Romantic Encounter

‘He’s a very considerate employer,’ said Florence airily. ‘Shall I fetch Father? He went round to the garage.’

‘Please, love.’ Mrs Napier watched Florence as she went, wondering why she hadn’t answered her question.

Sunday evening came round again far too soon, but as Florence got into the train at Sherborne she found, rather to her surprise, that she was quite looking forward to the week ahead. Hanging out of the window, saying a last goodbye to her father, she told him this, adding, ‘It’s so interesting, Father—I see so many people.’

A remark which in due course he relayed to his wife.

‘Now, isn’t that nice?’ observed Mrs Napier. Perhaps by next weekend Florence might have more to say about Mr Fitzgibbon. Her motherly nose had smelt a rat concerning that gentleman, and Florence had barely mentioned him…

Florence, rather unwillingly, had found herself thinking about him. Probably because she still wasn’t sure if she liked him, even though he had given her a splendid dinner. She walked round to the consulting-rooms in the sunshine of a glorious May morning, and even London—that part of London, at least—looked delightful. Mrs Keane hadn’t arrived yet; Florence got the examination-room ready, opened the windows, put everything out for coffee, filled the kettle for the cup of tea she and Mrs Keane had when there was time, and went to look at the appointment book.

The first patient was to come at nine o’clock—a new patient, she noted, so the appointment would be a long one. The two following were short: old patients for check-ups; she could read up their notes presently. She frowned over the next entry, written in Mrs Keane’s hand, for it was merely an address—that of a famous stately home open to the public—and when that lady arrived she asked about it.

Mrs Keane came to peer over her shoulder. ‘Oh, yes, dear. A patient Mr Fitzgibbon visits—not able to come here. He’ll go straight to Colbert’s from there. Let’s see, he’ll be there all the afternoon, I should think—often goes back there in the evening on a Monday, to check on the operation cases, you know. So there’s only Lady Hempdon in the afternoon, and she’s not until half-past four.’ She hung up her jacket and smoothed her neat old-fashioned hairstyle. ‘We’ve time for tea.’

The first patient arrived punctually, which was unfortunate because there was no sign of Mr Fitzgibbon. Mrs Keane was exchanging good-mornings and remarks about the weather, when the phone rang. Florence went into the consulting-room to answer it.

‘Mrs Peake there?’ It was to be one of those days; no time lost on small courtesies.

‘Yes, just arrived, sir.’

‘I shall be ten minutes. Do the usual, will you? And take your time.’ Mr Fitzgibbon hung up while she was uttering the ‘Yes, sir’.

Mrs Peake was thin and flustered and, under her nice manner, scared. Florence led her to the examination-room, explaining that before Mr Fitzgibbon saw new patients he liked them to be weighed, have their blood-pressure taken and so on. She went on talking in her pleasant voice, pausing to make remarks about this and that as she noted down particulars. More than ten minutes had gone by by the time she had finished, and she was relieved to see the small red light over the door leading to the consulting-room flicker. ‘If you will come this way, Mrs Peake—I think I have all the details Mr Fitzgibbon needs from me.’

Mr Fitzgibbon rose from his chair as they went in, giving a distinct impression that he had been sitting there for half an hour or more. His, ‘Good morning, Mrs Peake,’ was uttered in just the right kind of voice—cheerfully confident—and he received Florence’s notes with a courteous, ‘Thank you, Sister; be good enough to wait.’

As Florence led Mrs Peake away later she had to admit that Mr Fitzgibbon had a number of sides to him which she had been absolutely unaware of; he had treated his patient with the same cheerfulness, nicely tempered by sympathetic patience, while he wormed, word by word, her symptoms from her. Finally when he had finished he told her very simply what was to be done.

‘It’s quite simple,’ he had reassured her. ‘I have studied the X-rays which your doctor sent to me; I can remove a small piece of your lung and you will be quite yourself in a very short time—indeed, you will feel a new woman.’ He had gone on to talk about hospitals and convenient dates and escorted her to the door, smiling very kindly at her as he had shaken hands.

Mrs Peake had left, actually smiling. At the door she had pressed Florence’s hand. ‘What a dear man, my dear, and I trust him utterly.’

There was time to take in his coffee before the next patient arrived. Florence, feeling very well disposed towards him, saw at once that it would be a waste of time. He didn’t look up. ‘Thank you. Show Mr Cranwell in when he comes; I shan’t need you, Sister.’

