Every Living Thing Read online

  Looking round the room, I realised that Siegfried had been right from the very beginning. The menagerie was now firmly installed. And as I opened the door to leave, I wondered just how big it was going to grow.

  I had stepped into the passage when Calum turned from the table, where he was stirring some nameless comestible in a large bowl.

  “Before you go, Jim, I’ve got some good news!” he cried.

  “Oh, what’s that?”

  He pointed to one of the Dobermanns. “Anna’s having pups next month!”

  Chapter 40

  AS I GOT OUT of my car to open the gate to the farm, I looked with interest at the odd-looking structure on the grass verge standing in the shelter of the dry-stone wall and overlooking the valley. It seemed as though sheets of tarpaulin had been stretched over metal hoops to make some kind of shelter. It was like a big black igloo, but for what?

  As I wondered, the sacking at the front parted and a tall, white-bearded man emerged. He straightened up, looked around him, dusted down his ancient frock coat and donned the kind of high-crowned bowler hat that was popular in Victorian times. He seemed oblivious of my presence as he stood, breathing deeply, gazing at the heathery fell-side that dropped away from the roadside to the beck far below, then after a few moments he turned to me and raised his hat gravely.

  “Good morning to you,” he murmured in the kind of voice that could have belonged to an archbishop.

  “Morning,” I replied, fighting with my surprise. “Lovely day.”

  His fine features relaxed in a smile. “Yes, yes, it is indeed.” Then he bent and pulled the sacking apart. “Come, Emily.”

  As I stared, a little cat tripped out with dainty steps, and as she stretched luxuriantly the man attached a leash to the collar round her neck. He turned to me and raised his hat again. “Good day to you.” Then man and cat set off at a leisurely pace towards the village whose church tower was just visible a couple of miles down the road.

  I took my time over opening the gate as I watched the dwindling figures. I felt almost as though I were seeing an apparition. I was out of my usual territory, because a faithful client, Eddy Carless, had taken this farm almost twenty miles away from Darrowby and had paid us the compliment of asking our practice if we would still do his work. We had said yes even though it would be inconvenient to travel so far, especially in the middle of the night.

  The farm lay two fields back from the road and as I drew up in the yard I saw Eddy coming down the granary steps.

  “Eddy,” I said. “I’ve just seen something very strange.”

  He laughed. “You don’t have to tell me. You’ve seen Eugene.”

  “Eugene?”

  “That’s right. Eugene Ireson. He lives there.”

  “What!”

  “It’s true—that’s ’is house. He built it himself two years ago and took up residence. This used to be me dad’s farm, as you know, and he used to tell me about ’im. He came from nowhere and settled in that funny place with ’is cat and he’s never moved since.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought he would be allowed to set up house on the grass verge.”

  “No, neither would I, but nobody seems to have bothered ’im. And I’ll tell you another funny thing. He’s an educated man and the brother of Cornelius Ireson.”

  “Cornelius Ireson, the industrialist?”

  “The very same. The multimillionaire. Lives in that estate you pass about five miles along the Brawton road. You’ll have seen the big lodge at the gates.”

  “Yes…I know it…but how…?”

  “Nobody knows the whole story, but it seems Cornelius inherited everything and his brother got nowt. They say that Eugene has travelled the world, living rough in wild countries and havin’ all kinds of adventures, but wherever he’s been he’s come back to north Yorkshire.”

  “But why does he live in that strange erection?”

  “It’s a mystery. I do know he has nowt to do with ’is brother and vice versa and anyway ’e seems happy and content down there. Me dad was very fond of ’im and the old chap used to come up to the farm for the odd meal and a bath. Still does, but he’s very independent. Doesn’t sponge on anybody. Goes down to the village regularly for his food and ’is pension.”

  “And always with his cat?”

  “Aye.” Eddy laughed again. “Allus with his cat.”

  We went into the buildings to start the tuberculin test, but as I clipped and measured and injected over and over again I couldn’t rid my mind of the memory of that odd twosome.

  When I drew up at the farm gate three days later to read the tuberculin test, Mr. Ireson was sitting on a wicker chair in the sunshine, reading, with his cat on his lap.

  When I got out of the car, he raised his hat as before. “Good afternoon. A very pleasant day.”

  “Yes, it certainly is.” As I spoke, Emily hopped down and stalked over the grass to greet me, and as I tickled her under the chin she arched and purred round my legs.

  “What a lovely little thing!” I said.

  The old man’s manner moved from courtesy to something more. “You like cats?”

  “Yes, I do. I’ve always liked them.” As I continued my stroking, then gave her tail a playful tug, the pretty tabby face looked up at me and the purring rose to a crescendo.

  “Well, Emily seems to have taken to you remarkably. I’ve never seen her so demonstrative.”

  I laughed. “She knows how I feel. Cats always know—they are very wise animals.”

  Mr. Ireson beamed his agreement. “I saw you the other day, didn’t I? You have some business with Mr. Carless?”

  “Yes, I’m his vet.”

  “Aah…I see. So you are a veterinary surgeon and you approve of my Emily.”

  “I couldn’t do anything else. She’s beautiful.”

  The old man seemed to swell with gratification. “How very kind of you.” He hesitated. “I wonder, Mr…er…”

  “Herriot.”

  “Ah, yes, I wonder, Mr. Herriot, if, when you have concluded your business with Mr. Carless, you would care to join me in a cup of tea.”

  “I’d love to. I’ll be finished in less than an hour.”

  “Splendid, splendid. I look forward to seeing you then.”

  Eddy had a clear test. No reactors, not even a doubtful. I entered the particulars in my testing book and hurried back down the farm road.

  Mr. Ireson was waiting by the gate. “It is a little chilly now,” he said. “I think we’d better go inside.” He led me over to the igloo, drew back the sacks and ushered me through with old-world grace.

  “Do sit down,” he murmured, waving me to what looked like a one-time automobile seat in tattered leather while he sank down on the wicker chair I had seen outside.

  As he arranged two mugs, then reached for the kettle from a Primus stove and began to pour, I took in the contents of the interior. There was a camp-bed, a bulging rucksack, a row of books, a tilly lamp, a low cupboard and a basket in which Emily was ensconced.

  “Milk and sugar, Mr. Herriot?” The old man inclined his head gracefully. “Ah, no sugar. I have some buns here, do have one. There is an excellent little bakery down in the village and I am a regular customer.”

  I bit into the bun, sipped the tea and stole a look at the row of books. Every one was poetry. Blake, Swinburne, Longfellow, Whitman, all worn and frayed with reading.

  “You like poetry?” I said.

  He smiled. “Ah, yes. I do read other things—the van comes up here from the public library every week—but I always come back to my old friends, particularly this one.” He held up the dog-eared volume he had been reading earlier. The Poems of Robert W. Service.

  “You like that one, eh?”

  “Yes. I think Service is my favourite. Not classical stuff perhaps, but his verses strike something very deep in me.” He gazed at the book, then his eyes looked beyond me into somewhere only he knew. I wondered then if Alaska and the wild Yukon territory might have been