Dr Finlay's Casebook

by A. J. Cronin

  First there came the incision. Yes, the incision came first. The warm, shining lancet drew a slow, firm line across the bright yellow skin, and the skin parted in a red gash.

  Little voices whispered inside Finlay’s brain, mocking him, telling him he would never be able to accomplish the impossible task he had undertaken.

  On and on he went. He used more instruments, and the rings of forceps lay deeply one upon another.

  The confusion of the instruments seemed inextricable, and, all at once, through the steaming heat of the theatre, the broken breathing of the patient, the latent uneasiness in Reid’s eyes, there came upon Finlay the sudden paralysing thought that he could not continue.

  He was a fool, a hopeless, incompetent fool, muddling about in the darkness looking for this thing they called the appendix, which did not, could not exist. Beads of sweat started upon his brow. He thought for a moment he was going to faint.

  And then, through the anguish of this horrible uncertainty, he felt the eyes of Nurse Angus upon him. There was something open and revealing in those eyes; suffering because he suffered, enduring every pang which he endured, yet strangely courageous and pleasing. But there was something more which glistened there, and entered into Finlay’s soul with a stab of ecstasy.

  In a flash the mist passed, he took command of himself, and, bending, went on courageously with the operation.

  All this happened quicker than can be told. It was the turning-point, the crisis of the operation. A second later Finlay’s searching hand discovered the appendix and withdrew it to open view.

  A kind of gasp broke from Matron Clark’s lips, and Reid’s face expressed unwilling admiration, for there, exposed for them all to see, was a round swelling, an abscess in the appendix, almost gangrenous.

  Filled with a rising exultation, Finlay hurried his movements. He was vindicated, completely vindicated. Out came the appendix, and in went the sutures.

  Quickly the operation drew to a close. Confident now, Finlay put in the stitches with a beautiful precision. It was nearly over now, sealed up beautifully and finished.

  The matron coughed diffidently, and ended the long silence. Nurse Angus had begun to count the swabs. At last it was over, and the door swung open, and the wheel-stretcher went out, bearing Paul to the ward.

  Finlay watched the swing-doors close upon the wheel-stretcher as Matron Clark ushered it officiously into the ward. He knew that Paul would recover now.

  He turned and saw Reid coming towards him. He no longer looked cold and remote and uneasy. He said with real cordiality—

  ‘I want you to know, Finlay, that you were right and I was wrong. Man, I admire you for what you’ve done.’

  He held out his hand, and Finlay took it. He was grateful to Reid, but when the other doctor left the theatre the strain of what he had gone through struck him again, and he sat down quite weakly on a stool.

  Then he was conscious that Nurse Angus was still in the theatre. She stood looking at him, then went to the tap, ran the water hard, filled the tumbler, then gave it to him. Finlay drank it, then gazed at her with a surging gratitude.

  ‘I want to thank you,’ he muttered, ‘for helping me, advising me. Oh, I’d never have done it but for you.’

  Then he broke off.

  There was a silence. Her face was turned from him now, but tears were in her eyes. At length she said—

  ‘I knew you could do it. And you did. It was splendid.’

  Her voice, low yet thrilling, set his heart thudding.

  He sensed the pulse of some secret feeling in her which suddenly intoxicated him. A light of understanding broke over him. Had he been wrong in thinking she disliked him?

  Her name rose instinctively to his lips. But before he could speak she turned quickly and was gone.

  The Fête at Dunhill

  Finlay was in love – deeply and hopelessly. He knew that without Peggy Angus beside him to share his life he would not be happy.

  And yet he could not put his fortune to the crucial test. For, on the day following his dramatic operation on the little boy, Paul, the most unexpected and banal occurrence took place. Peggy’s summer holiday fell due, and she left quite quietly and unostentatiously to spend the fortnight with her folks at Dunhill.

  When she had gone Finlay had full opportunity to examine his own position. He had begun by distrusting Peggy because of her family, good position, and obvious command of wealth. He had been suspicious, feeling that it was wrong for her to be a nurse, and that she was posing, insincere. And, behaving contrary to his own generous nature, he had at the outset created a painful misunderstanding between them, a gulf which later on he had despairingly felt he would never bridge.

