When the girl was stitched up, we drove Auntie, Dad, the girl and the youth back to the alley from where we had come. This, it turned out, was also the street where they lived. The family’s flat was just 30 yards from where the accident had happened.

Dad introduced us to his family. They, as would be expected, were much more interested in the girl’s health than in us, though they were very grateful for all we had done. They made us promise to come back the next day for a meal.

However we had yet to find the girl some antibiotics.

We parked the car in the main square and we walked down to a busy street. Here spotting the familiar ’serpent and staff’ sign of a chemist and entered. It was not the cleanest nor the brightest of shops; dingy would be an apt description.

We asked for penicilan. Yes, it was in stoc, said the chemist and yes we could buy it. The problem then became the price.

“Now I understand why those guys were arguing,” said Peter. “This is really very expensive. Have you got it?”

“Don’t think so. More like have we got it,” I said.

So we emptied our wallets, and our pockets, and secret places dumping all the money we could find on the counter.

There was just sufficient, and I mean just, because the money on the counter took every dirham.

Clutching the precious penicillin, we left the shop, penniless.

I wondered whether we had been a little reckless, for we were in strange city. We knew no one. We were also still a long way from finding a bank that would except a cheque and cash it. This was 1971. Had we been too arrogant in our attitude to the Fates?

We turned a corner to take us back to the car and there, less than three yards from us and walking toward us, were two friends, Martin and his wife – who you will meet again in another story – from London.

I can assure you there was much pleasantry, and joviality even possibly mild hysterical hilarity in meeting like them this at this time in this place.

So there is a God I thought!

We told them of the girl and the motor bike, and of the hospital and the doctor. And above all on what we had just spent our last dirham.

“Stop worrying, Joe. I’ll help,” and Martin reached into his wallet pocket. He produced a most impressive wad from which he peeled a more than generous amount. “Now let’s go back to our hotel for a drink!”

The next day we were wined – well, not wined, rather more lemonade-ed – and dined and paraded down the street as ‘the saviours of the little girl’ and the neighbours flocked around us shaking our hands, beaming and smiling on us. Yes, we were heroes.

So you see there are Guardian Angels, and sometimes they are just around the corner!