The Real James Herriot

by Jim Wight

  James Herriot’s Yorkshire is lavishly illustrated with photographs of places that evoked many happy memories for Alf. The pictures of Wensleydale brought back images of the hard, early years helping his old friend Frank Bingham, at a time when he had first set eyes upon the magic of the Yorkshire Dales. There is an account of a Youth Hostelling holiday when I and a schoolfriend, Ian Brown, walked with my father through Wensleydale and Swaledale. Such was the popularity of the book, that this walk has been traced by many people and has become known as the ‘Herriot Way’.

  The vivid photographs of the Thirsk area, the place where the vast majority of the stories had their origins, and where my father brought us up along an uncertain but happy road, had especial meaning for him.

  The North York Moors and the Yorkshire coast are not forgotten. Derry Brabbs’s pictures of the old Grand Hotel in Scarborough made Alf shiver as he recalled his days in the RAF, drilling on the beach and sleeping in the cold, windswept dormitories. On a softer note, he fondly remembers the town of Harrogate, his haven of escape every Thursday afternoon at a time when he was working day and night to establish himself as a veterinary surgeon.

  Every section of the book stirred memories, some of them hard but all of them happy. ‘But what I see most clearly on my map,’ Alf wrote in the book’s introduction, ‘is the little stretch of velvet grass by the river’s edge where I camped or picnicked with my family. I can see the golden beach where my children built their castles in the sand. These are the parts, when my children were very young, which stand out most vividly from the coloured paper. These, indeed, as I look down on my Yorkshire, are the sweet places of memory.’

  James Herriot’s Yorkshire is about the recollections of a best-selling author. To his family, it meant a little more. It invoked memories of a father who ensured that we were able to share his happiness in those days when we were young.

  By 1979, over 12 million books by James Herriot had been sold, and Alf had little more to prove to his publishers, but writing had become a way of life and, in 1981, his seventh book of stories was published. This book, entitled The Lord God Made Them All, took him over four years to complete but there were reasons for this. Not only had he written the text for James Herriot’s Yorkshire since the last volume of stories, Vet In A Spin published in 1977, but the new book was much longer. This was primarily for the American market with its insatiable demand for ‘big’ books, and enabled St Martin’s Press to publish The Lord God Made Them All at the same time as the British edition. They had, of course, had to wait to publish Vets Might Fly until Vet In A Spin was published, so they could produce one big volume, All Things Wise and Wonderful.

  The new book became an instant best-seller on both sides of the Atlantic, and such was James Herriot’s popularity in the United States that over half a million copies were sold there in hardback alone.

  Although I and many of my father’s close friends have always regarded his earliest books as our favourites, this one contains some wonderful material, and like the others, brings to life a whole host of new and fascinating characters.

  In chapter 15, he describes his treatment of a dog with demodectic mange, belonging to Sister Rose. This character was based upon a woman called Sister Ann Lilley, from the Friarage Hospital in nearby Northallerton. She was closely involved with my father’s favourite animal charity, the Jerry Green Foundation Trust, and she ran several small dog sanctuaries of her own. She is someone for whom Alf had great respect. It is a sad story ending in the death of Amber, a beautiful golden retriever, to whom, in real life, my father had become very attached. The Lord God Made Them All is another book that illustrates not only the triumphs but also the heartbreaks that punctuate the life of every veterinary surgeon.

  The period in which the book was set had moved on, and now included stories about Rosie and me – who were both given our real names. Extracts from James Herriot’s books were reproduced in countless periodicals and magazines, primarily in Britain and America, and there was one chapter in The Lord God Made Them All which proved to be the most popular of all.

  The story tells of James Herriot’s attendance at a concert at which his young son was performing. I was about eight years old when the concert, organised by my piano teacher Miss Stanley, took place in the Sowerby Methodist Chapel. The concert was a succession of recitals by her young pupils and they all performed admirably – all except me. I made two disastrous attempts at a little piece called ‘The Miller’s Dance’ before, to wild and relieved applause from the assembled parents, I finally succeeded at the third try. The effect on my father’s nervous system was devastating.

  The hilarious description in the book is one that I have read many times, and I can understand why it is so popular; the tension of watching one’s offspring performing in public is something with which many a parent must identify. James Herriot’s harrowing experience of witnessing his child transforming a nice little concert into a farce is one that many must dread.

  Years later, when my father was asking me if I remembered the incident, and I replied that I didn’t think I had ever been so frightened, he replied, ‘Well, it might have frightened you, but it very nearly killed me!’

  I had always felt a little guilty about my reluctance to practise the piano, and thus waste the cost of the lessons, but at least it provided my father with material for a chapter that became one of the most popular he ever wrote.

  On reading his manuscript prior to publication, I found as usual the humorous stories the most enjoyable, especially his account of saving his own life in the face of an enraged bull by smashing the creature repeatedly over the nose with an artificial vagina – but there is, of course, far more to his writing than this. The Lord God Made Them All is a book that, once again, illustrates James Herriot’s understanding of human nature – it is a book not just about animals and veterinary surgeons, but about the everyday emotions that everyone experiences.

