Adventures of a Black Bag

by A. J. Cronin

  There was a long silence. Then Finlay ground out from between his teeth –

  “She’s a bonny mother. She doesn’t care a pin for the boy. It’s an insult to the name to call Jessie Grant a mother.” And, with a gesture of supreme contumely, Finlay walked out of the room and into the surgery, where he took a long drink of cold water, as though to cleanse a vileness from his mouth.

  The days passed, and Finlay, although occasionally referring to the subject when Cameron and he were together in the evenings, began gradually to become absorbed by other cases. He saw nothing of Duncan, heard no news of him, and eventually – such was the press of work upon him – fell out of touch with the boy altogether.

  And then one evening in the autumn Alex Rankin, a small and ragged urchin who often ran errands about the town, came to the surgery with an undreamed of message for Finlay. It was a summons from Jessie Grant.

  Finlay’s first reaction was stupefaction. Then, flooded by the resentful remembrance of all Jessie’s bitterness and injustice, he told himself hotly that he would not go. But finally came the thought of Duncan, softening him, making him resolve to bury his own sense of personal injury and answer the call at once.

  It was a dark and squally night, without one single star showing through the heavy clouds which banked the sky.

  As Finlay rounded the corner and came into Scroggie’s Loan, the wind took him and almost bowled him from his feet. Jessie’s shop was shut, but a faint light was visible through the small, square-paned window.

  He pulled loudly at the bell, which jangled into the dim interior of the little shop, and was at once admitted.

  Inside, he did not speak, but stared across at Jessie, who stood, a silent, beshawled figure, her hands folded in front of her, her eyes fixed impenetrably on his, her face harsh and formidable. She muttered at last:

  “I want ye to look at Duncan.”

  “So I thought.”

  His tone was curt and hostile, and it seemed to him that in some vague fashion she winced. But her voice continued stern and indomitable.

  “He keeps girnin’ about the pain in his leg.” A pause, then, as though the words were dragged from her – “And he doesna seem eager to walk, like.”

  At this something broke loose inside Finlay. He could have slain her for her inhumanity.

  “And what do you expect!” he cried furiously. “ Didn’t I warn you weeks and months ago that this would happen? I knew it was madness, I told you it was madness the way you were behaving, but you wouldn’t listen to me. You’re a bitter woman and a bad mother. You haven’t a spark of love or kindness in your whole body. You care nothing about your boy. It’s a crying scandal the way you’ve treated him all his life; you ought to think shame, once and for all, black, burning shame of yourself.”

  Again that faint tremor passed over her rigid body. But she did not answer his outburst except to say coldly –

  “Ye’ll see him now ye’re here.”

  “Yes,” he shouted, stung beyond endurance by her icy indifference. “But not for you. For his own sake, because I’m fond of him, because I want to try to get him out of your clutches.”

  And without waiting for her reply, he turned away and walked into the back where Duncan lay.

  Jessie remained quite motionless, as he had left her, her expression still drawn and curiously remote. He was a long time, a very long time, but still she did not move. Indeed, as the minutes passed, slowly recorded by the moving hands of the old wag-at-the-wa’ clock behind her, she seemed to become more rigid, to contract, almost, into a statuesque immobility. Her features, pale against the dark shadows of the kitchen, were set and hard as granite.

  At last Finlay returned. He came slowly, in a manner quite different to his tempestuous exit from the room. He busied himself for a moment quickly adjusting the contents of his bag, then straightening himself, not looking at her, he said gravely –

  “We’ve finished with words now. It’s time to act – or it may be too late. The leg is in a shocking state. There is only one thing to do, and mark my words, it must be done quickly.”

  Silence. Her body, frozen and rigid, was convulsed by a violent inward spasm, yet her voice did not lose its stony note.

  “What is’t ye mean?”

  Again silence; he looked at her at last. His tone was quiet, studiously even.

  “I mean that your boy is seriously ill. The condition has entended. We must get him into hospital immediately, I think we’ll have to operate. Amputation!” He paused, then spoke slowly, letting every word sink in. “Your motherly behaviour may cost the boy his leg.”

