Dr Finlay's Casebook

by A. J. Cronin

  The plain fact is that Levenford held a pretty poor opinion of Mrs Sutherland, a poor dowdy creature with downcast eyes. If she had been bonny once, and some would have it so, Lord! she wasn’t bonny now.

  Little wonder if Ned was ashamed of her, and most of all on Saturday afternoons, when, emerging from obscurity, she actually appeared outside the football ground to wait for Ned.

  Mind you, she never came to see the match, but simply to wait outside till Ned got his pay. To wait on the man for the wages in his pocket. Lord, wasn’t it deplorable?

  It must be admitted that some stood up for her. Once in the Philosophical, when this matter was discussed, Dr Cameron, who, strangely enough, seemed to like the woman, had sourly said:

  ‘With five bairns to feed, she’s got to steer him past the pubs – at least as many as she can!’

  But then Cameron always was a heretic who held the queerest notions of things and folk. And Ned’s popularity, as has been said, was far beyond the cranky notions of the few.

  Indeed, as the day of the match gradually drew near, that popularity drew pretty near to glory.

  Ned became a sort of god. When he walked down the High Street of Levenford, thumbs in his armholes, medals dancing, his smooth, genial smile acknowledging here, there, everywhere, they almost cheered him. At the Cross, he had a crowd about him – a crowd that hung on every word that passed those smooth convivial lips.

  It was at the Cross too, that the memorable meeting took place with Provost Weir.

  ‘Well, Ned, boy,’ said the Provost, advancing his hand, affable as you like. ‘Can we do it, think ye?’

  Ned’s eyes glistened. In no way discomposed, he shook the Provost’s hand and solemnly delivered himself of that:

  ‘If the Rovers win, Provost, it’ll be over my dead body.’

  One night, a week before the match, Mrs Sutherland came to the doctor’s home.

  It was late. The evening surgery was over. And, very humbly, Mrs Sutherland came into Finlay, whose duty it was to see cases after hours.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry to trouble you, doctor,’ she began, and stood still, a neat, poorly-dressed figure, holding her mended gloves in her work-worn hands.

  She was a pretty woman, or rather once she had been a pretty girl. For now there was about her a faded air; a queer transparency in her cheek and in her look, something so strained and shrinking, it cut Finlay to the quick.

  ‘It’s foolish of me to have come,’ she said again, then stopped.

  Finlay, placing a chair beside his desk, asked her to sit down.

  She thanked him with a faint smile.

  ‘It’s not like me to be stupid about myself, doctor. I really should never have come. In fact, I’ve been that bothered making up my mind I nearly didn’t come at all.’

  A hesitating smile; he had never seen anything so self-effacing as that smile.

  ‘But the plain truth is I don’t seem to be seeing out of one of my eyes.’

  Finlay laid down his pen.

  ‘You mean you’re blind in one eye?’

  She nodded, then added: ‘My left eye.’

  A short silence fell.

  ‘Any headache?’ he asked.

  ‘Well – whiles they come pretty bad,’ she admitted.

  He continued to question her, as kindly and informally as he could. Then, rising, he took his opthalmoscope, and darkened the surgery to examine her eyes.

  He had some difficulty in getting the retina. But at last he had a perfect view. And, in spite of himself, he stiffened.

  He was horrified. He had expected trouble – certainly he had expected trouble – but not this.

  The left retina was loaded with pigment which could only be melanin. He went over it again, slowly, carefully – there was no doubt about it.

  He turned up the light again, trying to mask his face.

  ‘Did you have a blow in the eye lately?’ he inquired, not looking at her, but watching her reflection in the overmantel.

  He saw her colour painfully, violently.

  And she said too quickly: ‘I might have knocked it on the dresser – I slipped, last month, I think it was.’

  He said nothing, but he tried to compose his features into something reassuring.

  ‘I’d like Dr Cameron to see you,’ he declared at length. ‘You don’t mind?’

  She fixed her quiet gaze on him.

  ‘It’s something bad, then,’ she said.

