Dr Finlay's Casebook

by A. J. Cronin

  ‘The master, doctor sir. When I do not please the mistress she reports to her husband.’

  Finlay studied the boy in silence. The child was undernourished to the point of emaciation. And pitifully beaten.

  Finlay did not reflect even for a moment. Wrapping his coat round the boy’s shoulders, he led him into the lift, then quickly through the swing doors and out into his car. As they drove off, the boy crouched beside Finlay shaking with tears of joy.

  ‘How come you understand English?’

  ‘I study greatly at school, señor, hoping to run away to an English family.’

  ‘To escape the flogging?’

  ‘It is not always flogging. I leave to get food.’

  ‘Don’t they feed you at the hotel?’

  ‘I am not registered at the hotel, señor. I eat only what madame leave on her plate. If nothing, I lick plate.’

  Dear God, thought Finlay. Could anything be worse? He was silent until he reached home, then lifting the child gently from the car he carried him into the kitchen. ‘Janet, dear, this poor little boy has been maltreated and starved. I see you have porridge on the hob, please give him a big plateful with lots of creamy milk. I’ll be back in a few moments.’

  In the surgery, Finlay collected together everything he required, wrapped them in a big towel and left them by the couch, so as to have them close at hand. He then returned to the kitchen. There he sat with Janet who, entranced, was watching the little boy eat.

  ‘Oh, Dr Finlay,’ she whispered. ‘The boy is starved to death.’

  ‘Very near to it, Janet. Give him a second helping if he asks you.’

  ‘He has already,’ she answered, rising to replenish the empty plate, already licked clean.

  ‘Lovely, lovely porridge, sir. After more I am again strong.’

  ‘Are you going to keep him, sir?’

  ‘Nothing else for it, Janet. He hasn’t a friend in the world. And of course I’ll never, never send him back to those South American bastards at the hotel.’

  When the second plateful of porridge had disappeared Finlay lifted the boy and carried him to the surgery, where he laid him face down on the couch. It was absolutely essential to clean the sores, some of which had become infected.

  ‘I must hurt you a little, José. It is necessary.’

  ‘I will not cry, sir.’

  Using pure ether, Finlay thoroughly cleaned the sores, then covered the child’s entire back with damp boric lint and carried him back to the kitchen.

  ‘Janet! This is your boy as well as mine. Could you spare him a wee corner o’ your bed? And if you have an old chemise, that could serve him as a night-shirt till I get him some proper clothes.’

  Janet flushed with pleasure. ‘I can certainly see to him, sir. He’ll be real cosy wi’ me forbye.’

  Receiving the child from Finlay she disappeared through the doorway that led to her room, just behind the kitchen.

  Finlay could now hear Dr Cameron moving about the surgery and it became necessary to consider the main business of the day. His list of visits, already made out, was on the hall table.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ he called loudly. ‘Have you any more calls for me? I am just starting out.’

  ‘No, I have no calls, so I’ll do the surgery. But Finlay, have ye had your breakfast?’

  ‘I was out early, sir, and forgot about it. I’ll have my coffee now.’

  Back in the kitchen, his coffee and fresh roll awaited him. Janet, with a portentous air put a finger to her lips as she whispered, ‘Our wee laddie is fast asleep, sir. But I’m sorry there’s nae parritch left, he’s ate it a’.’

  Finlay had no serious cases on his list and he finished his round before midday. He then drove into the centre of the town and drew up before the double-fronted shop which bore the sign: GENERAL AND CHILDREN’S OUTFITTERS.

  For about half an hour Finlay remained in the shop, emerging with the manager, who deposited a bundle of parcels in the back of the car, then remarked, with a significant smile, ‘Your other order for the buttons uniform will be ready for the try-on by the end of next week.’

  With a glance at his watch Finlay saw that he still had enough time to make his final visit. Leaving the car he walked across the street to the Central Police Station.

  Here Finlay remained for another thirty minutes or so and when he emerged he was accompanied down the steps by the Chief Constable.

  ‘I’ll have a word with the Registrar, Finlay. It will be perfectly simple: father – unknown; adoptive mother – Janet MacKay.’

  The two men then shook hands and Finlay got into his car and drove home.

