Dr Finlay's Casebook (18 page)

He watched them draw near, irritably observing Peter’s physical distress, and, as they reached the summit, he made a caustic comment on the difficulties of propelling inert matter
uphill.

‘He canna complain,’ sighed Sam. ‘He has his legs, at any rate.’

And then, instinctively, Finlay looked at Sam’s legs as they lay snugly in the long, wheeled chair. They were, strangely, a remarkably stout pair of legs. Fat, like the rest of Sam,
bulging Sam’s blue serge trousers.

Peculiar, thought Finlay, that there should be no atrophy, no wasting of these ineffectual limbs. Most peculiar! He stared and stared at Sam’s legs with a growing penetration, and then,
with a terrible intentness, he stared at the unconscious man. My God! he thought all at once. Supposing – supposing all these years—

And suddenly, as he stood beside the wheeled chair on the edge of the brae – suddenly with a devilish impulse, he took the flat of his boot and gave the chair a frightful push.

Without a word of warning the chair shot off downhill.

Peter stood gaping at the bolting chair like a man petrified by the repetition of dreadful history; then he let out a nervous scream.

Sam, roaring like a bull, was trying to control the chair. But the chair had no brakes. It careered all over the road, dashed at frantic speed into the hedge, overturned, and shot Sam bang into
a bed of nettles. For two seconds Sam was lost to view in the green sea of the stinging nettles; then, miraculously, he arose.

Cursing with rage, he scrambled to his feet and ran up to Finlay.

‘What the hell!’ he shouted, brandishing his fists, ‘what the hell did ye do that for?’

‘To see if ye could walk!’ Finlay shouted back, and hit Sam first.

Peter and Retta have returned to the Barloan house. The wheeled chair is sold, and Sam is back at his old job – supporting the corner of the Fitter’s Arms. But
every time Finlay drives past he curses and spits upon the ground.

Pantomime

As a rule, Levenford saw little of the theatre.

At the annual Fair, the Bostons and Roundabouts were usually accompanied by a canvas ‘geggie’, where, in an atmosphere of naphtha smoke and orange peel, you could, for twopence, see
‘The Girl Who Took the Wrong Turning’, or ‘The Murder in the Red Barn’.

At the other pole, of course, stood the Mechanics’ Concerts. There, on Thursday nights during the winter season, a bevy of refined ladies and gentlemen entertained an equally refined
audience to songs and readings.

‘Mr Archibald Small will now give—’

Whereupon Mr Archibald Small would advance, blushing, in squeaky boots and a hired evening dress, and sing – ‘Thora! Speak ag-hain tu mee!’

Between these extremes Levenford went dry of drama, and the stern spirit of the Covenanters was appeased.

Imagine then, the commotion when it became known early in December that a pantomime was coming to the Burgh Hall for the week beginning Hogmanay.

Pantomime! For the children of course! Yet it woke a thrill of interest in the austerest heart, and caused a perfect flutter amongst the burgh’s amorous youth.

Even ‘Doggy’ Lindsay, the Provost’s son, allowed his interest in the pantomime to be known – a superior interest, naturally; a rather sophisticated interest – for
Doggy was a ‘blood’, the centre of a little coterie of ‘bloods’ who set a dashing fashion in dress and manners in the town.

He was a pasty-faced youngster, was Doggy, with a tendency to pimples, a loud empty laugh, and a tremendous heartiness of style – instanced by a maddening tendency to slap his intimates
upon the back and address each boisterously as ‘Old Man!’

‘Brandy and splash, old man?’ That, indeed, was Doggy’s usual greeting, as he stood knowingly within the parlour of the Elephant and Castle. He wore bright shirts, effulgent
cuff-links, and, in season, a racy topcoat with huge pockets and a collar that invariably rose up to Doggy’s protruding ears.

He affected manly pipes with terrific curvatures, and rattled a heavy stick as he strode along. His knowledge of women was reputed to be encyclopaedic. And once he had kept a bulldog.

Actually, there was not an ounce of vice in Doggy. He suffered from a rich father, a doting, indulgent mother, and a weak constitution. Add the fatuous desire of the small town masher to be
thought the most devilish of rake-hells, and you have Doggy at his worst.

The pantomime arrived, a number five company from Manchester, which had wandered to these northern wilds in the hope of putting Cinderella over on the natives. But the natives had been less
amenable than expected.

