by A. J. Cronin
A pause while Finlay grappled with this specious information.
“You’re returning to India, then?” he queried after a moment.
“Maybe, maybe,” evaded Hay. “ We’ll see how we get on in the old home town. Might settle down altogether here. Buy a little estate up the country. Y’never know. Ha! ha! Company have been handsome, hang it all – confounded handsome! Settled a whacking pension on Bobbie Hay!”
“They’ve pensioned you?” echoed Finlay sharply.
For all his airy pretence, if Hay had been pensioned by his company, it was plain he would never go back to India. But why? Finlay stared with a new intentness at the other, whose pinch-beck outer husk revealed, on closer examination, the manifest seediness beneath. And, scrutinising even closer, Finlay became aware of a sickly pallor that underlay the sunburn complexion before him, of a shortened breathing, a quick and restless tremour of thin, yellow-nicotined fingers.
Decisively he pulled a sheet of paper towards him and picked up his pen.
“We seem to be wasting a fair amount of time,” he declared. “Do you wish to consult me? Or what exactly can I do for you?”
“Oh, nothing much, doctor sahib, nothing much,” protested Hay with a gracious, deprecating gesture. “I don’t want to consult you. And don’t bother about particulars or medicine. I’ve a prescription from my Bombay pals I take when I remember. As a matter of fact, I’ve only looked in because the company asked me to see my doctor sahib at home. I shall have to send them a medical chit from you every month.” He paused elegantly. “Because of my pension, don’t you see?”
“No,” returned Finlay, very precisely. “ I don’t quite see. I cannot undertake to give you a certificate unless I know what’s the matter with you. I’m sorry, Hay, but if you want a certificate out of me you’ll have to let me examine you.”
There was a distinct and curious pause; then out came Hay’s ready laugh.
“Right you are, then, old sport. I don’t mind in the slightest. Not one chota peg. Ha! Ha! You go ahead. Put the old damn measuring tape across me. Bob Hay can say ninety-nine with the best of ’ em.”
With the same conscious indifference Hay rose and slipped off his coat and vest, revealing the shabbiest of underclothing. Stripped, standing in his trousers and stockings soles, he showed a pitiable physique; his arms were skin and bone, his ribs standing out like spars, while in the centre of his narrow chest around his breast-bone there moved a curious pulsation.
Hay’s whole bodily appearance indicated a wasted, ill-spent life. But Finlay was less concerned with the man’s physique. His eyes remained riveted upon that pulsing movement in Hay’s breast. It was laboured, that pulsing, and ominous – horribly ominous.
Finlay made his examination slowly and without asking a single question, using his stethoscope carefully, deliberately. Then, in a manner patently altered, he sat down at his desk again and remarked –
“You can dress up now; that’s all for the moment. I’ll give you a certificate.”
“Right you are, doctor sahib!” cheerfully exclaimed Hay. “Knew there wouldn’t be the slightest difficulty. Old warhorse is fit as a fiddle. Only a bit of nonsense on the part of these doctor wallahs in Bombay. Good friends of mine, mind you, but nervous, too damn nervous for words. I’ll be all right once I dig up a little sport and gaiety in this one-anna town.”
Finlay did not answer immediately; he continued slowly writing out the certificate. But when Hay was dressed he looked up, and, in an unemotional, professional voice which masked the distaste he felt, he declared –
“Sport and gaiety are not for you, Hay. You’re a sick man. You must have complete rest and freedom from all excitement.”
“Ah, a lot of tommy rot, doc,” laughed Hay. “ I’m right as rain.”
“You’re not right,” Finlay repeated with emphasis. “You surely appreciate why you’ve been sent back here.” A pause. “Don’t you realise that you’re suffering from advanced aneurism of the acta?”
As the fatal name of that awful complaint echoed in the surgery, once again that curious silence fell. Then Hay smiled, though this time perhaps the smile on the pinched and sallow features turned somewhat ragged, merging insensibly into a grimace that almost was a sneer.
He stared at Finlay bitterly, defiantly, revealingly. But only for an instant. The ready laugh rang out again immediately, the easy, careless, blustering laugh.
