The Real James Herriot

by Jim Wight

  It Shouldn’t Happen to a Vet illustrates another aspect of James Herriot’s writing – that of his altering the characters by changing their sex, or making one composite personality out of several others.

  In chapter 7 of the book, a character called Mr Worley appears. He is a man who is completely devoted to pigs. His whole life revolves round them, and there is nothing he likes better than sitting by the fire, ‘talking pigs’.

  The ‘real’ Mr Worley was based upon a lady called Mrs Bush who ran a country inn at Byland Abbey near Thirsk. She kept Saddleback pigs in the yard behind the inn and she loved every one of them. She liked my father as she was convinced that he, too, loved her pigs. I am not quite so sure about that. Not only were Mrs Bush’s black and white sows pretty formidable creatures, especially at farrowing time, but she had the awkward habit of calling us out in the early hours of the morning to attend to them. In her eyes, however, he was a real ‘pig vet’.

  One evening, Alf had an unnerving experience while having a quiet drink at the inn. Mrs Bush approached him and said, ‘Ooh, Mr Wight, I did enjoy reading your book. And I liked the chapter about that man and his pigs!’

  A thin film of sweat appeared on Alf’s brow. Surely she had not recognised herself? ‘I’m glad you liked it, Mrs Bush,’ he replied.

  ‘I know exactly how he felt!’ she continued.

  ‘Do you really?’

  ‘Aye. D’you know, Mr Wight … it could’ve been me!’

  The second book ends with a wonderful story – one whose origins I remember very well – that illustrates, perfectly, the unique character of Donald Sinclair. Siegfried, while escorting some upper-class, influential people to the races, meets an old friend and becomes inebriated after which, following the loss of his car keys, he has to borrow his friend’s filthy old vehicle to transport his outraged guests away from the racecourse. The final touch of farce is provided, as usual, by Siegfried who is watched in disbelief by the unsmiling occupants as he attempts to clean the car window with a dead hen!

  In the following five years up to 1977, Alf produced four more books, an impressive feat for a man working full time as a veterinary surgeon. As in those long years when he was writing the short stories and novels, he worked in the living-room, right in front of the television. By now he found it no hardship to settle down at the end of a working day, with the stories flowing effortlessly from his typewriter. Having watched him put in a full day’s work in the practice, I used to stare in amazement at the contented figure tapping away. He had one great advantage; he genuinely loved writing, unfailingly regarding it as a hobby rather than a profession.

  From 1973 onwards, everything that he published received enthusiastic reviews before climbing rapidly to the top of the best-seller lists. His third book, Let Sleeping Vets Lie, a title suggested by Joan, was published in April 1973. This book, like the previous two, was serialised by the Evening Standard, and it hit the ground running – immediately becoming a best-seller. Michael Joseph printed 15,000 copies which disappeared off the bookshelves with lightning speed. The reader is introduced to more characters, including Ewan Ross, the neighbouring vet for whom James Herriot T.B. tested endless cows, and Carmody, the student. There are endless tales of the Yorkshire farmers with their funny ways, and the gentle love story between James and Helen winds through the book, finally resulting in their marriage and honeymoon in the Yorkshire Dales.

  The opening chapter is about a formidable dog belonging to Joe Mulligan, a deaf old Irishman. In real life, he was a man called Mr Thompson, and the dog was one that no vet in his right mind would dream of approaching. This enormous animal – known simply as ‘Thompson’s dog’ – sparked waves of high tension along the corridors of the surgery whenever he walked through the door.

  One day, Alf was walking his little Jack Russell terrier, Hector, across the fields near Thirsk, when he beheld the misleadingly benevolent face of ‘Thompson’s dog’ shambling along beside the old man. To his horror, Hector began to gambol around the huge animal. The big, shaggy creature displayed little more than mild interest towards the small black and white form that was swarming all over him, but my father was still concerned. Old Mr Thompson could see the consternation on Alf’s face. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Wight,’ he shouted, ‘’e only eats Alsatians!’

