The Real James Herriot (22 page)

‘Alf, where's Danny?' Joan Wight stared at her husband, a ring of tension in her voice.

‘Danny? Oh my God! I've left him at Aysgarth Falls!'

Alf, who had just returned from another day's TB Testing in the Dales, was looking forward to relaxing at home but within seconds he was back in his car and screaming through the darkness to Aysgarth, some twenty-five lonely miles away. He had had so much on his mind, he had completely forgotten about his little companion; he just hoped that he would be able to find him.

Throughout the years of his literary fame, Alf, as James Herriot, was repeatedly asked, ‘What is your favourite animal?' He invariably gave the same answer, ‘Most definitely the dog.'

Dogs figured prominently throughout his life. From his earliest days in practice, a variety of four-legged hairy friends accompanied him on his daily rounds. His books abound with so many stories about dogs that, in 1986,
James Herriot's Dog Stories
was published, an anthology taken from his other books.

During his busy days in veterinary practice, he would always find some time to stop the car and walk his dogs. This pastime, strolling amongst the hills and dales with his favourite animals by his side, provided shafts of delight and relaxation in his demanding days. No matter how busy he was, he always found time for his dogs.

For the first year in practice he was without a dog, but this was soon to change. Joan brought more to the marriage than her half-share of a pig. She owned a dog who was to become the first of a line of canine companions that was to ride thousands of miles with her husband, and walk hundreds more. It was this small, white creature, of mystifying parentage, that he drove frantically up into the Yorkshire Dales to find on that dark night about fifty years ago.

Danny was a compact bundle of muscle and hair who had been presented to Joan by one of her boyfriends. His uncertain origins meant that no one really knew to what breeds of dog he belonged; we always thought of him as mainly West Highland White Terrier
but the rich blood of many obscure breeds coursed through his veins.

Danny, whose character radiated self-assurance, was totally devoted to my father. His whole existence was geared to accompanying him everywhere he went; to leave him at home was the ultimate insult. On these rare occasions he sulked very effectively; a small nose peeping from under the bed, exuding waves of hurt and indignation, never failed to consume my father with guilt.

At 23 Kirkgate, the cars were garaged at the bottom of the long garden and Alf would have to walk the length of it when called out at night. He never had to call Danny from his bed; he knew that the small bristly form would be already trotting by his side. Arriving at the dark garage, he would automatically hold the car door open for a second and the little dog would flit silently inside. Alf was never alone during those countless night calls of his early career.

Alf was mortified as now he hurtled along the road to Aysgarth Falls to retrieve his dog; how could he have done such a thing to his faithful ally? He need not have worried. As his car drove onto the bridge over the river, the headlights picked out a small white creature sitting patiently at the roadside; Danny had seemingly not moved since my father had left him there hours previously. After jumping into the car, he sat haughtily on the seat all the way back to Thirsk; to his ordered little mind, this was simply a puzzling deviation from the daily routine.

Danny did not look to be a thin dog; in fact, he appeared to be rather well-rounded. His dense mass of white hair, however, belied the sinewy body beneath. On the few occasions that he was bathed, we were horrified to observe the skeletal figure that emerged from the tub before he disgustedly disappeared up the garden to dry himself off.

In those days it was accepted that dogs roamed freely, and Danny was familiar with every dark alleyway of Thirsk, which resulted in his becoming a veteran of many fights. Here, his thick coat of hair was a great advantage. He never seemed to instigate a fight – he was always being picked upon by large dogs – but he knew how to look after himself. To observe Danny in action was a lesson in tactics. His assailant often appeared to be having the better of the affray, but was managing only to grab huge chunks of hair while his little opponent, having dived underneath the bigger dog, was wreaking havoc from below. These short, frantic fights usually ended with the larger dog limping away, bleeding, while little Danny, covered with saliva, would casually shake himself before trotting off to carry on with his day.

He was not only an expert pugilist, he was also an accomplished ratter, a sport he indulged in gleefully in the yard at the bottom of the garden. My father used to keep battery hens in an old stable which was plagued by rats. They climbed up into the batteries and ran among the hens, eating all the feed – something my father could ill afford to waste. He, Danny and I would work as a team. I would shine a torch while my father blocked off the rat holes around the floor of the stable to prevent their escape, following which, with the aid of a long stick, he would poke at the rats among the battery cages.

Rats would shoot out of the batteries onto the floor where the quivering little dog was waiting; one quick bite was all that he needed. I have a clear childhood memory of Danny, his eager face shining in the torchlight, as he waited for his next victim.

On our visits to Glasgow, where this confident little dog accompanied us on all our holidays, my memories are of the small figure trotting away on his own along the streets surrounding my grandparents' house. The alien city seemed to hold no fears for him.

His wiry little frame was sustained by a Spartan diet. He was never a greedy dog, sniffing disdainfully at succulent plates of meat that other dogs would demolish in seconds, but there was one thing that he loved – pancakes, sugar and milk. Joan fed him this for years and, apart from the odd gristly bone, this unusual dish maintained Danny to a ripe old age. The manufacture of dog food is now a huge industry, with special diets scientifically formulated to help dogs live healthily into old age. I do not know what the modern nutritionist would have made of his diet but it certainly suited our little friend.

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.