‘Thank you, dear,’ said Marjorie, huffing and puffing as Betsy lowered her gently into the seat.

‘I’ll take it from here,’ said Betsy, edging her way to the handles of the wheelchair.

Marjorie coughed ostentatiously.

‘Thank you,’ Betsy added.

I stood aside with amusement to watch their progress into the surgery.

‘Onwards,’ cried Marjorie, lifting her hand above her head. She pressed a button on her car key and the lights flashed, locking the vehicle. ‘Straight ahead to the ramp and through the automatic doors!’

I followed them in, pausing to read the community noticeboard in the foyer. There was always something going on in Fernfield and this was the place to find it; well, this and the parish magazine. There were adverts for everything from holiday cottages to second-hand vacuum cleaners, babysitting services, coffee mornings, salsa classes and even Japanese lessons. I scanned it on the off-chance that someone was in need of an assistant tree surgeon, or a dog walker, or anything outdoorsy, but nothing stood out.

I took a photo of the details of a yoga class, thinking that Evie and I could both do with some relaxation, and then took my place in the queue at the reception desk. There was a kerfuffle at the head of the queue. An elderly man had spilled something across the counter which had leaked through to the receptionist’s side. Two of the staff, one of whom I recognized as Nicky, had pushed back the sliding glass screen and were mopping up whatever it was with wads of kitchen roll. The other staff member had a nurse’s uniform on.

Behind the man was a woman with a small boy clutching her hand, desperate to see what the man had done and in front of me was Marjorie in her wheelchair, wheezing with laughter at the goings-on. Betsy was nowhere to be seen. I tapped Marjorie’s shoulder and she wheeled herself round to look at me.

‘What’s happened?’ I whispered, nodding towards the desk.

‘Old boy hadn’t screwed the lid on his sample bottle. Went everywhere.’

‘Oh dear.’ Nicky was shaking her head solemnly. She was in her mid-twenties and kept her shoulder-length dark blonde hair tucked behind her ears. She was a nice sensible girl and her figure was what my mum would have called ‘bonny’. She winked conspiratorially from beneath a ruler-straight fringe.

‘We can’t use that now, Mr Bradbury,’ the nurse tutted. ‘You’ll have to do another sample.’

‘No bother, Nurse,’ said the old man, taking a new pot from her. ‘There’s plenty more where that came from. In fact, have you got a bigger bottle?’

‘Oh, stop it,’ Marjorie gasped, weak from laughing. ‘At this rate I’m going to need one myself.’

The man shuffled off towards the toilets and Nicky gave a sigh of relief. ‘Next please! And don’t lean on the counter if you can help it.’