“That’s a good one, doctor sahib. But you can’t scare me with those fancy tales. Ha! Ha! The lad’s hard as nails and tough as leather, doc. The old pump’s out of gear a bit, that’s all. Nothing serious. You can’t kill Bob Hay, doctor, no, by God, sir not for a hundred years.”
And picking up the certificate he folded it, tucked it deliberately in his waistcoat pocket, cocked his hat, pulled on the shoddy gloves, nodded to Finlay confidently, and swinging his malacca cane, strolled easily out of the surgery.
Finlay sat motionless at his desk frowning, surprised in a way by the odious effrontery of this strange patient, yet strangely arrested by Hay’s indifference to the dreadful malady which possessed him.
Could Hay really understand the full significance of the terrible disease – aneurism – that swelling of the great artery leading from the heart, which was liable at any second to rupture and cause instantaneous death?
Was he ignorant of the fact that his life hung by a thread? That, at the outside, a few short months must see him cold in his grave? Finlay sighed, and, despite himself, a great curiosity possessed him as to who Hay was, and what his history might be.
Indeed, when the surgery was over and he came into the dining-room to eat his supper, he was moved to make a discreet inquiry.
Cameron was out upon a case, but Janet, never-failing source of information on matters relating to Levenford and its people, readily afforded him the information which he sought.
“Ay, indeed,” she responded, shaking her head, and drawing her lips together tightly – sure sign of condemnation and regret!” Weel do I ken Bob Hay – and all about him. A sore heartbreak he’s been to his folks, and a sorer heartbreak still to Chrissie Temple.” Janet paused, shook her head again, then severely continued –
“A fine young fella he was at a’e time, mind ye. He come o’ decent stock, ay, his folks was highly respeckit in Levenford; they lived up Knoxhill way, an’ had a braw big house. An’ Bob was the only son. He went to the Academy like maist o’ the other Knoxhill laddies, and then went into the yard to serve his time for the drawin’-office.
“Weel, he showed considerable promise in his wark, was likit by a’ folks in the office, and took a pleasant part in the sociability o’ the town. And to crown a’, at the age of twenty-three he twined up wi’ Chrissie Temple, and took to courtin’ her serious and proper. Maybe ye’ll ken Chrissie Temple, doctor?”
Finlay nodded in the affirmative, and reinforced by his interest Janet pithily went on –
“Ay, and a fine sweet woman she is. Though, mind ye in thae days she was bonnier by far. As ye maybe ken, she was the daughter of Temple, the writer in the town, oh, a sparky darke’ed lass, fu’ o’ innocence and speerits, an’ fair desperate ta’en on with Bob. The two walked out for over a year. They were plighted, ye ken, and their devotion to each other was kenned and much thought o’ throughout the hale toun.
“Weel, in the spring o’ the next year it so fell out that Bob got the offer o’ a post wi’ one o’ the big Indian companies out in Bombay. It’s a chance that often happens in this toun, doctor, as maybe ye ken, what wi’ the connections o’ the yard and that like. Onyway, the post was offered to Bob.
“Oh, ’twas a grand opportunity, which baith Chrissie and Bob agreed he couldna afford to neglect, a chance for advancement which would bring him, at the end of five years, back to Levenford and the yard, in a braw superior possetion.
“So, after much haverin’ and heart-burning, for ye maun understand that the Indian climate prevented Chrissie from going, and Bob was loth to ga
ng by his lone and leave his Chrissie, ’twas a’ agreed that he should go and serve his time in India. Chrissie would bide patiently until he came back, when they would be married at once, and settle down to a happy life in Levenford.
“So Bob took his leave ‘midst tears and a’ that show o’ fondness, swearin’ he would be true to Chrissie, as weel he might, and for some months a’ went richt and proper.
“Then gradual-like Bob’s letters home turned less regular. Soon they hardly came ava’, and, finally, they stoppit a’ thegither. Then, sure enough, to crown a’, accounts o’ Bob’s wild doin’s were brocht home from India by folks coming and going between the North-Eastern Company and the yard.
