The Real James Herriot (41 page)

I am greatly saddened that Eddie could think so poorly of one of his most loyal friends; one who had stood by him steadfastly through an eventful and sometimes controversial career. Not only was Alf not informed of his impending honour until two months
after
Eddie's disciplinary hearing, but he would never have sacrificed the interests of one of his friends for the purpose of adding yet another honour to his already impressive list.

Alf, in fact, disapproved of Eddie's remarks about the ‘spay race'. He considered that his friend – by asserting that he could neuter a cat with lightning speed – had demeaned the skills of his profession. Knowing well that spaying a cat is not always the simple and straightforward operation that many believe it to be, he felt that Eddie's remarks had been in poor taste. However, Eddie Straiton had been a staunch
supporter of the profession in the past, and Alf would have appeared on his behalf to stress his many admirable qualities had he not been, at that time, tormented with the pain of renal colic.

Eddie, deeply upset over Alf's hesitation in offering him his support, and under immense pressure not only from the impending disciplinary hearing but also from the imminent death of his wife from terminal cancer, allowed his feelings to spill over with the use of some very strong words. His impulsive and misguided accusations very sadly inflicted irreparable damage on a friendship that stretched back to their days together in Glasgow.

I well remember the effect of Eddie's words on my father. Through no fault of his own, Alf Wight was being accused of insensitivity and selfishness by one of his oldest friends. Feelings of intense hurt and disbelief were followed by anger and a determination that he would never have anything to do with Eddie again.

Eddie quickly realised his mistake. More than one letter of apology arrived on Alf's doorstep but my father was unrepentant. I remember arguing with him at the time, reminding him that they had been friends for so long, but I was unable to influence him. Once something was fixed in his mind, he could be a very difficult man to reason with.

As the years rolled by, I am happy to say that his attitude softened towards Eddie and they resumed correspondence. Eddie's hurtful accusations, however, were the ultimate reason for Alf Wight's refusal to appear at the disciplinary hearing in 1981.

The years from 1981 to 1985 were a non-productive time for James Herriot the author – during which he savoured the rest from the pressures of writing – but the size of the ‘James Herriot Industry' decreed that he could never completely return to the relative obscurity of veterinary surgeon and family man. His name was now too big. Fan mail continued to pour into his house and, with the name of James Herriot producing visions of pound and dollar notes for many, he was under gentle but constant pressure from his main publishers in England and America to produce another book.

Alf had little interest in how much money he, or other people, would make out of his return to the typewriter, but writing by now was in his blood. He was all too aware of the massive changes he had observed within his profession and the heartfelt desire to preserve that old way of life in print was beginning to assert itself again.

‘I consider that I am a very fortunate man,' he said. ‘I have lived through the golden years of veterinary practice – without doubt, the best years.' The new age of rules, regulations and paperwork did not appeal to him, and a deepening nostalgia for his rapidly disappearing world was to result in his sitting, once again, in his study, tapping out more stories.

I remember this as a time of concern for my mother. Realising that her husband was not getting any younger, but also aware that she could not stop him pursuing the interest that had now become ingrained in his soul, she urged him to refrain from the deadlines of delivery dates and to take things a little more slowly.

During the glitzy years of the 1970s, at which time she often accompanied him on his public engagements, many people believed that she was the dominant force of the pair – displaying an apparently unenthusiastic attitude to his success. Knowing him better than anyone, and fully acquainted with his sensitive nature, Joan was simply trying to protect him from the avalanche of publicity that she feared would have a detrimental effect on him. In doing so, she conveyed a false impression of the relationship between her and her husband. Throughout their long marriage, it was he who made all the major decisions in the family.

Realising that Alf could never fully turn his back on writing, she was not really surprised when, in 1986, he allowed himself to be persuaded to write some material for a new television series of ‘All Creatures Great and Small.' He had, in fact, written a few stories already – the list of ‘headings' for ever at his side – and this latest approach was enough to rekindle his eagerness to begin writing again in earnest. The result of this was, eventually, the publication in 1992 of his final book,
Every Living Thing.
James Herriot was, once again, standing by the side of Alfred Wight.

In the years between his finally finishing
The Lord God Made Them All
in 1980, and beginning serious work on
Every Living Thing
in 1988, Alfred Wight wrote no other books. Despite this, several new ones were to appear under his name during that period. As well as
The Best of James Herriot,
which was published in 1982,
James Herriot's Dog Stories
was published in 1986, together with a succession of children's books that came out throughout the 1980s, the last one being produced in 1991.

The book of dog stories was a compilation taken from the previously published books. The introduction is of particular interest as it is the only time that James Herriot gave his many fans an insight into his life as a young man at Glasgow Veterinary College – where the dog was regarded in those days as a species of minor importance, and the cat was hardly ever mentioned! How different it is for the veterinary student of today.

