Romantic Encounter

‘Take Mr Willoughby in,’ hissed Mrs Keane, ‘and stand on the right side of the door. Mr Fitzgibbon will nod when he wants you to show the patient into the examination-room. If it’s a man you go back into the consulting-room unless he asks you to stay.’

Florence adjusted her cap just so and took herself off to the waiting-room in time to receive Mr Willoughby, a small, meek man, who gave the impression that he had resigned himself to his fate. An opinion not shared by Mr Fitzgibbon, however. Florence, watching from her corner, had to allow that his quiet assured air convinced his patient that it was by no means hopeless.

‘This is a fairly common operation,’ he said soothingly, ‘and there is no reason why you shouldn’t live a normal life for some years to come. Now, Sister will show you the examination-room, and I’ll take a look. Your own doctor seems to agree with me, and I think that you should give yourself a chance.’

So Florence led away a more hopeful Mr Willoughby, informed Mr Fitzgibbon that his patient was ready for him, and retired discreetly to the consulting-room.

Upon their return Mr Fitzgibbon said, ‘Ah, Sister, will you hand Mr Willoughby over to Mrs Keane, please?’ He shook hands with his patient and Florence led him away, a much happier man than when he had come in.

Lady Trump was quite a different matter. A lady in her eighties, who, at Mr Fitzgibbon’s behest, had undergone successful surgery and had taken on a new lease of life; moreover, she was proud of the fact and took a good deal of pleasure in boring her family and friends with all the details of her recovery…

‘You’re new,’ she observed, eyeing Florence through old-fashioned gold-rimmed pince-nez.

‘Sister Brice is getting married.’

‘Hmm—I’m surprised you aren’t married yourself.’

Ushered into the consulting-room, where she shook hands with Mr Fitzgibbon, she informed him, ‘Well, you won’t keep this gel long, she’s far too pretty.’

His cold eyes gave Florence’s person a cursory glance. His, ‘Indeed,’ was uttered with complete uninterest. ‘Well, Lady Trump, how have you been since I saw you last?’

Mrs Keane had been right: the old lady took twice as long as anyone else. Besides, she had got on all the wrong clothes; she must have known that she would be examined, yet she was wearing a dress with elaborate fastenings, tiny buttons running from her neck to her waist, and under that a series of petticoats and camisoles, all of which had to be removed to an accompaniment of warnings as to how it should be done. When at last Florence ushered her back to Mrs Keane’s soothing care, she breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Would you like your coffee, sir?’ she asked, hoping that he would say yes so that she might swallow a mug herself. ‘Miss Powell hasn’t arrived yet.’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Fitzgibbon without lifting his handsome head from his notes, ‘and have one yourself.’

Miss Powell was small and thin and mouse-like, and he treated her with a gentle kindness Florence was surprised to see. The little lady went away presently, reassured as to her future, and Florence, at Mr Fitzgibbon’s brisk bidding, ushered in little Susie Castle and her mother.

Susie was small for her age and wore a look of elderly resignation, which Florence found heart-rending, but even if she looked resigned she was full of life just as any healthy child, and it was obvious that she and Mr Fitzgibbon were on the best of terms. He teased her gently and made no effort to stop her when she picked up his pen and began to draw on the big notepad on his desk.

‘How about a few days in hospital, Susie?’ he wanted to know. ‘Then I’ll have time to come and see you every day; we might even find time for a game of draughts or dominoes.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, it’s so much easier for me to look after you there. We’ll go to X-ray…’

‘You’ll be there with me? It’s always a bit dark.’

‘I’ll be there. Shall we have a date?’

Susie giggled. ‘All right.’ She put out a small hand, and Florence, who was nearest, took it in hers. The child studied her face for a moment.

‘You’re very pretty. Haven’t you met Prince Charming yet?’

‘Not yet, but I expect I shall one day soon.’ Florence squeezed the small hand. ‘Will you be my bridesmaid?’

‘Yes, of course; who do you want to marry? Mr Fitzgibbon?’

Her mother made a small sound—an apology—but Florence laughed. ‘My goodness, no… Now, supposing we get you dressed again so that you can go home.’

It was later that day, after the afternoon patients had gone and she was clearing up the examination-room and putting everything ready for the next day, that Mr Fitzgibbon, on his way home, paused beside her.

‘You are happy with your work, Miss Napier?’

