The Real James Herriot

by Jim Wight

  The weather was kind and the sight of the Yorkshire Dales in their best autumnal colours enhanced their enjoyment of that unconventional holiday.

  On the Saturday morning, Mr and Mrs Alfred Wight left the Wheatsheaf to spend a short time with Alf’s relatives in Sunderland – although the entire staff of the hotel was needed to push Alf’s old car before it could be persuaded to start. Once in Sunderland, they were treated to some wonderful north-east hospitality, with Alf’s happiness tempered only by the deafening silence from his parents in Glasgow. He wrote to them, on the last day of his honeymoon in Sunderland.

  My dear Mother and Dad,

  This is really the first chance I have had to write since the big event as the first part of our little holiday has consisted of work. I have tried in vain to phone you. But I am worried that you have sent no word – not even a wire on the day. I really am upset about it as I hurried back to Thirsk on Saturday expecting to find some word from you. I only hope nothing is wrong and I’ll be relieved when I hear from you….

  It is lovely here among the Wilkins and I only wish you folks were sitting in the room with us all. One thing I hope is that there will be a letter from you waiting for me at Thirsk.

  Despite his happiness at such an important period of his life, Alf worried continually about the parents to whom he felt so attached. He was, however, convinced that he had made the right decision in standing up to his mother, and hoped that the passage of time would ease her strong feelings about his marriage to Joan. One thing was certain; he was not going to allow this to come between himself and his wife.

  There were other important matters to be addressed, not least his future as a veterinary surgeon that stretched before him. After only three days in Sunderland, he was back at work in Thirsk, jumping once again on the treadmill that was veterinary practice. His honeymoon had lasted exactly six days, two of them working ones. His holidays away from the practice would be few and far between for the next ten years of his life.

  Chapter Eleven

  Alf and Joan Wight’s first home in Thirsk was the upper reaches of 23 Kirkgate, from where they looked out over the old high-walled garden down to the outbuildings, behind which soared the huge elm trees with their permanent residents, hundreds of noisy rooks. Donald had readily agreed to Alf’s request to let himself and Joan live in part of the big house. This caused no disruption to Donald as the top floor of the house up until that time was unused, while there was still plenty of space on the lower levels.

  Alf and Joan’s ‘kitchen’ at the top of the house differed from the modern equivalent in one notable respect; it had a sink but no water. Every drop had to be brought up in jugs from the ground floor, an excellent form of exercise that did wonders for Alf’s circulation. All the cooking was done on two gas rings, with a square tin perched on top of them serving as an oven. Despite these primitive conditions, Joan produced excellent food, something she would continue to do for the rest of her married life. On the first floor, below the kitchen, was their bed-sitting room. This had a fireplace around which they used to sit on cold winter nights, listening to the radio, reading, or playing their favourite card game, Bezique.

  Furnishing these two rooms was not a problem. There were no big decisions to be made, their financial status leaving them little choice but to buy the cheap but durable furniture that was available at the many salerooms and house sales in the surrounding area. Alf bought a table from Leyburn for six shillings, and a pair of chairs for five shillings each from a farm client, while Joan’s mother provided them with a bed. They also received many useful items as wedding presents from friends in Thirsk.

  There was one item they bought new. It was an oak coffee table made by a local woodcarver, Robert Thompson of Kilburn, a village close to Thirsk which is overlooked by the famous White Horse carved into the nearby hillside. This great craftsman’s work was, and still is, sold all over the world. When Alf and Joan bought the table, Mr Thompson told them he had some work on display in Westminster Abbey and that he had set his sights on Buckingham Palace next. His trade mark was a little mouse carved on to the wood, and this table is in my mother’s sitting-room to this day. I can picture my father, just three days before he died, his arm resting on the fine old table that he bought with his last few shillings, fifty-three years before.

