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,
