Dr Finlay's Casebook (36 page)

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.

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.

And, when the general conversation was again flowing, he rose, unobserved, and slipped over to Mrs Angus.

‘I must go now,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to get back to a case.’

‘But can’t you wait?’ she murmured, raising her brows in disappointment. ‘We’re going to have a bonfire this evening, and fireworks.’

He shook his head stiffly.

‘I am sorry, but I must go. Someone else will give matron a lift back. As for me, I’ve got work to do.’

He knew that he was uncouth and graceless, but he could not help himself. His tongue was dry in his mouth.

He thought for a second she was about to speak, to reveal in all nakedness his painful secret. But apparently she changed her mind.

‘Very well, then,’ she said, ‘If you must, you must.’ Smiling slightly, she shook hands with him kindly, indeed for quite a while she retained his hand in her own warm
clasp, then, turning to her daughter, she declared, ‘Peggy, you’ll see Dr Finlay to the door.’

Thus bidden, Peggy accompanied him into the hall. He felt rather than saw her beside him, for once again he dared not look at her.

The sense of her nearness, coupled with the knowledge that she could never love him, filled his breast with a suffocating pain. But at the door he faced her, thrusting down all the insupportable
feelings which surged in him. He said simply—

‘Thank you for having me up here. You have a lovely place. And altogether it’s been a wonderful day.’

She did not answer immediately. Indeed, he thought her cheeks pale and her voice slightly strained as at length she said—

‘I am glad you have enjoyed yourself.’

Silence. Then she remarked in that same tone—

‘It’s all gone very quickly. I hardly seem to have seen you.’

He did not answer. Indeed, he could not answer. Blindly he held out his hand, touched hers for a moment, then ran down the steps.

The drive home was misery. He felt alone in the world.

His work – that was what the future held for him – and he must work alone.

Arrived in Levenford, he made straight for Arden House. Cameron gave a whistle of surprise at seeing him home so soon.

‘You’re back early!’ he exclaimed. ‘Did you hate the fête all that much?’

‘No,’ said Finlay gruffly; ‘the fête was all right.’ He paused. ‘I wanted to see Paxton at the hospital.’

Cameron inspected his young partner shrewdly, discerning something of the bitterness which these simple words concealed. He said presently—

‘As a matter of fact, Nurse Cotter was on the phone for you from the hospital half an hour ago.’

Finlay nodded. He had half expected such a message; troubles, in his experience, never came singly.

Pausing only to snatch a bite of food – he had eaten nothing at Dunhill – he hastened down to the hospital and entered the ward where Bob Paxton lay. Here his brow clouded.

Bending over the supine figure on the bed, Finlay made a rapid investigation, collapse due to haemorrhage, he thought, and there and then he decided upon immediate transfusion.

His face lit up at the coming battle.

Ordering Nurse Cotter to send for Halliday, the porter, who from previous experience could be counted on as a safe and generous blood donor, Finlay passed hurriedly into the side room to prepare
for his delicate and difficult task.

The trouble would, he realised, be Nurse Cotter. She was a bungler, the last person he would have chosen to assist him. But the need was urgent, and he must make shift with her the best way he
could.

In a sense, too, the blame was his. It was while he had been playing the lovesick swain at Dunhill that Paxton’s condition had deteriorated.

All this was in Finlay’s mind, forcing a look of pain and bitterness upon his features as he crossed to the theatre to see about his instruments.

He pushed open the swing doors with nervous vehemence, then suddenly drew up, petrified to absolute rigidity. There, in the theatre, dressed in her neat uniform, methodically arranging his
instruments, was Nurse Angus.

He gazed at her, unable to believe his eyes, while the colour ebbed slowly from his face. Then, with a rush of bewilderment, he gasped—

‘Why are you here?’

Without looking at him, she answered—

‘My holiday is over tomorrow. I thought I might just as well come back for duty tonight.’

He could only stand and stare at her, as though still dazed at her return. And she seemed to sense his incredulity, for in that matter-of-fact voice, she went on—

‘Matron told me about your case, of course, and after you’d gone I thought you might need me. So I came on.’ And bearing the tray of instruments with impassive precision, she
went past him into the ward.

He followed a moment later like a man walking in a dream.

Halliday was already at the bedside with Nurse Cotter, who manifested every sign of satisfaction that Nurse Angus should be back to relieve her of responsibility. And, without delay, Finlay set
himself to carry out the transfusion, swabbing Halliday’s muscular arm with iodine, puncturing the vessel accurately, transmitting the precious life fluid from the healthy porter to the
collapsed and languid figure on the bed.

It was done at last. Kneeling, Finlay watched the change in Paxton, who now, as by a miracle stroke, was filled with new life, breathing quietly and vigorously, saved.

Finlay remained there a long time, in profound meditation, long after Halliday had returned to the lodge, and Nurse Cotter began to fuss with her charts in a far corner of the ward.

Then, with a deep sigh, he rose and went into the side room where Peggy stood, cleansing the last of his instruments.

Mechanically he stumbled into speech.

‘I want to thank you for coming down. I couldn’t have managed nearly so well without you.’ He raised his hand to his brow dumbly. ‘It always seems to be that way somehow
– you seem to help me out!’

A long pause. She did not speak. And so, his shoulders sagging a little, he went blindly on—

‘I want to congratulate you, too – on your engagement. He seems a fine fellow, Foster – I hope you’ll be happy.’

Now, indeed, she raised her head and gazed at him steadily. And her voice was also steady as she answered—

‘You’re making a mistake, I think. Dick Foster is nothing but a friend. People have drawn all sorts of stupid conclusions. If you don’t believe me . . .’

The colour rose to her brow, and her eyes fell.