by A. J. Cronin
‘I did indeed sir. I see her there now, sitting very lovely with the Herald gentlemen.’
‘You picked her up, Jock, and gave her a lift to Tannochbrae?’
‘I did indeed, sir. And a verra cheery companion she was, sir. We chatted and laughed all the way to town.’
‘Did she appear distressed in any way?’
‘Not in the slightest, Mr Cochrane, sir. I coulda’ gaen a lot furder wi’ her than just to Tannochbrae.’
Mild laughter from the gallery.
‘So the young lady did not walk one foot of the road to the town?’
‘Not a foot, sir.’
Mild sensation in court.
‘Jock,’ continued Mr Cochrane, ‘did you happen to notice the condition of the convent gate, that great big steel gate with sharp steel points on the top bar?’
‘Are ye coddin’ me, sir – that convent gate is a wooden three-bar field gate and forbye it’s never shut. It’s aye open and that’s how it was on the night ye mention.’
‘Thank ye, Jock. Just one more question: Did the lass seem depressed, worn out, beaten up?’
Jock laughed heartily. ‘You’re certainly kiddin’ me, sir. The lass was in high spirits, laughin’, talkin’ and singin’ all the way home. “I’m for fun, now, Jock,” she says, “and I’ll make some money, the easy way.” ’
‘Did she give you anything for all your trouble?’
‘Certainly she did, sir. Out came a ten bob note frae her purse. I didna want to take it, for I thocht it might be mair fun tae tak’ her out another nicht.’
‘Jock, you’re a man of your word. Did she seem like she might gie ye some fun?’
‘That’s a true word, sir.’
‘So she wasn’t all beaten up, worn out, with her hands cut and bleeding?’
‘Sir! Now ye are coddin’ me again. There wasna a mark on her. She was fresh as a daisy.’
‘Thank you, Jock. Every word you have spoken has the ring of absolute truth.’
The opposition lawyer got to his feet.
‘Boscop!’ Jock remained on the stand. ‘Are you not generally regarded as a drunkard, who would do, or say, anything for a good stiff whisky?’
‘Produce the man what says that and I’ll mak’ him eat his words.’
There was dead silence in the gallery, then a man stood up and shouted at the pitch of his lungs:
‘I have kenned Jock Boscop all his days and never once have I seen him drunk or tell anything that wasna true!’
‘Enough, Boscop,’ said the lawyer for the defence. As Jock retired Mr Cochrane got to his feet.
‘May I ask Miss Lane to take the stand.’
After she had done so, to great cheers from the crowd, Cochrane addressed her as follows:
‘Miss Lane, here we have a report which gives the lie to your written statement. Firstly, the convent gate. You describe it as a high steel structure, firmly closed, with steel spikes that ripped and tore your hands. Do you admit that this description is a complete and deliberate lie?’
‘I wanted to make my report as bad as I could.’
‘So you lied! Was it for this reason that you slid down a rope from your window instead of quite simply walking out of the front door?’
‘The same.’
‘And when you arrived at the Royal Hotel did you beg humbly for a little room, or proudly demand the best suite in the house, the Princess?’
‘I demanded the Princess Suite.’
‘And asked for all your beautiful clothes to be sent to you from storage?’
‘Why torment me, sir? I dressed up in my very best then went out to visit Mr Albert Caddens.’
‘You captivated him?’
‘That was unnecessary. When he saw me he went down like a felled bull!’
A laugh, quickly suppressed followed this.
‘You were in great form when he took you to view the beautiful Jaguar sports model that he wanted to give you.’
‘I love beautiful cars.’
‘That afternoon, being sure of the Jaguar, and with the Herald’s £500 cheque in your pocket you went happily out on the town, cashed the cheque at the bank and with all this money in your pocket, you bought yourself a hat, sheer silk stockings, a pair of fine yellow doeskin gloves, a large box of Fuller’s chocolates, and a pair of the finest patent leather shoes. And, in this orgy of luxurious spending on yourself, you bought, for Mr Caddens, your aged lover, a very cheap Woolworth tie! Upon arriving home, you locked the balance of the Herald money safely away in your trunk, a good sum of more than £400.’
