Every Living Thing

by James Herriot

  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
the scene of his wanderings, and for a moment I hoped he might be going to tell me something about his past, but it seemed he didn’t want to talk about that. He wanted to talk about his cat.

  “It is the most extraordinary thing, Mr. Herriot. I have lived on my own all my life but I have never felt lonely, but I know now that I would be desperately lonely without Emily. Does that sound foolish to you?”

  “Not at all. Possibly it’s because you haven’t had a pet before. Have you?”

  “No, I haven’t. Never seemed to have stayed still long enough. I am fond of animals and there have been times when I felt I would like to own a dog, but never a cat. I have heard so often that cats do not dispense affection, that they are self-sufficient and never become really fond of anybody. Do you agree with that?”

  “Of course not. It’s absolute nonsense. Cats have a character of their own, but I’ve treated hundreds of friendly, affectionate cats who are faithful friends to their owners.”

  “I’m so glad to hear you say that, because I flatter myself that this little creature is really attached to me.” He looked down at Emily, who had jumped onto his lap, and gently patted her head.

  “That’s easy to see,” I said, and the old man smiled his pleasure.

  “You know, Mr. Herriot,” he went on, “when I first settled here”—he waved a hand round his dwelling as if it were a drawing room in a multi-acred mansion—“I had no reason to think that I wouldn’t continue to live the solitary life that I was accustomed to, but one day this little animal walked in from nowhere as though she had been invited and my whole existence changed.”

  I laughed. “She adopted you. Cats do that. And it was a lucky day for you.”

  “Yes…yes…how very true. You seem to understand these things so well, Mr. Herriot. Now do let me top up your cup.”

  It was the first of many visits to Mr. Ireson in his strange dwelling. I never went to the Carless farm without looking in through the sacks, and if Eugene was in residence we had a cup of tea and a chat. We talked about many things— books, the political situation, natural history of which he had a deep knowledge, but the conversation always got round to cats. He wanted to know everything about their care and feeding, habits and diseases. While I was agog to hear about his world travels, which he referred to only in the vaguest terms, he would listen with the wide-eyed interest of a child to my veterinary experiences.

  It was during one of these sessions that I raised the question of Emily in particular.

  “I notice she is either in here or on the lead with you, but does she ever go wandering outside by herself ?”

  “Well, yes…now that you mention it. Just lately she has done so. She only goes up to the farm—I make sure she does not stray along the road where she may be knocked down.”

  “I didn’t mean that, Mr. Ireson. What I was thinking about was that there are several male cats up there at the farm. She could easily become pregnant.”

  He sat up suddenly in his chair. “Good heavens, yes! I never thought of that—how foolish of me. I’d better try to keep her inside.”

  “Very difficult,” I said. “It would be much better to have her spayed.”

  “Eh?”

  “To let me do a hysterectomy. Remove the uterus and ovaries. Then she’d be safe—you couldn’t do with a lot of kittens in here, could you?”

  “No…no…of course not. But an operation …” He stared at me with frightened eyes. “There would be an element of danger…”

  “No, no,” I said as briskly as I could. “It’s quite a simple procedure. We do lots of them.”

  His normal urbanity had fallen away from him. From the beginning he had struck me as a man who had seen so many things in life that nothing would disturb his serenity, but he seemed to shrink within himself. He slowly stroked the little cat, seated, as usual, on his lap, then he reached down to a black leather volume with faded gold lettering, the Works of Shakespeare, that he had been reading when I arrived. He placed a marker in the book and closed it before putting it carefully on the shelf.

  “I really don’t know what to say, Mr. Herriot.”

  I gave him an encouraging smile. “There’s nothing to worry about. I strongly advise it. If I could just describe the operation, I’m sure it would put your mind at rest. It’s really keyhole surgery—we make only a tiny incision and bring the ovaries and uterus through and ligate the stump…”

  I dried up hurriedly because the old man closed his eyes and swayed so far to one side that I thought he would fall off the wicker chair. It wasn’t the first time that one of my explanatory surgical vignettes had had an undesirable effect and I altered my tactics.

  I laughed loudly and patted him on the knee. “So, you see, it’s nothing—nothing at all.”

  He opened his eyes and drew a long, quavering breath. “Yes…yes…I’m sure you’re right. But you must give me a little time to think. This has come on me so suddenly.”

  “All right, Eddy Carless will give me a ring for you. But don’t be too long.”

