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, Ive just seen something very strange.
He laughed. You dont have to tell me. Youve seen Eugene.
Eugene?
Thats right. Eugene Ireson. He lives there.
What?
Its truethats is house. He built it himself two years ago and took up residence. This used to be me dads 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 hes never moved since.
I wouldnt 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 Ill tell you another funny thing. Hes an educated man. He has travelled the world, living rough in wild countries and having all kinds of adventures, but wherever hes been hes come back to North Yorkshire.
But why does he live in that strange erection?
Its a mystery. He 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 hes very independent. Doesnt 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 building to look at his sick cow I had come to visit, but I couldnt rid my mind of the memory of that odd twosome.
When I drew up at the farm gate three days later to see how the cow was faring, 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 mans manner moved from courtesy to something more.
You like cats?
Yes, I do. Ive 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 in a crescendo.
Well, Emily seems to have taken to you remarkably. Ive 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, didnt I? You have some business with Mr.Carless?
Yes, Im his vet.
Aah I see. So you are a veterinary surgeon and you approve of my Emily.
I couldnt do anything else. Shes 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.
Id love to. Ill be finished in less than an hour.
Splendid, splendid. I look forward to seeing you then.
Eddys cow was completely well again, and I was soon on my way back down the farm road.
Mr. Ireson was waiting by the gate. It is a little chilly now, he said. I think wed 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 took 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.
As I bit into the bun and sipped the tea, I 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 thingsthe van comes up here from the public library every weekbut 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.