  The spectacular triumph of James Herriot’s Yorkshire had not gone unnoticed by the Reader’s Digest Association. Having published much of James Herriot’s work in their condensed books on both sides of the Atlantic – and sold millions of copies – they approached Michael Joseph with the idea of producing an illustrated volume of selected stories from the James Herriot books. Alan Brooke, Michael Joseph’s editorial director, together with Alf’s editor, Jenny Dereham – who had succeeded Anthea Joseph following her tragic death from cancer early in 1981 – came up to Yorkshire with representatives of the Reader’s Digest, to talk my father into the idea of the book. He was soon won over. This book, published in 1982, was called The Best of James Herriot.

  Apart from the introduction, Alf had comparatively little original work to do for this book. It was a compendium of his stories, and Alf had final approval of the content. Interspersed amongst the stories were sections which covered different subjects connected with Alf, Yorkshire and the veterinary profession. These sections were superbly illustrated with a mixture of historical photographs of the places about which he wrote, new colour photographs of the incomparable Yorkshire landscape, and a multitude of line drawings. Readers interested in a post-war cow-drencher, a Swaledale sheep, or the intricacies of a dry-stone wall would find it all in this book.

  Alf always regarded this as a wonderful book, beautifully produced, and a treasure trove of information for every James Herriot fan. ‘Just look at this book!’ he said shortly after he received his first copy. ‘This will make a terrific gift. I’m sure it will sell well!’

  I refrained from giving my opinion this time. He was right; it was another best-seller – one with which my father was particularly proud to be associated.

  The final years of the 1970s and the earliest ones of the 1980s marked the zenith of the James Herriot success story. They were golden years during which everything he did resulted in astounding success. He had written eight worldwide best-selling books, the television series had projected his name into the living-rooms of millions of households and
he had, by that time, attained complete financial security. For a man who had started with virtually nothing, it was a staggering achievement.

  However, with the welfare of his family and friends meaning a great deal more to him than material success, inevitably there were one or two unhappy events, the effects of which would, for a time, outweigh his feelings of intense satisfaction over his literary achievements.

  As a true animal lover, the death of his noisy but lovable little dog, Hector, was a shattering experience. At the age of fourteen, Hector was having difficulty eating. Suspecting a cancerous condition of the oesophagus, Alf took him to Denton Pette for a second opinion, where his worst fears were realised. Denton had no alternative but to say it would be kindest to put him to sleep. Alf, totally desolated, staggered from Denton’s surgery before climbing into his car for the long, quiet journey home. Denton, observing his friend’s obvious distress, suggested that Hector be buried in his own garden – an offer to which the distraught Alf readily agreed. The little dog, to this day, lies in Eve Pette’s garden in the village of Aldborough St John.

  One of the most difficult tasks confronting the veterinary surgeon is that of having to end the life of a dearly loved pet; it can be a traumatic experience for both owner and veterinary surgeon. This was the first time that Alf had had to make the decision to end the life of one of his own animals; having found himself in the unenviable position of so many of his clients for whom he had had to perform this delicate service, it gave him an even greater understanding of their feelings.

  Hector’s death was one of the most emotionally draining experiences of Alf’s life, but the passing of his little companion did not mean that he was without a dog; he had Dan, a black Labrador, who was originally my dog. In 1967, when I returned to work in Thirsk from my first job in Staffordshire, I brought Dan with me, and he and Hector took to one another straightaway. They soon became inseparable, riding everywhere together in my father’s car.

  Like Hector, Dan became a much-photographed member of the canine race. He appeared in many magazines and newspapers when the name of James Herriot was becoming well known, and is the dog staring up expectantly at Alf on the cover of James Herriot’s Yorkshire. This was a typical pose for Dan; his whole life was one of chasing or carrying sticks and the photograph on the cover shows him staring intently at one held in Alf’s hand. His car was constantly littered with an assortment of Dan’s sticks and the big, black dog covered endless miles alongside Alf, always with a stick in his mouth.

  He was very different in character from Hector, maintaining a dignified silence in the passenger seat of the car, as he surveyed the scene around him with noble indifference. There was one occasion, however, when Dan revealed a deeper side to his character.

  A journalist from the Far East had come to interview Alf for a magazine article. They had driven around the countryside with Dan in the back seat, before stopping at a pub for lunch. On their return to the car, they were shocked to discover that Dan had torn into pieces the notes the journalist had left on the car seat. This was completely out of character – the only time in his entire life that he had shown any destructive tendencies. Did the big dog know that in parts of the Far East, people ate dogs? And was this his way of lodging his protest? Never again would Dan display such behaviour.