  For a moment nothing was heard but the battering of the wind in the outer darkness; then, as though in the darkness of her soul there rose an echo of that fierce wind, she muttered harshly –

  “Ye mean – he’s like to lose his leg?”

  He nodded in silence, and, picking up his bag, went out into the blackness of the night.

  Duncan was taken to the Cottage Hospital in the ambulance which Finlay summoned, and within the hour made comfortable in bed. He was given a draught, and fell asleep at once. Then came the next morning, which broke fine and clear, and brought Finlay early to the hospital, torn by anxiety as to the fateful decision he must shortly make.

  In the clean and polished ward, bending over Duncan’s white bed, he made his re-examination, aided by the better light and the less fretful condition of the patient – testing, considering, balancing in his mind the case for operation and against.

  Finally, he seemed to reach a positive conclusion, and with a tightening of his lips he turned to the matron who stood beside him. But before he could speak, a young nurse approached.

  “His mother wants to see you, doctor. She’s been waiting since six o’clock this morning. She says she must see you, and simply won’t take No.”

  Finlay made to brush the request away, then suddenly checked himself. On sudden impulse he went into the visitor’s room where Duncan’s mother awaited him.

  And there, on the threshold, he paused. Jessie Grant was in the room sure enough – yes, it was she, though in the ordinary way never would Finlay have known her. She had a shrunken, shilpit look, as if she had fallen into herself, and in the space of that one short night her hair had turned to the colour of driven snow. Rocking herself back and forward, she was like a woman demented, wringing her hands like she was wrestling with something. And all the time moaning out Duncan’s name. Then she lifted her head and saw Finlay. Instantly she came forward, her face revealing an emotion that was incredible.

  “Doctor,” she grasped his arm, her speech broken and distraught. “Tell me about him. Ye can’t do it – ye won’t take off his leg?”

  He stared at her changed and ravaged features, bewildered, doubting the evidence of his senses. At last he said slowly –

  “You’re a bit late, surely, with your concern.”

  But she only clutched his arm the more, her voice desperate.

  “Don’t ye understand, doctor?” Her whole body shuddered as with pain. “I never kenned I loved the boy. But I do, doctor. I do. I’ve brought him up hard. I was feared he would turn out like his father, weak and soft, and a wastrel. I’ve used him sore and ill, but in my heart, doctor, I ken now that I love him.”

  Finlay continued to gaze at her, profoundly troubled, half-doubting, half-believing this agonised revelation. She rushed on frantically –

  “I’ve done wrong, doctor. I admit it freely. But I’ll make up for it. Oh, I’ll do anything you say. But for the love of the Almighty, spare my boy his leg.”

  Now there was no mistaking the frenzied pleading in her tone. His eyes fell before the agony that lay open and naked in her face. There was a long silence. Then in a low voice he said –

  “I’ve already made up my mind not to operate. I think, after all, we can save the leg. It’ll mean months and months of treatment in plaster lying up here in the hospital.”

  “Oh, doctor,” she breathed, as though i
t were a prayer, “Never mind that if you’ll just get him right.”

  He did not answer. But, rooted to the ground at a strange and moving sound, he stood in pity and in wonder. It was the fearsome sound of Jessie’s sobbing.

  The tobacconist’s shop in Scroggie’s Loan has changed hands now, and Jessie Grant is seen in it no more. But there is a little white-haired woman, very gentle and quiet, who keeps house for Duncan Grant, the young classical master at Levenford Academy, in a small, neat villa out by the Garslake Road.

  When newcomers to the town remark how Mrs. Grant spoils her clever son, Finlay holds his peace. Even when Cameron broaches the subject Finlay will take no credit, but with an inscrutable smile remarks that they owe the miracle to Lestrange.

  9. The Wild Rasp Jam

  Every year, when the fruit ripens, and the good earth yields its bounty, bringing douce housewives to their jam-making, Finlay receives unfailingly a fine big pot of raspberry jam from Tannochbrae, the snug little village on the loch-side beyond Markles.

