by A. J. Cronin
Beth nursed her devotedly, wheedling her, coaxing her, humouring her with the utmost tenderness.
“Come away, my dear, and take your physic. Try some more of this nice chicken tea. This black-currant jelly should ease your cough.”
At last the reward came; reward for Finlay’s vigilance and Beth’s self-sacrificing care. A full fourteen days after the first day of her illness Finlay was able to pronounce that Anabel would recover.
At the news Beth sank down beside the bed and buried her head in the pillow beside her sister.
“Thank God!” she sobbed. She was overwrought from anxiety and loss of sleep. “ Thank God, you’re to be spared to me. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”
From that moment Anabel progressed rapidly towards recovery. Perhaps because the acute period of her illness had been prolonged, her convalescence was extraordinarily swift.
In ten days she was able to be up in her room, to sit by the window and watch the fascinating procession of ships as they stole up or down the Firth.
In a fortnight she was downstairs, in another week she was able to go but. And at the end of the month Finlay proclaimed her as good as new.
“Indeed, ye’re right, doctor,” she affirmed with a self-satisfied smile. “To tell you the truth I feel better than I did before I was taken ill.”
He smiled back at her as he took his departure.
“I’ll look in just once again before I finish with you. Say in a week or ten days. Will that suit you?”
“It’ll suit me fine, doctor,” she returned primly.
When he had gone she continued swaying herself gently backwards and forwards in the rocking-chair.
“He’s a nice young fellow that,” she ruminated amiably. “A nice young lad he is. Mind you, though, when all’s said and done, I wouldna go so far as to say ’twas him that saved me.”
She paused significantly.
“No, no! What really gave me the turn was you speakin’ to me like ye did.”
Another pause, vaguely triumphant.
“Ye see – the very idea that you had given in, Beth – speakin’ first like that – bad as I was – fair uplifted me.”
Beth sat up on the sofa, a little flush colouring her cheek. “ What are ye talkin’ about, my dear? It was you, Anabel, who spoke to me. “ Give me a drink’ says you as plain as I’m speakin’ to ye now.”
“No, no,” Anabel gently shook her head. “I mind fine how it was. Over ye came to my bedside and knelt down. Then, with tears in your eyes, ye said – ‘’Twas all my fault. Anabel, dear. I’ve been to blame for everything.’”
“What!” threw out Beth, stiffening in every limb, glowering at her sister from beneath those black brows of hers.
“Ay,” tittered. Anabel. “And you even said ye’d been wrong all along. ‘’Twas my turn,’ says you. ‘It really was my turn to call the cat.’”
“It’s not true!” shouted Beth.
“Eh? What’s that?” exclaimed Anabel, stopping her rocking and slowly reddening.
“It’s not true,” Beth repeated, viciously. “ It was you yourself said you were mistaken. You admitted it was your turn to call the cat.”
“I did nothing of the kind.”
“You did so.”
“I did not. It was not my turn to call the cat.”
“It was your turn.”
“It was not.”
On they went. On, on – right to the bitter, inevitable end.
And so, when Finlay called at the end of the week, silence reigned once more between the Scobie sisters. Beth and Anabel were passing notes exactly as they had done for fifteen years.
He went out of the house, stupefied, pressing his head between his hands. Then – after the manner of Cameron – he invoked the high heavens above.
“My God! If one of these auld deevils takes ill again I’ll see she doesn’t recover – if I’ve got to poison her myself.
4. Wife of a Hero
For days Levenford had talked of nothing but the match. Of course they were always “ daft on football” in these parts. They had the tradition, you see. In the good old days, when centre–forwards wore side whiskers and the goalie’s knickers buttoned below the knee, Levenford had been a team of champions.
That they had languished since those Homeric triumphs – languished to a low place in the Second League – was as nothing. Levenford was still Levenford. And now, in the first round of the Scottish Cup, they had drawn the Glasgow Rovers at home.
