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  Inside the tiny living room of the cottage I was ushered to the best

  chair by the fireside where two rough logs blazed and crackled.

  "Bring cake out for Mr. Herriot, mother," the farmer cried as he

  rummaged in the pantry. He reappeared with a bottle of whisky at the

  same time as his; wife bustled in carrying a cake thickly laid with

  icing and ornamented with coloured spangles, toboggans, reindeers.

  Mr. Kirby unscrewed the stopper. "You know, mother, we're lucky to have

  such men as this to come out on a Christmas mornin" to help us."

  "Aye, we are that." The old lady cut a thick slice of the cake and

  placed it on a plate by the side of an enormous wedge of Wensleydale

  cheese.

  Her husband meanwhile was pouring my drink. Yorkshiremen are amateurs`

  with whisky and there was something delightfully untutored in the way he

  was sloshing it into the glass as if it was lemonade; he would have

  filled it to the brim if I hadn't stopped him.

  Drink in hand, cake on knee, I looked across at the farmer and his wife

  who were sitting in upright kitchen chairs watching me with quiet

  benevolence. The two faces had something in common - a kind of beauty.

  You would find faces like that only in the country; deeply wrinkled and

  weathered, clear-eyed, alight with a cheerful serenity.

  I raised my glass. "A happy Christmas to you both."

  The old couple nodded and replied smilingly. "And the same to you, Mr.

  Herriot."

  "Aye, and thanks again, lad," said Mr. Kirby. "We're right grateful to

  you for runnin" out here to save awd Dorothy. We've maybe mucked up your

  day for you but it would've mucked up ours if we'd lost the old lass,

  wouldn't it, mother ?"

  "Don't worry, you haven't spoiled anything for me." I said. "In fact

  you've made me realise again that it really is Christmas." And as I

  looked around the little room with the decorations hanging from the

  low-beamed ceiling I could feel the emotions of last night surging

  slowly back, a warmth creeping through me that had nothing to do with

  the whisky.

  I took a bit of the cake and followed it with a moist slice of cheese.

  When I had first come to Yorkshire I had been aghast when offered this

  unheard-of combination, but time had brought wisdom and I had discovered

  that the mixture when chewed boldly together was exquisite; and,

  strangely, I had also found that there was nothing more suitable for

  washing it finally over the tonsils than a draught of raw whisky.

  "You don't mind "'wireless, Mr. Herriot?" Mrs. Kirby asked. "We always

  like to have it on Christmas morning to hear t'old hymns but I'll turn

  it off if you like."

  "No please leave it, it sounds grand." I turned to look at the old radio

  with its chipped wooden veneer, the ornate scroll-work over the worn

  fabric; it must have been one of the earliest models and it gave off a

  tinny sound, but the singing of the church choir was none the less sweet

  ... Hark the Herald Angels Sing - flooding the little room, mingling

  with the splutter of the logs and the soft voices of the old people.

  They showed me a picture of their son, who was a policeman over in

  Houlton and their daughter who was married to a neighbouring farmer.

  They were bringing their grand-children up for Christmas dinner as they

  always did and Mrs. Kirby opened a box and ran a hand over the long row

  of crackers. The choir started on Once in Royal David's City, I finished

  my whisky and put up only feeble resistance as the farmer plied the

  bottle again. Through the small window I could see the bright berries of

  a holly tree pushing through their covering of snow.

  It was really a shame to have to leave here and it was sadly that I

  drained my glass for the second time and scooped up the last crumbs of

  cake and icing from my plate.

  Mr. Kirby came out with me and at the gate of the cottage he stopped and

  held out his hand.

  "Thank ye lad, I'm right grateful," he said. "And all the very best to

  you."

  For a moment the rough dry palm rasped against mine, then I was in the

  car, Starting the engine. I looked at my watch; it was still only half

  past nine but the first early sunshine was sparkling from a sky of

  palest blue.

  Beyond the village the road climbed steeply then curved around the rim

  of the valley in a wide arc, and it was here that you came suddenly upon

  the whole great expanse of the Plain of York spread out almost at your

  feet. I always slowed down here and there was always something different

  to see, but today the vast chequerboard of fields and farms and woods

  stood out with a clarity I had never seen before. Maybe it was because

  this was a holiday and down there no factory chimney smoked, no lorries

  belched fumes, but the distance was magically foreshortened in the

  clear, frosty air and I felt I could reach out and touch the familiar

  landmarks far below.

  I looked back at the enormous white billows and folds of the fells,

  crowding close, one upon another into the blue distance, every crevice

  uncannily defined, the highest summits glittering where the sun touched

  them. I could see the village with the Kirbys" cottage at the end. I had

  found Christmas and peace and goodwill and everything back there.

  Farmers? They were the salt of the earth."

  Chapter Seventeen.

  Marmaduke Skelton was an object of interest to me long before our paths

  crossed. For one thing I hadn't thought people were ever calledmarmaduke

  outside of books and for another he was a particularly well known member

  of the honourable profession of unqualified animal doctors.

  Before the Veterinary Surgeons" Act of 1948 anybody who fancied his

  chance at it could dabble in the treatment of animal disease. Veterinary

  students could quite legally be sent out to cases while they were seeing

  practice, certain members of the lay public did a bit of veterinary work

  as a sideline while others did it as; a full time job. These last were

  usually called 'quacks".

  The disparaging nature of the term was often unjust because, though some

  of them were a menace to the animal population, others were dedicated

  men who did their job with responsibility and humanity and after the Act

  were c brought into the profession's fold as Veterinary Practitioners.

  But long before all this there were all sorts and types among them. The

  one I knew best was Arthur Lumley, a charming little ex-plumber who ran

  a thriving small animal practice in Brawton, much to the chagrin of Mr.

  Angus Grier MRCVS. Arthur used to drive around in a small van. He always

  wore a white coat and looked very clinical and efficient, and on the

  side of the van in foot-high letters which would have got a qualified

  man a severe dressing down from the Royal College was the legend,

  "Arthur Lumley MKC, Canine and Feline Specialist." The lack of letters"

  after their name was the one thing which differentiated these men from

  qualified vets in the eyes of the general public and I was interested to

  see that Arthur did have an academic attainment. However the degree of

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