‘Yes, thank you, sir. I like meeting people…’

‘Let us hope that you meet your Prince Charming soon,’ he observed blandly, and shut the door quietly behind him.

Leaving her wondering if he was already looking forward to the day when she would want to leave.

CHAPTER TWO

THE DAYS PASSED quickly; Mr Fitzgibbon allowed few idle moments in his day, and Florence quickly discovered that he didn’t expect her to have any either. By the end of the week she had fallen into a routine of sorts, but a very flexible one, for on two evenings she had returned to the consulting-rooms to attend those patients who were unable or who didn’t wish to come during the day, and on one afternoon she had been whisked at a moment’s notice to a large nursing home to scrub for the biopsy he wished to perform on one of his patients there. The theatre there had been adequate, but only just, and she had acquitted herself well enough. On the way back to his rooms she had asked if he performed major surgery there.

‘Good lord, no; biopsies, anything minor, but otherwise they come into Colbert’s or one of the big private hospitals.’

They had already established a satisfactory working relationship by the end of the week, but she was no nearer to knowing anything about him than on the first occasion of their meeting. He came and went, leaving telephone numbers for her in case he should be needed, but never mentioning where he was going. His home, for all she knew, might be the moon. As for him, he made no attempt to get to know her either. He had enquired if she was comfortable at Mrs Twist’s house, and if she found the work within her scope—a question which ruffled her calm considerably—and told her at the end of the week that she was free to go home for the weekend if she wished. But not, she discovered, on the Friday evening. The last patient didn’t leave until six o’clock; she had missed her train and the next one too, and the one after that would get her to Sherborne too late, and she had no intention of keeping her father out of his bed in order to meet the train.

She bade Mr Fitzgibbon goodnight, and when he asked, ‘You’re going home, Miss Napier?’ she answered rather tartly that yes, but in the morning by an early train. To which he answered nothing, only gave her a thoughtful look. She had reached the door when he said, ‘You will be back on Sunday evening all right? We shall need to be ready on Monday morning soon after nine o’clock.’ With which she had to be content.

It was lovely to be home again. In the kitchen, drinking coffee while her mother sat at the kitchen table, scraping carrots, and Mrs Buckett hovered, anxious not to miss a word, Florence gave a faithful account of her week.

‘Do you like working for Mr Fitzgibbon?’ asked her mother.

‘Oh, yes, he has a very large practice and beds at Colbert’s, and he seems to be much in demand for consultations…’

‘Is he married?’ asked Mrs Napier artlessly.

‘I haven’t the slightest idea, Mother; in fact, I don’t know a thing about him, and he’s not the kind of person you would ask.’

‘Of course, darling—I just wondered if his receptionist or someone who works for him had mentioned something…’

‘The people who work for him never mention him unless it’s something to do with work. Probably they’re not told or are sworn to secrecy…’

‘How very interesting,’ observed her mother.

The weekend went too swiftly; Florence dug the garden, walked Higgins and sang in the choir on Sunday, made a batch of cakes for the Mothers’ Union tea party to be held during the following week, and visited as many of her friends as she had time for. Sunday evening came much too soon, and she got into the train with reluctance. Once she was back in Mrs Twist’s house, eating the supper that good lady had ready for her, she found herself looking forward to the week ahead. Her work was by no means dull, and she enjoyed the challenge of not knowing what each day might offer.

Monday offered nothing special. She was disconcerted to find Mr Fitzgibbon at his desk when she arrived in the morning. He wished her good morning civilly enough and picked up his pen again with a dismissive nod.

‘You’ve been up half the night,’ said Florence matter-of-factly, taking in his tired unshaven face, elderly trousers and high-necked sweater. ‘I’ll make you some coffee.’

She swept out of the room, closing the door gently as she went, put on the kettle and ladled instant coffee into a mug, milked and sugared it lavishly and, with a tin of Rich Tea biscuits, which she and Mrs Keane kept for their elevenses, bore the tray back to the consulting-room.

‘There,’ she said hearteningly, ‘drink that up. The first patient isn’t due until half-past nine; you go home and get tidied up. It’s a check-up, isn’t it? I dare say she’ll be late—a name like Witherington-Pugh…’

Mr Fitzgibbon gave a crack of laughter. ‘I don’t quite see the connection, but yes, she is always unpunctual.’