  ‘Janet,’ he called, ‘here’s lots of good things for your wee laddie.’ Aided by a very bright-eyed little boy, Janet and Finlay unloaded the goods and carried them to the kitchen where a fire burned cheerfully. As the parcels were unwrapped one by one it was a joy to watch the child’s face, alight with joy and wonder. Everything he needed was there: little white and blue shirts; underwear; socks; two pairs of shoes, one for the house, the other for out of doors; a little soft hat; two ties; two pairs of trousers, one grey flannel, one blue; two sweaters; and a lovely blue reefer coat.

  As Finlay turned to observe the effect of his purchases, Janet was actually weeping. ‘Oh Dr Finlay, dear Dr Finlay, to think that ye bought a’ these lovely things for my wee laddie!’

  ‘And he really is yours now, Janet. I fixed it all with the Chief of Police – and the Registrar.’

  ‘There’s just one thing that I must humbly thank ye for, doctor: your skill and gentleness that made the birth o’ my bairn absolutely painless. Ye must a gi’en me a great big dose o’ the chloroform, for it’s the God’s truth I never felt a thing till I woke up wi’ the dear bairn in ma airms.’

  Finlay studied her, kindly. Better, yes, better by far to let her cherish this fulfilment of her dream.

  Now, indeed, Janet yielded to all her years of frustrated motherhood. A woman too plain to attract a man, yet longing in her heart to have a child. She sat down, holding her little boy tight, and let the warm tears flow.

  Dr Finlay’s Hopes are Dashed

  In Tannochbrae winter was at last over, a warm sun had dispersed the lingering mists, and the budding trees proclaimed the advent of spring. This was the season especially beloved by Finlay – it seemed to herald the joys of the outdoor life, the very soul and substance of his being. Yet there was no joy in Finlay’s heart. He looked sadly at his beloved guns, and his fishing rods stood unused in their corner of the garage.

  As if in contrast, activity in the house, such as the annual spring-cleaning, had never proceeded with greater gusto and good-humoured thoroughness. Janet, the leader of the assault, had never been in better form. Aided by Joseph (no longer José), she scrubbed, scoured, swept and polished as though she were twenty years younger. Complimented by Finlay in these terms she nodded in agreement and said, ‘It’s a true word ye’ve spoken, Finlay, sir, I’m a new woman since I had ma braw son.’

  ‘And he’s a great help to you, Janet.’

  ‘A help and a comfort, sir, you should see how he snuggles in to me in bed. I sleep far better nor I ever did.’ She smiled tenderly. ‘And then in the morning, he’s up to bring me my cup o’ tea the minute I’m awake!’

  ‘He’s growing up a fine boy, Janet. And since he’s got his smart new buttoned uniform it’s a treat to see him answering the front door bell and showing the patients to the waiting room.’

  ‘Och, sir! He’s a help everywhere. You should see how he tidies our bedroom. Even empties my chanty for me.’ She paused and suddenly began to shake with laughter. ‘Sir, this will kill ye. At first when my wee laddie didna ken ony better he lifted the chanty, fu’ to the brim, and shooshed it out through the open window just as Dr Cameron was passing! Och, sir, it was a near shave. As I served lunch the boss says to me: “Janet, the roof gutter is leaking. Have it seen to at once. I nearly had a bath this morning.” ’

  Finlay rejoiced
in the old servant’s happiness. Yet, in his own heart, there was no such joy. Now was the time to reopen his house as a holiday home for the children. But though this had been such a wonderful success last summer, he could not bring himself to take the decisive step. Where would he find a matron? No, he could not face the prospect of the old dame from the hospital, hobbling round with the help of her stick. Perhaps she would send one of the senior nurses, all starch and spectacles? Finlay shuddered at the thought. Nothing would match that wonderful summer of a year ago, when every day was a joy – or a joyous battle.

  On the first day of April, when Finlay had finished the morning surgery, Janet directed his attention to a group of workmen standing by a pantechnicon outside his house.

  ‘They’ve been shouting across the gairden for ye, sir.’

  Finlay strode towards the half dozen workmen but before he reached the group the foreman touched his hat and said, ‘It’s just the key, sir, that we’re wanting, to get into your house.’