  I wasn’t surprised when I didn’t hear from the old man. The whole idea obviously terrified him and it was over a month before I saw him again.

  I pushed my head through the sacks. He was sitting in his usual chair, peeling potatoes, and he looked at me with serious eyes.

  “Ah, Mr. Herriot. Come and sit down. I’ve been going to get in touch with you—I’m so glad you’ve called.” He threw back his head with an air of resolution. “I have decided to take your advice about Emily. You may carry out the operation when you think fit.” But his voice trembled as he spoke.

  “Oh, that’s splendid!” I said cheerfully. “I’ve got a cat basket in the car, so I can take her straight away.”

  I tried not to look at his stricken face as the cat jumped onto my knee. “Well, Emily. You’re coming with me.” Then as I looked at the little animal I hesitated. Was it my imagination or was there a significant bulge in her abdomen?

  “Just a moment,” I murmured as I palpated the little body, then I looked up at the old man.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Ireson, but it’s a bit late. She’s pregnant.”

  His mouth opened, but no words came, then he swallowed and spoke in a hoarse whisper. “But…but what are we going to do?”

  “Nothing, nothing, don’t worry. She’ll have the kittens, that’s all, and I’ll find homes for them. Everything will be fine.” I was putting on my breeziest act, but it didn’t seem to help.

  “But Mr. Herriot, I don’t know anything about these things. I do feel terribly worried. She could die giving birth—she’s so tiny!”

  “No, no, not at all. Cats very rarely have any trouble that way. I tell you what—when she starts having the kittens, probably around a month from now, get Eddy to give me a ring. I’ll slip out here and see that all is well. How’s that?”

  “Oh, you are kind, I feel so silly about this. The trouble is…she means so much to me.”

  “I know, and stop worrying. Everything will be absolutely okay.”

  We had a cup of tea together and by the time I left he had calmed down.

  The next time I saw him was under unimagined circumstances.

  It was about two weeks later and I was attending the annual dinner of the local Agricultural Society. It was a formal affair and the company consisted of an assortment of farmers, big landowners, and Ministry of Agriculture officials. I wouldn’t have been there, but for my elevation to the Milk Sub-Committee.

  I was having a preprandial drink with one of my clients when I almost choked in mid-swallow. “Good heavens! Mr. Ireson!” I exclaimed, pointing to the tall, white-bearded figure, immaculate in white tie and tails, standing among a group at the far end of the room. The usually untidy bush of silver hair was sleeked back and shining over his ears and, glass in hand and commanding, he was rapping out his words to the group, who were nodding deferentially.

  “I can’t believe it!” I burst out again.

  “Oh, it’s him, all right,” my f
riend grunted. “Miserable bugger!”

  “What!”

  “Aye, he’s a right old sod! He’d skin ’is own grandmother.”

  “Well, that’s funny. I haven’t known him long, but I like him. I like him very much.”

  The farmer raised his eyebrows. “I reckon you’re about the only one as does,” he muttered sourly. “He’s the hardest bugger I’ve ever known.”

  I shook my head in bewilderment. “I can’t understand this. And those clothes—where the heck did he get them? I’ve only seen him in his roadside hut and he seems to have no more than the bare essentials.”

  “Hey, wait a minute!” The farmer laughed and punched me in the chest. “Now I get it. You’re talkin’ about his brother, old Eugene. That’s Cornelius over there!”

  “My God, how amazing! The likeness is incredible. Are they twins?”

  “Nay, there’s two years between them, but as you say, you can hardly tell ’em apart.”

  As though he knew we were discussing him, the tall man turned towards us. The face was almost Eugene’s, but where there had been gentleness there was aggression, where there had been softness and serenity there was a fierce arrogance. I had only a chilling glimpse before he turned away and began to harangue his companions again. It was an uncanny experience and I continued to stare at the group until my friend broke in on my thoughts.

  “Aye, a lot of people have made that mistake, but they’re only alike in appearance. You couldn’t find two people more different in character. Eugene’s a grand old lad, but as for that bugger—I’ve never seen ’im smile.”

  “Do you know Eugene?”

  “As well as most people, I reckon. I’m nearly as old as him and my farm’s on the Ireson estate. Cornelius was left everything when the father died, but I don’t think Eugene would’ve been interested in running the textile empire and the estate. He was a dreamer and a wanderer—kind and friendly, but somehow unworldly. Money or social position meant nothing to him. Went to Oxford, you know, but soon after that he took off and nobody knew if he was alive or dead for years.”