The car’s thin tyres were also prone to punctures and positively dangerous in snow or rain and, if the windscreen had iced up, Alf would often have to drive with his head out of the window. Out of desperation, he came up with an ingenious way to melt a few inches of the frost on his windscreen, referred to in It Shouldn’t Happen to a Vet.

  It was more than ten miles to the Clayton farm and it was one of those iron days when the frost piled thickly on the windscreen blotting out everything within minutes. But this morning I was triumphant. I had just bought a wonderful new invention – a couple of strands of wire mounted on a strip of Bakelite and fastened to the windscreen with rubber suckers. It worked from the car batteries and cleared a small space of vision.

  No more did I have to climb out wearily and scrub and scratch at the frozen glass every half-mile or so. I sat peering delightedly through a flawlessly clear semicircle about eight inches wide at the countryside unwinding before me like a film show; the grey stone villages, silent and withdrawn under their smothering white cloak; the low, burdened branches of the roadside trees.

  I was enjoying it so much that I hardly noticed the ache in my toes. Freezing feet were the rule in those days before car heaters, especially when you could see the road flashing past through the holes in the floorboards. On long journeys I really began to suffer towards the end. It was like that today when I got out of the car at the foot of the Pike Edge road; my fingers, too, throbbed painfully as I stamped around and swung my arms.

  While driving up hills was a challenge for James’s car, driving down them was even more alarming. The brakes on the Austin were always ineffective – as James found, violent pressure on the brake pedal would cause the car to stop, but only after a certain amount of veering across the road. But gradually, the brakes grow weaker until they become entirely absent, as one farmer discovers to his cost.

  I thought, not for the first time, that if you had to drive a car with no brakes one of the last places in England you’d want to be was the Yorkshire Dales. Even on the flat it was bad enough but I got used to it after a week or two and often forgot all about it. As when one day I was busy with a cow and the farmer jumped into my car to move it so that one of his men could get past with a tractor. I never said a word as the unsuspecting man backed round quickly and confidently and hit the wall of the barn with a sickening crash. With typical Yorkshire understatement, all he said was, ‘Your brakes aren’t ower savage, mister.’

  Without brakes, Alf became adept at descending the many hill roads by putting his car into first gear, yet even this didn’t stop it reaching terrifying speeds as it hurtled round bends, the engine screaming. In It Shouldn’t Happen to a Vet, James is forced to run his brakeless car into a wall to avoid a flock of sheep, exactly as Alf did in the Witton Steeps in the Dales. Before launching himself down the hill, James sits for a long time looking down at Mr Robinson’s farm, which lies a thousand feet below at the bottom of a steep track ‘with two villainous S-bends. It was like a malevolent snake coiling almost headlong from where I sat’. With his heart thumping, he wrestles in his mind over which route he should take: to go back into Darrowby and take the low road into Worton, a safer detour of over ten miles, or to go straight down.

  At last, I started the engine and did what I always did – took the quick way down.

  But this hill really was a beauty, a notorious road even in this country, and as I nosed gingerly onto it, the whole world seemed to drop away from me. With the gear lever in bottom and my hand jammed against it I headed, dry-mouthed, down the strip of tarmac which now looked to be almost vertical.

  It is surprising what speed you can attain in bottom gear if you have nothing else to hold you back and as the first bend rushed up at me the little engine started a rising scream of protest. When I hit the curve, I hauled the wheel round desperately to the right, the tyres spun for a second in the stones and loose soil of the verge, then we were off again.

  This was a longer stretch and even steeper and it was like being on the big dipper with the same feeling of lack of control over one’s fate. Hurtling into the bend, the idea of turning at this speed was preposterous but it was that or straight over the edge. Terror-stricken, I closed my eyes and dragged the wheel to the left. This time, one side of the car lifted and I was sure we were over, then it rocked back onto the other side and for a horrible second or two kept this up till it finally decided to stay upright and I was once more on my way.

