‘Certainly, sir. If she can be persuaded to take it.’
‘Aye, that’s the rub, lad. But there comes a tide in the affairs of men. Ye ken what I mean?’
‘Perfectly, sir. And without the aid of Shakespeare. I do agree that to have a fresh, cheery young face instead of Janet’s “soor plooms” bringing in your breakfast wad not be a change for the worse.’
‘Exactly, lad. I could not have put it better myself. Now tell me, you’re always about the young folks – bein’ young yourself – do you ken such a young lass as I’m speaking about?’
Finlay reflected. True enough, he was always about when the games, football or hockey, of the Academy boys and girls were being played. And there was one lass who had most favourably caught his eye.
‘Bess Buchanan,’ he said.
‘Ay, Bob Buchanan the barber’s dochter.’
‘His only daughter, sir. And a splendid lass. Captain of the hockey team and the principal girl in the Kinderspiel last winter. She must be in her last term at school.’
‘Ay, ay. She sounds as if she might stand up to Janet for a couple of weeks, maybe. I’ll step in at Bob’s this verra morning. I’m needin’ a shave anyway.’
All day Finlay went about his round of visits, unconscious of time and the possible consequences of what he had started. Nor, at the midday meal, did Cameron say a word, though his silence was portentous. However, at four o’clock, the end of the scholastic day, a clear, strong young voice was heard in the house and presently a fine, smiling girl appeared before Finlay with the tea tray.
‘Dr Cameron is out, sir, so I brought yours in first.’
‘Oh, thank you, Bess. And please don’t call me sir. To you, dear lass, I’m always Finlay.’
‘Thank you, sir, I mean Finlay.’
‘That’s better! Now pour yourself a cup, take a big slice of cake and sit down. Dr Cameron is out visiting Miss Walker, she’ll keep him a good hour.’
Finlay exerted himself to please and with another thick slice of cake (Janet’s special) succeeded in correcting the icy reception Bess had received downstairs in the kitchen. Indeed Bess herself assured him, ‘My father warned me she was an old harridan, and told me not to mind her!’
Dr Cameron was a long time coming for his tea, indeed, by wise foresight he missed it altogether. And his first words to Finlay were: ‘Everything go all right with young Bess?’
So it appeared. Dead silence reigned below, and cheerfully and quietly, Bess served the dinner. But unfortunately the soup was cold, the potatoes hard as stones, and the milk pudding full of lumps.
‘If only she had let me do it, sir,’ Bess said to the defeated Dr Cameron. ‘I often make the dinner at home. She just done it for spite.’
Cameron said not a word, but his brow was dark with sombre thought and suddenly he stood up and spoke.
‘Get on your coats and hats both of the two o’ ye. If she thinks I’m going to let you young people starve tae daith as weel as masel’, she’s sadly mistaken.’
Donning his own coat and hat, he led the way out of the house and into the High Street where an interested populace watched him barge into the fine new restaurant, known locally as the Swank. Undeterred by the interest he was creating the bold Cameron commandeered a table and, subtly guided by the head waiter, ordered a dinner such as he and his two guests had never tasted.
Oh, the deliciousness of it, after Janet’s horrid offerings!
‘Man, Finlay,’ said Cameron when the caviar was served. ‘This potted heid is the best I ever lipped.’
‘Do you like it too, Bess dear?’ asked Finlay, enjoying the company fully as much as the scrumptious repast.
‘It’s next to heaven.’
‘I thought I occupied that privileged position,’ Finlay murmured.
In reply to this, Bess blushed and looked down.
When the next course, ris de veau à la crème, had been served the manager sidled up followed by a young man whom Finlay immediately recognised as the reporter for the Tynecastle Times.
‘Dr Cameron, sir, forgive my intrusion. We are a new enterprise anxious to promote ourselves by publicising the distinguished patrons who honour us with their custom. For instance, the Duke of Argyll was here last week and had some very flattering things to say of our cuisine. Now, doctor, you sir are just as well known as the duke, indeed locally, even better so. Do you feel disposed to say a good word for us, as he did?’