‘Yes I locked it away and much good it will ever do me now. I have lied myself into such a mess I will never get out of it. If only I could be back again in the convent, to find peace again. I realise now that I was really happy there. We had the prayers, but we had lots of games and fun, and walks out into the country. And to speak humbly and truly, I had begun to like the prayers. They made me realise that the Lord God was with us and that we were his children.’
As she broke down, pandemonium broke out, shouts of abuse but also of sympathy and pity. In the midst of it all, from her seat in the front row of the auditorium, a figure in a neat, light grey dress stepped out to the centre of the court and, with arms outstretched, embraced the weeping girl and held her closely, saying, ‘Of course you may come back to me my poor child, whenever you are free and permitted to do so. You will find there are no dungeon punishment cells, no steel barrage gates with nails fixed all over the bars. You will come back to a large and lovely garden, a little chapel in which you may pray at will and, above all, to forgiveness and forgetfulness that will in time heal your wounds. Love will conquer all.’
Now, indeed, as the Mother Superior ceased to speak, a great roar of mixed emotions soared to the roof of the court. Cries of sympathy and pity, yells of derision centred mainly on the Herald, and cheers and more cheers for one man who, in the face of the entire town had dared to bring the case to court and, against public opinion and so powerful an antagonist as the local paper, had brought light out of darkness, justice against bigotry and perjury.
At this point, an interruption occurred. Alex Cochrane was on his feet, demanding silence. Then, in the stillness of that great mass of humanity he spoke, loud and clear.
‘My lord, I pray you! Before you close this case and give judgement may I bring to your notice a horrible unjustified calumny in the Herald. My best friend, whom I have known since boyhood, a man who spends his life helping the sick, who has been praised and honoured by the Town Council, is referred to in the Herald report as being unspeakable. This word is a disgusting, derogatory term. One might say unspeakable filth, a low unspeakable brute, an unspeakable rascal, cheat, thief, or even an unspeakable cad. To apply such a word to the young doctor who, from the moment of his arrival, has served this town faithfully, brilliantly, with all his energy and skill, who has won both local and national esteem by the splendid manner in which he has given his house, a gift of the town, to the treatment and care of sick and handicapped children, is in itself unspeakable. May I inquire if this slur has been slung at my dear friend because he has had the courage to stand up to defend and protect an aged Catholic woman, head of an establishment where many of Finlay’s patients have been tended and cured, yes to stand up against the rage and hatred of religious bigotry.’
A short, electrifying pause, then Alex Cochrane continued, ‘It has been my great good fortune to know and become friendly with Finlay when we were boys at school – I at Rossall and Finlay at Stonyhurst, an equally famous school that has been called the Catholic Eton. Finlay’s father died when his son was only seven years of age. However, Finlay’s uncle was not a man to shrink from his responsibility. He sent the boy to Stonyhurst where, as he grew up, Finlay not only became captain of the football team, but captain of the school as well. Ah! What battles he and I fought on the football field. These were surely the beginning of the affection and admiration I have for him. Meanwhile Finlay’s uncle and benefact
or had moved ahead in his spiritual profession, first Bishop, and now Archbishop of the See of Dee and Don in Aberdeenshire.’
A pause followed, so tense that Alex delayed for a full minute before delivering his final punch.
‘With such a history, do you wonder that Finlay’s response to the poor maligned Mother Superior was immediate and imperative. Of course he is a Catholic, for so he was brought up. Does that make him unspeakable? Now that you know his history do you want to put him in the pillory with the Mother Superior? Mind you, I am not saying that our Dr Finlay is scrupulously faithful to the rules of his religion,’ a slight pause while a wave of suppressed amusement passed over the listeners, ‘but he is, yes Finlay is, a Catholic. Now, I ask you, does this make him unspeakable?’
A great roar of negation came from the mass that crowded the gallery and was followed by such cheering as had never before been heard in that old and dreaded building.
Now, indeed, the Herald and its supporters were silenced, defeated and routed. When at last order was restored the judgement was firm and immediate.
