Dr Finlay's Casebook (2 page)

‘Oh, yes, doctor, I did think of that. But how can we rent such a house?’

‘
I
will attend to that. Entirely without benefit or profit to myself. I hope to telephone you this evening and let you know what I have arranged.’ He stood up. ‘Now you
must leave. My waiting room has been filling up while I have been occupied by you.’

They went quickly. In this way Finlay saved himself all manner of effusive thanks, and was able to call in the first of the twenty-odd legitimate patients awaiting him.

Finlay was, in fact, exceptionally busy all day, yet despite the pressure of work one thought persisted. What a fool he had been to entangle himself in a family mess, a dilemma that through his
well-meaning interference might recoil upon himself and bring real disaster into his quiet, orderly and strictly God-fearing life. Nevertheless, he had given his word and he had a haunting
premonition that, if he did not act wisely on behalf of his beautiful patient, she herself might come to grief.

So, that night after supper, when Janet was busy with the dishes and Dr Cameron had gone upstairs, Finlay telephoned his friend, Douglas Baird, who lived very comfortably with his wife in a
country house halfway up the neighbouring glen.

‘Doug, this is Finlay here. Tell me, are you proposing to go south this winter?’

‘The wife is keen, Finlay, but I’m afraid this year the money won’t run to it.’

‘Here’s something that might interest you. A patient of mine, a Spanish lady staying at the Caledonian, has booked me for her confinement – first baby, due towards the end of
the year. Now the Caledonian, as ye weel ken, is very noisy and boisterous from now till New Year, so I have told my patient she must move to a decent quiet house, near enough for me to give her
every attention. So, how about it, Doug? You and your wife could be off to the Riviera – isn’t that where you usually go? – for six weeks or two months. You would leave your
couple to keep house for my lady – I’ll provide the nurse. How about it, Doug?’

‘What’s the figure, Finlay?’

‘Your usual price is . . . how much?’

‘Thirty pounds a month, and pay the servants.’

‘I believe I could get you a hundred for the two months, Doug. And maybe a nice present if all goes well.’

‘It’s a deal, Finlay. But just a minute till I check with my Annie.’

A brief pause, then a woman’s voice floated towards him.

‘Is that Father Christmas?’

‘His youngest son, Annie.’

‘That’s just what you are, Finlay. Here am I dying to get off to the French sunshine and sadly aware that the money won’t run to it this year. Then up you come with your
splendid offer. Of course we’ll take it. And I promise you I’ll leave everything in splendid order.’

‘Good enough, Annie. Will you be moving out by the middle of the month?’

‘Before that, Finlay. Tell me, I hear you’re working for the Caledonian now.’

‘Just this one patient. And as she’s a Spanish lady she needs a little help.’

‘If it’s twins, Finlay, she must pay extra.’

‘Sorry to disappoint you lass. I’ve already examined my patient and it’s just one dear wee babby. But not to disappoint ye, I’ll have your cheque for the two months
delivered to you tomorrow.’

‘Finlay, ye’re aye such a darling, would a kiss reach ye over the wire?’

‘One of yours would.’

Instantly a loud smacking noise came over the telephone.

‘Thank you, Annie. That was just what I needed. Wait till I set out with you at the next Country Dance . . . Well, have a fine time in France.’

‘We will, lad, thanks to you. And bless you for thinking of us.’

Five minutes later Finlay phoned the Caledonian and left a message for Madame Alvarez:
EVERYTHING IS ARRANGED. PLEASE CALL ME FIRST THING TOMORROW.

Then, tired as if he had walked ten miles, he fell into bed and, almost at once, was fast asleep.

It is agreeable to relate that everything went according to Finlay’s plan. The Bairds took off for the Riviera without delay and Señora Alvarez, accompanied by her
English friend, moved into the comfortable villa on the Glen where precisely on the last day of November, Señora Alvarez was delivered of a baby girl. Finlay, who performed the ceremony and
was the first to see the baby, noted with satisfaction that it took after its mother, with the same dark eyes and beautiful skin.

A few days later, when Madame Alvarez was able to sit up with the child in her arms, the señor arrived and Finlay, who witnessed the reunion of husband and wife, thanked heaven that he
had preserved the love of this truly devoted couple.

When the day of departure arrived Señor Alvarez called on Finlay carrying an exceedingly handsome gun case.