  Again a yawning gradient. But as the car sped downwards, engine howling, I was aware of a curious numbness. I seemed to have reached the ultimate limits of fear and hardly noticed as we shot round the third bend. One more to go and at last the road was levelling out; my speed dropped rapidly and at the last bend I couldn’t have been doing more than twenty. I had made it.

  It wasn’t till I was right on to the final straight that I saw the sheep. Hundreds of them, filling the road. A river of woolly backs lapping from wall to wall. They were only yards from me and I was still going downhill. Without hesitation I turned and drove straight into the wall.

  There didn’t seem to be much damage. A few stones slithered down as the engine stalled and fell silent.

  Slowly I sank back in my seat, relaxing my clenched jaws, releasing, finger by finger, the fierce grip on the wheel. The sheep continued to flow past and I took a sideways glance at the man who was shepherding them. He was a stranger to me and I prayed he didn’t recognize me either because at that moment the role of unknown madman seemed to be the ideal one. Best not to say anything; appearing round a corner and driving deliberately into a wall is no basis for a rewarding conversation.

  The sheep were still passing by and I could hear the man calling to his dogs. ‘Get by, Jess. Come by, Nell.’ But I kept up a steady stare at the layered stones in front of me, even though he passed within a few feet.

  I suppose some people would have asked me what the hell I was playing at, but not a Dales shepherd. He went quietly by without invading my privacy, but when I looked in the mirror after a few moments I could see him in the middle of the road staring back at me, his sheep temporarily forgotten.

  James had repeatedly spoken to Siegfried about the dangerous state of his Austin and the more senior vet had told him not to worry and to leave it with him. The problem was he never did anything about it and, as the car was Siegfried’s property, there was little James could do but wait for him to take some action. It’s only when Siegfried himself experiences the full terror of the car that he eventually does something about its sorry condition.

  This occurs when the two vets head to a case together at a farm just outside Darrowby. Siegfried decides to drive them in the Austin, with James ‘huddled apprehensively next to him as he sets off at his usual brisk pace.’

  Hinchcliffe’s farm lies about a mile on the main road outside Darrowby. It is a massive place with a wide straight drive leading down to the house. We weren’t going there, but as Siegfried spurted to full speed I could see Mr Hinchcliffe in his big Buick ahead of us proceeding in a leisurely way along the middle of the road. As Siegfried pulled out to overtake, the farmer suddenly stuck out his hand and began to turn right towards his farm directly across our path. Siegfried’s foot went hard down on the brake pedal and his eyebrows shot right up as nothing happened. We were going straight for the side of the Buick and there was no room to go round on the left.

  Siegfried didn’t panic. At the last moment he turned right with the Buick and the two cars roared side by side down the drive, Mr Hinchcliffe staring at me with bulging eyes from close range. The farmer stopped in the yard, but we continued round the back of the house because we had to.

  Fortunately, it was one of those places where you could drive right round and we rattled through the stackyard and back to the front of the house behind Mr Hinchcliffe who had got out and was looking round the corner to see where we had gone. The farmer whipped round in astonishment and, open-mouthed, watched us as we passed, but Siegfried, retaining his aplomb to the end, inclined his head and gave a little wave before we shot back up the drive.

  Before we returned to the main road I had a look back at Mr Hinchcliffe. He was still watching us and there was a certain rigidity in his pose which reminded me of the shepherd.

  Once on the road, Siegfried steered carefully into a layby and stopped. For a few moments he stared straight ahead without speaking and I realized he was having a little difficulty in getting his patient look properly adjusted; but when he finally turned to me his face was transfigured, almost saintly.

  I dug my nails into my palms as he smiled at me with kindly eyes.

  ‘Really, James,’ he said, ‘I can’t understand why you keep things to yourself. Heaven knows how long your car has been in this condition, yet never a word from you.’ He raised a forefinger and his patient look was replaced by one of sorrowing gravity. ‘Don’t you realize we might have been killed back there? You really ought to have told me.’