  Finlay recognised the man. ‘Andy, who sent ye?’

  ‘Hoo should I ken, Finlay? The word musta came tae the office. The manager just stepped oot tae the yaird and says: “Finlay’s hoose, lads, exactly the same as last year.” ’

  ‘But, Andy, I never said a word.’

  ‘Then it musta came frae the weans’ hospital, sir.’

  A dull feeling of acceptance came over Finlay. He had set the pattern, yes, he must accept it. He followed the men as they entered the house and watched as they expertly set about their work, removing and storing his lovely rugs and fine china, then rolling out the drugget over the polished floors. Suddenly he heard the tapping of a stick and a high-pitched voice pierced his eardrums, ‘I wish to assure myself that all is perfect . . .’ That was enough for Finlay. He shut himself in one of the lavatories, shot the bolt and sat down on the seat to brood. Yes, it was the old matron. He had let himself in for it. Well, it was too late now. He must stand aside and let her go ahead.

  A copy of the children’s paper Comic Cuts was on the floor, left by one of last year’s cheerful horde. On the upturned page was a drawing of a sad little fat man left with his baggage on a pier, while a liner was steaming away into the distance under clouds of smoke. The caption read, ‘The man who missed the last boat for Kingdom Come.’

  I am that fellow, thought Finlay. I had the chance of sublime happiness and let it sail away from me.

  At last he picked himself up from his ignoble throne and, from force of habit, flushed it.

  Back home he took the evening surgery, a very light task as the good weather had largely reduced the number of his patients. Upstairs, he found little Joseph awaiting him with a smile. ‘Nice postcard for you, sir. Of course I do not read it, but the picture is most funny.’

  While the boy watched him with a smile, Finlay took the postcard and studied it with a diagnostic eye. The postmark was San Remo and the picture, in the crudest of colours, depicted a pretty young woman in negligible bathing attire fleeing along a beach, hotly pursued by an elderly man in a top hat and frock coat. With the card there was a letter written in a very small, neat hand, immediately recognisable, which made his heart beat frighteningly fast.

  Dear Maestro,

  Aware of your fondness for comic coloured postcards I could not resist intruding on your majestic, stoical silence. I would have written you sooner but being anxious not to disturb your winter hibernation, I awaited first a brief word from you. Alas! No word came and our good Italian postman looks pathetically sad when he shakes his head and murmurs a soft Italian negative. I would then retreat to the sad sea shores, with a picnic lunch – anything to get away from that infernal little Army bore, a snob who talks endlessly of the ‘Brigade’, and his association with the highest level of British aristocracy. Even my dear father is sick of the man and has developed a pain in his side which worries him, and me. Well, as the result of all this we have decided to leave for England by sea and will be arriving in London on 25th April at 11.30 a.m. I realise sadly that you are much too busy to greet us, but what a relief it would be, might I say a joy, to see your dear, noble face at Southampton when we arrive.

  Yours,

  Alice

  To Joseph’s surprise and delight, Finlay began to sing, and execute a few dance steps of the Highland Fling.

  ‘Oh, sir,’ the little boy exclaimed. ‘You are pleased and happy!’

  ‘Both,’ said Finlay, picking up the child and continuing the dance. ‘But tell me, Joseph, have I got a noble face?’

  ‘You got the best, ugliest face in all the world, ever!’

  Finlay’s happiness reached its climax when, very early on the morning of 25th April, he stepped into his car and drove, as fast as he dared, to Southampton. Here, pacing up and down, he anxiously awaited the arrival of the 11.30 boat. When it arrived he posted himself at the end of the gangway where its passengers would soon be appearing, his heart pounding. First came Italians, then an elderly English couple, some women without escorts, another elderly couple, more Italians – probably workmen – and finally a small, immaculately attired Englishman.

  With a crushing, overpowering sadness Finlay realised that his beloved was not on board. He was about to turn away when the elegant Englishman addressed him in accents of the parade ground: ‘I’m Pimmy. You, I believe, are Dr Finlay.’ He paused. ‘If so, I have a letter for you.’

  Finlay was too stunned to answer. Blindly he accepted the letter.