  But now a ray of comfort shone for him.

  Peggy’s interest in his work, as shown so sincerely and spontaneously at the recent operation, gave him fresh hope. Perhaps, after all, she did care for him a little. His heart bounded at the very thought, and he longed for the chance to ask her that question humbly and openly. The chance came, too, sooner than he anticipated.

  A few days after Peggy had gone on holiday, Matron Clark greeted Finlay at the hospital in great good spirits.

  ‘They’re having a fête at Dunhill next Saturday,’ she declared. ‘Mr Angus has lent his grounds. A lovely place they have up there. And the funds are to go to the hospital. Isn’t it splendid? Nurse Angus has arranged the whole thing.’

  At the very mention of Peggy’s name and the thought that he might see her at the fête, Finlay’s pulse quickened.

  ‘That’s fine,’ he said to the matron, trying to keep his tone unconcerned. ‘You’ll be going up?’

  ‘I am indeed,’ agreed the matron with a brisk nod. ‘And I’m counting on you to drive me up, doctor.’

  Finlay shook his head diffidently.

  ‘They’ll not want me up there,’ he answered, hoping to be contradicted. ‘I’m not exactly a favourite in that quarter.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ replied the matron. ‘And besides, it’s your duty to be there, seeing it’s a charity for the hospital.’

  A slow smile came to Finlay’s face.

  ‘Oh, well,’ said he, ‘if that’s the case, I’ll not deny I’d like to go.’

  From that moment Finlay began to look forward to the proposed function with his whole heart.

  On the following afternoon when he got home he found a letter from old John Angus cordially inviting him to the fête. Finlay studied it in silence. Had Peggy mentioned him to her father? Perhaps she had spoken for him kindly.

  Overcome by a feeling of mingled ecstacy and suspense. Finlay sat down and quickly wrote his acceptance.

  It was, he told himself, an almost providential opportunity, and as the day of the fête drew near his beating sense of anticipation increased. On that day he would ask Peggy to be his wife.

  Saturday came, bright and clear, and Finlay himself made arrangements to drive matron up to Dunhill. But at eleven o’clock on that forenoon an accident happened at the shipyard. Bob Paxton, son of old John Paxton, the foundry foreman, fell from the upper deck of the Argentine cattle boat then in No. 5 Graving Dock, and was brought to the Cottage Hospital suffering from serious internal injuries and concealed haemorrhage.

  Finlay, long since a friend of the Paxton family, was called to Bob, and his view of the lad’s condition was grave. So grave, in fact, that he hesitated about leaving the case for long, and with a dubious frown, he indicated to matron the inadvisability of his going to Dunhill.

  ‘It’s the haemorrhage I’m afraid of,’ he added. ‘I think we might have to do a transfusion.’

  Matron raised her hands instantly.

  ‘That’s not a thing to rush into, doctor. And, besides, you wouldn’t think of doing it till this evening, anyhow.’

  She was all ready for the expedition, and provoked to think of any interference with her pleasure.

  Finlay’s look grew still more doubtful. He, too, wanted to go to Dunhill with all his soul, but t
he strong sense of duty in him revolted at the idea of putting himself out of touch with this critical case.

  He refused to commit himself until he had seen his patient again, and at two o’clock he returned to the hospital and again made his examination of the lad.

  This time he had to agree that the symptoms were more encouraging. Bob had recovered consciousness, and, though very pallid from the effect of the internal bleeding, stoutly protested that he was ‘fine’.

  Added to matron’s pleadings, this persuaded Finlay. He instructed Nurse Cotter, who remained on duty, to keep a constant eye on the case. He himself would be back without fail at six o’clock sharp.

  So matron and Finlay set out together just after two. Thanks to the splendour of the day and the enjoyment of the drive, the grim reality of the hospital ward which they had left behind them soon faded.

  After all, Finlay could not tie himself to the bedside the whole day long. Such exacting service could surely be demanded of no man.

  Long before they reached their destination his thoughts had flown ahead, and he was longing eagerly for his first glimpse of Peggy.