  ‘Well,’ he broke off helplessly – ‘we’ll see what Dr Cameron says.’ Wishing to add something but unable to find the words, very lamely he left the room.

  Cameron was in his study, smoothing the back of a fiddle with fine sandpaper, humming his internal little tune.

  ‘Mrs Sutherland is in the surgery,’ Finlay said.

  ‘Ay,’ Cameron answered, without looking up. ‘She’s a nice body. I knew her when she was a lass, before she threw herself away on that boozy footballer. What’s brought her in?’

  ‘I think she’s got a melanotic sarcoma,’ Finlay said slowly.

  Cameron stopped humming, then very exactly he laid down his fiddle. His gaze fastened upon Finlay’s face, and stayed there for a long time.

  ‘I’ll come ben,’ he said, rising.

  They went into the surgery together.

  ‘Weel, Jenny, lass, what’s all this we hear about you?’ Cameron’s voice was gentle as though she were a child.

  His examination was longer, even more searching than Finlay’s. At the end of it a swift look passed between the two doctors, a look confirming the diagnosis, a look that meant the death of Jenny Sutherland.

  When she had finished dressing, Cameron took her arm.

  ‘Well, now, Jenny, would that husband of yours look in and see Finlay and me the morn?’

  She faced him squarely, with the singular precognition of women who have known a life of trouble.

  ‘There’s something serious the matter with me, doctor.’

  Silence.

  All the fineness of humanity was in Cameron’s face and in his voice as he answered:

  ‘Something gey serious, Jenny.’

  Now, strangely, she was more composed than he.

  ‘What does it mean, then, doctor?’

  But Cameron, for all his courage, could not speak the full, brutal truth.

  How could he tell her that she stood there with her doom upon her, stricken by the most dreadful disease of any known to man, an unbelievably malignant growth which, striking into the eye, spreads through the body like flame – destroying, corrupting, choking! No hope, no treatment, nothing to do but face certain and immediate death!

  Six days the least, six weeks the utmost, that now was the span of Jenny Sutherland’s life.

  ‘Ye’ll have to go into hospital, lass,’ he temporised.

  But she answered quickly:

  ‘I couldn’t leave the bairns. And Ned – with the big match coming off – it would upset him too, oh, it would upset him frightful – it would never do at all, at all.’ She broke off, paused.

  ‘Could I wait, maybe, till after the match?’

  ‘Well, yes, Jenny – I suppose if you wanted you could wait.’

  Searching his compassionate face, something of the full significance of his meaning broke upon her. She bit her lip hard. She was silent. Then, very slowly, she said:

  ‘I see, doctor, I see now. Ye mean it doesna make much difference either way?’

  His eyes fell, and at that she knew.

  The morning of the great match dawned misty, but before the forenoon had advanced the sun broke through magnificently. The town was quiet, tense with a terrific excitement.

  As early as eleven o’clock, in the fear that they might not be able to secure a place, folks actually started to make their way to the ground. Not Ned, of course! Ned was in bed, resting, as he always did before each match. He had a most particular routine, had Ned, and this day more particular than any.

  At ten Jenny brought him breakfast, a big t
ray loaded with porridge, two boiled eggs, a fine oatcake specially baked by herself. Then she went into the kitchen to prepare the special hough tea which, with two slices of toast, made up his light luncheon on playing days.

  As she stood at the stove, Ned’s voice came through complainingly:

  ‘Fetch me another egg when ye bring in my soup. I’m thinkin’ I’ll need it before I’m finished.’

  She heard, and made a little movement of distress; then she went into him apologetically.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ned! I gave ye the last egg in the house this morning.’

  He glared at her.

  ‘Then send out for one.’

  ‘If ye would give me the money, Ned.’

  ‘Money! God! It’s always money! Can’t ye get credit?’

  She shook her head slowly.

  ‘Ye know that’s finished long enough ago.’

  ‘My God!’ he exploded. ‘But ye’re a bonny manager. It’s a fine state of affairs when I’m sent on to the field starvin’.’