  On 18 April 1973, at Michael Joseph’s new offices in Bedford Square, the official publication of Let Sleeping Vets Lie was celebrated. So pleased was the publishing house of Michael Joseph with their increasingly popular author that, besides throwing the special publication party for him, they had – two months previously – already contracted him to write three more books, for which they paid a total advance of £5,250. These were still early days and the figure was not a generous one, but to Alf Wight, with his ever accelerating sales over the next few years, this would turn out to be of little significance.

  One of the benefits of having a now-famous father was the frequent attendance at many excellent parties, together with the meeting of hordes of interesting people. New friendships were forged at these functions, commonly enhanced by the presence of liberal quantities of alcohol. This first publication party was right up to expectations. Many of the family’s friends were willing participants. Denton Pette (later to be depicted as Granville Bennett), Brian Sinclair (Tristan, of course) and their wives were there, (Donald Sinclair remained at home to manage the practice), as was Eddie Straiton, as well as my future wife Gillian, who had been invited as a close friend of Rosie’s. Gill, unfortunately, having under-estimated the alcoholic content of the drinks that seemed to be poured into her glass in never-ending quantities, spent the latter part of the evening in a moribund state in the ladies’ cloakroom.

  Full of remorse the following day, she wrote an abject letter of apology to the author. His reply is one that she has kept as a treasured memento:

  My dear girl, I hasten to assure you that your feelings of remorse are entirely unnecessary and, in fact, there is something ludicrous in apologising to me, the veteran of a thousand untimely disappearances and as many black and hopeless dawns. I see you describe yourself as a ‘sordid little heap in the Ladies’. Well that’s a good description of me but for ‘Ladies’ read ‘Gents’ or ‘Friend’s back room’ or ‘Back seat of car’ or, in one case, ‘Corner of tennis court’.

  Let me further assure you that your ‘awful behaviour’ was probably not even noticed by a roomful of people who had punished the champers for a couple of hours, then waded into the vino for a similar period. It remains rather a blur to me.

  I dimly remember the two Michael Joseph men making rather incoherent speeches of thanks to which, they tell me, I made a slurring twelve-word reply. I honestly don’t remember and that goes for a very drunken Tristan and most of the others.

  But I do remember meeting you right at the start and that was lovely!

  Much love, James Herriot

  Gill received another souvenir of that memorable evening. ‘Larry’, the cartoonist whose brilliant illustrations brightened each chapter of the books, was also a guest at the party. On hearing that Gill was a doctor, he drew her a cartoon depicting a needle on the end of a massive syringe being thrust into an equally imposing backside. The drawing was completed in a matter of seconds, a feat watched with amazement by Alf; to him, painting or drawing – like mathematics – were pursuits that would forever remain shrouded in mystery.

  I have cause to remember that evening as it was then that I heard, for the first time, Brian Sinclair giving a strident rendition of his ‘maniac laugh’, that my father had described to us so often. After the party was over and we were beating our uncertain way back to our hotel, he suddenly let loose. As I listened to the London streets echoing to the sinister, primeval cries, I felt exceedingly grateful that the man causing them was none other than old ‘Uncle Brian’ himself. At heart, he had changed little since those wild days in Thirsk so many years ago.

  The fourth book, Vet in Harness, was published in 1974 and was ano
ther immediate success, this time with an initial printing of 20,000 copies. The reader is introduced to the larger-than-life Granville Bennett while, in chapter 25, a village cricket match on a hopelessly sloping and uneven pitch is described. Alf, always a great cricket fan, was very proud to receive a letter from Sir Leonard Hutton, whom he rated as one of the all-time great Yorkshire and England batsmen. He had obviously enjoyed the chapter. Dated 26 February 1976, it read:

  I have just read your new book. May I congratulate you on the cricket match; it reminded me so much of one or two of my earliest matches in Yorkshire.

  Thank you so much for making two dark February evenings so enjoyable. I know the people so well whom you have spent your life amongst. We have them in cricket, too.