  Towards three o’clock they arrived at Dunhill. The Angus estate was a beautiful place, approached by a long, winding drive, guarded by a lodge, and flanked by rhododendron bushes.

  The house itself was of fine white sandstone, built in the baronial style, with imposing turrets and a high crenellated coping.

  The grounds were at their best, bright with flowers and steeped in sunshine.

  On the close-cropped lawns stalls, tents and marquees had been erected, around which there thronged crowds of people enjoying the gay display always found at such local charitable fêtes. There were, for instance, various booths devoted to the sale of needlework and home-made cakes, candies and jellies.

  Side shows offered their attractions and competitions, and their prizes, notably a fine cheese to be won by the lucky individual who would correctly guess its weight.

  In the midst of all stood a large marquee, at which ices and teas were served.

  At the head of the drive Finlay surrendered the horse and gig to a waiting groom, and, accompanied by the stout, thoroughly excited matron, made his way on to the front lawn.

  They had not gone very far before they encountered Peggy, and at the sight of her Finlay felt his heart stand still. He had never seen her in other than her hospital uniform or in her plain tennis dress, but now she wore a lovely frock of flowered muslin and a shady hat, which showed the coils of her beautiful hair clustered above her white neck.

  She was surrounded by her family and friends, and her face, a little flushed by the sun, wore an expression of gaiety.

  At that moment she turned her head and saw Finlay and matron. Immediately she came forward to welcome them, and, having shaken them by the hand, introduced them to her father and mother and her small brother, Ian.

  Finally, with an air which might have been that of mild embarrassment, she turned and made them known to a young man who stood close beside her.

  A very personable fellow he was indeed, upright and handsome, with brown eyes and a close cropped moustache, perhaps about twenty-seven, and his name was Dick Foster.

  Finlay stared at the unknown and unexpected Foster with a sudden cold premonition, quite taken aback, hardly responding to the other’s easy greeting. His awkwardness passed apparently unnoticed, however, for Foster was socially expert.

  There was the usual exchange of conversation and laughter in the group, and eventually Finlay found himself beside old John Angus, a grand old man, stocky and bespectacled, with broad shoulders and a fine open face, known in the district as a model employer and philanthropist.

  Old John said a few pleasant words to Finlay. He explained that his daughter had really wanted to be a nurse, and he added with a sly laugh that he was willing enough for her to carry on with this profession until she followed the more satisfactory one of marriage.

  As the old man spoke this word which had for days been graved upon his heart, Finlay’s eyes remained stonily fixed upon the figure of Dick Foster, who, with an air of proprietorship, had now taken Peggy’s arm and was gallantly leading her towards one of the stalls.

  A terrible sensation shot through him, a shudder of bitterness, mingled with sudden despair. Vainly he tried to fight it down. He turned to old Angus.

  ‘You think your daughter will be getting married soon, then, sir?’ he asked, though hardly able to speak.

  ‘Oh, ay, we hope so,’ said old John with a fond paternal laugh. ‘Don’t ye think she’s ower bonny to be a nurse?’ And laughing at his own witticism, he patted Finlay’s shoulder and moved away.

  To Finlay the allusion seemed clear, bracketing Peggy and the handsome Foster in happy alliance. He bit his lip fiercely. And, as though his cup of wretchedness were not already brimming, at that moment matron sidled over, her eyes following Finlay’s after the retreating couple.

  ‘Don’t they make a handsome pair?’ she gushed. ‘I’ve just been hearing about it from the minister’s wife. Why, they’re practically engaged! Imagine, doctor, and we never suspected a thing. Why, by all accounts, everyone at Dunhill is hoping they’ll be married next spring. Oh, it’s quite romantic. Isn’t he good-looking, doctor? Comes from a fine family, too, they tell me. Went to college at Edinburgh, and now he’s going in for the law.’

  As the matron rattled on, singing the praises of Peggy and this young Foster, in all ignorance of the havoc she was creating, Finlay’s heart turned to ice within him. Was it for this he had built all his high hopes? All the life went out of him, the scene lost its brightness, the words and laughter round about fell dully on his ear.

