Dr Finlay's Casebook (9 page)

The matron came immediately and, to Finlay’s surprise and discomfiture, was not at all the motherly figure he knew so well. No, she was not grey-haired, stiff in the knee joints and
visibly corseted. As she advanced unsmiling, with hand outstretched in greeting, he saw that she was young, tall and supple, with neat feet and lovely legs. As if that were not enough to disarm him
she was, absolutely and without question, a very beautiful young woman.

‘Although we have never met, I assume that you are Dr Finlay. I am Miss Lane, the new matron at the children’s hospital and I gratefully accept the offer of your house and garden as
a convalescent home for our children, subject of course, to the completion of certain necessary arrangements.’

‘Such as?’ inquired Finlay.

She smiled, a calm superior smile. ‘You cannot convert a beautiful private house to a home for young children without certain adjustments. May I therefore have the privilege of inspecting
your house now?’

Finlay immediately got up and, without a word, led the way through the lovely garden to his house, and flung open the door.

She entered gracefully, as one accustomed to luxurious surroundings and, followed by the silent Finlay, closely examined the house and its furnishings. Examining minutely the carpets of the
large dining-room she said mildly, ‘You know of course what you have here, doctor?’

‘Of course,’ Finlay said shortly, ‘Orientals.’

She shuddered visibly. ‘For God’s sake, don’t use that atrocious word which encompasses all the rubbish sold at Shepherd Market. This, for example,’ (she indicated an
elegant rug with a beautiful floral design), ‘is a perfectly lovely Kirman Lavar, a Persian Flower Carpet of the ninth century with thousands of stitches in a single six-inch square. Why, a
peasant woman may have given her entire lifetime to the creation of this noble work of art. Now this rug, and your others, which are equally fine, must be removed and in their place the floor must
be covered with a coconut fibre carpet.’

‘Is this really necessary, matron?’

‘It is in your best interests, Dr Finlay, otherwise heaven knows what will happen to your priceless carpets with messy and often incontinent young children in the house!’

Finlay was silent. This was an aspect of his philanthropy he had failed completely to discern. Meanwhile the matron continued. ‘I also strongly advise you to remove all breakable objects.
These fine K’ang Hsi plates on the sideboard must be stored, so also that beautiful Ch’ien Lung vase and the Ming bowl. These enticingly coloured objects would immediately attract the
children, who would either climb up to pull them down or throw stones at them.’

Finlay was silent; then, sarcastically, he said, ‘Ye ken a lot about antiques, madam. Ye must have served your time in one o’them second-hand junk shops.’

‘Unfortunately no, Dr Finlay. The little knowledge I possess was acquired from my dear father, Regius Professor of Oriental Studies at Oxford University, whom I frequently accompanied on
his visits to the East.’

‘He should have left you there, madam. One of them sheiks would have given you what you rightly deserve – a damn good shaking and whatever would follow it.’

‘No man yet born will ever shake me.’

‘Indeed, madam?’ said Finlay putting his hands on her shoulder and giving her a gentle shake.

Immediately he found himself sprawling on the floor.

‘I should have told you, doctor, that when I was at Girton I took a special course in self-defence which gives me the ability to deal with any attacker as I have dealt with you.’

While still in his ignominious position, Finlay laughed heartily as though at an excellent joke until, without warning, a sudden spring put him back on his feet with his hands firmly gripping
her waist. Then she was lifted from her feet and laid tenderly on her back on the Kirman rug, with her skirt over her head and her white knickers exposed, paying tribute to the skill of her
laundress and the slender beauty of her legs. To ensure her immobility Finlay seated himself upon her stomach, murmuring, ‘No man, madam? What about Girton now?’

At that precise moment there came a knock on the door and Janet entered with a tray.

‘I thought ye’d be wantin’ coffee, sir, for yourself and your lady guest.’

‘Thank you Janet. Serve it now.’

‘No sugar for me please, Janet.’ The request came from somewhere about Finlay’s nether regions. And at this evidence of hardihood Finlay stood up and taking hold of both hands
of his victim, lifted her to her feet and placed her tenderly in a Louis XVI armchair.

‘Don’t talk about this, Janet,’ said Finlay as he received his cup. ‘Miss Lane was just showing me some exercises she learned at her college.’

‘It seems to me, sir,’ said Janet as she departed, ‘that the lady was showing ye more than her exercises.’