  Being married transformed Alf’s life. Although the young couple had to divert every penny into the upkeep of their home, they enjoyed their new lifestyle. Joan loved keeping the place in order, housework being a pleasure to her, while Alf’s work continued to fascinate him. It was also tiring, and he returned to his wife at the end of each day with no great desire to ‘go out on the town’, which was just as well considering the state of their bank balance. He bought a wireless called a ‘Little Maestro’ and the two of them would sit for hours listening to it. Alf was fascinated by the wireless, considering it to be a wonder of modern technology, and hardly able to believe that he could listen to people all over the world, their distant voices issuing from the little plastic box as though they were there with them in the old house in Thirsk.

  With Brian Sinclair away at veterinary college, Alf did little socialising, but he still managed to enjoy the odd pint or two, notably with his father-in-law, Horace Danbury. Alf got on well with his parents-in-law from the very beginning. They were both quiet, easy-going people who approved of Alf from the moment they met him. Unfortunately, Horace was not a well man; he suffered from a severe chest complaint that was to be the cause of his death only a few years after meeting Alf. In the meantime, however, the two men enjoyed many a drink together, often before a monumental Sunday lunch prepared by Joan’s mother, Laura.

  To Alf’s intense relief, his own mother soon began to take a more relaxed attitude towards Joan. He took Joan occasionally to Glasgow for the weekend and this had the effect of easing the tension that had previously existed between the two women. His mother, able to see that Alf was extremely happily married, would never again express her feelings so vehemently, although there would, for the first few years of his married life, still be an air of slight unease whenever he took Joan north to Glasgow. Alf, satisfied that things could only go on improving, did not let this upset the happiness of his first year as a married man.

  Reading was one of his greatest pleasures and he read for many an hour during the long winter evenings. In the summer months he developed a new interest – gardening. It was an activity he would always enjoy, but he would never have a finer place to follow this pastime than the old walled garden behind 23 Kirkgate. The soil was of the finest quality and, with the high walls around the garden ensuring that the plants were protected from the cold winds, it was capable of growing almost anything. Soon there were neat rows of onions, lettuces, potatoes, peas, beans and other healthy-looking greens, while outdoor tomatoes flourished against the walls, and apple and pear trees stood proudly above the packed rows of vegetables. There was a huge bed of asparagus at one end of the garden while, at the other, a thicket of rhubarb grew at a furious rate, developing stalks like tree trunks. Strawberries were grown in the summer and at one point Donald, who was sporadically enthusiastic about the garden, even grew some melons. The place was a gardener’s paradise.

  After Alf and his family left Kirkgate, the garden gradually fell into disuse and, many years later, when thronging fans visited the surgery, they would look out over the garden from the french windows in the waiting-room, but there was little for them to see. Two apple trees, the wonderful wistaria and the old walls that still stood as steadily as ever, were all that remained of the garden James Herriot described so lovingly in his books. They would have seen a different picture could they have looked out at the garden when my father was in charge fifty or more years ago.

  The reason for the rich soil was twofold. There was always a plentiful supply of manure from the local farms, and this was assiduously dug into the soil – sometimes by a very unwilling Brian but more often by Alf with the assistance of an elderly m
an called Wardman.

  Wardman was a general factotum employed by Donald to look after the property, the garden, the cars and anything else that needed attention. He also cared for the hens and pigs that Donald and Alf kept at one time in the buildings surrounding the yard at the bottom of the garden. Wardman had come through the Great War of 1914–18 and there was nothing he liked better than to reminisce about his experiences to anyone who could spare an hour or two in his dark little den, a converted stable in the yard where he lovingly stored all his tools.

  Wardman appears in the Herriot books as ‘Boardman’ and, as the author wrote, he found a willing listener in Tristan. Brian certainly used to sit for hours down there, smoking a long succession of Woodbines and convulsing old Wardman with his inexhaustible store of jokes. The old man looked forward eagerly to Brian’s holidays from veterinary college.

