The Real James Herriot (39 page)

How he enjoyed that evening! He was able to swap experiences with his colleagues from the other side of the Atlantic and listen to the successes and failures that are common to veterinarians the world over.

Alf received countless offers to travel around the world and receive the many honours that kept coming his way but, by the beginning of the 1980s, he began to feel overwhelmed by his ever-increasing fame, and politely either refused them or received them in absentia. He even declined to appear on the front page of the enormously influential
Time
magazine – something that could have propelled his fame to even dizzier heights. He stuck to his regular excuse that he was ‘one per cent author and ninety-nine per cent veterinary surgeon'.

From 1980, Sinclair and Wight was a five-person practice. With Alf's workload being lighter than it had been, he had plenty of time, had he so wished, to rush round the world furthering his image. The real reason for his reluctance was that he had had enough. He was determined to prevent the relentless publicity taking him over and he wanted, quite
simply, to be left alone. Nothing was going to change his way of life, and it was his success in maintaining this ideal that was largely responsible for his continuing happiness in the face of an avalanche of publicity that could so easily have overwhelmed him.

Now Alf Wight, the retiring family man, was coming to a decision that would disappoint millions of his fans. He declared in 1981 that he would write no more books.

It was becoming impossible to completely dodge the spotlight. Everyone knew who he was. Tourists poured into the surgery while ever-bigger waves of fan mail were stuffed through his letter box. One envelope was addressed to ‘James Herriot, Darrowby, Scotland'; it homed in on the unwilling celebrity like all the others.

In a newspaper article in July 1981, following an exhausting promotional tour of Britain after the publication of
The Lord God Made Them All,
Alf made the following statement:

‘I feel I just have to escape. I'm nearly sixty-five and all I want is a bit of a rest. I've never been one for the limelight and now, all I want is to get back to normal. I want to spend more time with my grandchildren. I want to start enjoying again the things I used to enjoy, gardening and walking. I want to get involved again in the thing I do best, my work as a vet. At this very moment, the very mention of writing makes me want to scream.'

His massive literary success had brought him a sense of deep satisfaction but, for someone who did not enjoy the attendant publicity, it was becoming a burden. Life at home among his family and friends, and around the farms of North Yorkshire, was closer to his heart.

Alfred Wight fully appreciated the tremendous benefits writing had bestowed upon him but he was acutely aware of something else; he had been a happy man long before James Herriot walked into his life. He was, indeed, grateful for all James Herriot had done for him, but the time had now come to show him the door.

One of the greatest benefits bestowed upon Alf Wight by his friend James Herriot – financial security – was enhanced by the election to power of a Conservative government in 1979. Its lower levels of personal taxation meant that Alf could retain a higher proportion of his earnings so, by 1981, he could consider himself a millionaire.

He was not an inspired businessman but, more importantly, he had common sense. He had no desire to stretch his financial horizons to the limit, while words like ‘Off-shore Investments' and ‘Split Capital Trusts' meant little to him. A distrust of the stockmarket, coupled with a cautious approach to investing money, led to his missing out on the great share bull market of the 1980s, but he lost little sleep over this. He retained his distrust of ‘smart deals' and ‘unbeatable offers' until the end, and a favourite expression was ‘Beware glossy brochures!'

He certainly derived a great deal of pleasure out of his money and was very generous with it. From as early as 1977, he worked in the practice for only £2,000 per year – a change that benefited not only myself, but Donald Sinclair, too. In one year, after deducting car expenses from his practice profits, he was left with little over £1,000 to show for a year's veterinary work.

Bob Rickaby, his accountant, was aghast. ‘Alf, you have worked for a whole year for the practice and you have earned no more than you did in 1946!'

His response was to simply shrug his shoulders. ‘Don't worry about it Bob. I couldn't care less!'

Never a greedy man, he was, throughout his life, amazed at the lack of generosity he sometimes observed in others. Although unable to identify with it, he could see the funny side.

I remember him telling me, many years ago, of a visit he made to a shop in Thirsk to buy some fireworks. He asked for some rockets.

Another customer overheard his request and leaned towards him. ‘Don't buy rockets, Mr Wight,' he whispered, ‘they 'ave a good selection o' Roman candles an' some right good Catherine wheels, at good prices an' all!'

Alf was mystified. ‘My kids love to see rockets soaring into the sky. Anyway, what's wrong with the rockets?'

The man eased in closer. ‘Why, everyone else can see 'em!'