For the children's books, as with
Dog Stories,
Alf had little to write. Each one was a story taken from the earlier Herriot works – brightly illustrated to appeal to the younger generation. In consultation with his editor, Jenny Dereham, some of these stories were quite heavily re-written, with the more explicit veterinary descriptions considerably toned down and the stories trimmed or stretched out to the appropriate length. They were an inspired idea. Each one was based on a specific character – Blossom the cow, Oscar the cat and Bonny the cart-horse amongst them. One of the books,
The Christmas Day Kitten,
was an international best-seller. James Herriot's gift of bestowing endearing qualities on these engaging creatures, together with the colourful illustrations by the talented artists, Peter Barrett and Ruth Brown, guaranteed their success.

As the children's books began to appear, Alf received countless letters from his many young fans, as well as drawings of their favourite animal characters. James Herriot's easy style appealed to all readers, from the discerning professional reviewer down to the young child in primary school. His fan club truly encompassed all readers great and small.

Two of those stories have special significance for me, as it was I who was responsible, many years previously, for providing the material within them.
Moses the Kitten
was the first in the series for children, and was published in 1984. It originated from a visit I paid to Terry Potter's farm at Baldersby near Thirsk. I had just completed my work on the farm when Ted, the pigman, said to me, ‘Come over 'ere. Ah've summat ter show ther!'

He took me over to a pen in which there was a huge sow suckling an enormous litter of shiny, pink piglets. It was not this scene of utter contentment that impressed me the most, however; I was astonished to see that one of the piglets in the row was black!

‘Ah bet yer've never seen a pig like yon little youth!' said Ted. ‘'Ave a closer look!'

The ‘piglet' was, to my amazement, a cat – and a fairly well-grown one, too. ‘Ah found 'im wanderin' about t'buildings 'alf dead wi' cold an' Ah thowt Ah'd give 'im a chance an Ah put 'im ter this auld sow,' said Ted. ‘Look at 'im now! By! 'E 'as done well!' The sleek, black coat was one of the finest I had ever seen on a cat. The creature gave me a cursory glance before elbowing his way deeper into the row of fat, feasting piglets.

I recounted this experience to my father over lunch. He suddenly stopped eating and sprang upstairs for his notebook. ‘Another story to add to the James Herriot collection,' he said, after returning to his knife and fork.

Another of the children's books,
Blossom Comes Home,
had its origins on the farm of my father's old friend and client, Arthur Dand. Arthur showed me an old cow that was quite obviously past her productive life. She had been a wonderful cow in her time but her overgrown feet, protruding hip bones and sagging udder displayed stark evidence of a lifetime of high milk production.

Arthur had always been very attached to her but, one day, having realised that he could no longer afford to keep her, he had reluctantly come to the decision to send her for slaughter. As he gazed after the wagon that was taking his old friend away on her final journey, she put her head out of the back of the trailer before emitting a long and plaintive cry. The sight of the old cow, staring out for the last time at the pastures she loved, was too much for Arthur. He leapt into his car, raced after the slaughterman's wagon, flagged it down and, within minutes, Blossom was back home.

‘She may be no use to me any more,' he said to me, ‘but she's going to spend the rest of her days right here!'

After I told this story to my father, the notebook was, once again, produced. ‘Keep feeding me the information,' he said, ‘and I'll do the rest!'

A farming friend of mine told me, a year or two ago, ‘It's a “numbers game” now.' He was absolutely right. Gone are the days of calling cows Buttercup and Bluebell; they are simply part of an enterprise driven on, as with most things, by money. In today's commercially dominated world there is less room for sentiment although that is not to say that the modern farmer is without feeling for his stock.

I was to observe an example of the close bond between the farmer and his animals on a recent visit to a hill farm.

The visit – to a farm in the Hambleton Hills to put down an old cow – was an unusual one. As the farmer took me over to her, he requested that I perform the job as painlessly as possible. She was lying on a bed of straw, unable to rise, and she presented a pitiful picture. Her taut, wrinkled skin, gentle, grey face and pure white eyelashes – all hallmarks of a very old animal – caught my attention immediately. As she turned her head slowly towards me, she seemed to be appealing for help, but I knew that I could do little for her.

‘This auld girl is twenty-two year auld,' said the farmer unsteadily. ‘She's been a grand cow in 'er time an' Ah want 'er to go quietly.' He paused a moment as he composed himself. ‘Can yer inject 'er to put 'er away? Ah don't want 'er to be shot.'

Shooting is a swift and humane way to destroy an animal but he was adamant that she received an injection, despite the fact that this would render her carcass unsuitable for dog meat, let alone human consumption. It was a most unusual request.

‘Of course, George,' I replied, ‘but you do realise that this means you will receive absolutely nothing for her?'

‘No matter,' he replied, walking over to the old animal and stroking her head gently. His voice trembled with emotion. ‘She owes me nowt! Yer don't mind if Ah don't watch, der yer?'

His eyes filled with tears as he turned away to walk into the house. As the old cow collapsed back onto the straw after the injection, I felt that I had suddenly stepped back into James Herriot's world – and visions of Blossom the Cow swam before my eyes. The ‘numbers game' had not completely taken over, not quite.