  He broke away at last from the garrulous woman, and tried to lose himself in the slowly circulating crowd.

  With his hands plunged in his pockets, he wandered about desolately, thinking that he might perhaps catch another glimpse of Peggy. He might see her from a distance; even that would be some consolation to his aching heart.

  But he had bargained without young Ian. At first sight the boy, aged twelve, had taken a fancy to Finlay, and dogging the young doctor’s footsteps with all the intensity of an Indian sleuth, he collared him at last and dragged him towards the various stalls. Finlay was in no mood to resist.

  They tried their luck at the coconut shy, the dip in the tub, guessing the cheese and sundry other games of skill. Then, in increasing friendliness, Ian forced Finlay into the house, lugged him upstairs to his den to exhibit all his precious trophies – his air-gun, his fishing-rod, his collection of butterflies.

  He was a great little chap right enough, and drawn towards him, despite his misery, Finlay was moved to question him.

  ‘Is it true,’ he asked in a low voice. ‘That your sister is engaged to Mr Foster?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ answered the boy carelessly. ‘I suppose so. They’re going to be married soon. I think he’s terribly sloppy on her. I don’t like him.’

  ‘Come now, Ian,’ said Finlay, striving painfully to be fair. ‘He seems a fine chap.’

  ‘Oh, not bad, I suppose,’ said Ian grudgingly. ‘But I just can’t stand him. Don’t let’s talk about that, though. Here, I want to show you my catapult.’

  The afternoon passed, and with it, despite the cheerful chatter of the boy, Finlay’s spirits sank steadily to lower than zero. He felt humiliated in spirit, wounded, utterly wretched.

  At half-past four they went downstairs, Finlay hoping with all his might that he would make his escape unnoticed. But in the hall they encounted Mrs Angus, who immediately declared—

  ‘Good gracious! Dr Finlay, where have you been? We’ve been looking for you everywhere. Has my wicked young man,’ she tugged Ian by the ear, ‘monopolised you all this time? Come along and have some tea. We’re going in just now.’

  There was nothing to do but accept, and, mustering all his resources, Finlay put the best face on it possible and followed the gracious white-haired lady into the drawing-room.

&
nbsp; There were a number of people there – old Angus and a number of friends, most of them notables of the district. And when Mrs Angus entered tea was served. She herself presided in the good old-fashioned style behind the big silver teapot and dispensed the fragrant beverage in thin china cups, while cakes were handed round by two maids.

  Finlay felt the gracious atmosphere of the place, the silver, the flowers, the deft service, the atmosphere of refinement and charm. This was Peggy’s by birth and breeding. She was part of this, charming and gracious and sweet, and at the outset of their acquaintance he, the upstart, had dared to humiliate her.

  Well, it was now his turn to feel abasement utter and complete! He groaned inwardly, and raised his cup with nervous fingers. Dumbly he wondered where Peggy was, and yet he had no need to wonder.

  He knew instinctively that she was with Foster, that they were alone together, had probably stolen away from the crowd. Obsessed by the thought, he became more agitated still when suddenly Mrs. Angus casually remarked to her husband—

  ‘Where’s Peggy? She ought to be coming in for tea.’

  Before John Angus could reply the irrepressible Ian burst out—

  ‘Don’t worry about them. They’ll be out spooning together!’

  ‘Ian, dear!’ said Mrs Angus reprovingly. But her rebuke was lost in a general laugh, and Peter Scott, one of Angus’s friends, remarked pawkily—

  ‘It’s the right sort of day to pop the question.’

  No sooner had he spoken than Peggy and young Foster entered the room. Naturally they were immediately the subject of general chaffing.

  Though it hurt Finlay to the quick to do so, he raised his eyes and gazed at them.

  Peggy’s face was turned away, he could not see it. But Foster’s, slightly flushed and very self-conscious, wore a look which Finlay construed instantly as that of an accepted lover.

  All that Finlay wished now was to get away, to vanish instantly and completely from this happy scene.

  Finlay remained for a moment immovable in his chair, battling with his thoughts. Thank God he had work to do. He remembered almost with gratitude Bob Paxton, whom he must see at the Cottage Hospital at six.