  The experience of driving with Siegfried is just as hair-raising when he is at the wheel of his own car. His cars, in particular his battle-worn Hillman, bear testament to years of hard driving; sitting in the passenger seat requires nerves of steel and a strong stomach.

  Outside the house, Farnon motioned me towards a battered Hillman and, as I moved round to the passenger’s side, I shot a startled glance at the treadless tyres, the rusty bodywork, the almost opaque windscreen with its network of fine cracks. What I didn’t notice was that the passenger seat was not fixed to the floor but stood freely on its sledge-like runners. I dropped into it and went over backwards, finishing with my head on the rear seat and my feet against the roof. Farnon helped me up, apologizing with great charm, and we set off.

  Once clear of the market place, the road dipped quite suddenly and we could see all of the Dale stretching away from us in the evening sunshine. The outlines of the great hills were softened in the gentle light and a broken streak of silver showed where the Darrow wandered on the valley floor.

  Farnon was an unorthodox driver. Apparently captivated by the scene, he drove slowly down the hill, elbows resting on the wheel, his chin cupped in his hands. At the bottom of the hill he came out of his reverie and spurted to seventy miles an hour. The old car rocked crazily along the narrow road and my movable seat slewed from side to side as I jammed my feet against the floorboards.

  Then he slammed on the brakes, pointed out some pedigree shorthorns in a field and jolted away again. He never looked at the road in front; all his attention was on the countryside around and behind him. It was that last bit that worried me, because he spent a lot of time driving fast and looking over his shoulder at the same time.

  Despite driving like a whirling dervish himself, Siegfried is disapproving of anyone else who does the same, particularly if they are driving a car he owns. When James’s car returns from the garage, Siegfried advises him to take it easy when he drives it – no more ‘belting along like a maniac’ – although the elder partner does exactly this when he’s next at its wheel.

  Then there came the day when Siegfried decided to have my car rebored. It had been using a steady two pints of oil a day and he hadn’t thought this excessive, but when it got to half a gallon a day he felt something ought to be done. What probably decided him was a farmer on market day saying he always knew when the young vet was coming because he could see the cloud of blue smoke miles away.

  When the tiny Austin came back from the garage, Siegfried fussed round it like an old hen. ‘Come over here, James,’ he called. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  I saw he was looking patient again and braced myself.

  ‘James,’ he said, pacing round the battered vehicle, whisking specks from the paintwork. ‘You see this car?’ I nodded.

  ‘Well, it has been rebored, James, rebored at great expense, and that’s what I want to talk to you about. You now have in your possession what amounts to a new car.’ With an effort he unfastened the catch and the bonnet creaked open in a shower of rust and dirt. He pointed down at the engine, black and oily, with unrelated pieces of flex and rubber tubing hanging around it like garlands. ‘You have a piece of fine mechanism here and I want you to treat it with respect. I’ve seen you belting along like a maniac and it won’t do. You’ve got to nurse this machine for the next two or three thousand miles; thirty miles an hour is quite fast enough. I think it’s a crime the way some people abuse a new engine – they should be locked up – so remember, lad, no flogging or I’ll be down on you.’

  He closed the bonnet with care, gave the cracked windscreen a polish with the cuff of his coat and left.

  These strong words made such an impression on me that I crawled round the visits all day almost at walking pace.

  The same night, I was getting ready for bed when Siegfried came in. He had two farm lads with him and they both wore silly grins. A powerful smell of beer filled the room.

  Siegfried spoke with dignity, slurring his words only slightly. ‘James, I met these gentlemen in the Black Bull this evening. We have had several excellent games of dominoes but unfortunately they have missed the last bus. Will you kindly bring the Austin round and I will run them home.’

  I drove the car to the front of the house and the farm lads piled in, one in the front, the other in the back. I looked at Siegfried lowering himself unsteadily into the driving seat and decided to go along. I got into the back.

