me, he thought bitterly, why am I destined for such misfortunes? I lose the only woman I have ever loved, and now,
for every good reason, I must relinquish my own, my dearest child.
Janet’s Bairn
Several days later, Finlay received a call from the Caledonian Hotel. His mood was still heavy and unpropitious. From past experience, he was always wary of commands from the
luxury hotel, which might prove rewarding or completely the reverse. Seeking information from his friend Bill Scott, the telephone operator, he received this reply: ‘They’re a foreign
couple, Finlay. Spanish, from Bolivia in South America. Great style and a’ that, but if I were you I’d get my fee in my hand before leaving. It’s the woman, Señora da
Costa, who is wantin’ you. She asked me for the best doctor in Scotland, so I had to say you. But look out Finlay, she’s a regular bitch.’
‘Thanks, Bob. I’ll watch my step.’
With this friendly warning Finlay drove slowly to the big hotel across the valley and high on the ridge above. At the hotel, since most of the ground staff were local lads, Finlay was greeted
with smiles and shown to the lift which bore him to the seventh floor and to the luxury apartment of Señor and Señora da Costa.
The Señora was sitting up in bed, supported by two voluminous pillows and wearing a bed jacket that could only have come from Paris.
‘Ah, doctor, you are here at last.’ As she looked Finlay over she added as if to herself, ‘And young, handsome, intelligent . . . when I had feared the worst. Sit down,
doctor.’ She drew a long hoarse breath.
‘Madam,’ said Finlay mildly, ‘the atmosphere of this room is stifling. I must open a window.’
‘No, doctor, I beg of you. Look first at my throat.’
Finlay opened his bag and took out his spatula, drew the bedside light nearer and said briefly, ‘Remove your false teeth, madam.’
‘But doctor, I have no artificial . . .’
‘Kindly remove your plate, unless you wish to swallow it.’
As she still seemed reluctant Finlay pushed his forefingers between her jaws and pulled out a king-size dental plate bordered by a number of perfect white teeth.
‘Now, madam, open your mouth wide, very wide.’
Visibly discomposed, she reluctantly obeyed, causing her cheeks to sag dramatically.
‘Wide, madam. Wider, please.’
Finally, after much manoeuvering, Finlay got a really good look at her throat. He then withdrew his instrument and, handing back her dentures, turned his back while she replaced them. As she
struggled with this somewhat delicate manoeuvre, Finlay picked up a narrow box from her bedside table and extracted one of the short, dark cigars it contained. Rolling this article between his
fingers, he studied it, then bit it hard. Already he was convinced, but to be certain he tasted the dark oily liquid that oozed from the cut and bruised tobacco with the tip of his tongue.
She watched him carefully during this operation, and when he placed the cigar in his pocket she said acidly, ‘You make free with my possessions, doctor.’
‘This is merely for a final confirmation of my diagnosis, madam.’ He paused while a nerve in her cheek began to twitch.
‘I must first relieve your mind, madam. You do not suffer, as I had feared, from a cancer or some such other fatal growth. Your throat is merely inflamed, but savagely so. If you obey my
instructions your throat will be normal within four weeks. You will be cured.’
‘Oh thank you and bless you, doctor. They told me you were the best doctor in Scotland and it is the truth.’ She closed her eyes, made the sign of the cross and, beginning
‘Madre de Dios’, made a short little prayer of thanksgiving.
‘Here is my prescription, Madam,’ said Finlay without handing the sheet of paper to her. ‘This medicine must be taken at 10 p.m., when you have retired. You will find that it
gives you a much better sleep than these poisonous cigars. You must never ever smoke these
for every good reason, I must relinquish my own, my dearest child.
Janet’s Bairn
Several days later, Finlay received a call from the Caledonian Hotel. His mood was still heavy and unpropitious. From past experience, he was always wary of commands from the
luxury hotel, which might prove rewarding or completely the reverse. Seeking information from his friend Bill Scott, the telephone operator, he received this reply: ‘They’re a foreign
couple, Finlay. Spanish, from Bolivia in South America. Great style and a’ that, but if I were you I’d get my fee in my hand before leaving. It’s the woman, Señora da
Costa, who is wantin’ you. She asked me for the best doctor in Scotland, so I had to say you. But look out Finlay, she’s a regular bitch.’
‘Thanks, Bob. I’ll watch my step.’
With this friendly warning Finlay drove slowly to the big hotel across the valley and high on the ridge above. At the hotel, since most of the ground staff were local lads, Finlay was greeted
with smiles and shown to the lift which bore him to the seventh floor and to the luxury apartment of Señor and Señora da Costa.
The Señora was sitting up in bed, supported by two voluminous pillows and wearing a bed jacket that could only have come from Paris.
‘Ah, doctor, you are here at last.’ As she looked Finlay over she added as if to herself, ‘And young, handsome, intelligent . . . when I had feared the worst. Sit down,
doctor.’ She drew a long hoarse breath.
‘Madam,’ said Finlay mildly, ‘the atmosphere of this room is stifling. I must open a window.’
‘No, doctor, I beg of you. Look first at my throat.’
Finlay opened his bag and took out his spatula, drew the bedside light nearer and said briefly, ‘Remove your false teeth, madam.’
‘But doctor, I have no artificial . . .’
‘Kindly remove your plate, unless you wish to swallow it.’
As she still seemed reluctant Finlay pushed his forefingers between her jaws and pulled out a king-size dental plate bordered by a number of perfect white teeth.
‘Now, madam, open your mouth wide, very wide.’
Visibly discomposed, she reluctantly obeyed, causing her cheeks to sag dramatically.
‘Wide, madam. Wider, please.’
Finally, after much manoeuvering, Finlay got a really good look at her throat. He then withdrew his instrument and, handing back her dentures, turned his back while she replaced them. As she
struggled with this somewhat delicate manoeuvre, Finlay picked up a narrow box from her bedside table and extracted one of the short, dark cigars it contained. Rolling this article between his
fingers, he studied it, then bit it hard. Already he was convinced, but to be certain he tasted the dark oily liquid that oozed from the cut and bruised tobacco with the tip of his tongue.
She watched him carefully during this operation, and when he placed the cigar in his pocket she said acidly, ‘You make free with my possessions, doctor.’
‘This is merely for a final confirmation of my diagnosis, madam.’ He paused while a nerve in her cheek began to twitch.
‘I must first relieve your mind, madam. You do not suffer, as I had feared, from a cancer or some such other fatal growth. Your throat is merely inflamed, but savagely so. If you obey my
instructions your throat will be normal within four weeks. You will be cured.’
‘Oh thank you and bless you, doctor. They told me you were the best doctor in Scotland and it is the truth.’ She closed her eyes, made the sign of the cross and, beginning
‘Madre de Dios’, made a short little prayer of thanksgiving.
‘Here is my prescription, Madam,’ said Finlay without handing the sheet of paper to her. ‘This medicine must be taken at 10 p.m., when you have retired. You will find that it
gives you a much better sleep than these poisonous cigars. You must never ever smoke these
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