‘My dear doctor, nothing can adequately reward you for all that you have done for my wife, and all with the most perfect and scrupulous professional etiquette. But as we have been unable
to shoot, I wish to give you in addition to your fee a present of my guns. They are by Da Costa, the best gunmaker in Spain, inlaid, as you will see, and the trigger has a pull as soft as
silk.’

Finlay opened the case. What guns, compared with his own five quid lump of ironmongery! He picked one up. The barrel was finely inlaid with a thread of gold, the butt had a mounting of
ivory.

‘Oh, I say, sir.’ He swung one to his shoulder. ‘I never saw or used anything so splendid in all my life.’

‘And the shot – dead true.’

‘How can I thank you, sir?’

‘How can I thank
you
, doctor?’

Finlay saw them off on the London train. The señora’s eyes were moist as she pressed her doctor’s hand.

‘I am so happy, doctor. And it is all, all due to you.’

The train steamed out of the station and Finlay went home to admire his guns.

Professional Etiquette

In the passage of time, Finlay, from being the timid assistant nervously arriving at Tannochbrae, had come to shoulder most of the practice, which had indeed grown and extended
well beyond the village. Dr Cameron was older now and less amenable to strangers, but he still had his patients, old friends who firmly believed in him and would never for a moment have passed him
by in favour of his bumptious young assistant. What matter if Finlay were called personally to the posh new Caledonian Hotel ten miles north of the snug little village. Nobody in Tannochbrae gave a
good Scottish damn for that swank establishment, stuffed with English snobs and stinking rich foreigners who ‘didna ken one end of a gun frae the other but came back boasting frae the moors
wi’ grouse shot by the keeper’.

Such an opinion had indeed been voiced by Bob Mackie the grocer, one of Tannochbrae’s leading citizens, and a lifelong friend of Dr Cameron.

‘What did they ever do for me? Never ordered even a sausage, let alone a joint of my famous spiced bacon. All their stuff comes by special train from London.’

Dr Cameron had the habit of dropping in regularly at Bob’s shop to pick up a piece of this famous spiced bacon to which, when freshly prepared, he was especially addicted and he was,
consequently, regularly treated to Bob’s opinion of the Caledonian. However, on this particular morning Bob was strangely silent on his favourite topic. He did, indeed, seem preoccupied and
worried to such an extent that Cameron scoffed, ‘Is it the hotel again, Bob?’

‘No, man, it’s not that at all. The fact is, I’m real worried over my young grandson, a boy I’m verra fond of. As ye weel ken, he’s the son of my dochter Gracie,
that married Will Macfarlane and moved to Beith. Weel, every summer young Bob – he’s named after me – comes up to Tannochbrae for his holidays. Ye’ll have seen him
around.’

‘I have indeed,’ said Dr Cameron. ‘A nice lad. I think Finlay takes him fishing in Gielstone Burn, odd times.’

‘Aye, that’s the boy, and he’s clever at school too. But he’s not looking near so weel this year. In fact I’m real worried about him. So if you wouldna’ mind,
while I’m wrapping the ham, I’d be much obliged if ye might take a step upstairs to look at him.’

‘Certainly, Bob. Anything to oblige ye.’

Dr Cameron went upstairs and, most unusually, found young Bob, dressed, but stretched out on his bed.

As Dr Cameron appeared he sat up, looking ashamed of himself.

‘Forgive me, sir, I was up and moving around but suddenly felt queer and had to lie down.’

‘That’s all right Bob. Your granddad just told me you hadn’t been up to the mark lately. Have ye been studying hard at school?’

‘Not more than usual. But the truth is, sir, all last term I felt as if I had no go in me whatsoever. Even here I’m just the same. First thing I did was to go up to the Gielstone
Burn – it’s my favourite walk – but if you can believe it, I could hardly get back.’

‘I can see at once it’s a tonic you’re needing, Bob. But let’s have a look at ye. Take off your shirt.’

The light in the room was not particularly bright but when Bob stripped off his shirt, Dr Cameron took out his stethoscope and went over the boy’s heart and lungs thoroughly. The heart did
seem a little tired but the lungs were sound. When he put his stethoscope away he smiled at Bob who had flushed nervously during the examination.

‘Now, don’t you worry, Bob. You’re as sound as a bell. Just a bit tired and run down. I’ll give you a tonic that will soon put ye right.’ As he wrote the
prescription, he added, ‘It’s a well-proved medicine for hard-working students. I don’t mind admitting to you that I took it myself when I was at college studying for my
MD.’