The Glasgow Rovers – top of the First Division – crack team of the country – and at home!
In the shipyards, the streets, the shops; in every howff from the Philosophical right down to the Fitter’s Bar, the thrill of it worked like madness.
Total strangers stopped each other at the Cross.
“Can we do it?” the one would gasp. And the other, with real emotion, would reply: “Well! Anyhow we’ve got Ned!”
Ned Sutherland was the man they meant – Sutherland, the idol, the prodigy, the paragon! Sutherland, subject of Bailie Paxton’s solemn aphorism – “He has mair fitba’ in his pinkie than the hale team has in their heids.”
Good old Sutherland! Hurray for Ned! Ned was not young; his age, guarded like a woman’s, was uncertain. But those in the know put Ned down at forty, for Ned, they wisely argued, had been playing professional football for no less than twenty years. Not in Levenford, dear, dear, no!
Ned’s dazzling career had carried him far from his native town – to Glasgow first, where his debut had sent sixty thousand delirious with delight, and then to Newcastle, from there to Leeds, then down to Birmingham – oh, Ned had been everywhere, never staying long, mark you, but always the centre of attraction, always the idol of the crowd.
And then, the year before, after a short interval when all the big clubs – with unbelievable stupidity – ignored his “free transfer”, he had returned magnificently to Levenford while still, as he said, in his prime, to put the club back upon the map.
It cannot be denied that there were rumours about Ned, base rumours that are the penalty of greatness.
It was whispered, for instance, that Ned loved the drink, that Newcastle had been glad to see the last of him, and Leeds not sorry to watch him go.
It was a shame, a scandal, an iniquity – the lies that followed him about.
What matter if Ned liked his glass? He could play the better for it, and very often did.
What matter if an occasional drink gaily marked the progress of his greatness? If his wanderings had been prodigal, was he not Levenford’s famous son?
Away with the slanderers! So said Levenford, for when Ned returned she took him to her heart.
He was a biggish man, was Ned, rather bald on the top, with a smooth pale face, and a moist convivial eye.
He had the look, not of a footballer, but rather of a toastmaster at a city banquet.
In his appearance he was something of the dandy; his suit was invariably of blue serge – neat, well brushed; on his little finger he wore a heavy ring with a coloured stone; his watch chain, stretched between the top pockets of his waistcoat, carried a row of medals he had won; and his shoes – his shoes in particular were polished till they shone.
Naturally Ned did not brush his shoes himself. Though most of the Levenford team held jobs in the shipyard and the foundry, Ned, as befitting his superior art, did not work at all. The shoes were brushed by Ned’s wife.
And here, with the mention of Mrs. Sutherland, is reached the point on which everyone agreed.
It was a pity, an awful pity, that Ned’s wife should be such a drag, such a burden on him – not only the wife but those five children of his as well. God! It was sickening that Ned should have tied himself up so young – that he had been forced to cart round the wife, and this increasing regiment of children upon his famous travels.
There, if you like, was the reason of his decline, and it all came back to the woman who was his wife.
As B
ailie Paxton put it knowingly – with a significant gesture of distaste – “Could she not have watched herself better?”
The plain fact is that Levenford held a pretty poor opinion of Mrs. Sutherland, a poor dowdy creature with downcast eyes. If she had been bonny once, and some would have it so. Lord! she wasn’t bonny now.
Little wonder if Ned was ashamed of her, and most of all on Saturday afternoons, when, emerging from obscurity, she actually appeared outside the football ground to wait for Ned.
Mind you, she never came to see the match, but simply to wait outside till Ned got his pay. To wait on the man for the wages in his pocket. Lord, wasn’t it deplorable?
It must be admitted that some stood up for her. Once in the Philosophical, when this matter was discussed, Dr. Cameron, who, strangely enough, seemed to like the woman, had sourly said:
“With five bairns to feed, she’s got to steer him past the pubs – at least as many as she can!”