‘I’ll be outdone by nae duke,’ said the worthy doctor, setting himself square in his chair. ‘And I’ll tell ye straight, sir, when a man is driven from his home by the worst cookin’ in the world, a deliberate waste o’ good honest food that’s made to taste like pig’s swill, fit to poison ye, then it’s time for him to walk out to the best and nearest establishment where every bite ye eat is delicious, superlative, and at the same time fully nutritious.’
The usually imperturbable face of the tough, experienced manager, actually flushed with pleasure. ‘Did ye get a’ that, Willie?’ he whispered.
‘Every word o’ it, sir. And it will be a banner headline in the Times the morn’s morn, “RENOWNED LOCAL PHYSICIAN SCORNS HOME COOKING, PRAISES ‘SWANK’ CUISINE SKY HIGH!” ’
‘That’s it, Willie! That will bring them in.’ Then he turned to Cameron, ‘Dr Cameron I feel favoured by your generous unsolicited compliment and in return, permit me to extend to you, freely and without charge, the courtesy of dinner here, for yourself and your companions, for the further period.’
‘Including tonight,’ prompted the wily Cameron.
‘Most assuredly, sir.’
When the good doctor and his adherents reached home their usual snack of porridge and buttermilk awaited them, but none of the party seemed to fancy it.
‘We’ll just leave it,’ said the bold Cameron. ‘It will teach her a lesson.’
Next morning, the breakfast appeared as usual: porridge and sweet milk, boiled eggs and good Scottish rolls.
‘We’ll no’ stuff ourselves,’ said Cameron. ‘Save up for our dinner tonight.’
At lunch, which consisted of fresh Dover soles, nicely fried, with a full complement of crisp fried potatoes, there was no question of stinting themselves.
‘We’ve taught her a lesson. This is just as good as the Swank.’
‘Better,’ said Finlay mildly. ‘Do we want to go out again tonight?’
‘Tuts, lad. We’re invited, we canna refuse.’ Then, when night fell, without a word to Janet, the bold doctor led his party to the Swank where their table of the night before had been reserved for them. In the manager’s absence – he was obliged to officiate at a private dinner party – they were courteously received by the head waiter who, by his accent, revealed his Scottish origin.
‘Well, doctor, sir, what shall we begin with tonight?’
‘For me, I’d like nothing better than that special potted heid.’
‘The caviar, sir?’
‘Is that what ye call it?’
‘It has to have a fancy name, sir. Ye see, it’s nothing but the rotted guts o’ a Russian fish.’
Cameron sat, stunned, while Finlay and Bess ordered tomato juice.
Presently the waiter returned.
‘Seeing you fancy it, doctor, I’ve brought you an extra large portion, and mind you sir, this stuff costs a fortune.’
Silently, Cameron studied the black mass on the lovely white plate.
Costs a fortune! he thought. Well, I like it, so I’ll no’ waste it. Bravely he began on the caviar, but the words ‘rotten Russian fish guts’ kept ringing in his mind. And strangely, perhaps because it lacked the accompanying brandy, it tasted different, in fact just like rotten guts. But the waiter was watching with great interest, so too were Finlay and Bess. He must clear the plate, somehow get it down. But no, at last nature protested, he faltered, then suddenly dropped the fork and rushed through the swing doors into the cool, dark night. Alas, the horrid sounds of retching rent the air and came back to the listening pa
ir as a man-size Russian vomit.
‘We should go to him,’ whispered Bess.
‘Ach! He’ll find his way home. Janet will see to him. Let’s enjoy our dinner together.’
And so they did. Going straight on to lovely pink roast beef with mashed potatoes and sprouts.
‘Isn’t this lovely, dear Dr Finlay,’ murmured Bess.
‘Nothing could be nicer, darling,’ Finlay agreed, looking into her eyes. The waiter, watching them, was quite paternal.
‘Another fine slice o’ the beef for both of you?’
‘It’s delicious, Willie.’
‘Ay! Ye’ll get nae Russian fish guts frae me.’
Bess sighed softly. ‘This would be perfect, Finlay, if it wasna for my best boy.’
‘I’m your best boy, Bess.’
‘What I mean is that I’m supposed to be engaged to Alex Douglas. In fact I can see him looking through the window at us now.’
‘I’ll settle him when we get outside.’
