by A. J. Cronin
Teresa
Summer had passed, autumn had come, and the fall of leaves had kept the children busy, sweeping and brushing the drive and the woodland paths. In the early dusk there would be bonfires to delight and enliven childish hearts. Some of the children were now so greatly improved they would soon return to the parent institution at Muirhead, possibly for return to their own homes, if these were judged to be suitable. In any case, Dr Finlay’s house was only for the warm weather. In winter, without adequate heating, it must close until spring came again. And now Finlay, with time on his hands, was free to give more help to his long-suffering partner in the practice. Aided by the comforting sight of the horrendous appendix on the mantelpiece of the consulting room, Dr Cameron, rejuvenated, had come through the slack season without apparent difficulty. But now, with winter looming ahead, Finlay saw that he must be back to resume his normal occupation, and to shoulder, once again, the heavier portion of the work of the practice.
On such an evening, when the mist had begun to fall, and Finlay was pacing meditatively down the avenue of leafless trees, he heard a light step behind him and, before he could turn, a warm familiar hand was placed in his, and a comforting voice said, ‘You looked so sad, sir, I felt I must join you.’
‘Don’t call me sir, or I shall lapse into deep and uncontrolled melancholy.’
‘It is a sad season. I suppose we’ll be closing soon for the winter?’ She had fallen into step beside him. ‘And you’ll be losing all your darling children.’
‘And their mother! I’m going to miss you sadly, Alice.’
‘Yes, dear Dr Finlay, it is a bore, this enforced separation. I have so loved being with you, for your cheerful companionship and,’ she hesitated, ‘yourself.’
‘Enigmatic as ever.’
‘Oh, you do know what I mean. Your ability to behave cheerfully and happily with a woman without wanting . . . to put her on her back.’
‘Didn’t I do that the day you arrived?’
‘Oh, that was lovely, adorable fun, and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’
‘Yes, it was fun, in the beginning.’ He paused. ‘May I have the privilege of visiting you when you are back at your house in Sussex?’
There was a silence, somewhat prolonged. Then she said quietly, ‘Finlay, I am obliged to tell you the sad truth. I am spending the winter with my father and . . . a young fellow from the Brigade of Guards, who has a house, inherited from his mother, in Amalfi.’ Casually she murmured: ‘As a matter of fact, he is my fiancé.’
A silence, prolonged and vibrant, then Finlay said quietly:
‘I’m pleased for you. After all your hard and marvellous work here, it’s just what you need: rest, sunshine and companionship with people of your own class.’
They continued to walk up and down under the trees, but in silence. At last she dared to look at him. His jaw was set, his lips formed a smile, but his cheek was wet with tears.
Finally he said, ‘Your kind of people don’t send picture postcards but I shall think of you, sunning yourself by the blue sea, and dashing into it, through the surf, with your friend.’
‘Thank you for your sincere good wishes. I shall not forget them, or you. Now you are aware that I am off today. My taxi is ordered for tomorrow morning. Shall we say goodbye now?’
Facing him, she held out her arms. With his heart pounding painfully he took her in a close embrace, not touching her lips, simply holding her to him, in silence, as if they were already one.
At last he let her go, saying, ‘I thank you with all my heart for your help and sweet companionship. Don’t let us write to each other. Let our parting now be a clean break, sharp and final. I know you are too good for me, a common fellow with common manners and no aristocratic background, while you are born and bred a gentlewoman, and from your earliest days accustomed to fine society and destined to marry one of your own class. So, goodbye, dear heart!’
Before she could speak he turned and went into the house where, in his own room, he flung himself into a chair and closed his eyes. One thought alone consoled him, that she too had wept when he said goodbye. Only hours after Alice had turned from him and finally gone did he stir from his chair and go to bed.
The next morning he sought the company of the little girl who was now so proficient with her apparatus that with its support she could easily manage a tour of the grounds, alone.
Indeed, as he went into the garden there she was, leaning on ‘bicycle’, as she had named it, waiting for him.
‘I hear good news of you darling. Once round, on your own.’
‘Twice, doctor. And all without stopping.’