  ‘Aha! Aha! Bit of a shock for you, old man. She likes dealing them out! Huh! As we are presumably in the same boat, why not a quick one before taking off?’ Clutching Finlay’s arm, as though he had known him for years, he gently steered him to the refreshment room.

  In a welcoming dark corner Finlay was relieved to sit down, while his obliging companion brought two stiff whiskies from the bar.

  ‘I say, old boy, you looked completely knocked out. Want to hear the worst?’ As Finlay nodded silently, he went on: ‘You know, I believe, that the worthy professor was ill, kidney or liver, I can’t say which, but he was sufficiently poorly to want to get home. But yesterday afternoon, with everyone set to go, there came an intervention.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Finlay. ‘Please go on.’

  ‘An Italian fellow had heard of the old man’s illness. He had apparently been a student at Oxford, taught by Professor Lane. He immediately called for a specialist who refused to let the old man travel. Whereupon our Italian benefactor invited us all to his lovely big villa at Grasse. Naturally I jibbed. I have to get back to my regiment, y’know. But, with almost sacramental devotion, father and daughter were whisked off to the villa, a stunning great place – six gardeners someone informed me. I also gathered that Don Alphonso, the Italian, is by way of being a count with an absolutely historic château out in the wilds.’ He broke off. ‘I say old man, you look absolutely ghastly. Do let me get you another reviver.’

  He did, and Finlay, who felt like death, swallowed it in one gulp.

  ‘Well, I think you have the picture,’ said his companion. ‘Do you want to look at the letter and see what the lady says?’

  Finlay found the letter, ripped open the envelope and withdrew the small single sheet.

  Dear Finlay,

  Father is too ill to travel – a specialist has so decreed. And a dear friend, ex-pupil of Father at Oxford, has moved us to his lovely villa where Father will have every comfort and attention from trained nurses, while the specialist will call every day. Of course I cannot leave him. Naturally I am sorry not to be joining you at the children’s summer home.

  With regrets,

  Alice Lane.

  Father will have every attention from the nurses, noted Finlay, and I will have every attention from Señor Alphonso.

  There was a long, vibrant silence. Then Pimmy got up.

  ‘I say, old man, don’t get into your car for at least half an hour. When you start cursing, it’s safe to drive.’

  He held out his hand and gave Finlay
’s limp fingers a firm grip.

  As directed, Finlay sat in sad, stony silence for the specified time, then he got up, found his car, and slowly drove back to Tannochbrae where his summer home, swarming with kids, was held in thrall by the old matron with her shrill voice, unpredictable knees and ever-present stick.

  Alice Regrets

  Finlay had suffered a severe blow from his obvious rejection by the girl on whom he had built his romantic hopes for so long. But when he suffered a hard blow he had the capacity to pick himself up again, square his shoulders and his chin, then get on with the business in hand. Although he occasionally muttered, bitterly, sarcastically, the words ‘With regrets, Alice Lane’, he threw himself into the task of making the children happy and, not least, of winning the approval and regard of the old lady with the shrill voice, piercing gaze and the stick which tapped relentlessly into the most unsuspected quarters.

  The children, many of whom had been there before, were soon Finlay’s boon companions. He would often play their games with them: rounders, hide and seek, French cricket; races of all descriptions, from sack to egg-and-spoon while, with every consideration of safety, and on the low branches, he taught them the noble art of tree climbing.

  His efforts did not pass unnoticed by the old matron, who gradually began to like this enthusiastic and generous young man and when he arranged that she should have the ‘elevenses’ of coffee and hot buttered toast to which she was long accustomed, she finally took him to her heart. To Janet, who now brought in the ‘elevenses’ she would remark ‘What a fine young man you have here!’

  ‘Have ye only discovered it now, matron. If ye kenned how he manages almost all the practice, now that the auld doctor is a’most by wi’ it ye might think even mair o’ him.’

  ‘Is he a Christian, Janet?’

  ‘He’s no’ a kirk Christian, matron, if that’s what ye mean, turnin’ up his eyes at what he doesna like. But he’s got a’maist a’ the Christian virtues. If he sees a hard-workin’ woman in distress, he’ll step in and take some of the burden off her back.’