“At the start Chrissie flat refused to believe the stories, but a’e day, about a year after Bob had gone, she got a letter frae the bla’guard breakin’ off the engagement. He wasna comin’ hame at the end o’ five years. The climate wanna suitable for her. He wasna good enough for her. These, and a hale pack o’ excuses, were put forrit by Bob as the cause o’ his decision, but Chrissie kenned, and everybody in the town o’ Levenford kenned, that the real cause was the wicked life which Bob had ta’en till abroad.
“Weel, when she cam’ at last to see Bob had failed her, Chrissie was fair struck down. She said nothing, answered nothing, took not a single step. But from that day a change cam’ over the braw, douce lass. She turned quieter, more self-contained; she held herself awa’ frae the life o’ the toun.
“Douce and gentle as ever she was – ay, mair so – but somehow she come like to a solitary way o’ leevin’, takin’ long walks by her lone, as though she couldna thole the company o’ others o’ her own age.
“Weel, time went on, and the long silence, the gap between Bob Hay and Levenford, widened. Nae mair was heard of him except at odd times, shamfu’ stories o’ his deevilries. He cam’ to be a kind o’ legend in the town for a that was bad. Fair broken-hearted and unable to hold up her head i’ the toun, Bob’s mother just withered away’. And, ‘deed, his father was laid i’ the graveyard not so long after.
“But Chrissie still kept up her heid. Off and on she had offers; some o’ the best men i’ the town spiered her, but she refused them a’. Faith, though she’s bonny still and nae mair than thirty-twa, I’m thinkin’ Chrissie has had enough o’ men to last her for a lifetime.” A pause; then Janet concluded grimly – “ Now that he’s back, if ever Bob Hay and Chrissie should meet again, as God’s my Maker, I’d like to hear the way she’d speak to him!”
When Janet slipped out eventually and left him to his supper, Finlay reflected sombrely on what he had just heard. He knew Chrissie Temple, though, up till the present, he had not known her story, and the combination of beauty and sadness which had always struck him about her now stood explained.
Aware of the tragedy that was Chrissie’s life, Finlay felt an added loathing of this man who had come back; broken debauched, and dying, but brazen to the last. Unlike Janet, he prayed with all his heart that Chrissie, for her own sake, might never see him.
Time went on, and Bob Hay continued to remain in Levenford.
The townspeople spurned him as they would have spurned a dog, meeting all his advances, all his attempts to recall himself to memory, with stony hostility. Yet Bob did not seem to care. Far from disheartening him, each rebuff seemed merely to encourage him the more.
He showed himself a great deal in public, stood at the Cross, paraded the High Street, forenoon and evening, dressed in his pinchbeck finery, swinging his cane, whistling care-free, shameless.
And every month, jaunty and disreputable, but irrepressible as ever, he appeared at the surgery for the certificate which entitled him to draw his pension.
Having explained that he preferred to pay his medical accounts annually, he always betook himself jauntily away without demeaning himself to offer a fee to Finlay.
Already it was rumoured that he was in debt all over the town. He seemed, indeed, to have no means of support but the allowance made him by the company, though this, he inferred in a high-handed fashion, was a handsome, a magnificent sum.
On the first of September, however, Hay did not make his customary appearance at the surgery, and Finlay, who had somehow come to anticipate these visits with a mixture of aversion and interest, wondered what could have befallen the unfortunate reprobate.
He was not long in doubt. A message arrived the following day asking him to visit Hay at the Inverclyde Hotel. Moved by a queer curiosity, Finlay complied.
He found Hay occupied a small back room in the hotel, Which, despite its grand-sounding name, was a mean, disreputable tavern lying behind Quayside. He was in bed in considerable distress, unshaven, pallid and apparently in pain. Yet his demeanour was as careless and defiant as before.
“Sorry to trouble you, doctor, sahib,” he croaked, “ Can’t quite seem to get on the old pins today.” And then, reading the distaste in Finlay’s eyes, he added – “Not much of a place here. When I’m up and about I’ll damn well give them notice. I‘m going to stay with some friends, as a matter of fact, at the end of the next month.”
Finlay sat down quietly on the edge of the bed, drawing his own conclusions.
“You’ve been drinking, I suppose?” he asked.
For a moment it looked as though a hot denial were on Hay’s lips; then his face changed, and instead he laughed lightly.