‘Spendid! You have worked hard. Now come and give your old doctor a kiss.’ As he spoke he lifted her from her machine and sat down with her on his knee. When he had exacted the kiss he continued: ‘By the bye, what is your proper name, darling? I can’t go on calling you “lass”, you must have an identity of your own.’
‘I don’t think I have a right name, sir. I’ve just been called “kid”. You know, “Get the hell out of the way, kid.” ’
Finlay thought for a moment, massaging the child’s legs, then he said, ‘I’m going to give you a name.’
‘Oh, that’s a treat, sir. I never thought I’d be that lucky.’
‘Well, from now on you are going to be Teresa,’ Finlay said, choosing the name of his favourite saint.
‘Teresa,’ the little one exclaimed. ‘That’s a lovely, classy name.’
‘Very classy.’
‘Oh, sir, let me go out to the far end of the garden, and call me.’
She took one step to her machine and fell on to the handlebars. In another minute she was behind the trees, invisible, at the end of the garden. Finlay then got to his feet and at the pitch of his lungs shouted, ‘Teresa! Teresa!’
Immediately there came a joyful answering call and very quickly the child was back, hugging Finlay’s knees.
‘Oh, it’s lovely, sir. Having a name! Could we do it just once again?’
The game was repeated, successfully, again to the child’s delight.
‘Now,’ she exclaimed, ‘I’ll be able to tell the other kids who I am.’
‘Listen then, Teresa,’ Finlay said seriously. ‘Your little handlebar machine has done its job, and a very good one too, but now we are going on to the next step. This morning you are going to learn a little dance called the Sailor’s Hornpipe. It’s very easy to learn and will help to strengthen your legs. Let me show you.’
Singing the refrain Finlay executed a few simple steps, greatly to the delight of his little companion. ‘Now you try it, Teresa.’ Holding her hands he succeeded in teaching her the steps which, indeed, she picked up quickly. Finally, halfway through the dance, he released his hold of her tiny hands, so that she was doing it without support.
‘You have picked that up quickly, Teresa!’ He took her on his knee. ‘And I’m pleased, because I want to be proud of you when we go to Mr Ferguson’s house for tea on Saturday afternoon.’
‘Good gracious, sir. Am I really invited?’
‘Really and truly, lassie. You remember that Mr Ferguson gave you your bicycle. That’s why I want you to do a little dance for him.’
‘Oh, I will, sir, I’ll practise very hard.’
Saturday afternoon was so fine that Finlay regretted that his little lass was not more appropriately dressed for the tea party. But though her old grey frock was drab enough, nothing could dim the brightness of her small face, shining with expectation. Since parking was always difficult in Tannochbrae on Saturdays, Finlay had ordered a taxi. As he helped her into the rear seat beside him her expression was one of sheer delight.
‘Just think of it, Dr Finlay. Teresa in a taxi for the first time in her life. Going to her first tea party.’
Since the bank was closed on Saturday afternoon both Mr Ferguson and his wife, a fine, full-bodied woman, were waiting for them, upstairs, in the big roomy house. And how warmly welcomed were Fin
lay and his little companion. In the front room the table was laid for a magnificent tea, with a beautiful iced cake, crystallised fruits, and crackers to be pulled.
It pleased Finlay to see how well Teresa behaved and how quickly Ferguson and his wife took her to their hearts.
‘I do wish, Mrs Ferguson, that I had found a proper party dress for the little one, but you see, I’m not good at these things.’
‘Don’t worry, doctor,’ said Mrs Ferguson, ‘I think I have just the thing for the lass.’ Holding out her hand she said: ‘Come with me, Teresa, and we’ll look for a pretty dress for you.’
With a glance at Finlay, who replied with a reassuring smile, Teresa went out of the room with Mrs Ferguson.
A silence followed; then Ferguson said: ‘Some years ago my wife and I had the dreadful misfortune to lose our own little girl, killed by a drunken driver who, without warning, and travelling at high speed, ran off the road and on to the pavement where she was standing . . . Anyway, my wife insisted on keeping everything that had belonged to her, all her clothes, books, toys – everything.’
