by A. J. Cronin
Her barefaced effrontery fairly took Finlay’s breath away, but he restrained himself, and said –
“Let me look at it, then.”
“Weel, there’s no harm in lookin’,” responded Meg with a sharp little laugh.
Finlay rose and went over to the window.
Parting Meg’s hair, still dark and thick, he examined her scalp, where, as she indicated, there was a round, pink swelling, as big as a pigeon’s egg.
He recognised the condition at once. It was a simple sebaceous cyst; in plain language, an ordinary wen, a condition commonly met with, and easy to remove.
Resuming his seat, he explained to Meg in a few words what the condition was, and how, by a simple operation, he could put it right for her.
Her eye glistened. She rubbed her hands together.
“Ay, I thocht ye’d like the job, doctor. I knew from the start it would be grand experience for ye.”
Bubbling inside with merriment, Finlay surveyed her with assumed severity.
“I’m not needing that sort of experience, Miss Mirlees. I’ll do the operation for you, if you wish.” He paused significantly. “But the fee will be a guinea and a half.”
Her face changed comically. She threw up her hands in horror.
“Doctor! Doctor!” she screeched. “ I’m surprised at ye. It’s no’ a thing to joke over.”
“I was never more serious in my life,” said Finlay coolly.
“Na, na,” entreated Meg. “You’re no’sae heartless, doctor. Havena I told ye …”
“Never mind what you’ve told me,” returned Finlay firmly. “ It’s what I’m telling you that matters. One guinea and a half is the fee and not a penny less.”
Meg began to whine.
“I couldna afford it, I couldna, I couldna. Such a way to treat a puir auld woman. Oh, doctor, doctor …”
On she went, begging and praying. But Finlay was adamant. He had sworn to get the better of the stingy Meg. And he meant to keep his word.
In the end Meg must have seen this, for eventually she gave over, her face flushed with temper and vexation.
“Away with ye, then,” she cried. “ Ye’re a bad black-hearted villain. I’ve wasted my time ower ye. Don’t dare charge me for this visit, either. I’ll not pay it, not a farthing. I’ve no money.”
Finlay rose to go, having enjoyed himself thoroughly, when all at once the great idea struck him.
It was indeed a grand idea, he thought, and his eyes sped towards the Ming Plate which Cameron had envied so greatly. He exclaimed –
“Never mind about the money then, Miss Mirlees, if you’re rather hard put to it just now. We can’t take the breeks off a hielandman. But I’ll make a bargain with you. I’ll do the operation if you’ll give me that plate there by the window.”
The effect of his words could not have been more unexpected or disastrous. Meg exploded in a final burst of temper.
“My plate!” she shrieked. “My bonny Ming plate that’s worth a heap of golden sovereigns! The idea! The very idea! To think ye wad try to take advantage o’ me like that! As if I didna ken the value o’t! Get out my house, you bold, bad villain, get out my house before I tak’ my stick to ye!” And, brandishing the little black cane with which she hobbled about the house, she almost drove him out of the room.
Finlay retreated, laughing at his own defeat, meaning to relate the entire incident with gusto to Cameron that night after supper. But before-evening there arrived a note from Meg, wholly unexpected and amazing, asking him to call without fail on the following day. Finlay marvelled, but, awaiting developments, he kept his own counsel, and next morning presented himself again at Meg’s house.
She was strangely penitent, subdued, tearfully apologetic.
“’Deed, I’m sorry at the way I behaved to ye yestreen, doctor. It was shameful, I ken, but ye maun excuse me. You see, I’m attached to the plate, and your demand fair took me by surprise. But I’ve been thinking since then, and I maun have my poor head seen to. It’s an awfu’ affliction. I canna rest it on the back of my chair at all, at all. I canna thole it, doctor.” And with her sharp little eyes darting gimlet glances at him, she added – “And so I’ve decided to give ye the plate in payment for puttin’ me right.”
A thrill of triumph shot through Finlay at having brought the old miser to heel, and also at having secured the plate for Cameron. He had always wanted to give Cameron something for his collection; and now here at last was the chance!
“Very well,” he said briskly. “ We’ll consider it settled, Miss Mirlees.”