But then Cameron always was a heretic who held the queerest notions of things and folk. And Ned’s popularity, as has been said, was far beyond the cranky notions of the few.
Indeed, as the day of the match gradually drew near, that popularity drew pretty near to glory.
Ned became a sort of god. When he walked down the high Street of Levenford, thumbs in his armholes, medals dancing, his smooth, genial smile acknowledging here, there, everywhere, they almost cheered him. At the Cross, he had a crowd about him – a crowd that hung on every word that passed those smooth convivial lips.
It was at the Cross too, that the memorable meeting took place with Provost Weir.
“Well, Ned, boy,” said the Provost, advancing his hand, affable as you like. “Can we do it, think ye?”
Ned’s eyes glistened. In no way discomposed, he shook the Provost’s hand and solemnly delivered himself of that:
“If the Rovers win, Provost, it’ll be over my dead body.”
One night, a week before the match, Mrs. Sutherland came to the doctor’s home.
It was late. The evening surgery was over. And, very humbly, Mrs. Sutherland came into Finlay, whose duty it was to see cases after hours.
“I’m terribly sorry to trouble you, doctor,” she began, and stood still, a neat, poorly-dressed figure, holding her mended gloves in her work-worn hands.
She was a pretty woman, or rather once she had been a pretty girl. For now there was about her a faded air; a queer transparency in her cheek and in her look, something so strained and shrinking, it cut Finlay to the quick.
“It’s foolish of me to have come,” she said again, then stopped.
Finlay, placing a chair beside his desk, asked her to sit down.
She thanked him with a faint smile.
“It’s not like me to be stupid about myself, doctor. I really should never have come. In fact, I’ve been that bothered making up my mind I nearly didn’t come at all.”
A hesitating smile; he had never seen anything so self-effacing as that smile.
“But the plain truth is I don’t seem to be seeing out of one of my eyes.”
Finlay laid down his pen.
“You mean you’re blind in one eye?”
She nodded, then added: “My left eye.”
A short silence fell. “Any headache?” he asked. “Well – whiles they come pretty bad,” she admitted. He continued to question her, as kindly and informally as he
could. Then, rising, he took his opthalmoscope, and darkened the
surgery to examine her eyes.
He had some difficulty in getting the retina. But at last he had
a perfect view. And, in spite of himself, he stiffened.
He was horrified. He had expected trouble – certainly he had
expected trouble – but not this.
The left retina was loaded with pigment which could only be
melanin. He went over it again, slowly, carefully – there was no
doubt about it.
He turned up the light again, trying to mask his face.
“Did you have a blow in the eye lately?” he inquired, not looking
at her, but watching her reflection in the over-mantel.
He saw her colour painfully, violently.
And she said too quickly: “ I might have knocked it on the dresser
– I slipped, last month, I think it was.”
He said nothing, but he tried to compose his features into
something reassuring.
“I’d like Dr. Cameron to see you,” he declared at length. “You
don’t mind?”
She fixed her quiet gaze on him.
“It’s something bad, then,” she said.
“Well,” he broke off helplessly – “ we’ll see what Dr. Cameron
says.” Wishing to add something but unable to find the words, very
lamely he left the room.
Cameron was in his study, smoothing the back of a fiddle with
fine sandpaper, humming his internal little tune.
“Mrs. Sutherland is in the surgery,” Finlay said.
“Ay,” Cameron answered, without looking up. “She’s a nice body.
I knew her when she was a lass, before she threw herself away on
that boozy footballer. What’s brought her in?”
“I think she’s got a melanotic sarcoma,” Finlay said slowly.
Cameron stopped humming, then very exactly he laid down his
fiddle. His gaze fastened upon Finlay’s face, and stayed there for a long time.
“I’ll come ben,” he said, rising.
They went into the surgery together.