  This was where Alf scored. His books were not just a collection of stories about animals and vets. His professional experiences were a backcloth to a description of so many different walks of life; there was something in them to interest everyone.

  As he kept generating more books in the early 1970s, Alf’s confidence grew. He had attempted the art of introducing flashbacks in the novel that was rejected in 1967, but he returned to this technique for his next two books, Vets Might Fly which was published in 1976, and Vet in a Spin which appeared on the booksellers’ shelves in 1977. So successful was he now, that 60,000 copies of Vets Might Fly were printed by Michael Joseph and they flew off the shelves within a very short time.

  These two books hark back to his time in the Royal Air Force and he returned to those earlier days with much greater skill in the use of flashbacks than in his previous attempts. By this time, he was a household name, with his books entering the best-seller lists within a couple of weeks of publication. As each new book was published, it acted as a catalyst for the sales of the preceding titles and, by the mid 1970s, he had sold hundreds of thousands of copies in hardback together with millions in paperback.

  Paperback books, of course, sell more copies than the more expensive hardback editions. In the 1970s, Michael Joseph – along with many other publishers at the time – did not have a regular paperback partner with whom they shared profits. They would sell paperback rights to any number of paperback houses, Penguin Books, Pan Books and Corgi being some of the leading names.

  With the shelf-life of a commercial hardback book rarely being more than six months nowadays, the paperback edition usually follows a year after the hardback is published – often coinciding, if the author is prolific, with the next hardback. In the 1970s, however, the hardbacks usually continued in circulation for much longer and, with a higher income from the hardback rather than a part-share of a lower-priced book, the gap between hardback and paperback publication was often two years.

  Michael Joseph, therefore, were in no rush to sign a contract for If Only They Could Talk with a paperback publisher and, in the event, they sold the first two books at the same time to Pan Books. The contract between Michael Joseph and Pan was signed in June 1972, six months after the publication of It Shouldn’t Happen to a Vet; the serialisation of the two books and the favourable reviews and media interest would not have gone unnoticed by Pan. The leading player in negotiating this contract was none other than Clarence Paget who, in 1969, had encouraged Anthea Joseph to take a chance with the ‘unknown vet from Yorkshire’.

  The first two books were published in tandem by Pan in November 1972, with 60,000 copies of each being printed. It would prove to be a wise move by Pan. The sales accelerated throughout the following years as the successive books were published in paperback until, by early 1979, Alf found himself the recipient of no less than six ‘Golden Pan’ awards. Each of his first six books sold more than one million copies in paperback – an achievement equalled only, at that time, by Ian Fleming, the author of the hugely successful James Bond books.

  Alfred Wight, although a man who had carved out his life with his own hands, was quick to acknowledge any help he had received in attaining this heady success. The dedications in his earlier books reflect his gratitude.

  In the first book, the dedication is to Eddie Straiton. Alf never forgot that it was he who had introduced him to the former Collins executive, John Morrison, who in turn had passed his manuscript on to that publishing house. It was, in effect, the advice of the Collins’ reader, Juliana Wadham – to transform his original novel into a semi-autobiographical account of his life – that was a major turning point in his fortunes. Juliana Wadham was responsible for the addition of that magic ingredient to James Herriot’s work; the fact that his memorable stories were based upon real-life incidents.

  The dedication in the second book – to the Sinclair brothers – reflects the appreciation of his good fortune in having spent much of his life in the company of those colourful characters who had provided him with incomparable material for his stories.

  In the third book, he acknowledges his wife. In her own way, Joan had contributed more than anyone in helping him on the road to success – not only by gently goading him into writing his first book and then encouraging him to persevere with getting it published, but by providing a happy and stable family environment. One of his favourite sayings was that he wrote his books, not alone, but ‘in the bosom of my family’. Joan, through her enduring support of her husband, was mainly responsible for his family life being a contented and happy one.