He went over to the window and took up the plate, and, while she watched him with avaricious eyes, examined it slowly.
Examined closely, it seemed an ordinary enough plate, plain blue and white in its colouring, rather like a dinner plate, but then Finlay knew nothing of antiques, and he was well aware of the store which Cameron, and, indeed, Meg herself, placed upon it. As he surrendered it back to her jealous hands he said firmly –
“Remember, now, Miss Mirlees, I’m to take this plate away whenever I’ve finished with you. It’s to be this plate and no other.”
“Very well,” agreed Meg gravely. “ That plate and no other. It’s a bargain!” Then quickly, “But ye maun do the thing handsome, doctor. Ye’re not to hurt me. Ye’re to take the wen away so it will never come back again. Ye’re to come in every day to see me.”
“All right,” said Finlay. “It’s agreed.”
“And forbye,” exclaimed Meg, “ye’ll throw in all the dressings and bandages complete. It’s a’ to be included.”
“Yes, yes,” said Finlay, trying to escape. But Meg, clutching at his arms, went on driving the hardest bargain that she could.
“And forbye, doctor, ye’re to gi’e me a braw bottle of tonic for my bluid.”
“Good heavens!” thought Finlay. “ If I don’t get out of here she’ll be asking me to cut her corns.” However, he put the best face on it that he could, and promised to comply with even the most exacting of her requests.
He did, in fact, make a fine job of the operation, taking endless pains to make it satisfactory. He froze the round swelling thoroughly by spraying it with ethylchloride, so that the incision should not hurt her. He dissected out the little cyst perfectly, stitched up the wound, and dressed it with iodoform gauze. It was a ticklish job, and took him, from start to finish, a full hour.
Meg, determined to get every ounce of satisfaction, made a great fuss, moaning and groaning and making awful grimaces. Such, indeed, was her attitude, as Finlay came every day to change her dressing. She was a perfect trial and tribulation, harassing him on every front. Only the thought of the beautiful plate he would get from her and be able to give to Cameron kept him from condemning her to everlasting torment. But he did endure it to the end, and at last, after a fortnight, the whole thing was finished, the wound healed, the wen gone, and Meg grudgingly satisfied. It was all over but the fee.
“Now for our bargain,” said Finlay determinedly. With an odd glint in his eye he went on – “Here. This is the bottle of tonic I promised to give you at the end of the treatment. Take it and hand over the plate.”
She accepted the bottle of physic he held out to her. Then, with unexpected meekness, she hobbled over to the window, took the plate from its stand, and handed it to him without a word. He surveyed it proudly.
“Would you like a bit of paper to wrap it in?” she muttered.
Amazed at her liberality, he nodded – perhaps she wasn’t such a bad old thing after all. He shook hands with her, then, with the plate wrapped in an old piece of brown paper and tucked under his arm, he left Meg’s house and walked triumphantly home. Cameron was in the sitting-room, wandering about with his pipe in his mouth and his hands in his pockets. No moment could have been more propitious. With an assumption of indifference Finlay declared –
“I’ve a present for you.”
“Oh,” said Cameron. He looked surprised but pleased, and as, without further
delay, Finlay launched into the story of his bargain with Meg Mirlees, the old doctor listened open-mouthed. When Finlay came to the climax Cameron fairly beamed:
“Well, it beats all, Finlay man, and to think you’ve got me the plate. Well, well, laddie, I can hardly believe it I’ve had my eye on it for years.” And Cameron’s hands, the hands of the connoisseur, fairly itched to get at the treasure.
With pretended modesty, Finlay unwrapped the plate. Cameron took it eagerly, stared at it with bulging eyes, then let out a shout.
“D’you like it?” said Finlay, fairly oozing satisfaction.
“Like it!” cried Cameron. The expression of eagerness vanished from his face. He looked at Finlay. He looked back at the plate. Then all at once something came over him and he began to laugh. He laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks. He laughed and laughed as he had not done for months, laughed till Janet came rushing to the door to see what it was all about.
“Oh, Lord save us! Finlay,” gasped Cameron. “When I think of it. You, day after day – running after her – cutting out her wen – waitin’ on her hand and foot …”
“Well,” said Finlay, faintly annoyed. “Ye’ve got the Ming plate, haven’t ye?”