  Another reason for the rich soil was that it contained the deeply-buried bodies of innumerable dead animals. One of the problems for the veterinary surgeon in those days was the disposal of carcases. This is not a worry for the modern vet – all bodies are now cremated cleanly and efficiently – but, years ago, there existed only the doubtful services of the knacker man who not only picked up fallen stock from farms, but would call in at the surgery as well to pick up the bodies of animals that had been post-mortemed, died naturally, or had had to be put to sleep. When the knacker man failed to arrive at the surgery – which was frequently – the vets had to roll up their sleeves and dig the bodies deeply into the ground. The garden gradually turned into a giant cemetery, one that grew giant vegetables.

  One evening, around twenty years ago, I was with my father in an Italian restaurant in Yarm (he always loved pasta dishes) and, as so often, he was reminiscing about old times. The subject of the garden, and life with Donald, came up. I thought that I had heard all the astonishing exploits of Donald Sinclair, but my father had another one or two up his sleeve.

  ‘Donald is an amazing man, and I have written about him at length in my books, but there are some stories about him that I would never print,’ he said.

  ‘Why not?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, Donald is a bit sensitive about the way he has been portrayed as Siegfried in the books. He doesn’t consider himself to be an eccentric and I don’t wish to make matters worse by telling everyone about some of his more bizarre behaviour.’

  I was surprised. I knew that Donald was a very unusual person but I thought I had heard all the stories.

  ‘Did I ever tell you about the “hot bones”?’ continued my father with a sidelong glance.

  This sounded an interesting one. He then proceeded to recount an episode that illustrated, perfectly, the impulsive and chaotic nature of his partner.

  One day, in the early years of his employment in Thirsk, Alf had to put a little dog to sleep. He understood the owner’s grief and performed the sad task with great sympathy and respect for her feelings. He thought that this was the end of the matter but, about three weeks later, she came in to the surgery to thank him for his kindness, and to ask him a very delicate question.

  ‘Mr Wight,’ she said, ‘you were so kind to me and I am very grateful to you but I have been haunted by something since that sad day.’ There was a pause as she composed herself before continuing. ‘Could you tell me what happened to the body of my poor little dog?’

  Alf’s brain shot into overdrive. This was a difficult one. How could he tell the owner that the knacker man had probably picked it up and that his body could be anywhere? Suddenly, he was aware of a presence at his right shoulder. Donald had walked into the room and was in one of his confident and effusive moods.

  ‘I’m so sorry about your dog,’ he said, oozing charm, ‘and you have no need to worry. He was cremated!’

  The lady was overjoyed. ‘Oh thank you so much!’ she said. ‘That is exactly what I hoped you would say. If you will excuse me for a moment, I’ll just pop out to my car. I have a cloth to put his ashes in.’

  She walked out of the door to a profound silence from the two veterinary surgeons. Alf felt a sudden tightening in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘She shall have them!’ Donald cried suddenly, springing out of the room.

  There were a few tense moments as Alf tried to guess his partner’s next move. He steeled himself for his return. He did not have to wait long. Donald swept back through the door within two minutes, brandishing a dustpan in which was a heap of grey ashes and bones. Down in the old back-yard, Wardman kept an outside boiler, used for heating swill for the pigs, underneath which piles of ash and old bones collected; it was to here that Donald had just executed a speedy visit. The owner, who had returned, held out the cloth and Donald poured the ashes onto it. Alf stared at his partner. He could not believe this was happening, but the charade was not yet over. Suddenly the lady gave a loud shriek and threw the cloth high into the air; within seconds, the room was thick with smoke. The little dog may have died weeks ago, but his ‘ashes’ were still hot.

  Alf might have had a fairly quiet life during the first years of his marriage but, with a partner like Donald Sinclair, there was never a dull moment. One evening the two of them were having a drink in the Golden Fleece. After a hard day’s work, it was a pleasant place in which to unwind – the good beer, pleasant chatter and the roaring fire all helping to make the world seem a better place. (This pub is called the ‘Drovers Arms’ in the Herriot books.)

  With them on this particular evening was a man called Scott Ingles. He was working for an organisation known as the W.A.R.A.G. This was established during the war to give advice to farmers, helping them produce food for the nation as efficiently as possible. Scott Ingles was a mild, gentlemanly person who later became a professor of Animal Husbandry at Glasgow Veterinary School – and who taught me in the early 1960s. I remember him, during one lecture, saying, ‘Nine times seven. Let me see now, that’s approximately sixty-three.’ He could be a little vague at times and was a most charming and inoffensive man.

