animal stories (12 page)

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 realize 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 whiskey.

I took a bite 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 draft of raw whiskey.

“You don’t mind t’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 neighboring farmer. They were bringing their grandchildren 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 whiskey 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 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 checkerboard 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 trucks 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.

THE END