Romantic Encounter
‘Mr Fitzgibbon seems to be an employer of the highest order,’ observed her father when she recounted the day’s doings to him.
She agreed, but what sort of a man was he? she wondered; she still wasn’t sure if she liked him or not.
She spent the next two weeks in a burst of activity; the spring-cleaning had to be finished, a lengthy job in the rambling vicarage, and someone had to be found who would come each day for an hour or so. Mrs Buckett was a splendid worker but, although Mrs Napier was very nearly herself once more, there were tiresome tasks—the ironing, the shopping and the cooking—to be dealt with. Miss Payne, in the village, who had recently lost her very old mother, was only too glad to fill the post for a modest sum.
Florence packed the clothes she decided she would need, added one or two of her more precious books and a batch of family photos to grace the little mantelpiece in her bedsitter, and, after a good deal of thought, a long skirt and top suitable for an evening out. It was unlikely that she would need them, but one never knew. When she had been at the hospital she had never lacked invitations from various members of the medical staff—usually a cinema and coffee and sandwiches on the way home, occasionally a dinner in some popular restaurant—but she had been at home now for nearly a year and she had lost touch. She hadn’t minded; she was country born and bred and she hadn’t lost her heart to anyone. Occasionally she remembered that she was twenty-five and there was no sign of the man Mrs Buckett coyly described as Mr Right. Florence had the strong suspicion that Mrs Buckett’s Mr Right and her own idea of him were two quite different people.
She left home on the Sunday evening and, when it came to the actual moment of departure, with reluctance. The boys had gone back to school and she wouldn’t see them again until half-term, but there was the Sunday school class she had always taken for her father, choir practice, the various small duties her mother had had to give up while she had been ill, and there was Charlie Brown, the family cat, and Higgins, the elderly Labrador dog; she had become fond of them during her stay at home.
‘I’ll be home next weekend,’ she told her mother bracingly, ‘and I’ll phone you this evening.’ All the same, the sight of her father’s elderly greying figure waving from the platform as the train left made her feel childishly forlorn.
Mrs Twist’s home dispelled some of her feelings of strangeness. There was a tray of tea waiting for her in her room and the offer of help if she should need it. ‘And there is a bite of supper at eight o’clock, it being Sunday,’ said Mrs Twist, ‘and just this once you can use the phone downstairs. There’s a phone box just across the road that Miss Brice used.’
Florence unpacked, arranged the photos and her bits and pieces, phoned her mother to assure her in a cheerful voice that she had settled in nicely and everything was fine, and then went down to her supper.
‘Miss Brice was away for most weekends,’ said the landlady, ‘but sometimes she ’ad ter work, so we had a bite together.’
So Florence ate her supper in the kitchen with Mrs Twist and listened to that lady’s comments upon her neighbours, the cost of everything and her bad back. ‘Miss Brice told Mr Fitzgibbon about it,’ she confided, ‘and he was ever so kind—sent me to the ’ospital with a special note to a friend of ’is. ’E’s ever so nice; you’ll like working for him.’
‘Oh, I’m sure I will,’ said Florence, secretly not at all sure about it.
She arrived at the consulting-rooms well before time in the morning. A taciturn elderly man opened the door to her, nodded when she told him who she was, and went to unlock Mr Fitzgibbon’s own door. The place had been hoovered and dusted and there were fresh flowers in the vase on the coffee-table. Presumably Mr Fitzgibbon had a fairy godmother who waved her wand and summoned cleaning ladies at unearthly hours. She went through to the cloakroom and found her white uniform laid out for her; there was a frilled muslin cap too. He didn’t agree with the modern version of a nurse’s uniform, and she registered approval as she changed. She clasped her navy belt with its silver buckle round her neat waist and began a cautious survey of the premises, peering in cupboards and drawers, making sure where everything was; Mr Fitzgibbon wasn’t a man to suffer fools gladly, she was sure, and she had no intention of being caught out.
Mrs Keane arrived next, begged Florence to put on the kettle and sorted out the notes of the patients who were expected. ‘Time for a cup of tea,’ she explained. ‘We’ll be lucky if we get time for coffee this morning—there’s old Lady Trump coming, and even if we allow her twice as long as anyone else she always holds everything up. There’s the phone, dear; answer it, will you?’
Mr Fitzgibbon’s voice, unflurried, sounded in her ear. ‘I shall be about fifteen minutes late. Is Sister Napier there yet?’
