the surgery. Leaving the bike propped against the kerb he got into the car, returned and picked up Bob. In five minutes they were in the hospital laboratory.
‘Take your jacket and shirt off and lie down on the couch, lad. And don’t worry, I’m going to take just one tiny drop of your blood, for a test.’
The blood, pale and watery-looking, was drawn up into a hypodermic syringe then transferred to a test tube and within twenty minutes the tests were complete. Finlay gave an exclamation of satisfaction and turned to the boy.
‘Now listen, lad, you have lost so much blood it would take you months of misery before you make it up. Fortunately you have the same blood group as myself, so I’m going to make you a present of some which I can very well spare. Lie still and I’ll draw up my chair beside you.’
Within ten minutes this simple operation was completed. Finlay lay for a few moments beside his patient.
Then he said, ‘How do you feel, lad?’
‘Oh, sir, dear Dr Finlay. Instead of feeling like a wet empty sack, I want to run for miles, jump over walls. Oh, thank God, and thank you and bless you, doctor. I’m myself again, better than new.’
‘Take it easy then. You must be quite still for half an hour. And I will rest too.’
‘Of course. Oh, Dr Finlay, do you feel bad?’
‘I’ll soon be right as rain and all the better for the blood letting. Now listen carefully, Bob. No one must know of this, it’s between you and me alone, for it would hurt Dr Cameron’s pride really badly to think he had failed in diagnosing your trouble. And worse still that I, his assistant, had spotted your want of blood and cured it on the spot!’
‘Oh, I won’t tell anyone Dr Finlay. Although perhaps you would let me tell my mother when she comes up next week. But surely to goodness I don’t need to go on with that beastly McKie’s mixture.’
‘You don’t need it, lad, and never did. So quietly, quietly mind you, dispose of it down the sink or, safer still, the lavatory.’
‘I will, doctor. I’ll do everything you tell me because I trust you and love you.’
‘Then get in the car with me and we’ll drive to your bike, parked outside my surgery. Then you can take off for your grandad’s. And remember, no gabbing, not a single word.’ Back home Finlay felt the need of his tea and went to the kitchen to make it when Janet suddenly appeared, took off her coat and said reproachfully, ‘Could you not wait five minutes till I got back from the town?’
‘I was thirsty, Janet. I’ve been up the burn fishing with young Bob Macfarlane.’
‘Ay, he just passed me on his bike goin’ like steam. Dr Cameron will be pleased with him.’
‘That’s the truth, Janet. He’s come on wonderfully since he took Dr Cameron’s medicine.’
‘I’m glad ye admit it,’ Janet said kindly. ‘Would you like a piece o’ shortbread tae your tea? I made some afore I went out.’
‘Thank you, Janet. I love your shortbread, it’s the best in Tannochbrae.’
‘Best in Scotland, ye mean, lad.’ And Janet gave him one of her rare smiles. ‘To find ye so polite and agreeable is just like the auld days when ye first came here. When the doctor was heid o’ the family and me and you were his devoted children.’
‘We’re still devoted, Janet. You know I’d do anything in the world for the auld doctor.’
‘I’m sure ye would, lad. It’s just that sometimes ye seem to think that ye ken mair than him.’
‘God forbid, Janet.’
‘Well here’s your shortbread, and it’s a bigger bit that I meant to give you.’
Finlay departed with the shortbread and a respectful inclination of his head. Janet was sometimes difficult, but she could always be brought round by any appreciation of her worth, verbal or otherwise. He had barely nibbled the shortbread and sipped at his first cup of tea before a firm step was heard in the lobby and the door was flung open, revealing Dr Cameron still in full outdoor panoply – reefer coat slightly open, one of the many scarves knitted by Janet, and his hat cocked at a rakish angle.
‘Well, indeed!’ he exclaimed half jocularly. ‘Tea without me! Is that the way to treat the head o’ the house?’
Finlay stood up and said quietly, ‘As you’re very often not in for your tea, sir, preferring to take it at your club in the town, and as it had struck the half five without a sign of you, Janet very kindly gave me a cup.’
‘Shortbread, too! Well I never. Ye fare well, my young sir, whenever my back is turned.’
Fortunately Janet scurried in with a tray, bearing more tea and an ample portion of shortbread, which she placed by the big armchair. Then receiving coat, scarf, gloves and hat from her master she scurried out to hang them in the hall.
‘Well, lad! I ken ye were up the burn with my patient. What did you think o’ him?’