“Weel, Jenny, lass, what’s all this we hear about you?” Cameron’s voice was gentle as though she were a child.
His examination was longer, even more searching than Finlay’s. At the end of it a swift look passed between the two doctors, a look confirming the diagnosis, a look that meant the death of Jenny Sutherland.
When she had finished dressing, Cameron took her arm.
“Well, now, Jenny, would that husband of yours look in and see Finlay and me the morn?”
She faced him squarely, with the singular precognition of women who have known a life of trouble.
“There’s something serious the matter with me, doctor.” Silence.
All the fineness of humanity was in Cameron’s face and in his voice as he answered:
“Something gey serious, Jenny.”
Now, strangely, she was more composed than he.
“What does it mean, then, doctor?”
But Cameron, for all his courage, could not speak the full, brutal truth.
How could he tell her that she stood there with her doom upon her, stricken by the most dreadful disease of any known to man, an unbelievably malignant growth which, striking into the eye, spreads through the body like flame – destroying, corrupting, choking! No hope, no treatment, nothing to do but face certain and immediate death!
Six days the least, six weeks the utmost, that now was the span of Jenny Sutherland’s life.
“Ye’ll have to go into hospital, lass,” he temporised.
But she answered quickly:
“I couldn’t leave the bairns. And Ned – with the big match coming off – it would upset him too, oh, it would upset him frightful – it would never do at all, at all.” She broke off, paused.
“Could I wait, maybe, till after the match?”
“Well, yes, Jenny – I suppose if you wanted you could wait.”
Searching his compassionate face, something of the full significance of his meaning broke upon her. She bit her lip hard. She was silent. Then, very slowly, she said:
“I see, doctor, I see now. Ye mean it doesna make much difference either way?”
His eyes fell, and at that she knew.
The morning of the great match dawned misty, but before the forenoon had advanced the sun broke through magnificently. The town was quiet, tense with a terrific excitement.
As earl
y as eleven o’clock, in the fear that they might not be able to secure a place, folks actually started to make their way to the ground. Not Ned, of course! Ned was in bed, resting, as he always did before each match. He had a most particular routine, had Ned, and this day more particular than any.
At ten Jenny brought him breakfast, a big tray loaded with porridge, two boiled eggs, a fine oatcake specially baked by herself. Then she went into the kitchen to prepare the special hough tea which, with two slices of toast, made up his light luncheon on playing days.
As she stood at the stove, Ned’s voice came through complainingly:
“Fetch me another egg when ye bring in my soup. I’m thinkin’ I’ll need it before I’m finished.”
She heard, and made a little movement of distress; then she went into him apologetically.
“I’m sorry, Ned! I gave ye the last egg in the house this morning.”
He glared at her.
“Then send out for one.”
“If ye would give me the money, Ned.”
“Money! God! It’s always money! Can’t ye get credit?”
She shook her head slowly.
“Ye know that’s finished long enough ago.”
“My God!” he exploded. “But ye’re a bonny manager. It’s a fine state of affairs when I’m sent on to the field starvin’.
“Bring in my soup quick then, and plenty of toast. Hurry up now or ye’ll not have time to rub me. And for Heaven’s sake keep those brats of yours quiet. They’ve near rung the lugs off me this morning.”
She went silently back to the kitchen and, with a warning gesture, stilled the two young children there – the others had been dressed quite early and sent, out of their father’s way, to play on the green.
‘Then she brought him his soup, and stood by the bed while he supped it noisily. Between the mouthfuls he looked up at her and surlily demanded:
“What are ye glowerin’ at – with a face that would frighten the French? God knows, I havena had a smile out of ye for the last four days.”
She found a smile – the vague, uncertain travesty of a smile.
“Lately I haven’t been feeling too well, Ned, to tell you the truth.”
“That’s right! Start your complaining and me on the edge of a cup-tie. Damnation, it’s enough to drive a man stupid the way ye keep moanin’ and groanin’.”