Strangers When We Meet by Vivian Stuart

Author:Vivian Stuart
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Jentas Ehf
Published: 2022-10-25T00:00:00+00:00

6

SARAH took an instinctive and quite unprofessional dislike to her new patient from the moment when, in response to her invitation, he rose from his waiting room chair and came limping across the consulting room towards her.

There was nothing especially remarkable about his appearance—certainly nothing to account for the strong feeling of repugnance he aroused in her—save perhaps his smile which, like his manner, was ingratiating and unnecessarily effusive. He was a man of medium height, with a pale, rather unhealthy complexion and lank brown hair that was starting to recede a little at the temples, and he was aged, as nearly as she could judge, about thirty-seven or eight. He greeted her pleasantly enough, the smile very much in evidence, and although she did not particularly enjoy the way he looked at her, she still could not have said, just then, precisely why she disliked him. She simply knew that she did and took herself sternly to task for it.

After all, he was a patient—one of Dr. Mason’s, presumably, since he knew the office hours—and he had sought her professional help which, whatever her personal feelings or instinctive prejudices, Sarah reminded herself, she was bound to give him. A doctor was not entitled to prejudices, when a patient was in pain . . . as this one appeared to be. His left ankle had received a severe wrench, he told her, and was so swollen that he could hardly walk.

“Did it yesterday, Doctor, when I took the kids out on a picnic, and it’s giving me hell . . .” His expression was martyred. “I haven’t had a wink of sleep all day.”

“All day?” Sarah echoed, puzzled.

He nodded. “Why, sure—I work nights, see, and hit the sack in the daytime. But oh Jeez, not today! It’s swelled up so, I got to thinking maybe I busted it. D’you reckon I could have, Doc?”

“I’ll tell you when I’ve looked at it.” Sarah motioned him to climb on to the examination couch. “Roll up your trouser leg, please, and then lie down at full length. Your name is French, isn’t it?”

“Yeah—Robert C. French. Folks call me Bob.” He lay back on the couch, head propped on his hands, watching her, an odd light in his eyes which she found disconcerting. She went to the case file on Dr. Mason’s desk, searched under the F’s in the index, but unable to find a French with those initials, took out a blank card and wrote his name on it. It was a pity, in a way, she thought; Dr. Mason’s notes on patients were always helpful and often illuminating, but Robert C. French evidently wasn’t a regular patient.

“What is your address, Mr. French?” she asked, pen poised.

“What do you have to know my address for?” he demanded. “I’m here, ain’t I? I mean I didn’t ask you to come round to my place—reckoned I’d save you the bother, you being new here. But it wasn’t easy driving a car with this ankle, I can tell you.

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