“Ming!” choked Cameron with a fresh convulsion. “My dear man it’s no such thing. It’s an ordinar’ dinner plate. You can buy this for three halfpenny in the Stores. I’ll bet my hat that’s where Meg got it. The window’s full o’ them.” And holding his sides he collapsed in a peal of fresh hysterics.
Finlay sat down on the sofa.
“Man, I can see it all,” went on Cameron. “Right at the start Meg changed the plate. She’s sold ye – lock, stock and barrel. At this very minute she’ll be telling her cronies how she’s worsted ye, tittering, and tee-heeing, rubbing her hands together. ‘This self-same plate’, ye insisted, holding up the threepence-halfpenny article, driving your bargain by your way o’t. And ye got the self-same plate. Ye’ve got no redress.”
There was a moment’s silence while Finlay gazed across at the helpless, speechless Cameron. Then, slowly, reflectively, but with increasing enjoyment, Finlay began to laugh as well. And at that unexpected sound Cameron’s mirth underwent a sudden change into sharp surprise.
“Wh?” he exclaimed. “What’s this? What in all the world have you got to laugh at?”
“Oh, nothing,” answered Finlay nonchalently. “ Just nothing at all.”
“I should think not,” retorted Cameron with marked emphasis. “I couldna find much to laugh at myself if I’d let Meg Mirlees make a cuddy out of me so easy.”
“Maybe, maybe,” agreed Finlay with a sly nod. “But to tell you the truth I had a feeling in my bones all along that Meg might make a cuddy out of me.”
“Well, I’ll be hanged!” gasped Cameron, both astounded and perplexed that his young partner should take defeat at the redoubtable Meg’s hands in so spiritless a fashion. A healthy fury he could have understood, but this easy laughter left him at a loss. He would have said more upon the subject, too, but Finlay, without further ado, walked out of the room to take the evening surgery.
At supper that night the matter was not mentioned again, but Cameron kept darting curious glances at Finlay, as though pondering what might be behind that complacent silence, wondering perhaps if, after all, in the classic phrase, Finlay had not something up his sleeve.
And, sure enough, on the following morning events took a sudden and more mysterious turn. It had barely gone nine o’clock when old Jeannie Glen, bosom friend and sycophant-in-chief to Miss Mirlees, came hirpling round as fast as her rheumaticky bones could carry her to bid Dr. Finlay come post-haste to visit Meg.
Cameron, taking half an hour’s ease before setting out upon his round, peered incredulously over the edge of his morning paper at old Jeannie.
“Another call for Meg?” he ejaculated. “ Has the dressing come undone?”
“Na, na,” panted Jeannie. “ It’s no’ her heid ava’. It’s waur, far, far waur nor that.”
“What then?” quried Cameron.
“The Almighty alone kens,” answered Jeannie with palpitating emotion. “But unless I’m far cheated, it’s a summons. Ye maun come straight away, Dr. Finlay, and I’ll get back till her this meenit mysel’. Oh, dear; oh, dear, it’s a sair fecht. I’m tellin’ ye,” and muttering agitatedly old Jeannie hurriedly retraced her steps.
Cameron turned upon Finlay a look which held volumes of the most pressing inquiry. But Finlay took no heed. Whistling lightly, with an air both leisurely and aloof, he finished arranging the contents of the famous black bag. Then picking it up, he donned his hat at an angle slightly unprofessional, nodded briskly to Cameron, and left the house.
His demeanour, however, as he mounted the steps of Meg Mirlees house was formality itself. He entered the back kitchen with real solemnity and marched up to the box bed where Meg lay, moaning and groaning, attended by the trembling Jeannie Glen.
“And what’s the matter now?” asked Finlay briefly.
“I’m dyin’,” articulated Meg, going straight to the point. With another hollow groan she writhed upon her couch and clasped her middle. “ My stomach’s a mass of fire. I canna keep a thing down, not even a sip o’ caul watter. Oh, doctor, dear, I’m near by wi’t.”