  Dan’s companionship was a great comfort following Hector’s death, but it would be less than four years before Alf had to face, again, the distress of losing a dog. One day in 1981, after weeks of agonising over such a difficult decision, he asked me to put Dan to sleep. With the old dog having been weakening for some time with advanced arthritis of the hips, Alf had tried everything to help him, but his time had come. Dan lies buried in the field behind my father’s house.

  Many argue that, once having lost a pet, it is impossible to find another to take its place. Alf, who wasted no time in acquiring another pet, thought differently. Many dogs occupied different stages of his life; every one had its own distinctive personality and each one left its own particular memories.

  It was during the decade following the mid 1970s that James Herriot’s massive contribution, not only to the image of the veterinary profession, but to the feeling of well-being within the community as a whole, was fully recognised. With his writing having brought pleasure to millions, honours began to be showered upon him. It is well-nigh impossible to enumerate every recognition of respect that was bestowed on Alf Wight, but some of them were particularly special.

  It was a proud moment for all the family when we saw the New Year’s honours list in the newspaper on 30 December 1978. We had known in advance that my father was to receive the Order of the British Empire in recognition of his services to literature, but to see it in print was particularly thrilling.

  It was an unforgettable experience when Alfred Wight received his honour from the Prince of Wales at the ceremony in Buckingham Palace at the end of the following February. As I looked at him, I cast my mind back almost twenty years to the time he began writing stories simply because it was something he had always wanted to do. Who would have thought that those unpretentious but charming accounts of life so long ago in far-off Yorkshire would have led to James Alfred Wight shaking hands with the Prince of Wales?

  It was, also, a memorable evening the night before. Courtesy of Pan Books, a splendid party had been arranged for us – and for those with whom my father was connected in the world of publishing. As we quaffed never-ending glasses of champagne that helped to forge effortless friendships with total strangers, I remember thinking what a wonderful life it was, being the son of such a famous man.

  True to his character, he talked very little of this honour, proud though he was to receive it. One day, many years later, after writing another colossal cheque to the Inland Revenue, he said to us, ‘I think I know the reason why I received the OBE. By remaining in this country and paying so much tax, I must have been largely responsible for the continuing solvency of Her Majesty’s Government!’

  He was, however, to receive some compensation. An elegant envelope arrived one morning in October 1979. An equally impressive piece of paper within, from Buckingham Palace, said that Her Majesty the Queen requested the honour of the company of Alfred Wight for lunch. I remember goggling at the invitation while he simply said, ‘I don’t think I can decline this one, do you?’

  The family, understandably, was intrigued to hear all about it and bombarded him with questions on his return from the Palace.

  I asked him if he had sat next to her.

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘They stuck some minor individual between myself and the Queen.’

  ‘Who was that?’ I asked.

  He smiled gently. ‘The Governor of the Bank of England.’

  As he lunched in the magnificent dining-room, a footman at attention behind every chair, his memory flickered back almost fifty years to the penniless young vet, seated in his tiny car in the Yorkshire Dales, chewing at his cheese sandwiches.

  On this occasion there was no clear water from the moorland streams to complement his meagre lunch; instead, he drank a number of the finest wines. He made sure that he did not consume too much, which was a wise decision since, eventually, he was summoned to a private audience with the Queen. He found her to be a most approachable and delightful person with a sharp sense of humour and an infectious laugh. My father told us that she had said that his books were some of the few that had made her ‘laugh out loud’.

  It is understandable that she would have enjoyed the books of James Herriot. Not only would the humour have appealed to her but she is, of course, such a genuine animal lover.

  On his departure from the Palace, he observed the other guests stepping into a succession of chauffeur-driven limousines. He was about to hail a taxi when one of these prestigious vehicles glided up to offer him a lift. It was none other than that ‘minor individual’, who was in fact Sir Robert Clark, chairman of Hill Samuel and Co. He was a most likeable man who provided my father with the perfect
conclusion to a memorable day.

  The following evening, I was having a drink with my father and two of his farming friends, Billy Bell and Gordon Bainbridge, in the Three Tuns Hotel in Thirsk. Many subjects were discussed but not once did he mention his day out at Buckingham Palace. James Herriot the author was, once again, Alf Wight the vet.

  On another occasion, in June 1983, he was again in the company of royalty. He and Joan were invited to a private dinner given by Dick and Mary Francis in honour of the Queen Mother. Dick Francis, author of many best-selling books about the world of horse racing, was one of the famous people Alf got to know well and he was probably one of his favourites – a modest and charming man with whom he kept in touch throughout their almost parallel climb up the ladder of fame. Both men were published by Michael Joseph and Pan; both had Anthea Joseph and then Jenny Dereham as editor.

  In July 1979, he received an Honorary Doctorate of Literature from Heriot-Watt University in Edinburgh. On his return from the ceremony, he seemed almost stunned to have received it. ‘I felt a little out of place,’ he told us, ‘among so many intellectual giants. Me, the simple little country vet!’ A photograph of the ceremony shows that characteristically vague and bemused expression on his face.