Wanted for Glenburn Hospital, Cranstown. Resident Physician. Salary £500 per annum and unfurnished cottage. Engagement to commence January 1st. Apply the Secretary to the Board Wintonshire Public Health Department.
He drew a long, deep breath. It was right, exactly right, except perhaps for the date of the appointment—but that, balanced against the other advantages, was a detail, immaterial. He knew the hospital and had often admired it on his weekend excursions from the city. Situated in pleasant rolling country, within a long tram ride of Winton, it was known locally as the “Fever Hospital”, having at one time been devoted exclusively to infectious diseases. Now, however, it was mainly given over to the treatment of tubercular children. It was small, of course, no more than four isolated pavilions, holding about sixty beds, with a central office and laboratory, nurses’ quarters, and a neat, red-tiled gate lodge. Nothing could be better: the salary was generous, a house was available, obviously they wanted a married man, and the laboratory would afford him facilities for research. A gem of a place, he kept repeating to himself. He knew, of course, that competition would be severe, cut-throat in fact, and as he got up from the reading-room bench he had the look of one going into battle.
The campaign which he forthwith conducted was indeed, in its resourcefulness, subtlety and consummate adroitness, fit to be honoured and recorded as the classic example of job-getting. From his University professors he got testimonials and letters of recommendation, from Drummond a personal introduction to the Wintonshire Medical Officer of Health, and through Bryce’s father, who was a baillie of the city, a complete list of the members of the board. He called first on the Medical Officer, whose attitude, though noncommittal, was pleasant, then on the Secretary, who, as a friend and brother Mason of the senior Bryce, was distinctly cordial. Next, he began discreetly, in the evenings, to canvas all the board members at their homes. Here he did well, was even introduced to the sonsie wives of several of these substantial citizens in whom, by judicious shyness, he started warm springs of maternal sympathy. Finally, he cadged a ride in a delivery van to the vicinity of the hospital, made friends with the retiring doctor who was going into practice, shook hands with the head sister and, after a really hard beginning, completely won over the stubby little martinet of a matron. She invited him to tea. The difficulties of his student days, his romantic meeting with Mary, his honours degree, all had by this time been composed into a modest, yet free-flowing tale. In her own cosy sittingroom, over the teacups—it was, he noted, first-rate tea and a delicious homemade sponge—she listened with growing sympathy.
“We’ll have to see what can be done,” she finally declared, throwing out her well-starched bust until it crackled. “And if anyone has influence with that wrong-headed committee, it’s yours truly.”
He murmured thanks.
“Now I’ll be off, Matron. I’ve taken far too much of your precious time.”
“Not at all. How are you getting back?”
“As I came,” he said, offhandedly playing an inspired lead. “On Shanks’s mare.”
“Ye walked out from Winton! All that way?”
“Well, to be perfectly honest, Matron,” he smiled confusedly, winningly, looking into her eyes, “I just didn’t have the tram fare. So I’ll walk back too.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort, doctor. Our driver will take ye in.” She rang the bell. “Nurse, slip down to the gate lodge and fetch Leckie.”
He rode into the city on the front seat of the old Argyle ambulance. When Leckie returned and reported to the matron, he remarked: “I hope we get Dr Moray. He’s such a nice likeable lad. And keen, forbye. If only I get appointed, says he to me, I’ll work my fingers to the bone.”
No opposition could stand against such a virtuoso, pulling out all the emotional stops. A week later his name appeared on the “short list” of ten candidates and, at the meeting of the board on August 21st, he was unanimously appointed.
Beyond indicating non-committally that he had a possibility in view, Moray had said nothing at Ardfillan of the marvellous prospects offered by Glenburn. Because he had lived so much alone, it was his nature to keep things to himself. Besides, he had been horribly afraid of missing the job. Now, however, with the thrill of anticipation, he prepared for the joys of triumphant revelation.
He made his plans with characteristic thoroughness. He went, in the first place, to Gilhouse the University Bookseller at the foot of Fenner Hill, and sold all his text-books, also his microscope. Since he had spotted a fine oil-immersion Zeiss in the lab. at Glenburn, he would no longer need his own second-hand Wright and Dobson. With a tidy sum in his pocket he crossed Eldongrove Park to a less salubrious neighbourhood and entered the pawnshop at the corner of Blairhill Street where; over the past five years, he had occasionally been an unwilling client. Now the position was reversed. Taking his time, and wisely rejecting the dubious diamond pressed upon him, he selected from the unredeemed pledges a thin gold ring mounted with a nice little aquamarine. Set in velvet in a red leather case it looked extremely handsome, and it was genuine. With this in his pocket he borrowed Bryce’s bike and set off for Craigdoran. He arrived at eleven in the forenoon.
“Mary,” he exclaimed, walking straight into the refreshment room and putting his arm round her waist. “Shut up shop. Now. At once.”
“But, Davie, I still have two more trains . . .”.
“Hang the trains, and the passengers in them, and the entire North British Railway Company. You’re coming with me, this very minute. And while you’re about it, put a few buns and sandwiches in a bag.”
She gazed at him, half doubtful, half smiling, yet conscious of something compelling behind the lightness of his tone.
“Well,” she conceded finally, “I don’t suppose it’ll ruin the company, or Father this once.”
Ten minutes later they were off together on the bike. He took the Stirling road, turned east at Reston, and about one o’clock, swinging round the outskirts of Cranstoun, came to rest a quarter of a mile along the Glenburn lane.
“This is where we take a stroll, Mary.”
She was confused, vaguely disturbed, did not understand why they should be here, but she accompanied him obediently down the lane. Presently they reached the sweep of ornamental railings which enclosed the hospital. He halted, wise enough to know that at this stage they must penetrate no further. They both peered through the neat, painted railings. The sun was shining on the enclosure, some children in red jackets were seated with a nurse on a bench beside the green stretch of lawn, a blackbird sang in a nearby forsythia bush.
“What a dear wee place,” Mary exclaimed.
“You think so?”
“Who wouldn’t, Davie? It’s like a picture.”
“Then listen, Mary,” he said, drawing a deep breath. “This is Glenburn Hospital. These four buildings among the trees are the wards. That’s the administrative block in front of them. And over there, with the garden at the back, is the medical superintendent’s residence. Not a bad house, is it?”
“It’s a sweet wee house,” she answered wonderingly. “And such a nice garden. Do you know someone there?”