Betty Neels - Romantic Encounter

‘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.