The Real James Herriot

by Jim Wight

  Another friend was soon to come back into Alf’s life. Towards the end of 1949, he was delighted to learn that Brian Sinclair was returning to live in Yorkshire.

  Following his eventual graduation from Edinburgh Veterinary College, Brian had joined the Royal Army Veterinary Corps, during which time he was posted to India where he was, in his own words, ‘involved in studies of infertility and spent a large part of my time with my hand up the backsides of water buffaloes’.

  Despite the hours he spent exploring these dark and pungent recesses, he developed an interest in infertility which he continued to pursue in his next job working for the Ministry of Agriculture in Inverness in the north of Scotland. He remained there for three years, before returning to work in Yorkshire, again for the Ministry of Agriculture, in the veterinary diagnostic laboratories in Leeds. He was to remain there until his retirement.

  Since Brian and Alf now had young families, the wild and carefree escapades of ten years before were fewer, but with Brian having bought a house in nearby Harrogate, he and Alf were able to meet regularly, a refreshing injection in Alf’s hectic life. The two friends would never lose touch from that time on.

  At about the time that Brian returned to the area, Alf’s other great friend, Alex Taylor, left. Alf had heard of a vacancy for an assistant district officer with the Ministry of Agriculture and Alex applied for the job and got it, he and Lynne then moving to Whitby on the Yorkshire coast. Soon he was on his way to passing exams which qualified him as a land agent, managing farms for big estates. Alex was to leave Yorkshire in 1954 but although he then worked in several far-flung corners of the British Isles, he always maintained regular contact with his old friend.

  Years later, Alex recalled how much he owed Alf in getting him set up with a job, as well as providing support at a perilous financial period of his life. ‘Not only was he responsible for setting me on the right track,’ he said, ‘but he was, in so many other ways, such a great friend to me.’

  During the years immediately following the war, Alf faced a demanding routine. He worked a seven-day week, being on call almost every night and weekend, but he still found time to follow his many interests.

  One of these was music. Although not an accomplished performer on any musical instrument – save for his ability to turn out tunes by ear on the piano – music always formed an integral part of his life. He loved all varieties of music and was just as much at home listening to the voices of Bing Crosby or Frank Sinatra as he was sitting in a concert hall, drinking in the enthralling music of a Puccini opera.

  Around 1949, he bought a radiogram. This most elegant piece of furniture – for which he saved diligently – was a wireless and record player combined, in front of which he would sit for hours on long winter evenings, listening to the music of his favourite composers, among many others, Beethoven, Mozart, Brahms and Tchaikovsky. He used to listen enthralled, night after night, to the lyrical voice of his favourite tenor, Beniamino Gigli – just as his father had sat, listening interminably to the great Caruso on his old gramophone in Glasgow.

  Alf’s passion for sport, too, provided therapeutic breaks from work. His football team, Sunderland, was too far away to visit regularly but he could watch first division football at the nearest league team, Middlesbrough. With fellow supporters, Cyril Dale, Bill Spence, Maurice Peckitt, Ray Hart and several others, he travelled regularly to the stadium at Ayresome Park and soon became an avid Middlesbrough fan.

  His Uncle Stan, however, ensured that he never forgot his allegiance to the red and white stripes of Sunderland, despatching to Thirsk every week during the season the Sunderland Football Echo. After Uncle Stan died, his son-in-law, John Eves, carried on the tradition, the bulletins always being essential reading for Alf.

  Through his love of football, he met a man who was to become a lifelong friend. Guy Rob, a farmer from the village of Catton near Thirsk, travelled thousands of miles with Alf to watch football. Guy, who was considerably older than Alf, was an intelligent and humorous man and provided Alf with many hours of welcome conversation along the well-travelled roads to the football grounds.

  Guy was a good horseman and hunted regularly but, rather unusually for lovers of field sports, he was also a fanatical follower of cricket and football. This real gentleman was equally at home at the local hunt ball, a glass of fine wine in his hand, as he was on the rain-swept terraces of Sunderland Football Club, clutching a cup of watery Bovril while chatting with the flat-capped supporters around him.