‘Yes,’ said Florence, slightly tartly, ‘she is; she came at eight o’clock sharp.’
‘The time we agreed upon?’ he asked silkily. ‘I should warn you that I frown upon unpunctuality.’
‘In that case, Mr Fitzgibbon,’ said Florence sweetly, ‘why don’t you have one of those clocking-in machines installed?’
‘I frown on impertinence too,’ said Mr Fitzgibbon, and hung up.
Mrs Keane had been listening; she didn’t say anything but went and made the tea and sat down opposite Florence in the tiny kitchen. ‘I’ll tell you about the patients coming this morning. One new case—a Mr Willoughby. He’s a CA, left lobe, sent to us by his doctor. Lives somewhere in the Midlands—retired. The other three are back for check-ups—Lady Trump first; allow half an hour for her, and she needs a lot of help getting undressed and dressed and so on. Then there is little Miss Powell, who had a lobectomy two months ago, and the last one is a child, Susie Castle—seven years old—a fibrocystic. It’s not for me to say, but I think it’s a losing battle. Such a dear child, too.’
She glanced at the clock. ‘He’ll be here in about two minutes…’
She was right; Mr Fitzgibbon came in quietly, wished them good morning and went to his consulting-room.
‘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.’
‘There you are, then,’ said Florence comfortably. ‘Now drink up and go home. You might even have time for a quick nap.’
Mr Fitzgibbon drank his coffee meekly, trying to remember when last anyone had ordered him to drink his coffee and get off home. His childhood probably, he thought sleepily with suddenly vivid memories of Nanny standing over him while he swallowed hot milk.
Rather to his own surprise, he did as he was told, and when Florence went back to the consulting-room with the first batch of notes he had gone. He was back at half-past nine, elegant in a dark grey suit and richly sombre tie, betraying no hint of an almost sleepless night. Indeed, he looked ten years younger, and Florence, eyeing him covertly, wondered how old he was.
Mrs Witherington-Pugh, who had had open chest surgery for an irretractable hernia some years previously, had come for her annual check-up and was as tiresome as Florence had felt in her bones she would be. She was slender to the point of scragginess and swathed in vague, floating garments that took a long time to remove and even longer to put back on. She kept up what Florence privately thought of as a ‘poor little me’ conversation, and fluttered her artificial eyelashes at Mr Fitzgibbon, who remained unmoved. He pronounced her well, advised her to take more exercise, eat plenty and take up some interest.
‘But I dare not eat more than a few mouthfuls,’ declared the lady. ‘I’m not one of your strapping young women who needs three meals a day.’ Her eyes strayed to Florence’s Junoesque person. ‘If one is well built, of course…’
Florence composed her beautiful features into a calm she didn’t feel and avoided Mr Fitzgibbon’s eye. ‘None the less,’ he observed blandly, ‘you should eat sensibly; the slenderness of youth gives way to the thinness of middle age, you know.’
Mrs Witherington-Pugh simpered. ‘Well, I don’t need to worry too much about that for some years yet,’ she told him.
Mr Fitzgibbon merely smiled pleasantly and shook her hand.
Florence tidied up and he sat and watched her. ‘Bring in Sir Percival Watts,’ he said finally. He glanced at his watch. ‘We’re running late. I shan’t need you for ten minutes—go and have your coffee. I’ll have mine before the next patient—’ he glanced at the pile of notes before him ‘—Mr Simpson. His tests are back; he’ll need surgery.’ He didn’t look up as she went out of the room.
Sir Percival was on the point of going when she returned, and she ushered in Mr Simpson; at a nod from Mr Fitzgibbon she busied herself in the examination-room while he talked to his patient. She could hear the murmur of their voices and then silence, and she turned to find Mr Fitzgibbon leaning against the door-frame, watching her.
‘I’ll be at Colbert’s if I’m wanted; I’ll be back here about two o’clock. You should be able to leave on time this evening. I expect you go out in the evenings when you’re free?’
‘Me? No, I’ve nowhere to go—not on my own, that is. Most of my friends at Colbert’s have left or got married; besides, by the time I’ve had supper there’s not much of the evening left.’
‘I told you the hours were erratic. Take the afternoon off tomorrow, will you? I shall be operating at Colbert’s, and Sister will scrub for me. I shall want you here at six o’clock in the evening—there’s a new patient coming to see me.’
