Shannon's Way

  This jarring personality annoyed me.

  “I thought I said to clear the room.”

  “All right, then,” he said brusquely. “ Push off.”

  “You push off,” I answered with some heat.

  “Why should I? It’s my surgery.”

  I realized that I was in the presence of Dr. Mathers.

  At this point the ambulance arrived, a diversion which caused considerable commotion. When at last the little patient had been made completely comfortable and carefully removed, the police officer closed his note-book, shook my hand solemnly, and took his leave. The dispenser went into the front premises, the remnants of the crowd dissolved, the traffic resumed its roar. Dr. Mathers and I were alone.

  “You have a nerve,” he resumed. “Walking into my office. Messing it up with blood. And I don’t even get a fee for it.”

  I rolled down my sleeves and put on my jacket.

  “When I’m in funds I’ll send you a cheque for ten guineas.”

  He bit his thumbnail for a moment, as though chewing upon my remark. All his nails were bitten close.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Shannon.”

  “I suppose you’re some sort of doctor.”

  I glanced at his framed diploma, hung on the wall behind him. It was the certificate of the Conjoint Board, the lowest possible qualification with which a man was entitled to practise.

  “Yes,” I said. “Are you?”

  He reddened slightly and, with an air of uncovering a fraud, turned abruptly to his desk and picked up the Medical Directory. Slashing through the pages with the energy which characterized all his movements, he quickly found my name.

  “Shannon,” he said. “ Robert Shannon. We’ll soon see.” But as he read the list of my qualifications and the prizes which I had taken, his face fell. He closed the book, sat down on the Rexine-covered revolving chair, tilted back on his head the bowler hat which he still wore, and fell to studying me in a new manner.

  “You’ve heard of me,” he said, at length.

  “Never.”

  “You must have. James Mathers. I’ve the biggest practice in the city. Three thousand on the panel. The maximum. All the other doctors hate me. I cut the feet from under them. I’m very popular with the people.”

  Still watching me, he rolled a cigarette, expertly, with his left hand, and stuck it, drooping, in his mouth. His cockiness was amazing. He was dressed in a loud, professional style, with broad striped trousers, short black jacket, winged collar, and a stock with a diamond pin in it. But his chin was blue; he needed a shave.

  “So you’re out of a job?” he asked, suddenly. “ What is it … booze or women?”

  “Both,” I said. “ I’m also a morphine addict.”

  He did not answer—then with a brisk movement sat up.

  “How would you like to work for me? Three nights a week. Surgery and late calls. I need time off. The practice is killing me.”

  Surprised, I reflected for a minute.

  “What would you pay?”

  “Three guineas a week.”

  I considered again. It was quite a generous offer which would keep me at the Globe, and save me the humiliation of lining up at the Medical Agency. I’d have time for my research too, if only I could get things going at Apothecaries’ Hall.

  “All right.”

  “It’s a deal, then. Be here to-night, six o’clock sharp. I warn you I’ve had assistants before. None of them were any damn good. They went out on their ear.”

  “Thank you for the hint.”

  I was on my way to the door when, with a grim smile, he called me back.

  “Here. You look as though you needed something in advance.”

  From his hip pocket he took an overstuffed leather purse and, carefully selecting the money, pushed across to me three shillings and three pound notes.

  I had learned a little sense. Without a word, I picked up the money as carefully as he had put it down.

  Chapter Three

  That same evening, at six, and thereafter on three nights of the week, I attended at the surgery in Trongate Cross. When I arrived the waiting-room was always packed to the door with patients—women in shawls, ragged children, workmen from the docks—and the hectic session which followed often ran on until eleven o’clock at night, after which there were usually one or two urgent calls which Thompson, the dispenser, gave me as he finally closed up. It was hard work. Dr. Mathers had been guilty of no exaggeration when he spoke of his enormous practice. I soon found that he had an extraordinary reputation amongst the poor people who inhabited this slum district.