  Guy’s sister, Kitty, who was also a good friend of Alf, was a respected breeder of Pembroke Corgis and was a client of the practice. She was, however, very different from Guy. She was a small, rounded lady who smoked prodigious numbers of cigarettes, drank steadily, and cared little what she said or to whom she said it. Where Guy was quiet and reserved, Kitty was open in her views.

  She was a highly intelligent lady whose sharp wit would provide Alf with many entertaining moments during his visits to her breeding kennels. Alf’s favourite memory was of her entering into a heated discussion on the topic of healthy living with a doctor – a tall, lean man who, unlike Kitty, neither smoked nor drank but lived frugally on only the healthiest of foods.

  The argument came to a head when he finally took a long look at the chunky little figure before him. ‘Miss Rob,’ he said, ‘I must confess that, should you ever come to my surgery, I would feel compelled to put you on a very strict diet!’

  Kitty stared frostily at his spare frame before replying swiftly, ‘Doctor, should you ever come to my kennels, the first thing I would do is worm you!’

  Alf, like Guy Rob, was a great cricket fan and, whenever he could, would travel to Headingley – the home ground of the Yorkshire Cricket Club – or to the annual cricket festival at Scarborough.

  Alf not only managed to watch sport; he played the one at which he had excelled since his boyhood – tennis. He was a regular at the Thirsk Athletic Club, playing for the club in the local tennis league. Alex Taylor, during his few years in Thirsk, was also a member and he and Alf formed a formidable doubles partnership that won many matches for Thirsk. Joan, too, was a good player. She had always been an excellent hockey and tennis player in her years at Thirsk Grammar School, and her keen eye for a ball ensured that she and Alf had many challenging matches together on the club’s courts.

  One half-day per week, every Thursday, was Alf’s only regular break from work for the first ten years of his professional life. These hallowed few hours were spent in the town of Harrogate. This elegant spa town, referred to in the Herriot books as ‘Brawton’, was one for which he and Joan developed a lasting affection. Right up until the final years of Alf’s life, they followed the tradition of visiting Harrogate every Thursday with, in the early days, these visits following a set pattern. Eating was the number one activity.

  Alf and Joan always enjoyed their food but their performance with the knife and fork was particularly impressive at that time. Thursdays opened, as usual, with a good breakfast, after which Alf built up an appetite around the practice in the morning while Joan whetted hers, scrubbing at the already clean Kirkgate stone floors. They then departed for Harrogate, stopping en route at the Red Lion at South Stainley, a famous inn noted for its good food. After a substantial three-course lunch, they drove on to Harrogate and spent the next couple of hours browsing around the shops, before hunger pains drew them through the doors of Betty’s Café. What followed then was the effortless consumption of hors d’oeuvres, fish and chips and a tasty dessert. The clean and friendly café, with the smiling waitresses and the gentle chink of fine china, was a wonderfully relaxing contrast to the rough and tumble of the cold Yorkshire farmyards.

  The next stop was the cinema, after which, upon emerging from its dark interior, they were assailed by the irresistible aromas issuing from Louis, a nearby restaurant. Louis was a small, volatile Italian gentleman, a masterful chef who ran a small café that provided a satisfying end to the Wights’ day as they swif
tly put large plates of spaghetti, or other delicious Italian dishes, out of sight. Harrogate was a sweet retreat for Alf and Joan – a place where they could forget the clamour of 23 Kirkgate with its relentlessly ringing telephone. He writes affectionately in 1979 about the town in his factual book, James Herriot’s Yorkshire: ‘I love my work but it is stressful, and the sense of escape as Helen and I roamed the streets of this lovely town was unbelievable. Even now, when I step from my car in Harrogate, I can feel myself relaxing, feel the tensions and the pressures growing less.’