Finlay was silent. What could one say? And already, with dreadful premonition, he was beginning to fear the possibility that lay awaiting him. And, indeed, at that moment the inner door opened and Teresa made her entrance, dressed in a beautiful full-skirted white-silk frock, with silk stockings and fine patent-leather shoes. Her hair had been brushed back and clasped by a silver fillet. A necklace of silver and amethyst adorned her slender neck. She looked at Finlay, shyly conscious of her altered appearance, then flung her arms around him and kissed him fervently.
‘Oh, Dr Finlay, don’t you like to see me nice? And underneath I am even nicer, with what Mrs Ferguson calls my “undies”. Would you like a look?’
‘If Mrs Ferguson is satisfied, dear, then I am too.’
‘I don’t call her Mrs Ferguson now. She likes me to call her “Mama”. Now I am to go down and show my new self to Nora, the cook.’
When she had gone, Ferguson looked at Finlay in silence. Then he said: ‘My dear, my very dear Finlay, the little lass has explained the situation better than I could ever have done. It will be hard on you, I well know. You have saved her from a crippling infirmity. You love her as your own. And yet, Finlay, is she not better off in a comfortable home with a mother, a loving mother who will care for her, and bring her up as though she were her own daughter? Only a woman can properly care for a young growing girl, maturing to womanhood. Don’t you feel within yourself that whatever your sacrifice it would be wise to let Teresa come to us, as our own child?’
Finlay bent forward and raised his hand to his brow. Yes, he thought, for the sake of my little one I must let her go.
‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘I see the reason of what you say. And I consent. I must consent.’ He paused. ‘Don’t ask me to stay for the feast. Teresa will not miss me. And it is better so. I am happy at her good fortune for I know that you, sir, and your wife will do everything you can to make her life a happy one.’
Finlay had risen and was prepared to go, when Ferguson rose and shook him by the hand.
‘What we will never, never forget dear Finlay is that but for you, our beautiful little daughter would be a helpless, hopeless cripple.’
Finlay walked home slowly, in a mood that verged on despair. What is wrong with me, he thought bitterly, why am I destined for such misfortunes? I lose the only woman I have ever loved, and now, for every good reason, I must relinquish my own, my dearest child.
Janet’s Bairn
Several days later, Finlay received a call from the Caledonian Hotel. His mood was still heavy and unpropitious. From past experience, he was always wary of commands from the luxury hotel, which might prove rewarding or completely the reverse. Seeking information from his friend Bill Scott, the telephone operator, he received this reply: ‘They’re a foreign couple, Finlay. Spanish, from Bolivia in South America. Great style and a’ that, but if I were you I’d get my fee in my hand before leaving. It’s the woman, Señora da Costa, who is wantin’ you. She asked me for the best doctor in Scotland, so I had to say you. But look out Finlay, she’s a regular bitch.’
‘Thanks, Bob. I’ll watch my step.’
With this friendly warning Finlay drove slowly to the big hotel across the valley and high on the ridge above. At the hotel, since most of the ground staff were local lads, Finlay was greeted with smiles and shown to the lift which bore him to the seventh floor and to the luxury apartment of Señor and Señora da Costa.
The Señora was sitting up in bed, supported by two voluminous pillows and wearing a bed jacket that could only have come from Paris.
‘Ah, doctor, you are here at last.’ As she looked Finlay over she added as if to herself, ‘And young, handsome, intelligent . . . when I had feared the worst. Sit down, doctor.’ She drew a long hoarse breath.
‘Madam,’ said Finlay mildly, ‘the atmosphere of this room is stifling. I must open a window.’
‘No, doctor, I beg of you. Look first at my throat.’
Finlay opened his bag and took out his spatula, drew the bedside light nearer and said briefly, ‘Remove your false teeth, madam.’
‘But doctor, I have no artificial . . .’
‘Kindly remove your plate, unless you wish to swallow it.’
As she still seemed reluctant Finlay pushed his forefingers between her jaws and pulled out a king-size dental plate bordered by a number of perfect white teeth.
