Dr Finlay's Casebook (35 page)

‘He’s very bad,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Temperature subnormal, and the pulse almost imperceptible. He seems to be slipping into coma.’

With his gaze upon the bed Finlay saw that she was right. He muttered—

‘It’s a bad lookout, I’m afraid,’ he paused, then blurted out – ‘The professor can’t come. I can’t get anyone to tackle it. We’ll have to do
the best we can without an operation.’

He did not look at her, but waited instinctively for some cold reply. He knew that now she must despise him more than ever. His heart sank. But to his amazement she did not speak. He lifted his
head and found her warm eyes fixed steadily upon him.

‘Do you mean that there’s no one to do this operation? And you know that it must be done!’

He nodded his head dumbly, conscious of her presence, of her disturbing scrutiny. There was a long pause, then she said slowly and distinctively—

‘Why don’t you do it yourself?’

He stared at her, staggered at the suggestion, yet strangely thrilled by it. And, all at once, inspiration flowed to him from the composure in her face. He had never dreamed of tackling the
operation himself, for although he knew its technique from reading, he had felt it far beyond him.

He had operated, of course, in a small way, but a major abdominal operation had stood always as difficult, dangerous, and obscure, something quite outside his power. But now, with this sudden
suggestion offered so unexpectedly, his purpose deepened.

He realised that it was the only thing to do, that he must make the attempt.

At that moment the matron came waddling up.

‘The theatre’s ready,’ she announced officiously. ‘Whenever the professor arrives we are ready to begin.’

Finlay faced her with real determination.

‘He’s not coming,’ he declared. ‘But for all that, we’ll begin at once. I’m going to do the operation myself.’

‘You!’ gasped the matron.

‘Exactly,’ said Finlay abruptly.

‘But, Dr Finlay—’ protested the matron.

Finlay did not wait. Before the astounded woman could say more he walked out of the ward and into the little office, where, picking up the telephone again, he rang through to Reid’s
house.

It would have been easier by far for him to have asked Cameron to give the anaesthetic, but now he did not want the easy way. He wanted Reid to be there, since he had disagreed with his
diagnosis, to see everything, to witness the best or the worst that he could do.

Three-quarters of an hour later Finlay stood in the operating theatre ready to begin. The theatre was hot. The sun had been shining through the ground glass windows, and it was full of a hot
bubbling and hissing from the small steam steriliser.

Exactly in the centre of the theatre was the operating table, breathing unevenly under the anaesthetic was Paul.

At the head of the table, very disturbed and unwilling, sat Dr Reid. He had made it perfectly clear that he came merely to give the anaesthetic and would take no responsibility for the
issue.

Beside her tray of instruments was Nurse Angus – still calm, and impenetrable in her demeanour – while beside the metal cylinder of oxygen, as though she felt that she would soon be
obliged to use it, was Matron Clark.

It was the moment at last. With a quick prayer, Finlay bent over the table and reached out his hand for a lancet.

He concentrated on the one neat square of Paul’s body surrounded by white towels and coloured a fine bright yellow with iodine. It was inside the square that everything would take
place.

He tried, in the hot room through the daze of his conflicting emotions, to remember everything that he must do.

Aware above everything of the presence of Nurse Angus, he drew a deep breath.

First there came the incision. Yes, the incision came first. The warm, shining lancet drew a slow, firm line across the bright yellow skin, and the skin parted in a red gash.

Little voices whispered inside Finlay’s brain, mocking him, telling him he would never be able to accomplish the impossible task he had undertaken.

On and on he went. He used more instruments, and the rings of forceps lay deeply one upon another.

The confusion of the instruments seemed inextricable, and, all at once, through the steaming heat of the theatre, the broken breathing of the patient, the latent uneasiness in Reid’s eyes,
there came upon Finlay the sudden paralysing thought that he could not continue.

He was a fool, a hopeless, incompetent fool, muddling about in the darkness looking for this thing they called the appendix, which did not, could not exist. Beads of sweat started upon his brow.
He thought for a moment he was going to faint.