  One day, Alf and Joan were in Betty’s when Alf was approached by a man who said to him, ‘Excuse me, but are you George Donaldson?’

  ‘No,’ replied Alf. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘You look just like George Donaldson,’ he replied. ‘He was at school with me at Strathallan.’

  ‘The only man I know of who comes from Strathallan is Gordon Rae, the vet from Boroughbridge,’ continued Alf. ‘But I’ve never actually met him.’

  ‘Now you have,’ said the man. ‘That’s me!’

  Gordon Rae began laughing – something that he and Alf would continue to do together for many years to come. This meeting began a lasting friendship between Gordon and his wife Jean, and Alf and Joan, during which time they would meet regularly in Harrogate almost every Thursday afternoon for the next twenty-five years.

  If I had to count the very best friends of my father on the fingers of one hand, Gordon Rae would be among them. Originating from north-east Scotland, he ran the veterinary practice in the town of Boroughbridge, not far from Thirsk, and was just the sort of man that my father liked. Gordon was a man with no ‘side’ to him – someone you felt that you knew well after a very short time in his company, with honesty and decency shining out of his friendly face.

  Although in a far stronger financial situation than my father, he had little time for life’s fineries. He was happiest spending hours tramping through the mountains and camping with his children. I have clear memories of Gordon, whistling tunelessly away to himself while throwing his boots and rucksack into the back of the car, his smiling face a picture of contentment. Unlike my father, he had little interest in sport or music but, as well as sharing a sense of humour, they both loved the wild uplands of Britain, where they would spend many hours together walking and laughing. This cemented their friendship in such a way that Jean and Gordon, with their three sons, Alastair, Martin and Douglas, would spend several family holidays with us in the years to come.

  With Gordon, like Alf, a slave to general practice in those days, he had many amusing tales to tell. It was an especial comfort to Alf, as he laughed at Gordon’s stories of triumph and catastrophy, that his exacting life as a veterinary surgeon was one that was shared by so many of his colleagues. Alf Wight would never tire of the company of Gordon Rae.

  In 1949, with the veterinary practice in Thirsk becoming impossibly busy for the two vets, Donald and Alf acquired their first employee, a retired railway clerk called Harold Wilson. Up until this time, Joan, as well as being on almost permanent telephone duty, had helped in keeping the practice books but, with her growing family and house to attend to, the work load had become too much for her. Some neat and tidy organisation was badly needed. Bits of paper covered with Donald’s spidery writing littered the office, and spare cash bulged out of drawers and over the top of the old pint pot on the mantelpiece that James Herriot was to describe in his first book.

  Harold Wilson who, unlike both of his employers, possessed a remarkable head for figures, soon had things in better shape but he had an uphill task in receiving full cooperation from Donald. In If Only They Could Talk, James Herriot describes the first secretary in the practice as a ‘Miss Harbottle’ who had a running battle with Siegfried in trying to balance the practice books. This character was, in fact, based very loosely upon Harold Wilson, and is one example of Alf disguising the true origins of his characters by altering their sex.

  The uneasy exchanges between Harold and Donald were many. Harold, who found his employer’s shambolic approach to any semblance of organisation almost impossible to bear, in return irritated Donald by loudly clearing his throat to capture his attention, nearly always at a most inconvenient time. Donald was never noted for his patience and there were occasions when he responded vociferously, but despite these eruptions, Harold remained a valued and loyal employee of the practice for more than ten years.

  Despite Harold Wilson’s help with the office side of the practice, the veterinary workload became ever more demanding and it soon became apparent that it was too much for two men. An added burden for Alf was that Donald was branching out into other ways of earning money, spending increasing hours away from the practice.

  Throughout his life, Donald Sinclair was a man with a multitude of interests. As well as shooting, fishing and hunting, he ran a pack of beagles, and later harriers, throughout the 1950s and into the 1960s.

