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  “Well then,” Helen continued, with the persistence that is part of even the sweetest women. “Why don’t we accept their invitation? I’d rather like to meet them—and it’s a bit embarrassing when they keep ’phoning.”

  I turned on my side. “Okay, we’ll go one of these days, I promise.”

  But if it hadn’t been for the little papilloma on Sam’s lip I don’t think we would ever have got there. I noticed the thing—a growth smaller than a pea—near the left commissure when I was giving our beagle an illicit chocolate biscuit. It was a typical benign tumour and on anybody else’s dog I should have administered a quick local and whipped it off in a minute. But since it was Sam I turned pale and ’phoned Granville.

  I have always been as soppy as any old lady over my pets and I suspect many of my colleagues are the same. I listened apprehensively to the buzz-buzz at the far end, then the big voice came on the line.

  “Bennett here.”

  “Hello, Granville, it’s …”

  “Jim!” The boom of delight was flattering. “Where have you been hiding yourself, laddie?”

  He didn’t know how near he was to the truth. I told him about Sam.

  “Doesn’t sound much, old son, but I’ll have a look at him with pleasure. Tell you what. We’ve been trying to get you over here for a meal—why not bring the little chap with you?”

  “Well …” A whole evening in Granville’s hands—it was a daunting prospect.

  “Now don’t mess about Jim. You know, there’s a wonderful Indian restaurant in Newcastle. Zoe and I would love to take you both out there. It’s about time we met your wife, isn’t it?”

  “Yes … of course it is. Indian restaurant eh?”

  “Yes, laddie. Superb curries—mild, medium or blast your bloody head off. Onion bhajis, bhuna lamb, gorgeous nan bread.”

  My mind was working fast. “Sounds marvellous, Granville.” It did seem fairly secure. He was most dangerous on his own territory and it would take forty-five minutes’ driving each way to Newcastle. Then maybe an hour and a half in the restaurant. I should be reasonably safe for most of the evening. There was just the bit at his house before we left—that was the only worry.

  It was uncanny how he seemed to read my thoughts. “Before we leave, Jim, we’ll have a little session in my garden.”

  “Your garden?” It sounded strange in November.

  “That’s right old lad.”

  Ah well, maybe he was proud of his late chrysanthemums, and I couldn’t see myself coming to much harm there. “Well, fine, Granville. Maybe Wednesday night?”

  “Lovely, lovely, lovely—can’t wait to meet Helen.”

  Wednesday was one of those bright frosty late autumn days which turn misty in the afternoon and by six o’clock the countryside was blanketed by one of the thickest fogs I had ever seen in Yorkshire.

  Creeping along in our little car, my nose almost on the windscreen, I muttered against the glass.

  “God’s truth, Helen, we’ll never get to Newcastle tonight! I know Granville’s some driver but you can’t see ten yards out there.”

  Almost at walking pace we covered the twenty miles to the Bennett residence and it was with a feeling of relief that I saw the brightly lit doorway rising out of the mirk.

  Granville, as vast and impressive as ever, was there in the hall with arms outspread. Bashfulness had never been one of his problems and he folded my wife in a bear-like embrace.

  “Helen, my pet,” he said and kissed her fondly and lingeringly. He stopped to take a breath, regarded her for a moment with deep appreciation then kissed her again.

  I shook hands decorously with Zoe and the two girls were introduced. They made quite a picture standing there. An attractive woman is a gift from heaven and it was a rare bonus to see two of them in close proximity. Helen very dark and blue-eyed, Zoe brown-haired with eyes of greyish-green, but both of them warm and smiling.

  Zoe had her usual effect on me. That old feeling was welling up; the desire to look my best, in fact better than my best. I cast a furtive glance at the hall mirror. Immaculately suited, clean shirted, freshly shaven, I was sure I projected the desired image of the clean-limbed young veterinary surgeon, the newly married man of high principles and impeccable behaviour.

  I breathed a silent prayer of thanks that at last she was seeing me stone cold sober and normal. Tonight I would expunge all her squalid memories of me from her mind.

  “Zoe, my sweet,” carolled Granville. “Take Helen into the garden while I see Jim’s dog.”

  I blinked. The garden in this fog. I just didn’t get it, but I was too anxious about Sam to give the thing much thought. I opened the car door and the beagle trotted into the house.

  My colleague greeted him with delight “Come inside, my little man.” Then he hollered at the top of his voice.

  “Phoebles! Victoria! Yoo-hoo! Come and meet cousin Sam!”

  The obese Staffordshire bull terrier waddled in, closely followed by the Yorkie, who bared her teeth in an ingratiating smile at all present.

  After the dogs had met and exchanged pleasantries Granville lifted Sam into his arms.

  “Is that what you mean, Jim? Is that what you’re worried about?”

  I nodded dumbly.

  “Good God, I could take a deep breath and blow the damn thing off!” He looked at me incredulously and smiled. “Jim, old lad, why are you so daft about your dog?”

  “Why do you call Phoebe Phoebles?” I countered swiftly.

  “Oh well …” He cleared his throat “I’ll get my equipment. Hang on a minute.”

  He disappeared and came back with a syringe and scissors. About half a cc was enough to numb the part, then he snipped off the papilloma, applied some styptic and put the beagle on the floor. The operation took about two minutes but even in that brief spell his unique dexterity was manifest.

  “That’ll be ten guineas, Mr. Herriot,” he murmured, then gave a shout of laughter. “Come on, let’s get into the garden. Sam will be quite happy with my dogs.”

  He led me out of the back door and we stumbled through the fog by a rockery and rose bushes. I was just wondering how on earth he expected to show me anything in this weather when we came up against a stone outhouse. He threw open the door and I stepped into a brightly lit sparkling Aladdin’s cave.

  It was quite simply a fully fitted bar. At the far end a polished counter with beer handles and, behind, a long row of bottles of every imaginable liquor. A fire crackled in the hearth and hunting prints, cartoons and bright posters looked down from the walls. It was completely authentic.

  Granville saw my astonished face and laughed. “All right, eh, Jim? I thought it would be a nice idea to have my own little pub in the garden. Rather cosy, isn’t it?”

  “Yes … yes indeed … charming.”

  “Good, good.” My colleague slipped behind the counter. “Now what are you going to have?”

  Helen and Zoe took sherry and I made a quick decision to stick to one fairly harmless drink. “Gin and tonic, please, Granville.” The girls received a normal measure of sherry but when the big man took my glass over to the gin bottle hanging on the wall his hand seemed to be overcome by an uncontrollable trembling. The bottle was upended with one of those little optic attachments you push up with the rim of the glass to give a single measure.

  But as I say, as Granville inserted the neck of the bottle into the glass his whole arm jerked repeatedly as though he were going into a convulsion. It was obvious that the result would be about six gins instead of one and I was about to remonstrate when he took the glass away and topped it up quickly with tonic, ice and sliced lemon.

  I looked at it apprehensively. “Rather a big one, isn’t it?”

  “Not at all, laddie, nearly all tonic. Well, cheers, so nice to see you both.”

  And it certainly was. They were generous, warm people and veterinary folk like ourselves. I felt a gush of gratitude for the friendliness they had always shown me and as I sipped my d