  He was carrying a round steel helmet in his hand on that occasion and Donald was extremely interested in it. ‘What’s that, Scott?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘It’s my safety helmet,’ he replied.

  ‘What’s it for?’ continued Donald.

  ‘It protects me from such things as falling bricks when I am, for example, going round damaged buildings.’

  ‘Is it any good?’

  ‘Oh yes, it’s very strong.’

  ‘How strong?’

  ‘Well, let me see. If you hit me with that poker there, by the fire, it would protect me from injury very effectively.’

  ‘Can I test it out?’

  ‘By all means, Donald. You can hit me over the head with the poker and you will see that it protects me very well,’ continued Scott confidently. He placed the helmet firmly onto his head.

  Donald moved over to the fire, grasped the poker and swished the air with it a couple of times. Alf felt a stab of tension. He was aware of his senior partner’s unusual behaviour but was unprepared for the next move. Suddenly, Donald raised the heavy poker and, with every ounce of his strength, brought it down on to Scott Ingles’ head with a terrifying crash. A huge dent appeared in the helmet and the little man sank silently to the floor.

  Alf stared with horror at the motionless figure. ‘My God!’ he thought, ‘he’s killed him!’

  After an agonising few moments, Scott delicately regained his feet, but it took more than one restorative draught to effect his complete recovery. His helmet had just passed its most severe examination.

  I remember Professor Ingles, many years later in Glasgow, asking me how everyone was in Thirsk. ‘How is your father?’ he asked.

  ‘Very well, thank you,’ I replied.

  ‘Good! Do please give him my regards.’ Professor Ingles paused for a moment before speaking again. ‘And Mr Sinclair?’

  ‘He’s well too.’

  He paused again. ‘An interesting man,’ he said, a distant look in his ey
es.

  Alf was not alone in finding Donald Sinclair a source of amusement. Many others, farm clients included, were unable to mention his name without introducing a humorous slant into the conversation.

  Many years later, my father was highly amused to hear of a visit that I had made to Sir Hugh Bell’s farm at the village of Ingleby Cross. Sir Hugh appeared in the Herriot book, Vets Might Fly, as a character called Lord Hulton, and was a most open and likeable man. I had been to see some pigs and Sir Hugh, who was friendly with Donald, was asking after him.

  ‘How is Donald these days?’ he said, with a mischievous grin.

  ‘Very well, Sir Hugh,’ I replied.

  ‘Pleased to hear it,’ he continued. His boyish face then broke into a wide smile and his sharp eyes danced before me. ‘An entertaining man,’ he chuckled, ‘and only slightly insane!’

  Alf may have had an extraordinary employer for whom he had to work very hard, but his good fortune in having a job at all was never far from his mind. Some of his friends from Glasgow Veterinary College were not so fortunate. In a letter to his parents in July 1942, he wrote:

  I heard some remarkable things about some of the lads I knew. You remember McIntyre who was in my year? Well, he’s still there, poor devil, sitting surgery for the umpteenth time. And Andy Flynn is still sitting pathology. Isn’t it amazing! Aubrey couldn’t stick it any longer at Cornwall, describing his employer as a miserable old ‘get’, and is now in Sussex, while Eddie Straiton seems to be the only one who is doing well. Jimmy Steele says Eddie works from 6 am to 9 pm every day and will have a nervous breakdown if he isn’t careful. The wages, I hear, are awful, too, and though I sometimes grouse at my lot, I feel I am a great deal better off in most respects. There are too many miserable devils and slave drivers in this profession. Jimmy has to do most of his jobs on a bicycle.

  I laughed till I cried at Jimmy’s description of his last billet with one Benjamin P. Boyle in Staffs. He had to cut the lawn and hedges, chop wood, collect coal, but when they told him to clean the chimney, he left!