‘Well, now that we are seated and in our right minds, dear matron, may I enquire if the coffee is to your taste?’

‘Delicious, you great brute. I’ll take another cup if you have it.’

‘Certainly, Miss Lane,’ Finlay responded. approaching with the coffee pot. ‘I believe you are
Alice
Lane, if I am ever permitted to address you by your first
name?’

‘You may do so now, Dr Finlay. To be absolutely truthful I came here so fed up by all the praiseworthy things said of you in the paper and elsewhere that I thought I would teach you a
lesson. Instead it is you who have so taught me.’

‘Oh, nonsense, Alice! I would not dream of behaving rudely to a lady so charming as you and one in so useful and important a position as that to which you have been appointed. I can now
tell you, emphatically, that you may do as you think fit here for your little ones. Your arrangements are accepted before they are made. For why in the name of heaven should I act as the proud
proprietor of a house that only fell into my hands by a series of accidents, sanctioned by the kindness and goodwill of the Town Council?’

She seemed about to speak but instead smiled and pressed his hand.

‘So now,’ Finlay went on, ‘may I regard you as a dear friend?’

Her smile deepened and, as she had not relinquished his hand she pressed it again.

‘How can I say “no” to a gentleman who has seen me in my drawers?’

The alliance between Finlay and the new matron prospered rapidly. All the rugs and precious china were stored and locked in the little side room once intended for Finlay’s consultations.
Coconut matting was laid on the beautiful polished-oak floors and half a dozen hospital beds were set up in the big drawing-room for those children not yet able to walk.

‘Does that suit you, matron?’ asked Finlay as they finished a tour of inspection together. To which she replied, ‘Could not be better, doctor.’

Then on a lovely sunny day the ambulance started to run between Barton Hills and the new convalescent home. At the same time a flood of photographers descended upon the house and would not be
denied. Shots were taken of everything and everyone, inside and outside the converted house. Finlay was photographed in his shirt-sleeves carrying the children from the ambulance. One absolutely
marvellous shot portrayed him with a little crippled girl of five in his arms while the child, leg irons dangling, raised her head to kiss him on the cheek.

This photograph was a ‘natural’ for the Press. It appeared in all the Scottish papers, then in the London dailies and finally found its way into the pictorial magazines – the
Sphere
and the
Sketch
. Accompanying the photograph was a heart-warming account of the young Scottish doctor who had sacrificed his fine house for that most worthy of all charities,
the treatment and care of crippled children. Finally the climax was reached when a well-known journalist, noted for his acid ability to denigrate the rich and the famous, strolled unannounced into
the home where Finlay, stripped to the waist, was giving the children, two by two, their weekly bath in an atmosphere of steam, splashing, soap suds and general merriment. What he saw caused him to
stay, not only for all of that day, but for the entire week. He then returned to London and wrote, from the heart, an article entitled ‘My Selection for the Man of the Year’.

Although this remained unread by Finlay and his matron, its general effect was profound. The Caledonian Hotel began to fill up with visitors whose main purpose was to see or at least catch a
glimpse of this young Highland doctor, a Scottish paragon who had given up his fine house to the treatment and care of crippled and disabled children whom he personally fed, bathed, carried about,
massaged and exercised, with the help of a young and supremely beautiful matron.

Taking advantage of this influx, Finlay fixed a big collection box on the gate with three simple words emblazoned on it: FOR THE CHILDREN.

‘What a good turn that journalist chap has done us,’ Finlay remarked to his matron as they took tea in the kitchen, one of the few moments of the day they were alone together.
‘You know I was beginning to run out of money.’

‘Your own money?’

‘Certainly, and why not? This is my show! Sorry, Alice dear,
our
show.’

She thought for a moment. ‘I wonder how much we’ve been given by those kind people. Twenty pounds perhaps?’

‘You’re joking, child! These most generous visitors gave, all in all, over five hundred pounds!’

‘Now
you
are joking, surely?’

‘Come on down with me to the bank and see for yourself then.’

Together, arm in arm, they set off for the town, leaving Janet to keep an eye on the children. Firmly clasped in his right hand Finlay carried his historic black bag, now emptied of instruments
but even heavier than before. As they walked down Church Street every eye was directed towards them – the good burghers of Tannochbrae simply stopped and stared.

‘I say, Finlay, isn’t this a bit too much! Let’s go a quieter road.’

‘Most certainly not. Next time I’ll bring our collection box with us.’

