The Real James Herriot

by Jim Wight

  ‘I think that would be a splendid place,’ I had replied.

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘Yes, I do!’

  I have never forgotten his spontaneous reply, ‘I’ll save you a place next to me!’

  Donald did not die at the hand of a jealous husband; his own hands were to finally end his life as he remained true to his lifelong dedication to voluntary euthanasia.

  In July, a memorial service for Donald and Audrey was held in Thirsk church, followed by refreshments at Southwoods Hall. I felt heavy-hearted as I gazed around the grounds of the fine old house where I had spent such good times but, as my eyes rested upon that grass field below the pine wood at the foot of the hill, I could not help smiling as memories of Donald flooded back. He had been one of the most engaging, as well as impossible, men I had known. The traumas that we experienced while trying to persuade him to retire when well over eighty are still fresh in my mind, and many people have said that no one but Alf could have worked with him for so long, but he did have many special qualities.

  Only weeks before my father died, I had been listening to him reminiscing about his life with Donald. I asked him how he had coped with Donald’s eccentricities over all their years together, and he paused before replying.

  ‘I don’t really know,’ he said, ‘but I can tell you this. We had a hell of a lot of laughs together and, from the first day I met him, I knew that he would never stab me in the back.’

  He became immersed in thought again before continuing with his appraisal of his unforgettable partner. His face broke into a smile. ‘Where else would I have found such a wonderful character to weave into my stories?’

  My own overriding memories of Donald are of a man who would never do anyone a wrong turn, a loyal colleague who did not speak a single disparaging word of his fellow professionals, and one with that endearing quality of total humility. He would regale us all, not with his successes, but his failures, and I remember his words, ‘If there are mistakes to be made, I have made them. Listen to me and you will learn a lot!’

  Above all, I remember a man forever surrounded with an aura of humour and laughter, and whenever I think of him, I am smiling – just as my father did throughout his many years spent enriched by the company of one of the most colourful and entertaining men he had ever known.

  Although my father’s quiet and unassuming funeral was something that he himself would have wished for, we realised that many others, besides his own family, would want the opportunity to pay their final respects. With these thoughts foremost in our minds, the memorial service for James Alfred Wight was planned during the summer of 1995 and, on 20 October, eight months after his death, the service was held in the magnificent setting of York Minster. This occasion was a memorable one, not only for the moving service and the glorious music, but for the humour rather than the sadness that pervaded the Minster that day. It was truly a celebration of a life that had meant so much to so many.

  Chris Timothy and Robert Hardy both gave virtuoso performances reading extracts from James Herriot and P. G. Wodehouse. I gave an address, Rosie’s daughter, Emma, gave a reading, and Alex Taylor delivered a moving tribute to his oldest friend. My daughter, Zoe, played the trumpet during the ceremony, as part of the St Peter’s School brass group, part of which included a fanfare on the theme music from ‘All Creatures Great and Small’, especially composed by the St Peter’s School Music Master, Andrew Wright.

  Two thousand three hundred people attended the service. There were representatives from the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons, the British Veterinary Association and many other professional bodies. His associates from the publishing world were represented, as well as countless friends, clients of the practice, and former assistants who had learned so much from him in those first uncertain steps in their careers.

  Fans of his books came from all over the country, from Scotland to the south coast of England – many to honour a man who, simply through his writing, was someone they felt they really knew. My father had remained astonished by his success until the very end of his life and I, too, found the occasion at the Minster almost too much to grasp. I felt privileged to have had a father who had achieved so much from modest beginnings – one to whom so many people had poured into York Minster to pay their respects.

  No one, of course, felt the death of my father more keenly than my mother. She had not only lost a husband whom she had loved dearly, but one with whom she had shared a happy and fulfilling life. The quiet house after his death was something that she – as with so many other widowed people – had to learn to live with. Fortunately, in Bodie, the Border Terrier, she still had someone to look after, but this ceased when I put Bodie to sleep eighteen months after my father’s death.

  My mother, however, is not alone. My father was almost never without a dog, but the only animal that still stalks around his house is a tortoiseshell cat called Cheeky. Around the time I had the sad task of putting Bodie to sleep, this gentle little creature arrived on the doorstep completely uninvited. I have always regarded this as a remarkably providential incident and my mother has proved to be every bit as soft with her animals as her husband had been.

  This fortunate cat, as well as being fed as well as Alf Wight had been, has a centrally-heated porch in which to sleep. The man who installed it could not quite believe what he was doing. ‘I’ve been asked to do some funny things in my time,’ he said to me, ‘but central heating … for a cat?’

  In March 1996, the veterinary practice of Sinclair and Wight moved from 23 Kirkgate to new premises on the outskirts of Thirsk. The old house may have had a certain charm but with its long winding corridors, lack of space and inadequate parking facilities, it had become a liability. We, literally, had to move to survive.

  The famous ivy-covered front with its red door, however, has been preserved as a memorial to James Herriot. In 1996, the local authority, Hambleton District Council, purchased the premises and have converted it into a visitor centre under the title of ‘The World of James Herriot’. Skeldale House will live on for many years to come and it is a fitting tribute by the people of North Yorkshire to one of its most distinguished adopted sons.

