Romantic Encounter. Betty Neels
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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?’
He looked coldly astonished. ‘I do not maim my patients; this is an operation which is undertaken very frequently and gives excellent results.’
‘I shall need the greatest care and nursing—I am a very sensitive person…’
‘Any of the private hospitals in London will guarantee that. Please let me know when you have made your decision and I will make the necessary arrangements.’
Mr Fitzgibbon got to his feet and bade his patient a polite goodbye, and Florence showed her out.
When she got back he was still sitting at his desk. He took a look at her face and observed, ‘I did tell you that it was hard work. At Colbert’s I see as many as a dozen a week with the same condition and not one of them utters so much as a whimper.’
‘Well,’ said Florence, trying to be fair, ‘she is famous…’
‘Mothers of families are famous too in their own homes, and they face a hazardous future, and what about the middle-aged ladies supporting aged parents, or the women bringing up children on their own?’
Florence so far forgot herself as to sit down on the other side of his desk. ‘Well, I didn’t know that you were like that…’
‘Like what?’
‘Minding about people. Oh, doctors and surgeons must mind, I know that, but you…’ She paused, at a loss for getting the right words, getting slowly red in the face at the amused mockery on his.
‘How fortunate it is, Miss Napier,’ he observed gently, ‘that my life’s happiness does not depend on your good opinion of me.’
She got off the chair. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know why I had to say that.’ She added ingenuously, ‘I often say things without thinking first—Father is always telling me…’
He said carelessly, ‘Oh, I shouldn’t let it worry you, I don’t suppose you ever say anything profound enough to shatter your hearer’s finer feelings.’
Florence opened her mouth to answer that back, thought better of it at the last minute, and asked in a wooden voice, ‘Do you expect any more patients, sir, or may I tidy up?’
She might not have spoken. ‘Do you intend to leave at the end of the month?’ he asked idly.
‘Leave? Here? No…’ She took a sharp breath. ‘Do you want me to? I dare say I annoy you. Not everyone can get on with everyone else,’ she explained in a reasonable voice, ‘you know, a kind of mutual antipathy…’
He remained grave, but his eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘I have no wish for you to leave, Miss Napier; you suit me very well: you are quick and sensible and the patients appear to like you, and any grumbling you may do about awkward hours you keep to yourself. We must contrive to rub along together, must we not?’ He stood up. ‘Now do whatever it is you have to do and we will go somewhere and have a meal.’
Florence eyed him in astonishment. ‘You and I? But Mrs Twist will have something keeping warm in the oven for me…’
He reached for the telephone. ‘In that case I will ask her to take it out before it becomes inedible.’ He waved a large hand at her. ‘Fifteen minutes—I’ve some notes to write up. Come back here when you’re ready.’
There seemed no point in arguing with him; Florence sped away to the examination-room and began to put it to rights. Fifteen minutes wasn’t long enough, of course; she would have to see to most of the instruments he had used in the morning—she could come early and do that. She worked fast and efficiently so that under her capable hands the room was pristine once more. The waiting-room needed little done in it; true, on her way out the patient had given vent to her feelings by tossing a few cushions around, but Florence shook them up smartly and repaired to the cloakroom, where she did her face and hair with the speed of light, got out of the uniform and into the jersey dress and matching jacket, thrust her feet into low-heeled pumps, caught up her handbag and went back to the consulting-room.
Mr Fitzgibbon was standing at the window, looking out into the street below, his hands in his pockets. He looked over his shoulder as she went in. ‘Do you like living in London?’ he wanted to know.
‘Well, I don’t really live here, do I? I work here, but when I’m free I go home, so I don’t really know what living here is like. At Colbert’s I went out a good deal when I was off duty, but I never felt as though I belonged.’
‘You prefer the country?’
‘Oh, yes. Although I should think that if I lived here in surroundings such as these—’ she waved an arm towards the street outside ‘—London might be quite pleasant.’
He opened the door for her and locked it behind him. ‘Do you live in London?’ she asked.
‘Er—for a good deal of the time, yes.’ There was a frosty edge to his voice which warned her not to ask questions. She followed him out to the car and was ushered in in silence.
She hadn’t travelled in a Rolls-Royce before and she was impressed by its size; it and Mr Fitzgibbon, she reflected, shared the same vast, dignified appearance. She uttered the thought out loud. ‘Of course, this is exactly the right car for you, isn’t it?’
He was driving smoothly through quiet streets. ‘Why?’
‘Well, for one thing the size is right, isn’t it?’ She paused to think. ‘And, of course, it has great dignity.’
Mr Fitzgibbon smiled very slightly. ‘I am reassured to think that your opinion of me is improving.’
She couldn’t think of the right answer to that; instead she asked, ‘Where are we going?’
‘Wooburn Common, about half an hour from here. You know the Chequers Inn? I’ve booked a table.’
‘Oh—it’s in the country?’
‘Yes. I felt that it was the least I could do in the face of your preference for rural parts.’
‘Well, that’s awfully kind of you to take so much trouble. I mean, there