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