In Paisley, not bouquets but tomatoes had rained on Samuels’ Touring No. 5, and in Greenock there had been a deluge of ripe eggs. So, by the time Levenford was reached, the morale of the
mummers was wilting.

The comedian wore a slightly tarnished look; the chorus had ‘the jumps’; and Mr Samuels was secretly considering urgent business which might call him suddenly back to Manchester.

Two days after the opening night in the Burgh Hall, Finlay met Doggy Lindsay in the High Street.

“Lo, old man!’ cried Doggy.

He rather cultivated Finlay as one versed in the occult mysteries of the body. Doggy’s was a simple mind whose libido expressed itself in yearnings for an illustrated anatomy book.

“Lo, old man! Seen the panto?’

 ‘No!’ said Finlay. ‘Is it good?’

‘Good!’ Doggy threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘My God, it’s awful! It’s rotten, it’s terrible, it’s tripe! But for all that, Finlay, old
man, it’s a scream!’

He roared again with laughter, and taking Finlay’s arm, demanded:

‘Have ye seen Dandini?’

‘No, no! I tell you I haven’t been near the hall.’

‘Ye must see Dandini, Finlay,’ protested Doggy, with streaming eyes. ‘Before God, ye must see Dandini! She’s it, Finlay. The last word in principal boys. An old cab horse
in tights. Ye ken what I mean. Saved from the knacker, and never called me mother. Fifty if she’s a day, dances like a ton of bricks, and a voice ye couldn’t hear below a bowl –
oh, heaven save me, but the very thought of her puts me in hysterics.’

He broke off, quite convulsed by merriment; but, mastering himself, he dried his eyes and declared:

‘Ye must see her, old man. ‘Pon my soul, you must. It’s a treat not to be missed. I’ve front row seats for every night of the show. Come along with me tonight. Peter Weir
is coming too, and Jackson of the Advertiser!’

Finlay looked at Doggy with mixed feelings; sometimes he liked Doggy quite a lot, sometimes he almost loathed him.

On the tip of his tongue lay a refusal of Doggy’s invitation, but somehow a vague interest, call it curiosity if you wish, got the better of him. He said rather curtly:

‘I might drop in if I have time. Keep a seat for me in any case.’ Then, refusing Doggy’s effusive offer of a ‘brandy and splash’, he strode off to continue his
calls.

That night Finlay did ‘drop in’, having first sounded Cameron on the propriety of the act. Cameron, regarding him quizzically, had assented.

‘Away if ye like, and I’ll finish the surgery. Ye’ll be doing no harm if ye keep young Lindsay out of mischief. He’s a brainless loon – but I’ll swear
there’s good in him.’

The pantomime had scarcely begun when Finlay slipped into his seat, yet already the audience, composed chiefly of young apprentices from the yard, was giving it ‘the bird’.

It was actually a poorish show, but acute nervousness on the part of the performers made it quite atrocious. And there was, of course, Dandini–Dandini, principal boy the second –
Dandini, mirror of fashion, echo of the court, dashing satellite of the Prince!

Finlay looked at his programme; Letty le Brun, she called herself. What a name! And what a woman. She was a big, raddled creature with a wasted figure – a hollow bosomed, gaunt-faced
spectre, with splashes of rouge on her cheek-bones and palpable stuffing in her tights.

She walked without spirit, danced in a sort of lethargy. She was not called upon to sing one song. Indeed, when the chorus took up the refrain, she barely moved her lips. Finlay could have sworn
she did not sing at all. But her eyes fascinated him – big blue eyes that must once have been beautiful, filled now with a mingled misery and contempt.

Every time she got the laugh, and it was often, those tragic eyes winced in that set and stoic face. It got worse as the show went on; whistling, catcalls, and finally jeers. Doggy was in
ecstasy, squeezing Finlay’s arm, rolling about helplessly in his seat.

‘Isn’t she a scream? Isn’t she a turn? Isn’t she the funniest thing since grandma?’ as though she were some new star, and he the impresario who had discovered
her.

But Finlay did not smile. Deep down in his being, something sickened as at the sight of a soul’s abasement.

At last, amidst a hurricane of derisive applause, the final curtain fell. And Finlay could have cried out with relief. But Doggy was not finished – not, he assured them, by a long, long
chop.

‘We’ll go round,’ he informed them with a wink, ‘behind the scenes.’

Something more subtle, some richer satire was in store for them than the crude spectacle of a fusilade of eggs.

