‘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 are dozens of little cafés around Wimpole Street—well, not actually very near, but down some of the side-streets.’

‘I must bear that in mind. Which reminds me, Mrs Twist asks that you should make sure that the cat doesn’t get out as you go in.’

‘Oh, Buster. She’s devoted to him—he’s a splendid tabby; not as fine as our Charlie Brown, though. Do you like cats?’

‘Yes, we have one; she keeps my own dog company.’

‘We have a Labrador—Higgins. He’s elderly.’ She fell silent, mulling over the way he had said ‘we have one’, and Mr Fitzgibbon waited patiently for the next question, knowing what it was going to be.

‘Are you married?’ asked Florence.

‘No—why do you ask?’

‘Well, if you were I don’t think we should be going out like this without your wife… I expect you think I’m silly.’

‘No, but do I strike you as the kind of man who would take a girl out while his wife actually sat at home waiting for him?’

Florence looked sideways at his calm profile. ‘No.’

‘That, from someone who is still not sure if she likes me or not, is praise indeed.’

They drove on in silence for a few minutes until she said in a small resolute voice, ‘I’m sorry if I annoyed you, Mr Fitzgibbon.’

‘Contrary to your rather severe opinion of me, I don’t annoy easily. Ah—here we are. I hope you’re hungry?’

The Chequers Inn was charming. Florence, ushered from the car and gently propelled towards it, stopped a minute to take a deep breath of rural air. It wasn’t as good as Dorset, but it compared very favourably with Wimpole Street. The restaurant was just as charming, with a table in a window and a friendly waiter who addressed Mr Fitzgibbon by name and suggested in a quiet voice that the duck, served with a port wine and pink peppercorn sauce, was excellent and might please him and the young lady.

Florence, when consulted, agreed that it sounded delicious, and agreed again when Mr Fitzgibbon suggested that a lobster mousse with cucumber might be pleasant to start their meal.

She knew very little about wine, so she took his word for it that the one poured for her was a pleasant drink, as indeed it was, compared with the occasional bottle of table wine which graced the vicarage table. She remarked upon this in the unselfconscious manner that Mr Fitzgibbon was beginning to enjoy, adding, ‘But I dare say there are a great many wines—if one had the interest in them—to choose from.’

He agreed gravely, merely remarking that the vintage wine he offered her was thought to be very agreeable.

The mousse and duck having been eaten with relish, Florence settled upon glazed fruit tart and cream, and presently poured coffee for them both, making conversation with the well-tried experience of a vicar’s daughter, and Mr Fitzgibbon, unexpectedly enjoying himself hugely, encouraged her. It was Florence, glancing at the clock, who exclaimed, ‘My goodness, look at the time!’ She added guiltily, ‘I hope you didn’t have any plans for your evening—it’s almost ten o’clock.’ She went on apologetically, ‘It was nice to have someone to talk to.’

‘One should, whenever possible, relax after a day’s work,’ observed Mr Fitzgibbon smoothly.

The nearby church clocks were striking eleven o’clock when he stopped before Mrs Twist’s little house. Florence, unfastening her seatbelt, began her thank-you speech, which he ignored while he helped her out, took the key from her, unlocked the door and then stood looming over her.

‘I 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.

‘I shall want you with me. Five minutes to tidy yourself. I’ll be outside in the car.’

She flew to the cloakroom, wondering what she had done, and, while she did her face, set her cap at a more becoming angle and made sure her uniform was spotless, she worried. Had she annoyed a patient or forgotten something? Perhaps he had been crossed in love, unable to take his girlfriend out that evening. They might have quarrelled… She would have added to these speculations, only Mrs Keane poked her head round the door.

‘He’s in the car…’

Mr Fitzgibbon leaned across and opened the door as she reached the car, and she got in without speaking, settled herself without looking at him and stared ahead as he drove away.

He negotiated a tangle of traffic in an unflurried manner before he spoke. ‘I can hear your thoughts, Florence.’

So she was Florence now, was she? ‘In that case,’ she said crisply, ‘there is no need for me to ask where we are going, sir.’

Mr Fitzgibbon allowed his lip to twitch very slightly. ‘No—of course, you will have read about it for yourself. You know the place?’

‘I’ve been there with my brothers.’

‘The curator has apartments there; his wife is a patient of mine, recently out of hospital. She is a lady of seventy-two and was unfortunate enough to swallow a sliver of glass during a meal, which perforated her oesophagus. I found it necessary to perform a thoracotomy, from which she is recovering. This should be my final visit, although she will come to the consulting-room later on for regular check-ups.’

‘Thank you,’ said Florence in a businesslike manner. ‘Is there anything else that I need to know?’

‘No, other than that she is a nervous little lady, which is why I have to take you with me.’

Florence bit back a remark that she had hardly supposed that it was for the pleasure of her company, and neither of them spoke again until they reached their destination.

This, thought Florence, following Mr Fitzgibbon through a relatively small side-door and up an elegant staircase to the private apartments, was something to tell the boys when she wrote to them. The elderly stooping man who had admitted them stood aside for them to go in, and she stopped looking around her and concentrated on the patient.

A dear little lady, sitting in a chair with her husband beside her. Florence led her to a small bedroom presently, and Mr Fitzgibbon examined her without haste before pronouncing her fit and well, and when Florence led her patient back to the sitting-room he was standing at one of the big windows with the curator, discussing the view.

‘You will take some refreshment?’ suggested the curator, and Florence hoped that Mr Fitzgibbon would say yes; the curator looked a nice, dignified old man who would tell her more about the house…

Mr Fitzgibbon declined with grave courtesy. ‘I must get back to Colbert’s,’ he explained, ‘and Sister must return to the consulting-rooms as soon as possible.’

They made their farewells and went back to the car, and as Mr Fitzgibbon opened the door for her he said, ‘I’m already late. I’ll take you straight back and drop you off at the door. Lady Hempdon has an appointment for half-past four, has she not?’

She got in, and he got in beside her and drove off. ‘Perhaps you would like to drop me off so that I can catch a bus?’ asked Florence sweetly.

‘How thoughtful of you, Florence, but I think not. We should be back without any delay!’

Mr Fitzgibbon, so often right, was for once wrong.

CHAPTER THREE

MR FITZGIBBON IGNORED the main road back to the heart of the city. Florence, who wasn’t familiar with that part of the metropolis, became quite bewildered by the narrow streets lined with warehouses, most of them derelict, shabby, small brick houses and shops, and here and there newly built blocks of high-rise flats. There was, however, little traffic, and his short cuts would bring him very close to Tower Bridge where, presumably, he intended to cross the river.

She stared out at the derelict wharfs and warehouses they were passing with windows boarded up and walls held upright by wooden props; they looked unsafe and it was a good thing that the terrace of houses on the other side of the street was in a like state. There was nothing on the street save a heavily laden truck ahead of them, loaded with what appeared to be scrap iron. Mr Fitzgibbon had slowed, since it wasn’t possible to pass, so that he was able to stop instantly when the truck suddenly veered across the street and hit the wall of a half-ruined warehouse, bringing it down in a shower of bricks.

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