  One of his most enduring interests, in his later years, was pigeon racing. He maintained a very good loft of pigeons at Southwoods Hall, being acknowledged as an expert, with pigeon fanciers from all over the north of England asking him for advice. One day I asked him how he enjoyed his transition from horse specialist to a doctor of pigeons. ‘Very much,’ he replied, ‘pigeons don’t kick!’

  As well as following these pastimes, he embarked on many different money-making schemes – some successful, some disastrous. His most successful was the growing of Christmas trees in the hilly land around Southwoods Hall which began more than thirty-five years ago and is still thriving today, years after his death.

  His earlier business ventures, at the time when only he and Alf were in the practice, were less rewarding. In the late 1940s, with Audrey’s help, he bought two farms, Bumper Castle and Low Cleaves near Thirlby, thus becoming a part-time farmer as well as a veterinary surgeon. His running of these farms was, characteristically, erratic and they both made losses. He would return to farming again in the 1970s, keeping a herd of suckler cows and calves at Southwoods, this time with a little more success.

  In the late 1940s, as well as the running of the farms, he branched out with other more exotic ideas. One of these was the invention of an elaborate wire-mesh construction, designed to allow free-range hens access to a protected run where they would be secure from foxes. Donald’s ingenious device, as well as barring the entrance of a predator, also prevented the hens from returning to the free-range areas outside. He dubbed his invention, of which he had high hopes, ‘Sinclair’s Patent Pop Hole’.

  To his delight, he received an order for a large number of these devices. Having obtained the help of a local engineering works in manufacturing them, he transported them all down to Thirsk market place one Monday morning to clinch the deal with the purchaser. Donald paced impatiently around his towering stack of ironwork but, despite waiting several hours, his ‘customer’ failed to arrive.

  Alf remembered that day very well. It was late in the day when Donald, having reloaded his merchandise, drew up outside the door of 23 Kirkgate on his tractor with a mountainous pile of metalwork in the trailer.

  ‘My God, Alfred!’ he shouted. ‘I’ve just about ruptured myself carting these bloody pop holes down here and the bugger hasn’t even turned up for them! What am I supposed to do with all this lot now?’

  The pop holes returned to Southwoods Hall where they rusted away gently over the course of many years. Undeterred, Donald was soon to try out some other ideas. One of these was the establishment of a mobile fish and chip shop, hopefully christened ‘Enterprise Fisheries’. This potentially lucrative business travelled around the villages in the Thirsk area but, unfortunately, it did not live up to its name. Donald made heavy losses while his employees running the business did far better; they realised the potential, pocketed the proceeds and disappeared. ‘Enterprise Fisheries’, as with the quietly decomposing ‘pop holes’, would soon be forgotten.

  Many have said that the partnership of Donald Sinclair and Alf Wight wa
s a well-balanced one. Donald was always full of ideas – some good, some crazy – with Alf always there to hone them down to sensible proportions. Alf, throughout his working life with Donald, derived enormous amusement from his partner’s escapades, but it was not always so funny at the time, especially during the busy period in the late 1940s, when Donald was often absent from the practice, pursuing his various activities.

  Help was needed and, in July 1951, it arrived. A young man called John Crooks was the first of a long line of veterinary assistants to walk through the doors of 23 Kirkgate.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘It was rather wonderful to have an assistant, especially a good one like him. I had always liked him, but when I got a call to a calving heifer at three o’clock in the morning and was able to pass it on to him and turn over and go back to sleep, I could feel the liking deepening into a warm affection.’

  These words, written by James Herriot in his final book, Every Living Thing, will have a special significance for many veterinary surgeons who have experienced the dubious privilege of leaving a warm bed to drive out to a cold farm in the early hours.

  The arrival of John Crooks heralded a whole new meaning to Alf Wight’s life. During his first ten years as a practising vet, he had had to be on call almost every night, and to be able to send someone else was a delightful and unbelievable experience. ‘For the first time in my life, I had someone working for me!’