  His fiery personality alone gave him great prestige, and his methods were abrupt, forceful, and dramatic. He had an instinct for diagnosis and did not hesitate to give his opinion, usually in the broad vernacular. He never spared himself, worked like a galley slave, and bullied his people a good deal. They liked him for it. His prescriptions were drastic. He used the maximum dose of every drug, and a patient who had been severely purged or violently sweated would remark with a knowing shake of his head: “Ay, there’s something in the wee doctor’s medicine.”

  Mathers was sensitive about his diminutive stature, yet he had all the vanity of the small man, and thoroughly enjoyed his success. He loved to feel that he could triumph where the neighbouring doctors failed, and would chuckle over a case where he had “wiped the eye” of one of his colleagues. But most of all he delighted in the fact that from this drab little surgery, in a poor-class district, with no more than a Conjoint diploma, he was able to reside in style in a large villa in the suburbs, to run a Sunbeam car, educate his only daughter handsomely, present his wife with a fine fur coat—in short, to live, as he put it, like a lord. His money sense was extremely strong. Although he charged only small fees, from a shilling to half a crown, he was insistent upon payment in cash.

  “Once they know they can get you for nothing, Doctor,” he warned me, “you’re done.”

  In a drawer of his desk he kept a long chamois bag which had once contained midwifery forceps and into which all the fees were poured. Towards the end of the surgery hours it was bulging with cash. Upon my first night, as the surgery concluded, Dr. Mathers walked in unexpectedly, took up the bag and weighed it expertly. He glanced at me, but said nothing. Although he tried not to show it, I could see that he was satisfied.

  At the beginning of the second week, when I arrived on Monday evening to begin my consultations, I put my hand in my pocket and brought out a pound note.

  “This is yours.” As he looked at me sharply, I went on. “The child that was run over is getting on famously. Her father came in last Friday and insisted on paying this fee. He’s a decent fellow and very grateful.”

  Mathers’s expression was extremely queer. He rolled a cigarette and bit away the loose threads, which he spat on the floor.

  “Keep it,” he said at last.

  I refused irritably.

  “You pay me a salary. Everything I earn is yours.”

  There was a pause. He walked to the window and came back, having forgotten to light his cigarette.

  “Shall I tell you something, Shannon?” he said slowly.

  “You’re the first straight assistant I’ve ever had. Let’s take the quid and send the kid a bunch of black grapes and some flowers.”

  That was the strange thing about this little man—he loved money, but he was not mean, and could spend freely upon himself and others.

  After this incident Dr. Mathers’s attitude was much more cordial. Indeed, he became quite intimate, proudly showing me snapshots of his wife and of his seventeen-year-old daughter Ada, now finishing her schooling at the exclusive, and expensive, Convent of the Sacred Heart in Grantley. He also exhibited a photograph of his grandiose villa with the big car standing at the door, and threw out hints that he would soon invite me there. From time to time he gave me advice as to how to run a practice, and one day, in an expansive mood, confessed that he was actually makin
g three thousand pounds a year. Intensely curious as to how I spent the rest of my time, he often tried to exact some information from me, but I maintained always a discreet reserve. Although I disliked the work, my spirits were high, for I had an odd premonition that my luck had turned at last. And so, indeed, it seemed.

  On Thursday of that week, as I returned late in the afternoon to the Globe, I made out in the gathering dusk, across the street, a man’s figure which seemed familiar. As I appeared, he stirred from his attitude of patient waiting, and slowly approached me. Remembering the circumstances under which we had parted, my heart came into my mouth as I recognized Alex Duthie.

  A long silence succeeded our meeting and, to my surprise, I perceived that his hesitation and emotion were greater than my own. At last, in a low voice, he said:

  “I’d like a word with you, Robert. Can we go inside?”

  I took him through the swing doors and up to my room, where, having deposited upon the floor the box which he carried beneath his arm, he sat down on the edge of a chair. Twisting his round stiff cap in his capable hands, he fixed his troubled, candid gaze upon me.

  “Rob … I’ve come here to beg your pardon.”

  It cost him an effort to get out these words, but when he had done so he drew an easier breath.