‘Wonderfully improved, sir, and a compliment to you!’
‘Ay, thank ye, lad. As a matter of fact, Bob McKie hailed me in as I passed the shop to shake me by the hand. “Never,” says he to me, “have I seen such a wonderful recovery. The dear boy was creeping about, white as a ghost. You prescribed for him, and after one bottle o’ your medicine – for it’s all gone – he is cured, looking better than I have ever seen him since he was a bairn.” ’
‘Well, sir,’ Finlay exclaimed, ‘what a triumph for ye.’
Dr Cameron gave a self-conscious little laugh. ‘Bob told me the whole town would be talking about it. Says he to me, “Doctors may come and doctors may go, but there’s one doctor who will ever be with us, loved and respected for his kindness and brilliance.” ’
‘He insisted in bringing down the boy, my patient. I’ll confess to you, Finlay, that I was amazed by the improvement in him; his pulse, his colour, his briskness. I saw that I had just hit on the one correct medicine he needed. And it had done the trick for him, and, if I may say so, for me.’
‘Well, sir, I am happy for you. And for young Bob. He’s a thoroughly good, likeable lad. And as he was certainly seriously ill it’s a God’s blessing he is well again.’
‘Thank you, Finlay. It’s to your credit that never, ay never, have ye shown the least jealousy towards me.’
The old doctor then quaffed his tea and poured himself a second cup before filling and lighting his first pipe of the day.
The weather continued fine and young Bob Macfarlane was up every day fishing the full stretch of the Gielstone Burn where, as work was light in the practice, Dr Finlay regularly joined him. On several occasions they went further afield and Finlay took the boy over the high Darroch Moors where there was a chance of sea trout in the loch. Usually they came back with a few sizable fish and once they – or to be exact, Finlay – landed a seven-pound grilse. As they stepped off the Moors to the Tannochbrae road, young Bob carrying the fish, they observed a young woman stepping briskly towards them. And suddenly Bob let out a shout.
‘Good heavens, it’s my mother!’
Within five yards of them she stopped, looking them over, then in a tone of admiration and surprise she said ‘Bob! I can’t believe it’s you! And Finlay! You don’t look a day older than my big son. And both of you so brown and healthy, stepping off the Moor as though you’d walked ten miles to catch that lovely fish.’
She took her son in her arms and gave him a big kiss, then, unable to resist the impulse, she turned to Finlay and pressed
her lips against his glowing cheek murmuring, ‘Why didna ye, mon? Why didna ye?’
There was a long moment of stillness, then, recovering herself, she addressed her son.
‘I came to Tannochbrae expecting to find you still pale as a sheet and here ye are, brown and healthy, better than I ever saw you.’ She turned to Finlay, ‘His grandad told me it is all due to some wonderful medicine Dr Cameron gave him, that worked like magic. It’s the talk of the town.’
Bob, excited at seeing his mother, let out a wild exuberant laugh.
‘Mother, dear Mother, I have to tell you.’
‘Now, Bob, remember your promise.’
‘I should be allowed to tell my mother, Finlay. It won’t go further.’
Arm in arm the three had begun the long walk home. ‘Listen, dear Mother . . .’ Out came the whole story while his mother listened intently, half turning now and then to study Finlay’s set face.
‘So you see, Mother, here I am walking for miles with Finlay’s good blood in me while that auld fraud gets all the credit for a bottle of medicine I never took but just poured down the lavatory.’ He added, ‘But for his transfusion, I’d still be crawling about like a broken-down ghost.’
Bob’s mother did not reply but she looked at Finlay several times, then her grip on his arm tightened and in a quiet but determined voice, she said:
‘I never in all my life have heard of such a cheap and beastly swindle. Here is my dear Finlay who diagnosed my son’s condition and gave freely his own life’s blood to save him, to put him back striding on the moors instead of crawling around like Hamlet’s ghost while that puffed-up old Cameron, who doesna ken a transfusion from a bull’s behind, has the whole town bowin’ and scrapin’ to him.’
‘Hush, Gracie. Mind your language.’
‘If you had lived with a man like my husband you would have picked up a few choice bits and pieces. Oh, Finlay, why didna ye follow on after that last dance at the Reunion? I was fair crazy for you and I could weel tell that you liked me.’
‘Ah, Gracie, my love,’ Finlay sighed, ‘that’s old history now. I was so young and inexperienced in my job, a miserable assistant. I spoke to Janet and she said there was no place for a wife in the house. I hadna the courage to tell ye I loved ye.’