‘Oh, thank you sir, thank you ever so much. I’ll get it from Mr Blair the chemists this morning.’

‘Good lad! Mind you, it takes time to work so see that ye give it a fair trial.’

When Dr Cameron returned downstairs, the butcher looked at him anxiously.

‘Nothing serious I trust, doctor?’

‘He’s a bit run-down, Bob. But I have given him something that will put him right. Mind you, it might take time to work but a couple of bottles should do the trick.’

‘Thank you, doctor, most sincerely. I’ve wrapped up your ham and I picked one specially for ye.’

‘Thanks, Bob. I’ll look in and see the boy in say a week or ten days.’

With the big parcel under his arm, Dr Cameron strode proudly down the High Street. He was not ashamed to admit that he liked a good ham, and indeed the rich aroma of the bulky package would have
revealed the fact even had he attempted to conceal it. At lunch that same day he said to Finlay:

‘I was up to Bob McKie this morning to fetch your breakfast for the next month.’

‘Oh, thank you, sir. Did you not bring something for yourself?’

‘And when I was in the shop,’ Dr Cameron continued, ignoring the interruption, ‘Bob asked me to have a look at his grandson who’s up as usual for his holidays.’

‘Oh, good! I must get him out for some fishing. But tell me, is he not well?’

‘A bit run-down from his studies, but I gave him something that will soon have him jumping over the burn with his rod.’

‘What was your prescription, sir?’

‘Did ye ever hear o’ McKie’s Tonic?’

‘No . . . o . . . o, canna say I did, sir. What does it contain?’

‘Weel, I’ll enlighten you, m’lad. It’s a standard tonic that we students used when we were run-down with examinations and hard work at the hospital wards. McKie’s
Tonic. Man, it’s a famous remedy.’

‘Can’t say I ever heard of it, sir. But naturally I’ll take your word for it.’

‘Keep an eye on Bob Macfarlane and ye’ll not need to take my word for it. Ye young doctors think ye know it all, but apparently ye never heard o’ Dr McKie.’

After this discussion Finlay determined that he would keep an eye on his young friend. He was busy all next day but on the following morning, after his morning round, he walked up the Gielstone
Burn and there, as anticipated, he found young Bob Macfarlane.

But Bob was not fishing. His rod was propped against a tree and he was sitting disconsolately on the bank.

‘But you’re not fishing, Bob!’ cried Finlay, seating himself beside the boy and putting a friendly arm around his shoulders.

‘Oh, I’m glad to see you, Dr Finlay. I hoped you might come up here. Yes, I did try a couple of casts then I had to sit down.’

‘As bad as that! Are ye not takin’ your tonic?’

‘I have tried a few doses sir, but the truth of the matter is this. It makes me sick as a dog. In fact I brought up the last couple of doses. Vomiting something terrible, I was.’

‘Then ye maun stop it Bob, on my authority. While ye sit there – don’t get up – let me have a look at you.’

Bob submitted in silence while Finlay took his pulse, then peered into the boy’s white, tense face. Finlay spent some time examining the boy’s eyes in particular, everting the lower
lids and studying the conjunctiva, which was not a healthy red but pallid and bloodless.

My dear old boss has missed this, Finlay thought, and it’s the certain clue to the boy’s condition.

‘Tell me, Bob, did you have an accident of any kind before your holidays?’

‘Yes, I did, sir. On the last day of term we were larking about in the carpentry room when another boy, quite by accident of course, stuck his cutting chisel into my bare arm. Well, I bled
like a pig and before they could get the master with a proper tourniquet I had made a pool on the floor that was fearfully large. They wanted to fetch a doctor but I said no and they sent me home
in a cab.’

‘Good God, lad! And you came on here the very next day.’

‘I didn’t want to tell anyone sir. I felt such a fool. So I just came, but I admit, I felt awful in the train. And to tell the truth I still feel peculiar. Don’t have a kick in
me.’

And my dear old boss gave him a bottle of McKie’s Tonic, thought Finlay, then aloud, ‘Bob, you’re coming with me to the hospital lab. Just wait here quietly till I
return.’

Finlay took Bob’s bicycle and rode down the glen to his car, which stood outside the surgery. Leaving the bike propped against the kerb he got into the car, returned and picked up Bob. In
five minutes they were in the hospital laboratory.

‘Take your jacket and shirt off and lie down on the couch, lad. And don’t worry, I’m going to take just one tiny drop of your blood, for a test.’