‘The voice of the public has spoken. And not for the first time, has expressed correctly, completely, convincingly, the judgement of the law, which awards damages in the amount of £5,000 to the Mother Superior of Bon Secours and five hundred to the most worthy, most esteemed, most beloved member of our town, Dr Finlay.’
A great burst of cheering greeted this verdict and was continued and maintained until the court was cleared, and Finlay had wisely made his escape by the lower inner door. Quickly he reached his car, parked in the private garage, and quickly he was home where, with open arms, Janet awaited him.
‘Oh, Finlay dearest lad! I could jump for joy. Now quick! Here’s some special beef broth I have ready for ye! Drink it smartly! They’ll be down after ye!’
As Finlay drank the delicious soup he said inquiringly, ‘And Dr Cameron?’
‘He’s done no’ bad, sir, when he thocht ye were gonna be bate he was quite chirpy, and went about the hoose whistlin’. But the verdict cam’ out that ye’d won yer case and a’ the money, he just took to his bed. He’s there the now.’
Now came the sounds of a great crowd approaching and surrounding the house, shouting for Finlay.
‘I’ll have to go on to the balcony, Janet. Get Dr Cameron up there, even in his dressin’-gown.’
With that Finlay stepped out through the open windows of the front bedroom and was immediately greeted by a great surge of cheering from the enormous crowd.
‘Finlay! Finlay for ever! Finlay belongs to us!’ The shouts continued until Finlay raised both arms.
‘Thank you! Thank you, dear friends of Tannochbrae! Just when I needed you, when I had been libelled in our good paper, you gave me your support. Now that I am free of worry, you see me here, back on the job, ready to serve you in sickness and in health with my two wonderful colleagues.’ At that precise moment Janet pushed out Dr Cameron in his dressing-gown and, as Finlay caught her by the arm and pulled her out, she stood between the two, blushing all over her face.
The tableau was perfect, as Finlay shouted at the pitch of his lungs. ‘Here we are, dear friends, the little team of three who have served you in the past and, I now assure you, will continue to do so, with all the skill, energy and enterprise we possess. So now, on behalf of all three of us, I thank you for your continued loyalty and support. We have weathered the storm and are now looking forward to the good days that lie ahead.’
The cheers were renewed. Someone started to sing ‘Happy days are here again!’ and soon the crowd picked up the refrain which swelled and echoed in the twilight of this memorable day. Finlay then flung open the swing window behind and ushered his companions from the balcony, remaining only to open both arms wide in a gesture of embracing the cheering multitude.
Once inside the room Janet pressed her hands together in ecstasy. ‘Never in all my born days, I’ll never forget it, my dearest Finlay. Now come away, both of you, and get your dinner. Some more of that lovely soup and a nice grilled steak wi’ roast taters and grilled ingins.’
When she had gone, Dr Cameron turned to Finlay: ‘You did well, lad, to show me to my fellow townsmen. My appearance stirred them to the depths o’ their hearts. I knew they would give me their best and loudest cheer, and they did. Come lad, give me your arm. We might have just a wee nip o’ the “cratur” to celebrate my greatest triumph!’
Adventures of a Black Bag
Finlay’s Drastic Cure
Often, when Finlay felt himself in need of exercise after a long day’s driving in the gig, he would walk in the evening to the Lea Brae.
At this period, before successful burghers started dotting its summit with their bandbox villas, it was a favourite walk, approached from Levenford by a gentle incline and sweeping steeply westwards to the Firth.
From the top the view was superb. On a still summer evening with the sun sinking behind Ardfillan hills, the wide water of the estuary below, and the faint haze of a steamer’s smoke mellowing the far horizon, it was a place to stir the soul.
Yet for Finlay it was ruined by Sam Forrest and his wheeled chair.
Up Sam would come, red-faced, bulging with fat, lying back on the cushions like a lord, with poor Peter Lennie panting and pushing at the chair behind him.
Then at the top, while Peter gasped and wiped the sweat from his brow, Sam would majestically relinquish the little metal steering rod, pull a plug from his pocket, bite enormously, and, mouthing his quid like a great big ox, would gaze solemnly, not at the view, but at the steep hill beneath, as though to say: ‘Here, my friends! Here was the place where the awful thing happened!’