  The two young men lived in a farm up on the North Moors and, three miles out of the town, we left the main road and our headlights picked out a strip of track twisting along the dark hillside.

  Siegfried was in a hurry. He kept his foot on the boards, the note of the engine rose to a tortured scream and the little car hurtled on into the blackness. Hanging on grimly, I leaned forward so that I could shout into my employer’s ear. ‘Remember this is the car which has just been rebored,’ I bellowed above the din.

  Siegfried looked round with an indulgent smile. ‘Yes, yes, I remember, James. What are you fussing about?’ As he spoke, the car shot off the road and bounded over the grass at sixty miles an hour. We all bounced around like corks till he found his way back. Unperturbed, he carried on at the same speed. The silly grins had left the lads’ faces and they sat rigid in their seats. Nobody said anything.

  The passengers were unloaded at a silent farmhouse and the return journey began. Since it was downhill all the way, Siegfried found he could go even faster. The car leaped and bumped over the uneven surface with its engine whining. We made several brief but tense visits to the surrounding moors, but we got home.

  It was a month later that Siegfried had occasion to take his assistant to task once more. ‘James, my boy,’ he said sorrowfully, ‘you are a grand chap, but by God, you’re hard on cars. Look at this Austin. Newly rebored a short time ago, in tiptop condition, and look at it now – drinking oil. I don’t know how you did it in the time. You’re a real terror.’

  When it comes to driving the practice cars, Siegfried is even more distrustful of his younger brother Tristan, and not without reason. In It Shouldn’t Happen to a Vet Tristan must chauffeur for James, who has his arm in a sling after a bad calving, much to Siegfried’s fury as it’s only been a week since his brother had crashed and written off his Hillman. Their call-out involves taking the still-brakeless Austin across fields to Mr Prescott’s farm, which, like some Dales farmsteads, has neither a road nor farm track leading to it. Now returning home, they have driven up the steep slope again, James has opened the last gate, where he joins Tristan, who has got out of the car and is sitting with his back against the gatepost. They take in the view of the farm far below and just as Tristan closes his eyes and takes in a long, deep gulp of moorland air and Woodbine smoke, there’s suddenly a grinding noise coming from the car.

  ‘Christ! She’s off, Jim!’ he shouted.

  The little Austin was moving gently backwards down the slope – it must have slipped out of gear and it had no brakes to speak of. We both leaped after it. Tristan was nearest and he just managed to touch the bonnet with one finger; the speed was too much for him. We gave it up and watched.

  The hillside was steep and the little car rapidly gathered momentum, bouncing crazily over the uneven ground. I glanced at Tristan; his mind invariably worked quickly and clearly in a crisis and I had a good idea what he was thinking. It was only a fortnight since he had turned the Hillman over, taking a girl home from a dance. It had been a complete write-off and the insurance people had been rather nasty about it; and of course Siegfried had gone nearly berserk and had finished by sacking him finally, once and for all – never wanted to see his face in the place again.

  But he had been sacked so often, he knew he had only to keep out of his way for a bit and his brother would forget. And he had been lucky this time because Siegfried had talked his bank manager into letting him buy a beautiful new Rover and this blotted everything else from his mind.

  It was distinctly unfortunate that this should happen when he, as driver, was technically in charge of the Austin. The car appeared now to be doing about 70 m.p.h. hurtling terrifyingly down the long, green hill. One by one the doors burst open till all four flapped wildly and the car swooped downwards looking like a huge, ungainly bird.

  From the open doors, bottles, instruments, bandages, cotton wool cascaded out onto the turf, leaving a long, broken trail. Now and again a packet of nux vomica and bicarb stomach powder would fly out and burst like a bomb, splashing vivid white against the green.

  Tristan threw up his arms. ‘Look! The bloody thing’s going straight for that hut.’ He drew harder on his Woodbine.