Alf could now do the things he wanted, without wondering whether he could afford it. More holidays and meals out with friends figured very prominently. The Thirsk area abounds with fine eating places and Alf always enjoyed his food. Having a cosmopolitan taste, he frequented a wide variety of restaurants but he was never happier than when seated in a Chinese or Indian restaurant having already consumed a few pints of good Yorkshire ale at a nearby pub.

Two of Alf's greatest friends, Alex Taylor and Brian Sinclair, brightened his life during the 1980s. In 1981, Alex retired from his job in the north of Scotland and, three years later, he and Lynne decided to spend their retirement near Thirsk. Alf was delighted; to have his oldest friend living so close was a wonderful bonus.

Alex's company was a constant source of enjoyment. From their very first days together in Glasgow, he had always had the capacity to make Alf laugh and, with Joan and Lynne being such good friends, this they all continued to do for ten more years.

Another who never failed to paralyse Alf with laughter was, of course, Brian Sinclair, James Herriot's Tristan. Following Brian's retirement in 1977, the two of them met almost every Thursday afternoon in Harrogate. Gordon Rae's death in 1973 had cast a shadow over my father's Thursday afternoons, but the appearance of the smiling face of Brian among the crowded bookshelves of W. H. Smith – their favourite meeting place – added, once again, that extra touch of pleasure to those visits to his favourite town. Over several cups of coffee, they would reminisce back to the old days in Thirsk, and Alf would revel in the endless funny stories from Brian's seemingly inexhaustible repertoire.

One person who especially lightened Alf's life at this time was his daughter. Never were two people closer than Rosie and her father. Since she lived next door, it was natural they should spend a great deal of time with each other – and they had much in common. Holidays, both at home and abroad, hundreds of miles of dog-walking and regular visits to football matches were favourite occupations. Rosie supplied a constant source of interest and conversation to brighten his days and, in the last years of his life, she – with her mother – would provide him with tremendous support.

Alf stated that one reason for turning his back on the limelight was a desire to spend more time with his grandchildren. By 1981, he had four of them. Emma, Rosie's daughter, was born in 1975, and my son, Nicholas, in 1976. The dedication in
James Herriot's Yorkshire
is to both of them.

My daughter, Zoe, arrived in 1980 and my third child, Katrina, in 1981.
The Lord God Made Them All
is dedicated to Zoe, and Katrina received her recognition in
James Herriot's Dog Stories.

Alf saw far more of Emma than his other grandchildren. Rosie, as a single parent, received tremendous assistance from her parents in raising Emma, who grew to regard her grandfather more as a father. He was a truly dedicated grandfather and had great patience with her as a small child – walking for miles to pick wild flowers, or reading to her from countless storybooks.

He derived, as many grandfathers do, great pleasure from his grandchildren. All my children are very musical, and I am sorry that my father, who had such an appreciation of music, could not have lived a little longer to hear their performances on the piano, cello and trumpet. He did, however, have the satisfaction of hearing Nicholas play the piano, shortly before winning the St Peter's School music prize, and he heard Zoe playing the trumpet in a school orchestral performance of the Grand March from
Aida.

On the way home from that performance, he kept repeating, ‘Was that
really
Zoe playing those clear notes?' I could not help feeling a little grateful to my children; through their playing, the pleasure they gave to their grandfather compensated somewhat for the agony he had had to endure, listening to the comical attempts from his own son all those years ago.

In 1981, another character bounced into Alf Wight's life – a self-willed, whiskery-faced Border Terrier called Bodie. After the death of his black Labrador, Dan, no time was wasted in finding another four-legged companion and Bodie, Alf's last dog, was one with a personality all his own. Alf, who had always admired the Border Terrier as a breed, was a happy man on the day he finally owned one.

Bodie, always regarded as a bit of a show-off, was a very photogenic dog who posed rather like a ham actor in the many photographs taken of him with Alf. The tendency to display a haughty superiority over others of his kind was illustrated many times – especially on meeting
other male dogs when he would sail into the attack without a second thought. For the first time in his life, the world's most famous vet needed a lead before he dared to venture forth with his dog.

Another reason for the lead was that this unpredictable little creature could take off into the distance with alarming suddenness. I remember, one late October afternoon, walking with my father, Bodie and my own little Heeler bitch over the wild moorland at the head of Coverdale. Suddenly, Bodie – without any warning – took off like a rocket and disappeared.

After a full half-hour, we were still desperately shouting his name – strangled cries of ‘Bodd … ee! … Bodd … ee!' issuing from our cupped hands. Darkness was almost upon us as I scanned the bleak horizon, hearing only the sound of my father's voice which, by then, was no more than a hoarse croak, We had just about given up hope when I finally spotted a small brown form zooming around the opposite hillside in the gathering gloom. I ran over and was able to catch him as he was demolishing a decomposing rabbit.