It all went back a matter of five long years.
Then Peter Lennie was a spry young fellow of twenty-seven, very modest and obliging, proprietor of the small general stores in College Street which – not without a certain daring timidity – he had named Lennie’s Emporium.
In fiction the convention exists that meek little men have large, domineering wives, but in reality it is seldom so. And Retta Lennie was as small, slight, and unassertive as her husband.
In consequence, in business they were often ‘put upon’. But for all that, things went pretty well, the future was opening out nicely, and they lived comfortably with their two children in a semi-detached house out Barloan way, which is a genteel quarter to which tradesmen in Levensford aspire.
Now, in Peter Lennie, the humble little counter-jumping tradesman, there lurked unsuspected longings for adventure. There were moments when, lying reflectively in bed with Retta of a Sunday morning, he would stare frowningly at the ceiling and suddenly declare – while Retta looked at him admiringly:
‘India!’ (or it might be China). ‘There’s a place we ought to see some day!’
Perhaps it was this romantic boldness which led to the purchase of the tandem bicycle, for though at that moment the craze for ‘a bicycle built for two’ was at its height, in the ordinary way Peter would never have done anything so rash.
But buy the tandem he did, a shining instrument of motion, a wicked pneumatic-tyred machine, which cost a mint of good money, and which, being uncrated, caused Retta to gasp incredulously:
‘Oh, Peter!’
‘Get about on it,’ he remarked, trying to speak nonchalantly. ‘See places. Easy!’
It was, however, not quite so easy. There was, for instance, the difficulty of Retta’s bloomers. She was a modest little woman was Retta, and it cost Peter a week of solid argument and persuasion before he could coax his wife into the light of day in these fashionable but apparently improper garments.
Peter himself wore a Norfolk jacket, the belt rather gallantly unbuckled so that, even merely wheeling the tandem, it gave him a terribly professional air. Then, being competently clothed, Peter and Retta set out to master the machine.
They practised shyly, towards dusk, in the quiet lanes around Barloan, and they fell off in an amusing way quite a lot.
Oh! It was
great fun. Retta, in her bloomers, was extremely fetching; Peter liked to lift her up as, red-cheeked and giggling, she sprawled gracefully in the dust.
They had their courtship all over again. And when finally, defying all laws of gravitation, they spun round Barloan Toll without a single wobble, they agreed that never before had life been so thrilling for them both.
Peter, significantly producing a newly-purchased road map, decided that on Sunday they would have their first real run.
It dawned fine that Sunday; the sky was open and the roads were dry. They set off, Peter bowed dauntlessly over the front handlebars, Retta manfully pedalling her weight behind. They bowled down the High Street, conscious of admiring, yes, even of envious stares.
Ting-a-ling, ting-ting, went their little bell. A great moment. Ting-a-ling, ting-ting! They swung left – steady, Retta, steady – over the bridge; put their backs into the Knoxhill ascent, then dipped over the crest of the Lea Brae.
Down the Brae they went, faster, faster. The wind whistled past them. Never had flight been swifter than this.
It was great, it was glorious, but, heavens! It was awful quick! Far, far quicker than either had bargained for.
From a momentary exaltation, Retta turned pale.
‘Brake, Peter, brake!’ she shrieked.
Nervously he jammed on the brakes, the tandem shuddered, and Retta nearly went over his head. At that he lost his wits completely, loosed the brake altogether, and tried to get his feet out of the pedal clips.
The machine, from skidding broadside on, took the bit between its teeth and shot down the hill like a rocket gone mad.
At the foot of the brae was Sam Forrest.
Sam had been down looking for drift on the Lea Shore; that, indeed, was one of Sam’s two occupations, his other being to support with great industry the corner of the Fitter’s Arms.
Actually, Sam was so seldom away from the Fitter’s Arms that it never was in any real danger of falling down.
The plain fact is that Sam was a loafer, a big, fat, boozy ne’er-do-well, with a wife who did washing and a houseful of clamorous children who did not.
