Romantic Encounter

‘Leave? Here? No…’ She took a sharp breath. ‘Do you want me to? I dare say I annoy you. Not everyone can get on with everyone else,’ she explained in a reasonable voice, ‘you know, a kind of mutual antipathy…’

He remained grave, but his eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘I have no wish for you to leave, Miss Napier; you suit me very well: you are quick and sensible and the patients appear to like you, and any grumbling you may do about awkward hours you keep to yourself. We must contrive to rub along together, must we not?’ He stood up. ‘Now do whatever it is you have to do and we will go somewhere and have a meal.’

Florence eyed him in astonishment. ‘You and I? But Mrs Twist will have something keeping warm in the oven for me…’

He reached for the telephone. ‘In that case I will ask her to take it out before it becomes inedible.’ He waved a large hand at her. ‘Fifteen minutes—I’ve some notes to write up. Come back here when you’re ready.’

There seemed no point in arguing with him; Florence sped away to the examination-room and began to put it to rights. Fifteen minutes wasn’t long enough, of course; she would have to see to most of the instruments he had used in the morning—she could come early and do that. She worked fast and efficiently so that under her capable hands the room was pristine once more. The waiting-room needed little done in it; true, on her way out the patient had given vent to her feelings by tossing a few cushions around, but Florence shook them up smartly and repaired to the cloakroom, where she did her face and hair with the speed of light, got out of the uniform and into the jersey dress and matching jacket, thrust her feet into low-heeled pumps, caught up her handbag and went back to the consulting-room.

Mr Fitzgibbon was standing at the window, looking out into the street below, his hands in his pockets. He looked over his shoulder as she went in. ‘Do you like living in London?’ he wanted to know.

‘Well, I don’t really live here, do I? I work here, but when I’m free I go home, so I don’t really know what living here is like. At Colbert’s I went out a good deal when I was off duty, but I never felt as though I belonged.’

‘You prefer the country?’

‘Oh, yes. Although I should think that if I lived here in surroundings such as these—’ she waved an arm towards the street outside ‘—London might be quite pleasant.’

He opened the door for her and locked it behind him. ‘Do you live in London?’ she asked.

‘Er—for a good deal of the time, yes.’ There was a frosty edge to his voice which warned her not to ask questions. She followed him out to the car and was ushered in in silence.

She hadn’t travelled in a Rolls-Royce before and she was impressed by its size; it and Mr Fitzgibbon, she reflected, shared the same vast, dignified appearance. She uttered the thought out loud. ‘Of course, this is exactly the right car for you, isn’t it?’

He was driving smoothly through quiet streets. ‘Why?’

‘Well, for one thing the size is right, isn’t it?’ She paused to think. ‘And, of course, it has great dignity.’

Mr Fitzgibbon smiled very slightly. ‘I am reassured to think that your opinion of me is improving.’

She couldn’t think of the right answer to that; instead she asked, ‘Where are we going?’

‘Wooburn Common, about half an hour from here. You know the Chequers Inn? I’ve booked a table.’

‘Oh—it’s in the country?’

‘Yes. I felt that it was the least I could do in the face of your preference for rural parts.’

‘Well, that’s awfully kind of you to take so much trouble. I mean, there are dozens of little cafés around Wimpole Street—well, not actually very near, but down some of the side-streets.’

‘I must bear that in mind. Which reminds me, Mrs Twist asks that you should make sure that the cat doesn’t get out as you go in.’

‘Oh, Buster. She’s devoted to him—he’s a splendid tabby; not as fine as our Charlie Brown, though. Do you like cats?’

‘Yes, we have one; she keeps my own dog company.’

‘We have a Labrador—Higgins. He’s elderly.’ She fell silent, mulling over the way he had said ‘we have one’, and Mr Fitzgibbon waited patiently for the next question, knowing what it was going to be.

‘Are you married?’ asked Florence.

‘No—why do you ask?’

‘Well, if you were I don’t think we should be going out like this without your wife… I expect you think I’m silly.’

‘No, but do I strike you as the kind of man who would take a girl out while his wife actually sat at home waiting for him?’

Florence looked sideways at his calm profile. ‘No.’

‘That, from someone who is still not sure if she likes me or not, is praise indeed.’