She wasn’t needed for the third patient either, and since after a cautious peep she found the examination-room empty, she set it silently to rights. If Mr Fitzgibbon was in one of his lofty moods then it was a good thing he was leaving after his patient had gone.

She ushered the elderly man out and skipped back smartly to the consulting-room in answer to Mr Fitzgibbon’s raised voice.

‘I shall want you with me. Five minutes to tidy yourself. I’ll be outside in the car.’

She flew to the cloakroom, wondering what she had done, and, while she did her face, set her cap at a more becoming angle and made sure her uniform was spotless, she worried. Had she annoyed a patient or forgotten something? Perhaps he had been crossed in love, unable to take his girlfriend out that evening. They might have quarrelled… She would have added to these speculations, only Mrs Keane poked her head round the door.

‘He’s in the car…’

Mr Fitzgibbon leaned across and opened the door as she reached the car, and she got in without speaking, settled herself without looking at him and stared ahead as he drove away.

He negotiated a tangle of traffic in an unflurried manner before he spoke. ‘I can hear your thoughts, Florence.’

So she was Florence now, was she? ‘In that case,’ she said crisply, ‘there is no need for me to ask where we are going, sir.’

Mr Fitzgibbon allowed his lip to twitch very slightly. ‘No—of course, you will have read about it for yourself. You know the place?’

‘I’ve been there with my brothers.’

‘The curator has apartments there; his wife is a patient of mine, recently out of hospital. She is a lady of seventy-two and was unfortunate enough to swallow a sliver of glass during a meal, which perforated her oesophagus. I found it necessary to perform a thoracotomy, from which she is recovering. This should be my final visit, although she will come to the consulting-room later on for regular check-ups.’

‘Thank you,’ said Florence in a businesslike manner. ‘Is there anything else that I need to know?’

‘No, other than that she is a nervous little lady, which is why I have to take you with me.’

Florence bit back a remark that she had hardly supposed that it was for the pleasure of her company, and neither of them spoke again until they reached their destination.

This, thought Florence, following Mr Fitzgibbon through a relatively small side-door and up an elegant staircase to the private apartments, was something to tell the boys when she wrote to them. The elderly stooping man who had admitted them stood aside for them to go in, and she stopped looking around her and concentrated on the patient.

A dear little lady, sitting in a chair with her husband beside her. Florence led her to a small bedroom presently, and Mr Fitzgibbon examined her without haste before pronouncing her fit and well, and when Florence led her patient back to the sitting-room he was standing at one of the big windows with the curator, discussing the view.

‘You will take some refreshment?’ suggested the curator, and Florence hoped that Mr Fitzgibbon would say yes; the curator looked a nice, dignified old man who would tell her more about the house…

Mr Fitzgibbon declined with grave courtesy. ‘I must get back to Colbert’s,’ he explained, ‘and Sister must return to the consulting-rooms as soon as possible.’

They made their farewells and went back to the car, and as Mr Fitzgibbon opened the door for her he said, ‘I’m already late. I’ll take you straight back and drop you off at the door. Lady Hempdon has an appointment for half-past four, has she not?’

She got in, and he got in beside her and drove off. ‘Perhaps you would like to drop me off so that I can catch a bus?’ asked Florence sweetly.

‘How thoughtful of you, Florence, but I think not. We should be back without any delay!’

Mr Fitzgibbon, so often right, was for once wrong.

CHAPTER THREE

MR FITZGIBBON IGNORED the main road back to the heart of the city. Florence, who wasn’t familiar with that part of the metropolis, became quite bewildered by the narrow streets lined with warehouses, most of them derelict, shabby, small brick houses and shops, and here and there newly built blocks of high-rise flats. There was, however, little traffic, and his short cuts would bring him very close to Tower Bridge where, presumably, he intended to cross the river.

She stared out at the derelict wharfs and warehouses they were passing with windows boarded up and walls held upright by wooden props; they looked unsafe and it was a good thing that the terrace of houses on the other side of the street was in a like state. There was nothing on the street save a heavily laden truck ahead of them, loaded with what appeared to be scrap iron. Mr Fitzgibbon had slowed, since it wasn’t possible to pass, so that he was able to stop instantly when the truck suddenly veered across the street and hit the wall of a half-ruined warehouse, bringing it down in a shower of bricks.