‘No, no, no, Finlay! I’m not wanting a common fight over me in the public street. My parents would hear of it and it would disgrace me for ever.’
‘Then who do ye want?’
Dead silence. Then in a little whisper:
‘I’m afraid I’ve gone sae far wi’ Alex.’
‘Ye mean he’s . . .’
More feebly still she replied, ‘Yes . . . several times.’
My God, thought Finlay, rotten fish guts and now this, all in one night. And for me, what a close shave. After a moment he said firmly. ‘Well Bess, away out to Alex now. He’ll see ye home. Goodnight, dear.’
When she had gone Finlay ordered himself a brandy. When he had downed it he said goodnight to Willie, then set off through the empty streets alone.
There was a light in the dining-room. And there, sitting together over a wee drop of goodness, were Dr Cameron and a penitent Janet. Finlay thought he’d leave them to it.
The next morning, at seven o’clock prompt, porridge and sweet milk, soft boiled eggs, new-baked scones and strong coffee appeared on the table.
As Finlay watched the good doctor humbly eating this magnificent repast he could not, as he sat down, resist a final word.
‘Better than that Russian stuff, eh sir?’
A Moral Dilemma
All was now sweetness and light in the home of the good Dr Cameron. Never was the worthy doctor so forbearing to his patients, so pleasant to Dr Finlay, so courteous to his faithful housekeeper. Now that the no-longer-needed Bess had departed, presumably of her own free will, all was peace in the kitchen. And, as any good Scotsman will testify, when all is well below stairs, then you have a happy home.
Only one member of the household seemed not quite at ease. A worried frown disfigured the noble brow of Dr Finlay; his eye was clouded and remote. On several occasions when Dr Cameron addressed him, he was obliged to stir himself and murmur, in apology, ‘What was that you said, sir?’
Experience had shown that to disturb Finlay in these moods of introspection was to court disaster. If for instance some well meaning acquaintance, meeting him in the street, were to say, smilingly, ‘What’s on your mind, Finlay, old boy?’ he might receive the sombre and totally unexpected answer, ‘Mind your own damn business, and let me mind mine.’ With these offensive words, Finlay reserved the right to solve his own problems, and when the opportunity presented itself, to act upon them as he thought wise and proper.
Some ten days later Finlay entered the establishment of Robert Buchanan, Barber and Hairdresser, and seated himself quietly to await his turn. This was not long in coming since Finlay was now an acknowledged and esteemed personality in Tannochbrae. And soon Bob Buchanan himself came bustling out of his office to seat Finlay in the special chair by the window.
‘Is it the usual, Finlay? Cut and trim?’
‘Please, Bob. But first I would like to apologise for the treatment your splendid daughter received from our jealous auld bag o’ a housekeeper, who couldna bear to see your sweet lass do everything so easily, ay, everything she groaned and complained about hersel’.’
‘Ay, Bess is a good lass, though lately she hasna been quite herself. Mind you, Finlay, she liked working for ye, and had hoped ye would teach her to dispense the medicines.’
‘And so I would have, Bob. I think the world of your lass and certainly would have helped her to take her dispenser’s certificate. In fact, it’s because I esteem her so highly I would like your permission to speak of her today. Bob, as a father, what is your view on children – boys and girls – having full, complete, and unrestricted knowledge of each other without the consent of their parents?’
Bob was so surprised, he actually stopped snipping.
‘Why, Finlay, I . . . I think it would be abominable, disgusting and sinful in fact.’
‘These are exactly my views. For the fellow it’s little enough, he may or may not decide to marry the girl. But for the girl it is the ruination of everything that’s sacred and can very easily end in disaster. What would Tannochbrae think of a dear wee lass who faces the village with a little bastard in her pram?’
Bob stopped clipping altogether. ‘Finlay! I fear ye have something on your mind. Come into the office with me now.’
Quickly, he brushed Finlay’s hair, whipped off the sheet, and led the way into his office. There, facing each other, the two men sat knee to knee in silence.
At last Finlay felt obliged to speak:
‘Bob, my dear friend, whom I have known all my days, even when I was a bairn and my mother took me to you to have my curls cut. Bob, it breaks my heart to tell you, for I dearly love your Bess . . . but it is my duty and I must do it. Bob, your daughter has been raped, used like a common whore and still is twice a week, behind a dyke, in the woods, anywhere at a’ and is abused by a man we both know.’