Although not actually writing more books at this time, Alf was never allowed to forget that he was a famous author, and he still spent a large part of his time in the Kirkgate surgery signing books for his many fans. Years of this activity eventually resulted in his developing arthritis in his hand and, in the last few years of his life, he spent time at home signing, at his own pace, countless self-adhesive labels that his admirers could stick into their books.

Occasionally, during long signing sessions in the surgery waiting-room, he had to politely decline requests for wordy dedications. One day, following yet another such session, he returned to the office, smiling.

‘Most people are quite satisfied with “Best Wishes, James Herriot”,' he said, ‘but one guy has just asked for “To Ray, Elsie, Kevin, Holly and Louise on your first ever visit to Yorkshire. With very best wishes, James Herriot, Helen, Siegfried and all the rest at Skeldale House!” I made the excuse that the old hand would probably seize up half-way through!'

The new television series of ‘All Creatures Great and Small', for which he began to write new material in 1986, proved to be every bit as popular as the previous one; it ran on into 1990 and finally ended with a ‘Christmas Special' in December of that year. The only change in the cast was the introduction of Lynda Bellingham, who played the part of Helen in place of Carol Drinkwater. She, like the previous two actresses who had portrayed Joan, stepped into the role perfectly.

This series did not ring with quite the same authenticity as the earlier ones. Having virtually exhausted James Herriot's original material, extra writers were needed – with some of the later episodes only loosely based upon his stories. Nevertheless, they were, as with the previous series, a great success – and were watched and enjoyed by millions.

New characters appeared for this series, many of whom were to reappear in Alf's final book,
Every Living Thing –
a title suggested by his American publisher, Tom McCormack. This book, published in 1992, was one my father thoroughly enjoyed writing. Not only did he now have a word processor to assist him – to quote his favourite expression at the time, ‘How did I ever manage without one?' – but he told very few people that he had intentions of writing another book. This meant he could proceed in his own time without the pressure of any deadlines.

‘I don't want anyone looking over my shoulder holding a contract,' he told me. ‘I can write this book in my own time, so please don't tell anyone what I am doing!'

It took him, in fact, over four years to complete the book, finally unleashing the news to his publishers in 1991. This was received with delight, as well as surprise, and the book, like its predecessors, soon shot into the UK best-seller lists.

He had some arguments with Tom McCormack about several of the chapters which Tom wished to change – but he was, by now, such a confident author that he allowed very little tampering with his original manuscript. Despite these minor disagreements, the result was a book that sold 650,000 copies in hardback in America in the first six weeks, and remained on the
New York Times
best-seller lists for almost eight months.

Every Living Thing
introduces the reader to Calum Buchanan, ‘the vet with t' badger, and based on the real-life character, Brian Nettleton, Alf's memorable assistant. Brian was such a fascinating personality that Calum figures in eleven of the fifty-two chapters and his vibrant character strides through the pages of the book, bringing back many happy memories for all of us who knew him.

Sadly, Brian was never to read about himself in
Every Living Thing.
More than twenty years after leaving the practice, he came back to see us in Thirsk, where we were delighted to be reacquainted with the piercing dark eyes, the flamboyant moustache and the ageless enthusiasm of a man who had changed little over the years. We were so pleased to have had that opportunity to have spoken to him; less than one month later, Brian was tragically killed in a car accident in Canada. It is good to know that, in Calum Buchanan, he will live forever.

Another assistant who appears in
Every Living Thing
was my father's very first one, John Crooks. In this single case, he used John's real name – an indication of the lasting respect and friendship the two men enjoyed for so many years.

I, too, come into the book, and it was a revealing experience for me as I read it, wide-eyed, for the first time. In chapter 7, he writes about Rosie and me accompanying our father on his rounds when we were small:

She always ran to get things for me while Jimmy invariably walked. Often, in the middle of a case, I'd say, ‘Fetch me another syringe, Jimmy,' and my son
would stroll out to the car, often whistling, perfectly relaxed … And I have often noticed that now, when he is a highly experienced veterinary surgeon, he still doesn't hurry.

After reading this, I began to analyse myself, and quickly realised that my father was quite right! Excepting occasions when a sudden burst of activity is desperately needed, I have never been one to hurry along life's road, but it was not until I read this chapter that I was aware of this aspect of my character. Donald Sinclair must have had a similar experience, many years before, when the character of Siegfried Farnon first sprang out at him from the pages of
If Only They Could Talk,
and I was reminded of the old quotation from the Scottish poet, Robert Burns – one of my father's favourites: ‘O wad some Power the giftie gie us, To see oursels as others see us!'

There have been occasions when people have stated that James Herriot was ‘a writer of
fiction'
, questioning the veracity of some of the stories and claiming that Herriot had simply used well-worn jokes to his own advantage.

In chapter 26, there is a story about a character called Arnold Braithwaite. He is a boastful man who regales everyone in the local pub with stories of the many celebrities whom he claims to know personally. No one, of course, believes him but Arnold has the last laugh when, at the end of a hockey match in Darrowby, several of the players, many of them internationals, walk over to shake Arnold by the hand.