‘Now, madam, open your mouth wide, very wide.’
Visibly discomposed, she reluctantly obeyed, causing her cheeks to sag dramatically.
‘Wide, madam. Wider, please.’
Finally, after much manoeuvering, Finlay got a really good look at her throat. He then withdrew his instrument and, handing back her dentures, turned his back while she replaced them. As she struggled with this somewhat delicate manoeuvre, Finlay picked up a narrow box from her bedside table and extracted one of the short, dark cigars it contained. Rolling this article between his fingers, he studied it, then bit it hard. Already he was convinced, but to be certain he tasted the dark oily liquid that oozed from the cut and bruised tobacco with the tip of his tongue.
She watched him carefully during this operation, and when he placed the cigar in his pocket she said acidly, ‘You make free with my possessions, doctor.’
‘This is merely for a final confirmation of my diagnosis, madam.’ He paused while a nerve in her cheek began to twitch.
‘I must first relieve your mind, madam. You do not suffer, as I had feared, from a cancer or some such other fatal growth. Your throat is merely inflamed, but savagely so. If you obey my instructions your throat will be normal within four weeks. You will be cured.’
‘Oh thank you and bless you, doctor. They told me you were the best doctor in Scotland and it is the truth.’ She closed her eyes, made the sign of the cross and, beginning ‘Madre de Dios’, made a short little prayer of thanksgiving.
‘Here is my prescription, Madam,’ said Finlay without handing the sheet of paper to her. ‘This medicine must be taken at 10 p.m., when you have retired. You will find that it gives you a much better sleep than these poisonous cigars. You must never ever smoke these cigars again. The fumes that you inhale are loaded with a dangerous drug. If you disobey my instructions you will assuredly end with a cancer of your throat. Have I made myself clear?’
‘Oh yes. Oh yes, dear doctor. I will obey, obey your commands. Please give me the paper.’
‘First, madam, you must give me my fee of three guineas.’
Her face assumed a shocked expression. ‘Dear, clever doctor, you are most ungallant to speak of money to your patient, a lady of distinction, while she is still in her bed. Surely you understand that your fee will be remitted to you the moment we receive your account.’
‘Madam, I am no Shylock to tear my beard and cry “Give me my ducats”. No, madam, I am a simple country doctor who has several times been swindled by residents of this hotel who depa
rt without settling their just debts. I therefore have a fixed principle: “No pay, no prescription”.’
She studied him again, seeking a sign of weakness in his stern young face, then in a loud voice she called out: ‘José, venga aquí.’
Now for the first time, Finlay saw a little boy with dark eyes in a very pale face lying on his stomach on the floorboards in a corner by the window. Now, very stiffly, he got up, stumbled to the wardrobe, and after opening the door produced a woolen work-bag which he handed to his mistress. As he returned to his corner Finlay noticed, with horror, that under the thin singlet the little boy’s back was scarred with ugly red weals.
Meanwhile the Señora was fumbling in her bag with an air of distress. Finally she exclaimed: ‘What a pity! Such a nuisance! Dear doctor, is it not embarrassing for me? I find I have not enough of small “vueta” to discharge your account.’
‘Then I will hold your prescription, dear madam, until you actually have the amount you require.’
Again she studied him. Then, without further delay, she handed Finlay three rather dirty pound notes and three separate shillings.
When he had pocketed the cash, Finlay stood up and, with a bow, handed her the prescription.
She accepted it with a shriek. ‘What! No liquid! No medicamenta!’
‘The excellent chemist in the town, madam, will supply your medicine according to my prescription.’
‘Ha! So I must again pay. The English are all cheats!’
‘Scottish, madam,’ Finlay corrected mildly, turning towards the door which the small boy had already opened for him.
As he entered the passage and the door closed behind him he felt that he had a shadow behind him. Turning, he saw that the boy had followed him out of the room.
‘Señor doctor, I implore you, please heal my wounds.’
Finlay could not resist this pitiful appeal. He removed the boy’s shirt, then gazed in horror at the deep, raw weals that had broken the skin and cut almost to the bone.
‘Who did this?’
