The Real James Herriot (2 page)

‘You guys veterinarians?' he asked.

‘How do you know?' I replied.

‘It's on the anorak. You're from England, yeah?'

‘Yes, we are.'

‘What part of England are you guys from?'

‘Yorkshire,' I replied, thinking that, perhaps, he had never heard of the place.

He hesitated before speaking again. ‘Say! Maybe you knew that “Doc Herriot” who wrote those books? He was from Yorkshire.'

The conversation was beginning to assume a familiar ring – one I had heard many times before. I said, ‘Yes, I knew him.'

‘You knew him? You knew him well?' J.D. was impressed.

‘Yes,' I continued, ‘I knew him pretty well really.'

‘Wow! What sort of a guy was he? He sure wrote terrific books! Did you get to speak to him?'

‘Yes, actually, I did.' I felt I was getting into deep water and it was time to come clean. ‘As a matter of fact … he was my dad.'

There was a pause while J.D. took this on board. He then whistled softly. ‘You don't say! Boy, wait till I tell my wife! I'm telling you, she is one real fan of your dad's!'

After the ride, Gill and I were introduced to the other dog-team leaders, all of whom seemed to be well acquainted with my father's work. It was obvious that James Herriot's name and fame had thoroughly penetrated into this land of ice and snow, so far from my home in Yorkshire. I began to wonder whether there was anywhere in the United States that the name of James Herriot was not familiar.

The rest of our stay served only to confirm the high esteem in which he was held in that country, with countless numbers of students at the veterinary convention telling me that reading his books had given them the inspiration to take up veterinary medicine for a career. By the time we returned to England, I had almost made up my mind to attempt my father's biography.

Three weeks later, unable to procrastinate any longer, I boarded the train for London to meet with Jacqueline Korn. We had been travelling south for only a short time and I was staring out at the Yorkshire landscape, my mind wrestling with the impending decision, when the loudspeaker system came on.

‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is your conductor, Don Sinclair, speaking. You are travelling on the Newcastle to London King's Cross train, calling at …'

Don Sinclair?! The real name of my father's life-long partner, better known to the millions of James Herriot fans as ‘Siegfried Farnon', and the pivotal character running throughout his books. I am a sceptic by nature but that extraordinary, almost supernatural episode swayed my decision to accept the challenge of writing the story of my father's life. It was as though something was telling me to go ahead.

The research for this book has been an enjoyable and exciting, as well as an emotional undertaking, but I do not know whether my father would have shared my enthusiasm. He was a very modest and private man – one who insulated his personal life from the rest of the world – and I can only hope that he would have approved.

Some months before his death, I was talking to him at his home in the small village of Thirlby, only one and a half miles from my own. It was a great comfort to him in his twilight years to have his children living nearby. My sister, Rosie, actually lived next door to him and the two of us were regular visitors to his house. Through our sharing of many interests with him, there was always plenty to talk about.

On that particular day, the subject of a book about his life was raised. ‘I am not in favour of anyone writing my biography,' he said. ‘Biographies, although I enjoy reading them myself, often do not tell the true story. Facts become distorted, with people close to the family being hurt in the process.'

‘But I'm sure that many people would love to read the story of your life,' I replied. ‘Your books have captured the imagination of millions. A biography would be a fitting memorial to your achievements.'

He moved uneasily in his chair. The crippling pain of the prostate cancer that he had endured stoically for many months was exacting a severe toll. ‘Someone has already contacted your mother with a view to writing my biography and I have said “no”.'

‘They'll probably write it, anyway,' I countered. ‘Yours is a fascinating success story.'

‘That may be so, Jim,' he continued, ‘and there is not much that I can do about that.' He paused for a moment to gaze out of the window and across the garden to the towering Whitestone Cliffs that had been a backdrop to his life for so many years. ‘This much I can tell you,' he said. ‘If anyone were to write my biography, you should. I don't really want anyone to write it but if you did, I know that you would tell the truth.'

I could see by the distant look in his eyes that he did not wish to discuss the matter further. We went on to talk about subjects of far greater importance to him – such as how the veterinary practice was shaping up or the fortunes of Sunderland Football Club.

One of the most intriguing aspects of the character of James Alfred Wight was that his transition from a relatively unknown country veterinary surgeon into a world-famous author did not change him at all. He steadfastly refused, throughout his years of literary fame, to allow his celebrity status to take over his life, and this was reflected in the admiration and respect felt for him among the local community. As I sat with him that day, I thought to myself, ‘What a unique man!' He did not seek praise or flattery. He remained the same, unassuming, down-to-earth father whose company I had enjoyed for so many years.

Time has proved me to be correct in my assumption that books, as well as many articles, would appear following his death. There are many myths and misconceptions surrounding my father's life and these have given me the extra incentive to reveal the truth behind the real James Herriot. One of the most controversial aspects of my father's writing is the veracity, or otherwise, of his stories. Some believe there to be no factual basis behind many of them and he has even been described as a ‘writer of fiction'. These statements are very misleading. Ninety per cent of my father's stories are, as he always maintained, based upon fact. Not only did I know the great majority of the characters he described but I heard most of the stories verbally long before they were put into print; in fact, a proportion of them originated from my own experiences. It is true that he deliberately manipulated events and dates
to suit his stories but the theme of almost every one is based upon real-life incidents and personalities who really existed. It has been argued that the factual basis of the Herriot stories is unimportant, that they are enjoyed regardless of the fact that they may be works of pure fiction. Does it really matter? I think that it matters a great deal. The ring of authenticity adds a new dimension to the tales and I feel certain that a large proportion of James Herriot's huge following would be very upset to discover that the stories owed little in their origins to factual events. They need not worry.