  I have been asked many times whether my father would have approved of such a massive venture being undertaken in his name – especially as he always tended to shun publicity. He was always grateful for the low-key approach to his success by the local people, but they have revealed their true feelings for him in their overwhelming support for the project. I know that he would have been greatly moved by this gesture of appreciation and respect.

  The innumerable tributes paid to Alfred Wight since his death reveal that respect and affection in which he was held by so many throughout the world.

  One, from the Chicago Tribune – the newspaper that was so influential in igniting the name of James Herriot across the United States of America in 1973 – echoed the feelings of so many people. Mary Ann Grossman wrote:

  People often ask me about my favourite author, probably expecting me to wax eloquent about Proust or Shakespeare, so I used to be a little embarrassed to honestly reply, ‘James Herriot’. But not any more. After spending a wonderful weekend re-reading Herriot’s books, I realized that his writing has everything; finely-drawn and colorful characters, empathy for humans and animals, a good story set in a gentler time, humor, respect for uneducated but hardworking people and an appreciation of the land.

  But there’s something else in Herriot’s writing that I can’t quite articulate, a glow of decency that makes people want to be better humans. I guess we’d call it spirituality these days, this profound belief of Herriot’s that humans are linked to all animals, whether they be calves he helped birth or pampered pets like Tricki Woo, Mrs Pumphrey’s lovable but overfed Pekingese.

  Alf’s own profession did not forget the massive contribution that his writing had made in enhancing the image of the veterinary surgeon. His very first veterinary assistant, John Crooks, wrote his o
bituary in the Veterinary Record in March 1995:

  James Alfred Wight, under his pen name James Herriot, was without doubt the world’s best known and best loved veterinary surgeon. Others better qualified than I, will, no doubt, write of his literary prowess and of his immense contribution to the veterinary profession, as shown by the honours showered on him throughout the world. These accolades he accepted with great pleasure yet total humility.

  The last time we met, only a few months before his death, he expressed genuine, slightly bemused astonishment at his phenomenal literary success. I treasure our last conversation which was all of veterinary matters, of difficult cases and hilarious situations. Although he qualified in the pre-antibiotic era, Alf quickly adapted to new medicines, new anaesthetics, new surgical techniques and laboratory procedures. When I joined the practice in 1951 I found it totally up to date. He had small, sensitive hands and was especially skilled in obstetrical work. Although not long in the arm, it was amazing with what facility he dealt with difficult calvings in the large shorthorn cows common in the 1950s. One farmer said to me, ‘Aye, ’e got us a grand live calf – but ’e near ’ad to climb in to get it out!’ He handled animals with gentleness and firmness. He loved his work.

  The world will remember a brilliant and modest writer who made his profession famous. Those of us who had the privilege of working with him, and those who had the privilege of having their animals cared for by him, will remember him for what he most aspired to be – a highly competent and caring veterinary surgeon.

  I know that my father would have approved of these words. Throughout his years of literary fame, he persistently regarded himself as primarily a veterinary surgeon, but the praise heaped upon him was always in reference to his achievements as a writer. John’s appreciation of his friend as a vet – a view shared by many others – would have meant a great deal to him.

  Alf Wight – and his alter ego, James Herriot – was, indeed, loved by many, but it is important to remember that he was only one of countless veterinarians the world over who are every bit as caring and compassionate as he was. He had, however, that extra quality – the gift of the born raconteur which resulted in his becoming the best ambassador the veterinary profession could have ever hoped for. It was through his writing that he displayed to the world the veterinary surgeons’ dedication and concern for their patients – in effect, humanising his profession in a world becoming increasingly motivated purely by profit and efficiency. As a veterinary surgeon, he was just one of many others who shared his fine qualities.

  As a writer, however, he stood alone. The warmth and affection that he felt for others, animal and human, flowed from his pen as though writing were an outlet for the emotions that he felt deeply but could never fully unleash. It is within the pages of James Herriot’s books that the real character of Alfred Wight is to be found.

  It could be argued that being the son of such a man could have posed serious problems in trying to live up to his example – but it has not. Alfred Wight never cast a shadow over his family. Far from being in awe of his massive success, his modest approach to it ensured that I have felt nothing but pride in the achievements of a man whom I considered simply as a great friend and father rather than a world-famous personality.

  If my father had a gravestone, I would inscribe upon it the advice that we, as his younger colleagues, heard from him time and again: ‘It’s not what you do, it’s the way that you do it.’

  I am unable to inscribe this lasting tribute to him as he has no headstone; instead, his ashes are scattered among the moorland grass at the top of the Whitestone Cliffs from where a huge area of his beloved North Yorkshire can be seen. Rosie suggested this spot and it is entirely fitting for his final resting place. I have stood here for many an hour, looking at the places where my father played out a great slice of his life. His practice, where he toiled manfully among all creatures great and small, is stretched out below, as far as the distant Pennines which first captivated him in those far-off days in 1940. Thirsk, where he brought up his family, and Thirlby, his home for the last eighteen years of his life, are clearly visible but, above all, it is a fresh and clean part of Yorkshire with a breath of the wildness and freedom that was so close to his heart.