  Many presents came to Finlay from the lochside folk, for they loved him, and he them; indeed, he always maintained this part of his practice to be by far the dearest to him. Yes, many a thing he had, from a goose, or a cheese maybe, or a salmon, or, in season, a brace of grouse. And in particular many a thing he had from Tannochbrae. But they were gifts solely of kindness and affection. They had not the spiritual significance, nor, for that matter, the strangely human story which lay behind that simple pot of jam.

  And here, if you like, is the story itself.

  Nessie Sutherland was the belle of Tannochbrae, a young spirited lass who, though poor, and often poorly dressed, was so bonny and blithe that her lovely hazel eyes played havoc amongst the young men of the lochside.

  She was a sweet lass, right enough, maybe a trifle wilful in her ways, too sure of her power to fascinate, her head a little turned by the attention she received, but at heart unspoiled and innocent as the meadow queen that grew so freshly in the glens of Tannochbrae.

  Nessie, though not yet turned twenty, had suitors galore, but amongst the crowd of them in the race for her favour and affection, one seemed to stand far ahead of all the rest. He was Hugh Riach, dashing, black-haired Hughie, six foot in his stocking soles, and broad in proportion, with a fine handsome head, a roving eye, and always the ready word, both glib and hearty, with which to greet the world.

  Oh, he was a grand lad, everyone agreed, a man who could take his dram and hold it, fine company, a rogueish lad with many conquests, it was slyly rumoured to his credit.

  And there was more to Hughie than that! Beside the looks and his loud-voiced gallantry, he was heir to Tannochbrae Farm, which gave him a real advantage, especially in the eyes of Nessie’s mother, who, shifty and needy, kept dinning in her daughter’s ears the benefit of gear and siller to a tocherless lass.

  That made little difference, however, though ’twas helpful in its way, for Nessie was swept off her feet by the dashing Hughie, and Hughie for once was equally swept away by her.

  Out fishing in the loch that July day with his great friend Peter Donald, he boasted openly of his high intentions.

  “I’m mad about her, Peter,” he declared in his ranting style. “I’ll no’ be happy till I have her. She’s fair bewitched me. Man, ye’d hardly credit it, but I’ve got to be that set on Nessie, even the thought of the show and winning the cup with Heather Pride means nothing at all beside it. I tell ye, Peter, I’ll never rest till Nessie’s mine.”

  Peter Donald was silent, reflecting, maybe, how great Hughie’s love must be to divert his attention from the tearing ambition which had consumed him for the last twelve months, namely to win the challenge cup at the County Show with his prize bull, Heather Pride. At length he muttered –

  “Maybe I do understand, Hughie. I’ve always thought well of Nessie myself.”

  Peter was like that, always moderate in his speech, a silent and rather uncommunicative chap who was studying for the ministry, with hopes ultimately of getting the manse at Tannochbrae. He had none of Hughie’s good looks; his face was long and serious, and his brown eyes were not dashing, but sympathetic and kindly. Yet, though he was shy and afraid of women and immersed in his books, he was far from being a bookworm.

  Peter knew the woods and the birds and the beasts there-in. He was the best fisher out of Tannochbrae, and for all his back was bowed by study his biceps were big and he could toss a caber further than any man in the village.

  At this moment Peter seemed to struggle with himself, as though he wanted to pursue the conversation further, but something, perhaps his shyness, restrained him. And then, all at once, he hooked a salmon, and the opportunity was lost in the stir of playing and gaffing the fish. But though the matter was dropped between Hughie and Peter. Hughie continued loudly to proclaim his passion that night in the Tannochbrae Arms.

  Thumping the table with his fist, with a few drinks to give him pith, he roared –

  “There’s two things I’m going to do in the next few weeks. I’m going to win the cup with Heather Pride, and I’m going to have Nessie Sutherland for my bonnie bride.”

  A silence of apprehension.

  “That’s poetry,” continued Hughie, leering round half drunk, “the best lines of poetry that was ever wrote.”

  Hughie’s poetry, or at least the sentiment, was not long in going the round of the village, and reached the humble home where lived Mrs. Sutherland and Nessie.

  The old woman was in high good humour, and Nessie herself not displeased at such evident admiration on the part of her handsome suitor.

