and murmured tenderly in his ear.
‘Dearest Finlay, best assistant in a’ the world, I was sair afraid our wonderful partnership was broken, and all our adventures tegether over and done with. But now, please the good
Lord, now we’re all set to carry on our good work and to establish new records of our achievements in the annals of Scottish medicine which may honour us, not only before our colleagues but,
please God, in the eyes of our compatriots.’
Sad News and an Old Flame
One fine evening that autumn, when Finlay had a free half-hour after his surgery, he strolled, bareheaded, down the Gielston Road to enjoy the cool air and catch a glimpse of
the setting sun as it vanished in a blaze of glory behind the Lammermuir Hills. Alone at this hour and in such a place his mood was meditative and, as had been his habit during the past few months,
inclined to sadness and regret. Possibly, in his profession, he had been a success of sorts. But in his personal life? Ah! That brought neither pride nor consolation to his thoughts.
So many of his contemporaries were married, each with a wife and children to bless and harass them. But he had failed to achieve this natural consummation of a man’s life. His one chance
to achieve love and happiness he had been too timid to accept and treasure when it was offered. And in the swift passage of time it was gone, lost forever. Destined when he retired to become that
pitiful object, a lonely bachelor; condemned to nights of solitude, without even a dog to lie beside him while he read, or dreamed, the evening away.
Abruptly he turned – the sky had lost its radiance – and at a brisk pace he started off for the house of Dr Cameron which he must perforce call home.
He had not gone far before his name was called and the quick patter of running footsteps caused him to turn round.
A boy, with a strapped bundle of books under one arm, was smiling, and calling to him by name.
‘Dr Finlay, sir! I’ve finally caught you. Every night this week I’ve been taking my evening run out here in the hope of meeting you.’
‘Bob Macfarlane! Dear Bob!’ Finlay embraced the lad. ‘What in the world are ye doing back in Tannochbrae?’
‘It’s rather a long story, doctor, and a tragic one. Did you not read all about it in all the newspapers?’
‘I rarely have time for the papers, Bob.’
‘Well, it’s just this, Finlay. You know that my father was constantly engaged in steel construction work. The last one was a huge new block of flats in Anderston. Dad was always in
demand, for he could climb and balance on the big metal girders like a monkey. Dangerous work but wi’ big, big wages. It was a treat to look up from far below and see him leap across a huge
gap, from one narrow girder on to another still floating on the cranes.’ Bob paused, then said steadily: ‘One morning Dad tried too wide a jump, missed the other girder,’ a pause,
‘and fell three hundred feet to the concrete pavement. Thank God he suffered no horrible injuries. He was killed instantly.’
Shocked by this terrible news Finlay was silent. Then he said, ‘Surely your mother got some compensation!’
‘The big London company offered her £500. She would have accepted it but fortunately Charles Dean, a young lawyer my mother knows, stepped in and said “No!” He told
mother he would not stand by and see her swindled. He returned the cheque and started a suit against the company for culpable negligence, responsibility for the death of one of their employees and
damages thereon. Apparently my father should have been provided with a belted sling support from the overhead crane. The company tried to buy him off, but they didn’t know Charlie Dean. He
wouldn’t have it. He fought tooth and nail for my dear mother and, in the very end, when the London newspapers got word of the case and were preparing to make a big story out of it, the
company finally gave in. Mr Dean was able to present my dear
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