  My father described this stretch of Yorkshire as having the ‘finest view in England’; for a man with such feeling for the beauty of the country around him, there could be no better place to lie.

  I return to that spot many times when walking my dog, and only last week I sat there with her – just as my father had done countless times with his dogs. As I gazed out at the patchwork of fields stretched below, I had feelings of sadness and nostalgia.

  The world that James Herriot wrote about has all but disappeared and the countless family farms which James, Siegfried and Tristan visited in their rattly little cars are now few in number. Almost all of the fascinating old Yorkshire farmers that James Herriot immortalised are now dead and gone, together with the hard-working bands of farm men with whom he spent many happy hours.

  Large cultivated fields, splashed with the colour of modern buildings, have partly taken the place of the greens and browns of hedges and old farmsteads but, apart from this, the picture of ‘Herriot Country’ laid out before me was not very different from the one I knew as a boy. As well as sadness, however, I had feelings of gratitude; how many men can claim to have had a father who left such great memories that could be shared with so many?

  My memories that day, however, were not of James Herriot the author, but of Alfred Wight, the father. Following his death, one of his fans sent me the famous prayer by Henry Scott Holland, Canon of St Paul’s Cathedral (1847–1918). The words are moving ones and bring great comfort to those who grieve at the loss of a loved one. The first and final sentences of the prayer seemed to have especial significance at that time:

  ‘Death is nothing at all. I have only slipped away into the next room … Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner. All is well.’

  As I sat that day with the ‘finest view in England’ stretched before me, I did wonder whether I would ever see my father again. I would give a great deal to be able to do so. I have so much to say to him and countless questions to ask. I do not know and I can only hope.

  There is, however, one thing of which I am certain. James Herriot, the unassuming veterinary surgeon who enthralled millions, was no fictional character. There was a man I knew, who possessed all the virtues of the famous veterinarian – and more. A totally honest man whose fine sense of humour and air of goodwill towards others ensured that he was respected by all who knew him. A man on whom, after his death, a Yorkshire farmer delivered his final verdict: ‘Aye, he were a right decent feller.’ That man was James Alfred Wight.

  1. Hannah Bell

  2. James Henry Wight

  3. The formal family photograph following the wedding of Hannah and James Wight, July 1915. The two young men in uniform in the front row are, left, Alfred Wight, after whom Alf was named and, right, Stan Bell, Hannah’s brother; between them are Pop’s two sisters, Jennie and Ella. Bob and Matt Wight are on either end of the back row; below Bob is Auntie Jinny and her husband, George Wilkins

  4. A typical tenement building in Yoker where Alf spent the early years of his life

  5. Pop (at the piano), with some of the members of the Glasgow Society of Musicians

  6. Alf, on right, with young friend Lawrence Tyreman, in Sunderland

  7. Jim and Hannah Wight, with young Alfie

  8. Alf on holiday with his parents at Inverbeg by Loch Lomond: one hopes they did not have far to walk

  ON HOLIDAY NEAR APPLEBY

  9. Alf with Jack Dinsdale

  10. Alf between Auntie Jinny and his mother and, behind, George, Nan and Stan Wilkins

  11. Several holidaying families gathered together near High Force

  ALF’S EARLY LOVE FOR ANIMALS – AND DOGS IN PARTIC
ULAR

  12. With Don as a young puppy

  13. Alf with Stan Wilkins and hairy friend

  14. Alf while he was at Hillhead School

  15. Ready to turn out for the Glasgow Veterinary College football team

  16. The Glasgow Veterinary College football team. Alf is in the centre row on the left with Bob Smith in fifth position and Eddie Straiton third from right. Aubrey Melville is in the front row, on the far left, predictably with a girl next to him

  HOLIDAYS WERE ALWAYS VARIED

  17. With his mother in Llandudno, c. 1937

  18. Alf and Peter Shaw beside Loch Ness, their bare legs fair game for the midges

  19. The Boys’ Brigade relaxing on the beach at North Berwick. From left to right: Alf, Eddie Hutchinson, Pete Shaw and Alex Taylor

  20. Alf with Donald Sinclair and Eric Parker, in the garden at 23 Kirkgate

  21. Market day in Thirsk, around the time Alf arrived in Yorkshire

  ALF AT WORK

  22. In the vegetable garden at 23 Kirkgate

  23. TB-testing in the Yorkshire Dales

  24. Alf, in RAF uniform, with his baby son

  25. Joan on the beach at Llandudno, 1951 with Danny

  26. Pop and Alf with Rosie and Jimmy in the garden at 23 Kirkgate

  27. With his mother in the Campsie Fells

  28. Alf with Jimmy and Rosie, Alex Taylor with Lynne

  29. Picnic time with Pop and Granny Wight