He wandered away, and Florence muttered, ‘And not one single “please”…’
Save for necessary talk concerning patients that afternoon, he had nothing to say to her, and his goodnight was curt. He must be tired, Florence reflected, watching from the window as he crossed the pavement to his car. She hoped that his wife would be waiting for him with a well-cooked dinner. She glanced at her watch: it was early for dinner, so perhaps he would have high tea; he was such a very large man that he would need plenty of good, nourishing food. She began to arrange a menu in her mind—soup, a roast with plenty of baked potatoes and fresh vegetables, and a fruit pie for afters. Rhubarb, she mused; they had had rhubarb pie at home at the weekend with plenty of cream. Probably his wife didn’t do the cooking—he must have a sizeable income from his practice as well as the work he did at the hospital, so there would be a cook and someone to do the housework. Her nimble fingers arranged everything ready for the morning while she added an au pair or a nanny for his children. Two boys and a girl… Mrs Keane’s voice aroused her from her musings.
‘Are you ready to leave, Florence? It’s been a nice easy day, hasn’t it? There’s someone booked for tomorrow evening…’
Florence went to change out of her uniform. ‘Yes, Mr Fitzgibbon’s given me the afternoon off, but I have to come back at six o’clock.’
‘Ah, yes—did he tell you who it was? No? Forgot, I expect. A very well-known person in the theatre world. Using her married name, of course.’ Mrs Keane was going around, checking shut windows and doors. ‘Very highly strung,’ she commented, for still, despite her years of working for Mr Fitzgibbon, she adhered to the picturesque and sometimes inaccurate medical terms of her youth.
Florence, racing out of her uniform and into a skirt and sweater, envisaged a beautiful not-so-young actress who smoked too much and had developed a nasty cough…
The next day brought its quota of patients in the morning and, since the last of them went around noon, she cleared up and then was free to go. ‘Mind you’re here at six o’clock,’ were Mr Fitzgibbon’s parting words.
She agreed to that happily; she was free for almost six hours and she knew exactly what she was going to go and do. She couldn’t expect lunch at Mrs Twist’s; she would go and change and have lunch out, take a look at the shops along the Brompton Road and peek into Harrods, take a brisk walk in the park, have tea and get back in good time.
All of which she did, and, much refreshed, presented herself at the consulting-rooms with ten minutes to spare. All the same, he was there before her.
He bade her good evening with his usual cool courtesy and added, ‘You will remain with the patient at all times, Miss Napier,’ before returning to his writing.
Mrs Keane wasn’t there; Florence waited in the reception-room until the bell rang, and opened the door. She wasn’t a theatre-goer herself and she had little time for TV; all the same, she recognised the woman who came in. No longer young, but still striking-looking and expertly made-up, exquisitely dressed, delicately perfumed. She pushed past Florence with a nod.
‘I hope I’m not to be kept waiting,’ she said sharply. ‘You’d better let Mr Fitzgibbon know that I’m here.’
Florence looked down her delicate nose. ‘I believe that Mr Fitzgibbon is ready for you. If you will sit down for a moment I will let him know that you’re here.’
She tapped on the consulting-room door and went in, closing it behind her. ‘Your patient is here, sir.’
‘Good, bring her in and stay.’
The next half-hour was a difficult one. No one liked to be told that they probably had cancer of a lung, but, with few exceptions, they accepted the news with at least a show of courage. Mr Fitzgibbon, after a lengthy examination, offered his news in the kindest possible way and was answered by a storm of abuse, floods of tears and melodramatic threats of suicide.
Florence kept busy with cups of tea, tissues and soothing words, and cringed at the whining voice going on and on about the patient’s public, her ruined health and career, her spoilt looks.
When she at length paused for breath Mr Fitzgibbon said suavely, ‘My dear lady, your public need know nothing unless you choose to tell them, and I imagine that you are sufficiently well known for a couple of months away from the stage to do no harm. There is no need to tamper with your looks; your continuing—er—appearance is entirely up to you. Fretting and worrying will do more harm than a dozen operations.’
He waited while Florence soothed a fresh outburst of tears and near-hysterics. ‘I suggest that you choose which hospital you prefer as soon as possible and I will operate—within the next three weeks. No later than that.’
‘You’re sure you can cure me?’
‘If it is within my powers to do so, yes.’
‘I won’t be maimed?’