  The dedication in the fourth book, to his mother in Glasgow, is testimony to his undying gratitude to the woman who, during those difficult years of the depression in Yoker so many years before, displayed astonishing determination that her son would be a success in the world. She was, of course, extremely proud of her son’s achievements, so much so that she began to accost people in the street with the words, ‘Now, you know who I am, don’t you? I am James Herriot’s mother!’ On her correspondence, too, she would no longer sign her name as Hannah Wight – just ‘James Herriot’s mother’.

  The dedications in the fifth and sixth books (the former to his beloved dogs, Hector and Dan, the latter to Rosie, Gill and me) were in appreciation of some of those with whom he always maintained he spent many of the happiest times of his life.

  By the mid 1970s, James Herriot’s books had become established best-sellers in Great Britain, but it was not only his astonishing success in his own country that bemused him. Long before this, his reputation had spread beyond its shores. With his prodigious book sales abroad having resulted in their being translated into most of the world’s major languages, he had become known as the ‘World’s Most Famous Vet’, but it was his massive popularity in one country that had been largely responsible for rocketing him to international fame. Nowhere was he held in higher esteem than in the United States of America.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  One Wednesday afternoon, some time in the late 1970s, I was aware of a great deal of noise in the waiting-room of 23 Kirkgate. The small animal side of the practice was beginning to expand to such an extent that it now accounted for a high proportion of our income, and it was good news that the waiting-room was so full.

  ‘It looks as though we’re going to have a good surgery today, Dad,’ I said. ‘That room is heaving!’

  My father put his head round the door and looked inside. He strode back into the office with an apologetic smile. ‘Don’t get too excited, boys,’ he said. ‘I’ve just counted two hamsters, one Yorkshire Terrier and forty-five Americans!’

  This invasion by tourists of our modest little premises was becoming commonplace. The name of James Herriot had become so famous that thousands from all over the world flocked to Thirsk to see his veterinary surgery. As well as from Great Britain, they travelled from Europe, Canada, Australia and even Japan – but by far the greatest number came from the United States. It seemed that he had become an icon on the other side of the Atlantic.

  Alf Wight had always liked the American people. Long before he became famous, he had been attracted to their open friendliness and love for life.

  ‘The Americans like us,’ he often use
d to say. ‘Lots of other nations don’t, but they do. I like people who like me!’ As his stratospheric sales in the United States continued, his affection for the people of that country deepened.

  Alf never forgot the debt he owed the Americans, always endeavouring to see every one that had paid him the compliment of travelling so far to see him. As these intrusions into their working day could be a nuisance to the other veterinary surgeons in the practice, he set aside two afternoons a week to talk to the visitors and sign their books. The queues down Kirkgate on Wednesday and Friday afternoons were enormous, especially during the summer months.

  These book-signing sessions went on for many years and we all became used to the throngs of tourists pouring into the waiting-room. I often watched, with amazement, the excitement on the faces of these people as they shook hands with my father. He meant more to them than just an author whose work they admired; he was someone they felt they knew personally through his warm and compassionately written stories.

  Alf, who always considered himself to be a very ordinary man, could never really understand this adulation. He said to me on many an occasion, ‘Here’s me, an ordinary “run of the mill” vet and all these people are flocking to see me as though I was the new Messiah!’ Some who travelled to worship at the ‘shrine’ of 23 Kirkgate were fellow veterinarians with a string of degrees to their names; Alf used to say that he felt a fraud to be treated with such respect. Despite his bemusement, he was, indeed, someone special, with many of those fortunate enough to meet him regarding the occasion as one of the highlights of their entire lives.

  I gained a great respect for many of the fans who came to see him. A large number, understanding that ours was a working business, did not intrude; they would simply approach the building and photograph it. Others who came inside displayed astonishing generosity. After signing their books, my father would invite them to give a donation to a local charity that he supported; this was a stray dog sanctuary – the Jerry Green Foundation Trust – that had a branch near Thirsk. On several occasions a £50-note was found when the little red box was emptied. It was not only James Herriot himself who profited from his incredible success.