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.
‘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.