Finlay made to protest, but they were already on their way – Doggy, Jackson and young Weir. So he followed them along the draughty stone corridors of the Burgh Hall, up a creaky flight of
steps, into the dressing-room of Letty le Brun.

It was a communal undressing-room of course, vaguely partitioned, with torn wallpaper and walls that sweated, but most of the company had already departed – glad enough, no doubt, to
scramble to their lodgings while they could.

But Letty was there, sitting at a littered table, slowly fastening up her dress.

Closer inspection revealed how ravaged was her figure. She had washed the greasepaint from her face, but two bright spots still stood on her cheek-bones, and there were dark shadows under those
big blue eyes.

She inspected them dumbly.

‘Well, boys,’ she said at length, not without a certain dignity, ‘what do you want?’

Doggy stepped forward, with a notable pretence of gallantry – oh, he was a card right enough, was Doggy Lindsay!

‘Miss le Brun,’ said he, almost simpering, ‘we’ve come round to compliment you and to ask if you would honour us by coming out to supper?’

Silence, while behind, young Weir struggled with a guffaw.

‘I can’t come out tonight boys. I’m too tired.’

‘Oh, but Miss le Brun—’ insisted Doggy, ‘a little supper! Surely an actress of your experience wouldn’t be too fatigued.’

She took them all in with that sad and almost tranquil gaze. She knows he’s guying her, thought Finlay with a pang, and she’s taking it like a queen.

‘I might come tomorrow night, if you cared to ask me.’

Doggy beamed.

‘Capital! Capital!’ he gushed, and he named the time and place. Then, covering the ensuing pause in his customary brilliant style, he flashed his gold cigarette-case at her.

But she shook her head.

‘Not now, thanks.’ Her lips made a little smile. ‘I’ve got a smoker’s cough.’

Another rather awkward pause. It was not turning out to be so funny as they expected. But Doggy rallied.

‘Well, Miss le Brun, perhaps we’d better say au revoir. We’ll expect you tomorrow night. And again congratulations on your marvellous performance.

She smiled again quietly as they went out.

On the following morning, across the breakfast table, Cameron tossed a note that had just come in, to Finlay. ‘Ay!’ he announced dryly. ‘You’d better
take this call, seeing you’re so interested in the theatre.’

It was a note asking the doctor to call on Letty le Brun at her lodgings.

So it came about that Finlay went in the forenoon to No. 7 Church Street. He went early, impelled by a strange curiosity and a strange shame.

Something of this emotion must have shown in his face as he entered the room, for Letty smiled at him – almost reassuringly.

‘Don’t look so worried,’ she said with less than her usual impassiveness. ‘I wanted you to come. I found out about you when you’d gone. You were the only one who
wasn’t trying to make game of me.’

She was in bed, surrounded by a few things obviously her own – a photograph in an embossed silver frame, a crystal bottle of Florida water, a little travelling French clock that was now
sadly battered but had once been good.

There was, indeed, a queer fastidiousness about the common room which she alone could have imparted to it. Finlay felt this deeply, and in his voice was a singular constraint as he asked her
what he could do for her.

She motioned him to sit down, and for a moment lay back upon the pillow before she answered:

‘I want you to tell me how long I’ve got to live.’

His face was a study. It might even have amused her. For she smiled faintly before going on.

‘I’ve got consumption – sorry, I suppose you’d prefer me to say tuberculosis. I’d like you to listen to my lungs and tell me just how long I’ve got to put up
with it.’

He could have cursed himself for his stupidity. He had been blind not to see it. Everything was there – the hectic flush, emaciation, the quickened breathing – everything.

Now there was no mystery in that strange pathetic lassitude of her performance on the night before. He rose hurriedly, and without a word took his stethoscope. He spent a long time examining her
chest, though there was little need for lengthy auscultation, the lesions were so gross.

Her right lung was completely gone, the left riddled by active foci of the disease. When he had done he was silent.

‘Go on,’ she encouraged him. ‘Don’t be afraid to tell me.’

At last, with great confusion, he said:

‘You’ve got perhaps six months.’

‘You’re being kind,’ she said studying his face. ‘You really mean six weeks.’

He did not answer. A great wave of pity swept over him. He gazed at her, trying to reconstruct that haggard face. She was not really old; illness, not years, had aged her. Her eyes were really
extremely beautiful; she must once have been a lovely woman – manifestly a woman of taste. And now, mincing grotesquely in the tenth-rate pantomime, the butt of every provincial boor!