“Why not? A bit of a scatter does a fellow good once in a while. Shakes up the liver. Eh, doc?”
Finlay was silent, shocked, in spite of himself by the sham, the pitiable travesty stretched upon the bed before him. He was not a man given to religious exhortations; he hated all display of sanctimony and righteousness, but now something, he knew not what, came over him, and he exclaimed –
“In the name of God, Hay, why do you go on this way? It would be bad enough at the best of times. But don’t you realise – don’t you understand” – he lowered his voice – “ you’ve only got a few months to live?”
“Huh, humbug, doctor sahib,” wheezed Hay. “ You go and tell that to the horse marines.”
“I’m telling it to you,” persisted Finlay in that low, pleading voice. “And I mean every word of it. Why don’t you take yourself in hand, Hay.”
“Take myself in hand? Ha! Ha! That’s a good one, doc! Why in the name of Allah should I?”
“For your own sake, Hay.”
Again a pause, while Hay, with unwavering defiance, met Finlay’s entreating gaze. It all seemed hopeless to Finlay, and, giving it up as a bad job, he was about to turn to open his bag and take out his stethoscope, when suddenly a strange and staggering phenomenon arrested him, held him as in a vice.
Through the shallow, callous expression on Hay’s face there suddenly broke an unbelievable agitation; his cheek began to twitch, and, miracle of miracles, a tear fell from his eye and rolled slowly down his cheek.
Desperately he tried to hold his pose of indifference, but it was no use. The mask was off once and for all. He gave way completely, and turning to the wall, he sobbed as if his heart would break.
Unwilling pity welled up within Finlay.
“Don’t take on, man,” he muttered, “ Pull yourself together.”
“Pull myself together!” sobbed Hay hysterically. “That’s good, that is! What do you think I’ve been doing ever since I came home but pull myself together? Do you think it’s been nice for me, coming back like a beaten dog to die in the gutter?
“Haven’t I tried to put a face on things and keep my end up? Oh, God in heaven, haven’t I tried? You think I’ve been drinking? Do you know I haven’t touched a drop since I came back? I don’t care if you don’t believe me. It’s true. “ Do you know what my allowance is? Three pounds a month. A fine time a man can have on that! Oh, a hell of a fine time! Especially a man like me, whose heart’s liable to burst at any minute.”
And, convulsed by an agony of pain and grief, Hay writhed upon the bed.
There was a long silence; then instinctively
Finlay placed his hand on Hay’s shoulders. He had a terrible feeling that he had misjudged this man, that what he had mistaken for cheap affrontery was merely the mask of courage.
“Cheer up!” he whispered. “We’ll do something about it.”
“No, it’s no use. They won’t own me here,” Hay retorted in a voice of anguish. “Nobody speaks to me. I’m like a leper. Maybe I am a leper. They only want to spit at me, throw mud at me. Oh, don’t think I’m complaining. I deserve it. I’ve earned it. They’re entitled to snarl and snap at me. The sooner I’m dead the better.”
As Hay spoke a curious expression appeared on Finlay’s face – that look which usually betokened the taking of an important decision. He said no more; he did not even attempt to console Hay further; but, rising from the bed with a strange purpose in his eyes, he walked out of the room.
About an hour later, when Hay had sobbed his grief out, and lay staring at the ceiling in the blankness of his desolation the door opened softly, and someone came into the room. Apathetically, he did not at first turn his head, but at last he did so. Then a cry came from his lips.
“You!” he whispered as if in awe. “ You – Chrissie!”
Slowly she came forward – Chrissie Temple, quiet and unassuming, her dark hair braided from her smooth forehead above her kind and gentle eyes.
She sat down beside the bed and took his hand.
“Why not?” she said.
He could not speak; fresh sobs rising in his throat seemed to strangle him. At last he groaned –
“Go away and let me be. Haven’t I harmed you enough? Go away and leave me be.”
“But I don’t want to go, Bob,” she whispered. “ If ye’ll let me, I’d rather stay. It’s now that you need me.”
She smiled at him unflinchingly, and there was that in her smile which silenced him. He bowed his head against her breast, his pain forgotten in the knowledge of her love, of her forgiveness.