And then, through the anguish of this horrible uncertainty, he felt the eyes of Nurse Angus upon him. There was something open and revealing in those eyes; suffering because he suffered,
enduring every pang which he endured, yet strangely courageous and pleasing. But there was something more which glistened there, and entered into Finlay’s soul with a stab of ecstasy.

In a flash the mist passed, he took command of himself, and, bending, went on courageously with the operation.

All this happened quicker than can be told. It was the turning-point, the crisis of the operation. A second later Finlay’s searching hand discovered the appendix and withdrew it to open
view.

A kind of gasp broke from Matron Clark’s lips, and Reid’s face expressed unwilling admiration, for there, exposed for them all to see, was a round swelling, an abscess in the
appendix, almost gangrenous.

Filled with a rising exultation, Finlay hurried his movements. He was vindicated, completely vindicated. Out came the appendix, and in went the sutures.

Quickly the operation drew to a close. Confident now, Finlay put in the stitches with a beautiful precision. It was nearly over now, sealed up beautifully and finished.

The matron coughed diffidently, and ended the long silence. Nurse Angus had begun to count the swabs. At last it was over, and the door swung open, and the wheel-stretcher went out, bearing Paul
to the ward.

Finlay watched the swing-doors close upon the wheel-stretcher as Matron Clark ushered it officiously into the ward. He knew that Paul would recover now.

He turned and saw Reid coming towards him. He no longer looked cold and remote and uneasy. He said with real cordiality—

‘I want you to know, Finlay, that you were right and I was wrong. Man, I admire you for what you’ve done.’

He held out his hand, and Finlay took it. He was grateful to Reid, but when the other doctor left the theatre the strain of what he had gone through struck him again, and he sat down quite
weakly on a stool.

Then he was conscious that Nurse Angus was still in the theatre. She stood looking at him, then went to the tap, ran the water hard, filled the tumbler, then gave it to him. Finlay drank it,
then gazed at her with a surging gratitude.

‘I want to thank you,’ he muttered, ‘for helping me, advising me. Oh, I’d never have done it but for you.’

Then he broke off.

There was a silence. Her face was turned from him now, but tears were in her eyes. At length she said—

‘I knew you could do it. And you did. It was splendid.’

Her voice, low yet thrilling, set his heart thudding.

He sensed the pulse of some secret feeling in her which suddenly intoxicated him. A light of understanding broke over him. Had he been wrong in thinking she disliked him?

Her name rose instinctively to his lips. But before he could speak she turned quickly and was gone.

The Fête at Dunhill

Finlay was in love – deeply and hopelessly. He knew that without Peggy Angus beside him to share his life he would not be happy.

And yet he could not put his fortune to the crucial test. For, on the day following his dramatic operation on the little boy, Paul, the most unexpected and banal occurrence took place.
Peggy’s summer holiday fell due, and she left quite quietly and unostentatiously to spend the fortnight with her folks at Dunhill.

When she had gone Finlay had full opportunity to examine his own position. He had begun by distrusting Peggy because of her family, good position, and obvious command of wealth. He had been
suspicious, feeling that it was wrong for her to be a nurse, and that she was posing, insincere. And, behaving contrary to his own generous nature, he had at the outset created a painful
misunderstanding between them, a gulf which later on he had despairingly felt he would never bridge.

But now a ray of comfort shone for him.

Peggy’s interest in his work, as shown so sincerely and spontaneously at the recent operation, gave him fresh hope. Perhaps, after all, she did care for him a little. His heart bounded at
the very thought, and he longed for the chance to ask her that question humbly and openly. The chance came, too, sooner than he anticipated.

A few days after Peggy had gone on holiday, Matron Clark greeted Finlay at the hospital in great good spirits.

‘They’re having a fête at Dunhill next Saturday,’ she declared. ‘Mr Angus has lent his grounds. A lovely place they have up there. And the funds are to go to the
hospital. Isn’t it splendid? Nurse Angus has arranged the whole thing.’

At the very mention of Peggy’s name and the thought that he might see her at the fête, Finlay’s pulse quickened.

‘That’s fine,’ he said to the matron, trying to keep his tone unconcerned. ‘You’ll be going up?’

‘I am indeed,’ agreed the matron with a brisk nod. ‘And I’m counting on you to drive me up, doctor.’

Finlay shook his head diffidently.