They drove on in silence for a few minutes until she said in a small resolute voice, ‘I’m sorry if I annoyed you, Mr Fitzgibbon.’

‘Contrary to your rather severe opinion of me, I don’t annoy easily. Ah—here we are. I hope you’re hungry?’

The Chequers Inn was charming. Florence, ushered from the car and gently propelled towards it, stopped a minute to take a deep breath of rural air. It wasn’t as good as Dorset, but it compared very favourably with Wimpole Street. The restaurant was just as charming, with a table in a window and a friendly waiter who addressed Mr Fitzgibbon by name and suggested in a quiet voice that the duck, served with a port wine and pink peppercorn sauce, was excellent and might please him and the young lady.

Florence, when consulted, agreed that it sounded delicious, and agreed again when Mr Fitzgibbon suggested that a lobster mousse with cucumber might be pleasant to start their meal.

She knew very little about wine, so she took his word for it that the one poured for her was a pleasant drink, as indeed it was, compared with the occasional bottle of table wine which graced the vicarage table. She remarked upon this in the unselfconscious manner that Mr Fitzgibbon was beginning to enjoy, adding, ‘But I dare say there are a great many wines—if one had the interest in them—to choose from.’

He agreed gravely, merely remarking that the vintage wine he offered her was thought to be very agreeable.

The mousse and duck having been eaten with relish, Florence settled upon glazed fruit tart and cream, and presently poured coffee for them both, making conversation with the well-tried experience of a vicar’s daughter, and Mr Fitzgibbon, unexpectedly enjoying himself hugely, encouraged her. It was Florence, glancing at the clock, who exclaimed, ‘My goodness, look at the time!’ She added guiltily, ‘I hope you didn’t have any plans for your evening—it’s almost ten o’clock.’ She went on apologetically, ‘It was nice to have someone to talk to.’

‘One should, whenever possible, relax after a day’s work,’ observed Mr Fitzgibbon smoothly.

The nearby church clocks were striking eleven o’clock when he stopped before Mrs Twist’s little house. Florence, unfastening her seatbelt, began her thank-you speech, which he ignored while he helped her out, took the key from her, unlocked the door and then stood looming over her.

‘I find it quite unnecessary to address you as Miss Napier,’ he remarked in the mildest of voices. ‘I should like to call you Florence.’

‘Well, of course you can.’ She smiled widely at him, so carried away by his friendly voice that she was about to ask him what his name was. She caught his steely eye just in time, coughed instead, thanked him once again and took back her key.

He opened the door for her. ‘Mind Buster,’ he reminded her, and shut the door smartly behind her. She stood leaning against it, listening to the silky purr of the car as he drove away. Buster, thwarted in his attempt to spend the night out, waited until she had started up the narrow stairs and then sidled up behind her, to curl up presently on her bed. Strictly forbidden, but Florence never gave him away.

If she had expected a change in Mr Fitzgibbon’s remote manner towards her, Florence was to be disappointed. Despite the fact that he addressed her as Florence, it might just as well have been Miss Napier. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but she felt a vague disappointment, which she dismissed as nonsense in her normal matter-of-fact manner, and made a point of addressing him as ‘sir’ at every opportunity. Something which Mr Fitzgibbon noted with hidden amusement.

It was very nearly the weekend again, and there were no unexpected hold-ups to prevent her catching the evening train. It was almost the middle of May, and the vicarage, as her father brought the car to a halt before its half-open door, looked welcoming in the twilight. Florence nipped inside and down the wide hall to the kitchen, where her mother was taking something from the Aga.

‘Macaroni cheese,’ cried Florence happily, twitching her beautiful nose. ‘Hello, Mother.’ She embraced her parent and then stood her back to look at her. ‘You’re not doing too much? Is Miss Payne being a help?’

‘Yes, dear, she’s splendid, and I’ve never felt better. But how are you?’

‘Nicely settled in—the work’s quite interesting too, and Mrs Twist is very kind.’

‘And Mr Fitzgibbon?’

‘Oh, he’s a very busy man, Mother. He has a large practice besides the various hospitals he goes to…’

‘Do you like him, dear?’ Mrs Napier sounded offhand.