Bodie's greatest pal was Rosie's dog, Polly, a sweet-tempered yellow Labrador who has, like her effervescent little friend, appeared on many photographs with James Herriot. Bodie was the perfect gentleman towards Polly, always allowing her first grab at the biscuits that my father carried in his pocket during his many walks with the two dogs. Looking at Bodie standing patiently beside Polly, it was hard to believe that this was the hooligan who tore into every male dog unfortunate enough to cross his path.

In his later years, Bodie's energy consumption dipped dramatically and he became bone idle, refusing to go on his daily walks. He was not, however, allowed to become a total degenerate; Alf carried him under his arm on the outward half of his walk leaving Bodie little choice but to return home under his own steam.

Despite these antisocial traits, he was a most appealing dog and his whiskery little face accompanied Alf everywhere. He would sit patiently with him for hours – under his chair while he wrote in his study, or by his side as he watched television. Although frequently referring to his little friend as ‘a bit of a screwball', Alf loved him dearly.

Bodie, who outlived his master by eighteen months, was a much appreciated companion for Joan in the period following Alf's death. In 1996 he developed kidney failure and I had the sad task of putting him to sleep. As I did so, I could not help casting my mind back to my
father's very first dog, Don, who also succumbed to kidney failure, fifty-three years previously. Alfred Wight's first and last dogs – two different characters in their own way, both of them difficult at times, but each one a loyal and wonderful companion.

Alf stated on a television programme in 1990, ‘Vets can be just as silly about their own dogs as the fussiest of our clients!' This statement certainly describes Alf Wight himself. A large proportion of his life was dedicated to the well-being of his own dogs; whenever outings or holidays were planned, their welfare always received first consideration. Only under the most extreme circumstances would he board any of them in kennels, and the only hotels in Great Britain that Alf and Joan would stay at were ones that catered for dogs. Almost everywhere they went, a hairy face or two was invariably in attendance.

Throughout his years in practice, he was told many times by his clients, ‘You'd better get this dog better, Mr Wight. My missus thinks a lot more about him than she does of me!' Being a dog lover himself, he could see the grain of truth in the statement. James Herriot writes movingly about the unique bond between people and their pets. The real man, Alf Wight, could have stepped out of any one of those stories.

By the mid 1980s, the practice of Sinclair and Wight was undergoing massive change, with the small animal work becoming increasingly important. By this time, Alf, who was almost seventy years old was, not unnaturally, finding it difficult to keep up with modern techniques, and left the more complicated treatments to his younger colleagues. He was still extremely interested, however, and would watch operations he had no intention of attempting himself. Despite the realisation that he was beginning to lose touch with the rapid advances within his profession, he still had his following among the practice clients; his thoughtful and caring approach to every case – the timeless attribute of the popular veterinary surgeon – was appreciated as much as ever.

Something else in the practice was timeless – Donald Sinclair. Now that Alf was no longer dependent upon veterinary work for a living, he could take a more relaxed view of his partner's eccentricities at 23 Kirkgate.

One afternoon, during an unusually quiet day, Donald said to him, ‘Alfred, I don't know why we pay all these young assistants. Life is not so hard as it used to be, and I could run this place single-handed.'

Alf raised his eyebrows. He knew his partner well but this sounded
something special. ‘Single-handed? Are you quite sure about that, Donald?' he replied, well aware that veterinary practice was one of the most unpredictable of professions.

‘Absolutely, Alfred! There is certainly no need for
you
to come in tomorrow. Take a day off!'

‘Are you really sure?'

‘Yes, Alfred, go home!'

The following morning, the practice of Sinclair and Wight was desperately short of staff. Early-morning emergencies had meant that the other two assistants and I were out on call, and to complete the picture, our secretary was off with flu. At ten minutes to nine, Donald Sinclair calmly walked into a quiet, empty veterinary surgery.

The ‘single-handed' vet was soon to have some company. Within minutes, the office of 23 Kirkgate was transformed into a maelstrom of activity, with a long succession of customers filing in through the door while, to add to the noise, the telephone roared into life as repeated emergencies flowed into the practice.

We kept the diary of that day as a special memento and it makes interesting reading. In the space of about half an hour, over twenty telephone calls were logged, in addition to the several patients in the surgery needing urgent attention. The calls included lambings, broken legs, a horse to put down, a foal with a torn eye, several cases to stitch and, all the time, the office continued to fill with people and animals – one of which, a crazy Afghan dog, barked wildly and incessantly. The writing in the day-book becomes increasingly spidery and illegible as the pages are turned. The one-man show was under pressure.