‘They’ll not want me up there,’ he answered, hoping to be contradicted. ‘I’m not exactly a favourite in that quarter.’

‘Nonsense!’ replied the matron. ‘And besides, it’s your duty to be there, seeing it’s a charity for the hospital.’

A slow smile came to Finlay’s face.

‘Oh, well,’ said he, ‘if that’s the case, I’ll not deny I’d like to go.’

From that moment Finlay began to look forward to the proposed function with his whole heart.

On the following afternoon when he got home he found a letter from old John Angus cordially inviting him to the fête. Finlay studied it in silence. Had Peggy mentioned him to her father?
Perhaps she had spoken for him kindly.

Overcome by a feeling of mingled ecstacy and suspense. Finlay sat down and quickly wrote his acceptance.

It was, he told himself, an almost providential opportunity, and as the day of the fête drew near his beating sense of anticipation increased. On that day he would ask Peggy to be his
wife.

Saturday came, bright and clear, and Finlay himself made arrangements to drive matron up to Dunhill. But at eleven o’clock on that forenoon an accident happened at the shipyard. Bob
Paxton, son of old John Paxton, the foundry foreman, fell from the upper deck of the Argentine cattle boat then in No. 5 Graving Dock, and was brought to the Cottage Hospital suffering from serious
internal injuries and concealed haemorrhage.

Finlay, long since a friend of the Paxton family, was called to Bob, and his view of the lad’s condition was grave. So grave, in fact, that he hesitated about leaving the case for long,
and with a dubious frown, he indicated to matron the inadvisability of his going to Dunhill.

‘It’s the haemorrhage I’m afraid of,’ he added. ‘I think we might have to do a transfusion.’

Matron raised her hands instantly.

‘That’s not a thing to rush into, doctor. And, besides, you wouldn’t think of doing it till this evening, anyhow.’

She was all ready for the expedition, and provoked to think of any interference with her pleasure.

Finlay’s look grew still more doubtful. He, too, wanted to go to Dunhill with all his soul, but the strong sense of duty in him revolted at the idea of putting himself out of touch with
this critical case.

He refused to commit himself until he had seen his patient again, and at two o’clock he returned to the hospital and again made his examination of the lad.

This time he had to agree that the symptoms were more encouraging. Bob had recovered consciousness, and, though very pallid from the effect of the internal bleeding, stoutly protested that he
was ‘fine’.

Added to matron’s pleadings, this persuaded Finlay. He instructed Nurse Cotter, who remained on duty, to keep a constant eye on the case. He himself would be back without fail at six
o’clock sharp.

So matron and Finlay set out together just after two. Thanks to the splendour of the day and the enjoyment of the drive, the grim reality of the hospital ward which they had left behind them
soon faded.

After all, Finlay could not tie himself to the bedside the whole day long. Such exacting service could surely be demanded of no man.

Long before they reached their destination his thoughts had flown ahead, and he was longing eagerly for his first glimpse of Peggy.

Towards three o’clock they arrived at Dunhill. The Angus estate was a beautiful place, approached by a long, winding drive, guarded by a lodge, and flanked by rhododendron bushes.

The house itself was of fine white sandstone, built in the baronial style, with imposing turrets and a high crenellated coping.

The grounds were at their best, bright with flowers and steeped in sunshine.

On the close-cropped lawns stalls, tents and marquees had been erected, around which there thronged crowds of people enjoying the gay display always found at such local charitable fêtes.
There were, for instance, various booths devoted to the sale of needlework and home-made cakes, candies and jellies.

Side shows offered their attractions and competitions, and their prizes, notably a fine cheese to be won by the lucky individual who would correctly guess its weight.

In the midst of all stood a large marquee, at which ices and teas were served.

At the head of the drive Finlay surrendered the horse and gig to a waiting groom, and, accompanied by the stout, thoroughly excited matron, made his way on to the front lawn.

They had not gone very far before they encountered Peggy, and at the sight of her Finlay felt his heart stand still. He had never seen her in other than her hospital uniform or in her plain
tennis dress, but now she wore a lovely frock of flowered muslin and a shady hat, which showed the coils of her beautiful hair clustered above her white neck.