  “Last week we were out to Dalnair. We had gathered all of Sim’s toys out of the attic, and the wife took the notion to leave them at the hospital for the children. When we were there we had a long talk with the matron. In confidence, she told us everything. I’m sorry I blamed you, Robert. I could cut my tongue out now.”

  I scarcely knew what to say. Gratitude of any sort embarrassed me beyond belief. At the same time, the break in my friendship with Duthie had worried me, and it was a relief to find myself no longer misunderstood. Without speaking, I held out my hand. He gripped it like a vice, and a slow, grave smile spread over his ruddy face.

  “We’re all right again then, lad.”

  “Of course, Alex.”

  “You’ll come fishing with me in the autumn?”

  “If you feel like it.”

  “I’ll feel like it,” he answered slowly. “One gets over things in time, you know, Rob.”

  There was a short pause. He rubbed his hands together and with an air of inquiry glanced round the room.

  “You’re still on with your research?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good. You remember the milk samples you wanted? I’ve fetched them along to you to-day.”

  I sat up, electrified.

  “You’ve had another cattle outbreak?”

  He nodded.

  “Severe?”

  “Quite bad, Rob. Five of our heifers dropped their calves and died in spite of all we could do for them.”

  “And you saved me milk samples?” I was tense with excitement.

  “From all of them. In sterile containers.” He inclined his head towards the package he had put down. “ In that zinc-lined box.”

  I gazed at him with overflowing gratitude. So much had gone against me I could scarcely believe this splendid stroke of fortune.

  “Alex,” I exulted, “you’ve no idea how much this means to me. Exactly what I wanted …”

  “It’s not so one-sided,” he answered, seriously. “I tell you straight, Rob, this business has got us badly worried at the Farms. All the best herds seem to have it. The manager says if you can help us in any way he’ll surely appreciate it.”

  “I’ll try, Alex. I promise you I’ll try.” For a moment I could not continue. “If there was anything needed to make up … you couldn’t have chosen a better way …”

  “If you’re pleased, then I’m pleased too.” He inspected his big silver watch. “Now it’s time I was moving.”

  “Stay a bit longer.” I pressed him. “Let me get you a drink.”

  I would gladly have given him all I possessed.

  “No, lad … I have to catch that old six-fifteen bus.” He gave me his slow, quiet smile. “I waited outside here for over an hour before you showed up.”

  I went downstairs with him and sent him on his way with my warmest thanks. Having watched his solid figure disappear in the darkness, I came back into the hotel filled with an eager happiness.

  I was about to bound upstairs towards the Dreem Farms box when, in the hall rack, I saw a letter for me. The handwriting was unmistakable, it was from Jean. Breathless, clutching the letter, I made my way upstairs, shut the door and, with trembling fingers, tore open the envelope.

  “DEAR ROBERT,—Luke has been away at Tynecastle for the past three weeks. Because of this I did not receive your letter until this afternoon, and now I scarcely know how to reply. If I am to be truthful, I cannot deny that it made me happy to hear from you and that I have missed you greatly. Perhaps I am wrong to tell you this. Perhaps ought not to write this letter at all. But I have some news, and shall make that my excuse.

  “For these last few days I have been taking the examination again and, although I made some mistakes, I am so glad to tell you that I did not do too badly. Professor Kennerly, for a wonder, was quite nice. And yesterday when I had my final oral he took me aside and informed me that I had passed with distinction, in all subjects. A fluke, of course, but what a relief!

  “This graduation won’t be till the end of term, July 31; until then I intend taking a course in Tropical Medicine, which starts next week at the Sanderson Institute. The lecture is at 9 o’clock every morning and lasts one hour.

  “Yours, “ J EAN L AW .”