At the bank Finlay asked politely if they might see the manager and almost immediately they were shown to his sanctum, being greeted with the utmost cordiality by Mr Ferguson himself.

‘Come in, come in, the pair o’ ye, and sit down. I ken the both o’ ye, but if I didna I’d have only to look at the
Herald
. It’s full o’ ye both, with
photographs and all.’

‘Thank you, sir, for your kind reception. And possibly you may know the reason of our visit. Collections have been coming in so fast for our Children’s Home I would like to bank what
we have in hand, and place it in a new account specially for our Home and of course the children.’

‘Well, then, let’s see first what ye have.’ Accepting the bag from Finlay, he emptied the contents on to his desk.

Rapidly he counted the notes and the silver. Then, with a smile, he looked at Finlay. ‘Young man, ye are a lot richer nor I thought. What do ye want done with this considerable
sum?’

‘Banked in the name of the Home, sir, for the sole benefit of the children therein.’

‘What, lad! You have over £500 here. And not a penny for yourself who does all the work, or your lady here who assists you?’

Finlay exchanged a glance with Alice. ‘We wish it all to go for the benefit, care and comfort of the children.’

‘And for all the good food they eat,’ added Alice.

Mr Ferguson leant back in his chair and studied them both. ‘Surely in reason, in common fairness, you are entitled, each of you, to a reasonable salary? And you, Finlay, a rent for the
premises?’

‘Miss Lane and I have decided to give our services free for this most worthy cause. For the same reason I want not a penny of rental for my house.’

Again the manager was silent. Finally he said: ‘If we, the bank, were to give a special donation of £100 how would you use it?’

Without hesitation Finlay said: ‘Sir, I would buy a special apparatus to cure a little girl who cannot walk, who is now wearing leg irons that she will never be free of. Just think of it
sir, paralysed for life. I am now giving her special massage and electrical treatment. If I had this apparatus definitely available I believe it might encourage her to do what she has never done
– to try, herself, to walk.’

There was a brief silence, then the manager said, ‘Finlay, I will see that £100 is paid into your
own
account today. And perhaps, later on, you will permit me to visit you to
see this apparatus in action.’

‘Come, sir, by all means,’ replied Finlay at once. ‘Just give me a few weeks to get the treatment started.’

Wisely, the manager waited three months before making this promised visit, and what he saw gladdened his heart. While the other children were playing noisily in another part of the garden, a
little girl was trying to walk. Supporting herself by leaning on the aluminium handle-bars of a contrivance with little rubber-tyred wheels, she was slowly pushing forward her little machine,
encouraged by Finlay.

‘Good, good, lass! Bend the right knee, again, again! Well done, lass. Now take a rest on the saddle.’

The child slid herself back on the seat of the machine and turned towards Finlay with a little smile that was good to see.

‘Now dearie,’ said Finlay, ‘you’ll be pleased to know that you went twenty yards under your own power. And now you are coming for your wee walk with me. And after that,
you’ll have your lovely hot bath and fifteen minutes of massage for your good new muscles.’

Standing back unnoticed in the shadows, the manager saw Finlay lift the little girl from her saddle and set her down carefully on her feet. Then, holding her hand and arm tightly, he walked with
her for another twenty yards, momentarily releasing his grasp of her hand so that she actually, for a brief moment, walked alone. Then with a triumphant cheer Finlay carried her indoors.

The manager did not reveal himself. What he had seen had touched him, and his tears were flowing freely, almost blinding him, as he turned and made his way back to the world of commerce and the
bank.

Teresa

Summer had passed, autumn had come, and the fall of leaves had kept the children busy, sweeping and brushing the drive and the woodland paths. In the early dusk there would be
bonfires to delight and enliven childish hearts. Some of the children were now so greatly improved they would soon return to the parent institution at Muirhead, possibly for return to their own
homes, if these were judged to be suitable. In any case, Dr Finlay’s house was only for the warm weather. In winter, without adequate heating, it must close until spring came again. And now
Finlay, with time on his hands, was free to give more help to his long-suffering partner in the practice. Aided by the comforting sight of the horrendous appendix on the mantelpiece of the
consulting room, Dr Cameron, rejuvenated, had come through the slack season without apparent difficulty. But now, with winter looming ahead, Finlay saw that he must be back to resume his normal
occupation, and to shoulder, once again, the heavier portion of the work of the practice.