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  I nodded and got slowly to my feet and as I swayed he put his arm round me and assisted me to the door. Outside, the fog had cleared and a bright pattern of stars overhung the village, but the clean cold air only made me feel worse and I stumbled through the darkness like a sleepwalker. When I reached the car a long griping spasm drove through me, reminding me horribly of the sausages, the gin and the rest. I groaned and leaned on the roof.

  “Maybe you’d better drive, Helen,” my colleague said. He was about to open the door when, with a dreadful feeling of helplessness, I began to slide along the metal.

  Granville caught my shoulders. “He’d be better in the back,” he gasped and began to lug me on to the seat. “Zoe, sweetheart, Helen, love, grab a leg each, will you? Fine, now I’ll get round the other side and pull him in.”

  He trotted round to the far side, opened the door and hauled at my shoulders.

  “Down a bit your side, Helen, dear. Now to me a little. Up a trifle your side, Zoe, pet. Now back to you a bit. Lovely, lovely.”

  Clearly he was happy at his work. He sounded like an expert furniture remover and through the mists I wondered bitterly how many inert forms he had stuffed into their cars after an evening with him.

  Finally they got me in, half lying across the back seat. My face was pressed against the side window and from the outside it must have been a grotesque sight with the nose squashed sideways and a solitary dead-mackerel eye staring sightlessly into the night.

  With an effort I managed to focus and saw Zoe looking down at me anxiously. She gave a tentative wave of goodbye but I could produce only a slight twitch of the cheek in reply.

  Granville kissed Helen fondly then slammed the car door. Moving back, he peered in at me and brandished his arms.

  “See you soon, I hope, Jim. It’s been a lovely evening!” His big face was wreathed in a happy smile and as I drove away my final impression was that he was thoroughly satisfied.

  CHAPTER 25

  BEING AWAY FROM DARROWBY and living a different life I was able to stand back and assess certain things objectively. I asked myself many questions. Why, for instance, was my partnership with Siegfried so successful?

  Even now, as we still jog along happily after thirty-five years, I wonder about it. I know I liked him instinctively when I first saw him in the garden at Skeldale House on that very first afternoon, but I feel there is another reason why we get on together.

  Maybe it is because we are opposites. Siegfried’s restless energy impels him constantly to try to alter things while I abhor change of any kind. A lot of people would call him brilliant, while not even my best friends would apply that description to me. His mind relentlessly churns out ideas of all grades—excellent, doubtful and very strange indeed. I, on the other hand, rarely have an idea of any sort. He likes hunting, shooting and fishing; I prefer football, cricket and tennis. I could go on and on—we are even opposite physical types—and yet as I say, we get along.

  This of course doesn’t mean that we have never had our differences. Over the years there have been minor clashes on various points.

  One, I recall, was over the plastic calcium injectors. They were something new so Siegfried liked them, and by the same token I regarded them with deep suspicion.

  My doubts were nourished by my difficulties with them. Their early troubles have now been ironed out but at the beginning I found the things so temperamental that I abandoned them.

  My colleague pulled me up about it when he saw me washing out my flutter valve by running the surgery tap through it.

  “For God’s sake, James, you’re not still using that old thing, are you?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I am.”

  “But haven’t you tried the new plastics?”

  “I have.”

  “Well … ?”

  “Can’t get away with them, Siegfried.”

  “Can’t … what on earth do you mean?”

  I trickled the last drop of water through the tube, rolled it small and slipped it into its case. “Well, the last time I used one the calcium squirted all over the place. And it’s messy, sticky stuff. I had great white streaks down my coat.”

  “But James!” He laughed incredulously. “That’s crazy! They’re childishly simple to use. I haven’t had the slightest trouble.”

  “I believe you,” I said. “But you know me. I haven’t got a mechanical mind.”

  “For heaven’s sake, you don’t need a mechanical mind. They’re foolproof.”

  “Not to me, they aren’t. I’ve had enough of them.”

  My colleague put his hand on my shoulder and his patient look began to creep across his face. “James, James, you must persevere.” He raised a finger. “There is another point at issue here, you know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The matter of asepsis. How do you know that length of rubber you have there is clean?”

  “Well, I wash it through after use, I use a boiled needle, and …”

  “But don’t you see, my boy, you’re only trying to achieve what already exists in the plastic pack. Each one is self-contained and sterilised.”

  “Oh I know all about that but what’s the good of it if I can’t get the stuff into the cow?” I said querulously.

  “Oh piffle, James!” Siegfried assumed a grave expression. “It only needs a little application on your part, and I must stress that you are behaving in a reactionary manner by being stubborn. I put it to you seriously that we have to move with the times and every time you use that antiquated outfit of yours it is a retrograde step.”

  We stood, as we often did, eyeball to eyeball, in mutual disagreement till he smiled suddenly. “Look, you’re going out now, aren’t you, to see that milk-fever cow I treated at John Tillot’s. I understand it’s not up yet.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, as a favour to me, will you give one of the new packs a try?”

  I thought for a moment. “All right Siegfried, I’ll have one more go.”

  When I reached the farm I found the cow comfortably ensconced in a field, in the middle of a rolling yellow ocean of buttercups.

  “She’s had a few tries to get on ’er feet,” the farmer said. “But she can’t quite make it.”

  “Probably just wants another shot.” I went to my car which I had driven, rocking and bumping, over the rig and furrow of the field, and took one of the plastic packs from the boot.

  Mr. Tillot raised his eyebrows when he saw me coming back. “Is that one o’ them new things?”

  “Yes, it is, Mr. Tillot the very latest invention. All completely sterilised.”

  “Ah don’t care what it is, ah don’t like it!”

  “You don’t?”

  “Naw!”

  “Well … why not?”

  “Ah’ll tell ye. Mr. Farnon used one this mornin’. Some of the stuff went in me eye, some went in ’is ear ’ole and the rest went down ’is trousers. Ah don’t think t’bloody cow got any!”

  There was another time Siegfried had to take me to task. An old-age pensioner was leading a small mongrel dog along the passage on the other end of a piece of string. I patted the consulting room table.

  “Put him up here, will you?” I said.

  The old man bent over slowly, groaning and puffing.

  “Wait a minute.” I tapped his shoulder. “Let me do it.” I hoisted the little animal on to the smooth surface.

  “Thank ye, sir.” The man straightened up and rubbed his back and leg. “I ’ave arthritis bad and I’m not much good at liftin’. My name’s Bailey and I live at t’council houses.”

  “Right, Mr. Bailey, what’s the trouble?”

  “It’s this cough. He’s allus at it. And ’e kind of retches at t’end of it”

  “I see. How old is he?”

  “He were ten last month.”

  “Yes …” I took the temperature and carefully auscultated the chest. As I moved the stethoscope over the ribs Siegfried came in and began to rummage in t