A deathly stillness settled over the little office, and Finlay prayed that he had made the right decision. He waited a few moments then said, as calmly as possible, ‘Now, dear Bob, this painful information came to me as an admission from your daughter. I have struggled day and night with the problem of whether or not to tell you, but in the end I saw that it was my duty, to you – and to Bess whom I love with all my heart.’
Again silence filled the little office. Then Finlay felt his right hand grasped as in a vice and slowly he was drawn towards Bob until his cheek rested against the other’s tear-drenched face. At last the words came as though wrenched from clenched teeth: ‘I’ll kill the scoundrel.’
With an effort Finlay broke free.
‘Be calm, Bob. Calm and strong. For the sake of Bess, whom we both love, don’t act on impulse.’ He paused for a few seconds then continued, ‘It’s quite clear that these two are infatuated, not so much with each other as with the pleasure, illicit thought it is, they derive from each other. In other words that attraction for each other is purely physical, and only physical force will stop it.’
‘If you mean to thrash that young blackguard I’ve already tried it, Finlay. I gave him a damn good hiding, and it only made her go to him all the more out of pity.’
After another, more lengthy, silence Finlay spoke again. ‘Bob, I have given a good deal of thought to your problem, and there is only one way to deal with it. As I said just now the attraction between these two is physical, easy and accessible contact. They must therefore be separated.’
He paused to let this sink in, then he resumed. ‘Now, at my university in Glasgow, they have instituted a scheme to deal with the Spanish War orphans. Boatloads of them have just arrived at the Broomielaw. My old teacher, Professor Sinclair, is now calling for young people to help in the reception and care of these poor little waifs. Now listen Bob, I have kept in touch with Professor Sinclair and if I let him know the circumstances, he will give Bess work that will fit her case, work in a country settlement that will certainly touch her heart and absorb her interest and attention. She will go to her cot – in a dormitory of girls – too tired even to think.’
>
In the silence that followed Finlay felt his hand gripped again.
‘So you agree Bob. I thought you would!’
The answer came instantly. ‘Of course I agree, dear Finlay, with all my heart, and I beg you to ring your professor, right away, soon, soon!’
Finlay replied quickly and firmly, ‘I have already telephoned him, Bob! It’s all arranged. Ye may send Bess off first thing tomorrow. Tell her to go straight from the station to Professor Sinclair at the university. I’ve got him really interested in her case and he will take care of everything.’
Six months later on a fine autumn afternoon Finlay had just come in from a brief foray on the moors when Janet called to him, ‘There’s a lady and gentleman to see you. It’s such a fine afternoon they’re waiting outside in the porch.’
Finlay put down his gun and a brace of partridges then walked round to the porch. Immediately a young man stood up and held out his hand.
‘Forgive us for disturbing you at this hour, Dr Finlay. My wife was so anxious for us to visit you that we came directly to you from the station, before going on to my dear wife’s home. The name’s Sinclair, by the way.’
Shading his eyes against the sun Finlay saw the young man to be well set up, handsome, quietly dressed in tweeds and wearing a university ‘blues’ tie. Sinclair? thought Finlay. Suddenly the light struck.
‘You are Professor Sinclair’s son?’
‘Yes, indeed, sir. He sends his very best regards and remembrances to you. And this lady here, my dear wife, surely you know her?’
‘Bess! Bess Buchanan!’
‘Now Bess Sinclair, darling.’ And rising Bess planted a soft, warm kiss on Finlay’s cheek, whispering, ‘How much I owe you dear doctor. You must realise that when you look at me. I am happy, so happy, and am at last truly and serenely in love!’
For a moment Finlay was too overcome to speak.
‘It’s the orphans who did it,’ he muttered, at last.
‘And weren’t you responsible for the orphans?’ countered Bess warmly.
This was too much for everyone. Even Janet, who had been listening at the door, went away cackling to the kitchen. At last Finlay said, ‘How good of you to come first to me, Bess. Will you take tea here? Or would you like me to drive you home?’