  ‘Bring in my soup quick then, and plenty of toast. Hurry up now or ye’ll not have time to rub me. And for Heaven’s sake keep those brats of yours quiet. They’ve near rung the lugs off me this morning.’

  She went silently back to the kitchen and, with a warning gesture, stilled the two young children there – the others had been dressed quite early and sent, out of their father’s way, to play on the green.

  Then she brought him his soup, and stood by the bed while he supped it noisily. Between the mouthfuls he looked up at her and surlily demanded:

  ‘What are ye glowerin’ at – with a face that would frighten the French? God knows, I havena had a smile out of ye for the last four days.’

  She found a smile – the vague, uncertain travesty of a smile.

  ‘Lately I haven’t been feeling too well, Ned, to tell you the truth.’

  ‘That’s right! Start your complaining and me on the edge of a cup-tie. Damnation, it’s enough to drive a man stupid the way ye keep moanin’ and groanin’.’

  ‘I’m not complaining, Ned,’ she said hurriedly.

  ‘Then away and get the embrocation, and give us a rub.’

  She brought the embrocation, and while he lay back, thrusting out a muscular leg, she began the customary rubbing.

  ‘Harder! Harder!’ he urged. ‘Use yourself a bit. Get it below the skin.’

  It cost her a frightful effort to complete the massage. Long before she had finished a sweat of weakness broke over her whole body. But at last he grunted:

  ‘That’ll do, that’ll do. Though little good it’s done me. Now bring in my shaving water, and see that it’s boiling.’

  He got up, shaved, dressed carefully. A ring came to the door bell.

  ‘It’s Bailie Paxton,’ she announced. ‘Come with his gig to drive you to the match.’

  A slow smile of appreciation stole over Ned’s face.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Tell him I’ll be down.’

  As he took his cap from the peg she watched him, supporting herself against the mantelpiece of the room. Sadness was in her face, and a queer wistfulness.

  ‘I hope ye play well, Ned,’ she murmured. How many times had she said these words, and in how many places? But never, never as she said them now!

  He nodded briefly and went out.

  The match began at half-past two, and long before the hour the park was packed to suffocation. Hundreds were refused admission, and hundreds more broke through the barrier and sat upon the touch-line.

  The town band blared in the centre of the pitch, the flag snapped merrily in the breeze, the crowd was seething with suppressed excitement.

  Then the Rovers took the field, very natty in their bright blue jerseys.

  A roar went up, for two train loads of supporters had followed them from Glasgow. But nothing to the roar that split the air when Ned led his men from the pavilion. It was heard, they said, at Overton, a good two miles away.

  The coin was spun; Ned won the toss.

  Another roar; then dead silence as the Rovers kicked off. It was on at last – the great, the glorious game.

  Right from the start the Rovers attacked.

  They were clever, clever, playing a class of football which chilled the home supporters’ hearts. They were fast, they worked the ball, they swung it with deadly accuracy from wing to wing.

  And, as if that were not enough, Levenford were nervous and scrappy, playing far below their best, shoving the ball anywhere in a flurry. All but Ned!

  Oh, Ned was superb! His position was centre-half, but today he was everywhere, the mainstay, the very backbone of the team.

  Ned was not fast, he never had been fast, but his anticipation quite made up for that – and more.

  Time after time he saved the situation, relieving the pressure on the Levenford goal by some astute movement, a side step, a short pass, or a hefty kick over the halfway line.

  Ned was the best man on the field, a grand, a born footballer. He towered – this bald-headed gladiator in shorts – over the other twenty-one.

  It had to come, of course – one man alone could not stem that devilish attack.

  Before the half-time whistle blew, the Rovers scored. Not Ned’s fault. A slip by the Levenford right-back, and quick as thought the Rovers’ outside-left pounced on the spinning ball and steered it into the net.

  Gloom fell upon the Levenford supporters. Had the score-sheet remained blank their team might have entered on the second half with some much-needed confidence. But now, alas, a goal down, and the wind against them – even the optimists admitted the outlook to be poor.