  Passed … passed with distinction … and missing me … missing me greatly. My eyes glistened towards the words, which after those weary months of sadness and frustration came like a divine balm to my lonely heart. My wretched bedroom was transformed. I wanted to leap, to laugh, to sing. Again and again I read those lines which, because she had written them, seemed invested with a unique and tender beauty. There was a hidden note of longing in the letter which raised me to a kind of ecstasy which gave me, suddenly, an idea, a plan of future action that sent the blood rushing to my head, in a shiver of delight. I took the sheet of note-paper which, so recently, she had touched, and pressed it to my lips.

  Chapter Four

  The Sanderson Institute stood on the far side of the river, in an almost forgotten part of the city, between the Pensioners’ Hospice and the ancient St. Enoch’s Church. It was a quiet district, and the gardens in St. Enoch’s Square gave to it a country look. Rain had fallen the night before, a soft spring rain, and as I made my way along the flagged pavement of Old George Street there was a smell of sap and young grass in the air. A warm breeze came from the river and swung the buds of the tall elm trees where the sparrows were chirping. All at once the cold grip of winter seemed to have relaxed and the moist earth, opening to the sunshine, gave forth a heady sweetness that filled me with longing, with an ineffable yearning, that was like a pain.

  Outside the Hospice an old flower woman had her stand. On an impulse I stopped and bought a sixpenny bunch of the snowdrops which hung over the edge of her basket. Too shy to carry them openly, I wrapped the fragile blossoms in my handkerchief and placed them in my pocket. As I hurried into the courtyard of the Institute and took up my position outside the lecture-room, the old clock of St. Enoch’s, as though intoxicated by the balmy air, struck ten merry strokes.

  A few minutes later the Institute lecture-room began to empty itself. There were not more than half a dozen students. Last of all, emerging with an absent air, alone, came Jean. She was in grey, which always suited her so well, the lines of her slight, thin figure outlined as the fresh wind moulded the stuff of her dress about her. Her lips were slightly parted. Her hands, in their worn gloves, clasped a note-book. Her soft brown eyes were downcast.

  Suddenly she looked up, our glances met, and going forward, I took both her hands in mine.

  “Jean … at last.”

  “Robert.”

  She had spoken my name haltingly, as though struggling, w
ith confusion, against a pang of conscience. But now her face was filled with light, a bright warmth flooded her cheeks. I wanted to hold her tightly in my arms. But no, I dared not. Words came huskily.

  “It’s so wonderful to see you again.”

  For a moment, gazing into each other’s eyes in a kind of rapt intoxication, neither of us could speak. Behind us in the elms the sparrows twittered and, down the river, a dog was barking, far away. At last, still breathless, I exclaimed:

  “And you’re through … with distinction … I congratulate you.”

  “It’s nothing.” She smiled.

  “It’s splendid. You’d have done it before, but for my pernicious influence.”

  She laughed shyly. We both laughed. I was still holding her hands as though I would never let them go.

  “You’ve left Dalnair?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I answered gaily. “I got kicked out. You see what a rotter I am. Now I’m part-time assistant to a slum doctor in the Trongate.”

  “But your research?” She spoke quickly.

  “Ah,” I said. “ It’s about that I want to talk to you.”

  I led her across the road to the Square Gardens. We sat down on a green bench which encircled the trunk of a gnarled tree. Pigeons fluttered and strutted before us, giddy as the other birds with the delicious surge of spring. No one was in sight but an old pensioner, hobbling down a path, in his black peaked cap and bright scarlet coat. I took from my pocket the bunch of snowdrops and gave them to her.

  “Oh!” she cried, with delight, then paused, afraid that her words or look might say too much.

  “Wear them, Jean,” I said, in a low voice. “ It isn’t a crime. Tell me, did they make you promise not to see me?”

  There was a sudden pause.

  “No,” she said slowly. “If I had I couldn’t very well be here.”

  I watched while, with a slightly saddened expression, she deeply inhaled the delicate perfume, then pinned to her bodice, below the soft little necklet of camphory fur around her neck, these white and fragile flowers which so miraculously suited her. Seated close beside her, I felt a glow run through my limbs, my cheeks and forehead were hot. I knew that if I did not quickly broach the subject on my mind, this terrible emotion would conquer me.