  They sat outside the cottage in the warm dusk, discussing Hughie, enumerating his fine points, when Peter Donald strode along with the salmon he had caught that day.

  “I thought maybe you’d care to have this, Mrs. Sutherland,” he remarked unobtrusively. “ We have another at home, and we’re not minding so much for it.”

  His bashful way of presenting the gift made Nessie titter, and she thought how gallantly Hughie would have cried – “Here’s a braw salmon for ye, Nessie, lass, I caught it specially for yourself.”

  Nessie was well aware of Peter’s dumb admiration for her, which had existed since their schooldays together. It flattered her vanity, though, of course, there was small chance for Peter with such a dashing gallant as Hughie in the field.

  Such was the general opinion of the village and the district, but there were those who, viewing both men, wished it were otherwise. And amongst them was our hero, Finlay.

  Finlay knew more, perhaps, of Hughie Riach than most, and of his doings beyond the quiet confines of Tannochbrae – gay adventures in Levenford, for instance, of a Saturday night. And Finlay was far from sharing the general opinion of Hughie’s worth.

  Late one afternoon in the following week, driving out on his daily visit to Tannochbrae, Finlay took a short cut by the lane through Tannochbrae woods, and there, quite suddenly he came on Hughie and Nessie idling close together on the grassy pathway which lay between the lane and the woods.

  In one hand Nessie carried a basket filled with wild raspberries which she had been gathering, and Hughie’s arm was right round her waist.

  Something in the sight of those two wandering so close together in this unfrequented spot made Finlay frown, though it ought to have been an idylic vision.

  On a sudden impulse he drew up his horse and declared, with a pretence of jocularity –

  “Why aren’t you at your work, Hughie, man, instead of hanging about in the woods at this time of the day?”

  Hughie’s face clouded, and he said sullenly –

  “That’s my business.”

  Unperturbed, Finlay went on, in the same light tone –

  “And you, Nessie. You ought to be home at your jam-making. You know as well as I do that the berries ought to be sugared the minute they’re picked or the jam isn’t so good.”

  Nessie looked up, her face flushed, her hair disarranged, too startled and confused t
o speak. It was Hughie who got ready another rude reply, but before it came Finlay made a gesture of invitation with the reins.

  “Step up, Nessie,” he nodded. “I’m driving past your mother’s house. I’ll drop you there. Come along now; you can’t refuse a lift!”

  Abashed and unable to refuse the invitation from such an august source. Nessie complied, and climbed up into the gig beside Finlay, who, with a curt nod to Hughie, drove off.

  Finlay drove Nessie back to Tannochbrae slowly. At first he kept silent, surprised at his own action. But there was that in Nessie’s eyes and in her shamed submission which told him how timely had been his interference.

  Gradually the strain eased, and Finlay casually drew the conversation round to Peter Donald, remarking to Nessie what a fine fellow he was how quiet and unassuming and kindly, and, above all, how fond of her. But Nessie, now a little angered at having been coerced into leaving Hughie, tossed her head petulantly.

  “Peter’s just a feared thing,” she said. “ If he’s fond of me, why hasn’t he got the courage to say so? I like a man that’s got some spunk in him.”

  Finlay sighed and dropped the conversation completely, thinking, as many a man had done before him, that no words of his could alter the case, that a wilful woman must have her way.

  Time passed, and the day of the County Show drew near. The show, which took place at Levenford, was, of course, a great and eagerly awaited event, and this year more than ever the folks at Tannochbrae were keyed up to a high pitch of expectancy. They wanted Hughie’s Heather Pride to win the Challenge Cup. Hughie himself seemed to have no question in his mind but that he would lift the prize. His boasting left no room for doubt.

  Two days before the show, in a lordly fashion, he invited Nessie and his friend, Peter, to see his prize animal. It was sheer vanity on his part – the desire to impress Nessie with a sense of his possessions, for the humiliation he had received through Finlay still rankled; and besides, he had perhaps some inkling of Peter’s feeling for Nessie, and, in his high-handed fashion, was determined to check such presumption once and for all.