In conveying to the reader the truth about the real James Herriot, I consider myself to be the best qualified to do so. My father was, first and foremost, a family man who, even during the busiest periods of his life, always found time to spend with his children, with the result that he was a father whom we got to know very well. But it was not only my father, Alfred Wight, whom I knew so well; I spent many hours with his partner – and my godfather – the mercurial, charming, impossible Donald Sinclair. As a veterinary surgeon myself, I worked with both men in the practice of Sinclair and Wight in Thirsk for more than twenty unforgettable years, during which time I was able to observe the true relationship between the two men. There is no one better qualified than myself to tell the story of life in James Herriot's practice as it really was.

During my early years in Thirsk, I experienced the veterinary surgeon's life that James Herriot described, with the greater part of my time spent visiting small family farms that have, sadly, now largely disappeared. It was among these small farming communities, where the day's toil began in the early hours and lasted until dark (and often beyond), that my father met the incomparable characters who were to figure so vividly in his books. I had a taste of that life, not only as a veterinary surgeon, but many years earlier as a small but very proud ‘assistant', riding around in my father's car as he drove from farm to farm. From the days when I had barely learned to walk, I watched Alfred Wight the veterinary surgeon, and would continue to do so for more than forty years.

During his years of fame, my father received mountains of fan mail from all over the world. His stories entranced so many of his readers that they felt compelled to write and tell him how much his books meant to them. Many of the letters delivered to his door by the overworked postmen carried a similar theme: his fans sought the real
truth behind the stories. They wanted to get to know the real man but, above all, they wanted to join James Herriot in a world that seemed so far removed from their own modern, high-pressure existence. In writing this book, I hope I have answered them.

Much of the material that I needed to fill the following pages, I have in my head but, after beginning, I discovered a mass of extra information. Having asked my mother for permission to go through her house on a fact-finding mission, I found more than I could have hoped for. I had not realised that my parents had kept so much in the way of papers, letters and newspaper cuttings – some of it going back to before the Second World War. For much of this, I have to thank my mother. My father, too, retained copious amounts of paper but making sense of his ‘filing system' was difficult. He was never the most organised of men and I spent many hours going over hundreds of scraps of crumpled paper – but it was time well spent.

Another person I have to thank for providing me with invaluable information is my father's mother, dear old Granny Wight. I spent my student days in Glasgow lodging with my grandmother but, in all of my five years there, I had no idea that her house at 694 Anniesland Road contained such a rich store of archive material. She was one of life's hoarders; she threw nothing away. In the summer of 1981, the years had finally established their mark upon this astonishingly independent and energetic lady. Having reached the age of eighty-nine, with her mind (and body) beginning to wander, it was imperative that she be moved closer to her family in Yorkshire. Two or three weeks following her move into a nursing home in Harrogate, I hired a van to travel to Glasgow and collect her belongings. There was a vast amount, including amongst it the contents of the ‘glory hole'. This was a tiny room into which Granny Wight had stuffed just about everything she hadn't thrown away. The contents of that little room were transferred to my father's attic in Thirlby and lay there, forgotten, for more than sixteen years until I unearthed it all in 1997. It has provided a wealth of information.

Alf Wight was always a prodigious letter writer and wrote to his parents regularly, right up until the 1980s. His mother had preserved all of these letters, many of which make fascinating reading. Some of them which date back to a time when he was struggling emotionally as well as financially, reveal his feelings during a difficult and exacting period of his life. The dusty, untidy heap of letters from that neglected
old den in Glasgow has given me a peep into a part of my father's life that had previously been denied to me. Many people have helped with the research for this book but no one contributed more than the old lady who had so assiduously preserved everything connected with the son who meant so much to her.

Everyone has revelations at some time or other in their lives and I have had a whole bundle of them since I decided to write this biography. Foremost is the realisation that I did not really appreciate my father's work until well after his death. In my defence, this is not surprising as he spoke so little about his literary achievements. I remember in the mid 1970s when his books were hogging the number one spot in the
New York Times
best-seller lists, he would occasionally say, ‘I'm in my fifteenth week at the top of the best-sellers in America, isn't that amazing?' ‘Great, Dad!' I would reply and the subject would be dropped. That was fine by him; he was really far more interested in talking about other things.

The local people, including the farming community, said very little about their local ‘vitinry's' fame but that is not to say they were unaware of it. My father liked it that way and, indeed, he once said to me that he would be surprised if more than a handful of his farming friends had read his books. He may have been wrong.

One day he was operating on a cow and the long, laborious task of suturing the abdominal wound was under way. Such operations on the bovine race are often extremely interesting, especially Caesarean sections where the delivery of a calf ‘through the side door' is one of the most satisfying experiences for the country practitioner. Closing up the wound is a tedious business, however, and it is at such times as these that a bit of conversation between farmer and vet can break the monotony.

On this particular occasion, the farmer suddenly said to him, ‘Ah've read one o' yer books, Mr Wight.'

This came as a real shock to my father who never expected the local people to show interest in his work, especially busy farmers. He hardly dared to ask the next question. ‘What did you think of it? Did you enjoy it?'

The farmer replied slowly, ‘Aye … why … it's all about nowt!'

This was a veiled compliment. The book had been read and enjoyed, despite describing a way of life only too familiar to the reader.

I knew my father as well as anyone but I, too, was one of the many who made little fuss of his achievements. He would have made light of
this but now, some four years after his death, I realise that I underestimated him. His qualities as a friend, father and professional colleague, I have always appreciated; it was his qualities as an author that I did not. That is, until now. Although he and I were always the closest of friends, he was acutely aware of my shortcomings. Organisation was never one of my strong points. ‘You're just like me, Jim. You couldn't run a winkle stall!' was a cry I heard only too often, and it was with such encouraging thoughts that I embarked upon this biography.