And, as though to prove the truth of her assertion, she retched weakly into the basin which the trusty Jeannie proffered below her scraggy chin.
“What have you been eating?” inquired Finlay after a minute.
“Nothing, nothing,” protested the groaning Meg. “I just had my breakfast, a sup parritch and a kipper, and dose o’ that braw tonic ye gi’en me. And I hadna been half an hour started to redd up the room when this awful’ burnin’ and scaldin’ took me just like a clap o’ thunder. Oh, doctor, doctor, what in the name of heaven do ye think it is?”
A silence.
“Maybe,” said Finlay solemnly, “maybe it’s a judgment on you for swindling me out of the plate.”
A shiver passed over Meg’s suffering form.
“Oh, doctor, doctor,” she whimpered, “ dinna bring up sic a thing at a time like this. I kept my bargain and you kept yours. Oh, give me something quick to ease my pain.”
Finlay fixed the old woman with an accusing eye. Then, without further speech, he bent over the bed, and, to the accompaniment of much audible tribulation on the part of Meg, examined her sombrely.
When it was over Meg retched again, then desperately groaned.
“Can ye cure me, doctor? Oh, dear, oh, dear, can ye cure me?”
Another silence, until with due deliberation Finlay answered –
“Yes, I can cure you, but this time I’m standing no nonsense. I want the plate, the real Ming plate, or as sure as my name’s Finlay I’ll walk out of this room and leave you to your fate.”
Meg began to whine feebly.
“Oh, doctor, doctor, ye couldna be so cruel?”
“Very well, then …”
Finlay buttoned up his coat sternly, as though preparing to depart, but at that Meg cried out shrilly –
“All right, then, I’ll gi’e ye the plate, only get quit o’ this retchin,” and, raising a stricken hand, she indicated a cupboard in the corner.
Following a sharp instruction from the patient, Jeannie Glen waddled to the cupboard, produced the plate, and handed it to Finlay, who received it in dignified silence, and then, with all despatch, opened his black bag.
Taking out a packet of white powder, he mixed an effervescing draught for Meg. She drunk it feverishly and relapsed upon the bed, declaring a moment later –
“Ye’re richt. It’s easin’ me. Oh, thanks be to the Almighty and yerself, doctor. It’s easin’ me a treat.”
“Certainly it’s easing you,” coolly retorted Finlay. “ By this afternoon you’ll be right as rain. There’s only one thing for you to remember.”
“And what’s that, doctor?”
Finlay walked to the table by the bed, took up the bottle of physic
he had given Meg on the previous day, then stalked over to the sink. Looking Meg straight in the eye, he declared deliberately –
“You mustn’t take any more of this medicine.”
A pause while he uncorked the bottle and let the contents trickle down the waste.
“Ye see, Meg, this isn’t a tonic after all. I felt in my bones you would try to swindle me, though I didn’t know how. So, to be on the safe side, I gave ye a fine bottle of ipecacuanha. I knew ye’d need me after the first dose. It’s an emetic, Meg – if you understand what that means – a grand strong emetic.”
“Ye young de’il,” cried Meg, struggling up in her nightgown from the bed. “ Let me get my claws on ye, and …”
But Finlay, roaring with laughter, the real Ming plate under his arm, was already halfway down the stairs.
11. Enter Nurse Angus
From that first moment when Finlay met Peggy Angus he knew that he detested her, and, naturally enough, he suspected the feeling to be mutual. But whether or not our young medico was right in such dour primary impressions the events of these chronicles may presently reveal.
Admittedly the meeting was unfortunate. Finlay was in a bad mood. Troubled over a case, bothered and overworked, he had got out of bed on the wrong side that morning, which, to add to the general gaiety, was teeming with rain.
He drove to the Cottage Hospital under the dripping heavens, jumped down from the gig, then, with his head lowered to escape the pelting raindrops, he dashed through the front door into the corridor beyond. Here he ran full-tilt into a nurse.
Angrily he raised his head and glowered at her. She was young and slender, and rather small, very neat and trim in her uniform, with a clear complexion, and lively, sparkling eyes. Her mouth was big and ready to smile, her teeth white and even, while her nose, small and decidedly upturned, gave her an air of vivacity and impudence.