  There was only one chance, one hope – Ned – and the memory of his emphatic words: ‘If the Rovers win it’ll be over my dead body.’

  The second half began; and with it the precious moments started to run out. Levenford were more together, they gained two corners in quick succession; when attacked they rallied, and rushed the ball forward in the teeth of the wind. But the Rovers held them tight.

  True, they lost a little of their aggression. Playing on a small pitch away from home, they faded somewhat as the game went on, and it almost seemed as if they were content to hold their one-goal lead.

  Quick to sense this attitude of defence, the crowd roared encouragement to their favourites.

  A fine frenzy filled the air, and spread from the spectators to the Levenford players. They hurled themselves into the game. They pressed furiously, swarming round the Rovers’ goal. But still they could not score.

  Another corner, and Ned, taking the ball beautifully, headed against the crossbar. A groan went up of mingled ecstasy and despair.

  The light was fading now, the time going fast, twenty, ten, only five minutes to go.

  Upon the yelling crowd a bitter misery was hovering, settling slowly. Defeat was in the air, the hopeless wretchedness of defeat.

  And then, on the halfway line, Ned Sutherland got the ball. He held it, made ground, weaving his way with indescribable dexterity through a mass of players.

  ‘Pass, Ned, pass!’ shouted the crowd, hoping to see him make an opening for the wings.

  But Ned did not pass. With the ball at his feet and his head down, he bored on, like a charging bull.

  Then the crowd really roared – they saw that Ned was going in on his own.

  The Rovers’ left-back saw it too. With Ned inside the penalty area and ready to shoot, he flung himself at Ned in a flying tackle. Down went Ned with a sickening thud, and from ten thousand throats rose the frantic yell:

  ‘Penalty! Penalty! Penalty!’

  Without hesitation the referee pointed to the spot.

  Despite the protestations of the Rovers’ player, he was giving it – he was giving Levenford a penalty!

  Ned got up. He was not hurt. That perfect simulation of frightful injury was part and parcel of his art. And now he was going to take the penalty himself.

  A deathly stillness fell upon the multitude as Ned placed the ball up
on the spot. He did it coolly, impersonally, as though he knew nothing of the agony of suspense around him. Not a person breathed as he tapped the toe of his boot against the ground, took a long look at the goal, and ran three quick steps forward.

  Then bang! The ball was in the net.

  ‘Goal!’ shouted the crowd in ecstasy, and at the same instant the whistle blew for time.

  Levenford had drawn. Ned had saved the match.

  Pandemonium broke loose. Hats, sticks, umbrellas were tossed wildly into the air. Yelling, roaring, shrieking deliriously, the crowd rushed upon the field.

  Ned was swept from his feet, lifted shoulder high and borne in triumph to the pavilion.

  At that moment Mrs Sutherland was sitting in the kitchen of the silent house. She had wanted badly to go to the park for Ned; but the mere effort of putting on her coat had shown how useless it was for her to try.

  With her cheek on her hand, she stared away into the distance. Surely Ned would come straight home today, surely he must have seen something of the mortal sadness in her face.

  She longed desperately to ease the burden in her breast by telling him. She had sworn to herself not to tell him until after the match. But she must tell him now.

  It was a thing too terrible to bear alone!

  She knew she was dying; even the few days that had passed since her visit to Finlay had produced a rapid failure in her strength – her side hurt her, and her sight was worse.

  An hour passed, and there was no sign of Ned. She stirred herself, got up, and put the two youngest children to bed. She sat down again. Still he did not come. The other children came in from playing, and from them she learned the result of the match.

  Eight o’clock came and nine. Now even the eldest boy was in bed. She felt terribly ill; she thought, in fact, that she was dying.

  The supper which she had prepared for him was wasted, the fire was out for lack of coal. In desperation she got up and dragged herself to bed.

  It was nearly twelve when he came in.

  She was not asleep – the pain in her side was too bad for that – and she heard the slow, erratic steps, followed by the loud bang of the door.

  He was drunk, as usual; no, it was worse than usual, for tonight, treated to the limit, he had reached a point far beyond his usual intoxication.