The Real James Herriot (24 page)

Jim Chadwick, however, had the sense to know that he had a great deal to learn. I asked him to tell me about his time in practice at Thirsk.

‘I learned more in six months with Alf Wight and Donald Sinclair than I did in five years at university. The practice of Sinclair and Wight was a model which, in later life, I have always sought to achieve. I have had two people that I have tried to emulate. One is J. G. Wright, Dean of the Faculty of Liverpool Veterinary School, the other is Alf Wight.'

Jim wrote about one incident which smacks of life in Skeldale House with the incomparable Siegfried.

‘I never saw Alf Wight put out but Donald Sinclair had his moods. I can remember the dressing down I received when I dropped a glass syringe which, of course, broke. Imagine my delight when a few days later Mr Sinclair did the same thing. I did not think it politic to comment though I did see the twinkle in Alf's eye.'

With the TB Testing work increasing, the work load became such that another assistant was appointed – Ken Hibbitt from Bristol, who had seen practice with Alf and Donald as a student. He arrived in November 1954 and he and Jim Chadwick became great friends. His arrival meant that Alf could now dispense with night work completely – an almost incomprehensible luxury. The early 1950s were some of the happiest days of his life. As well as having the pleasure of spending time with his family, he was working with men he liked, while doing a job he found fascinating and rewarding.

Ken also wrote to me about his time working in Thirsk.

‘Alf was a great person to see practice with and he was equally good with the new graduate starting a professional career. He did not restrict his young colleagues solely to TB Testing and dehorning and other routine jobs but gave them an opportunity to visit the more interesting cases without interference. On the other hand, he was always available for discussion and pleased to offer advice. If an animal died, he was sympathetic and attempted to boost the confidence of his disappointed colleague. I well remember losing a cow suffering with fat necrosis within the first few months in Thirsk and being reassured by Alf that I could have done no more. He pointed out that he could use a small field to bury all his failures.'

Although the two young men relished their time in Thirsk, they had to work very hard. They received only one weekend off in five, with out-of-hours work extremely common. When on call, they would be almost certain to be on the road.

Alf knew that Ken would not remain in Thirsk. He had the brain of an academic with an ambition to take up a post in teaching and research. He left in February 1956 for Bristol University, where he lectured in Biochemistry, and attained a Doctorate of Philosophy in metabolic disease.

Ken's departure meant that another assistant had to be found and, in that same month, Oliver Murphy arrived. I am sure that, should his name be mentioned to the older clients of our practice, they would not remember him at all, yet he is one of the few assistants upon whom James Herriot bases a story.

Oliver, a serious-minded young man who was also bound for an academic future, stayed only four months in the practice. Although having little idea of how to handle farm stock, and becoming involved in some frightful rodeos, he was a pleasant young man and the farmers
liked him. They liked him because he was a trier; he never gave up. Alf used this to effect in his books, describing Oliver as ‘Carmody' the student – the young man who stubbornly hung on to a rope attached to a rampant beast while being towed through oceans of manure.

Alf loved to hear funny anecdotes from his colleagues, and Oliver, despite his serious attitude to life, was not without a sense of humour. He returned from a farm one day, plastered in mud after a torrid session trying to catch some wild bullocks. He had met with little success chasing his patients around a fold yard, finally hanging by his legs from a beam with a lasso in an attempt to snare an animal as it thundered past! The huge beasts were all fired up and, had Oliver succeeded in catching one, he would probably never have been seen again. After a few futile minutes hanging upside down, he got a taste of some dry Yorkshire humour.

The farmer appeared beneath him and looked up into his face. ‘Mr Wight doesn't do it like this!' he remarked, calmly lighting his pipe.

Oliver was only a transient assistant but he was in Thirsk long enough to leave a strong imprint in the mind of the future James Herriot.

Late in 1956, some dark clouds began to gather. Jim Chadwick wanted to remain in Thirsk but, as a married man with responsibilities, he needed some security. Alf liked him so much that he fervently wished he could make him a partner but, as Donald would not agree, Jim had no alternative but to leave, which he did in January 1957. I was only fourteen years old at the time but I remember how depressed my father was at losing his colleague – someone he felt he could have worked with happily for the rest of his life. He was in low spirits for many days but soon realised that life goes on, and he prepared himself for a fresh face, a new man to instruct in the ways of Sinclair and Wight.

Only days after Jim's departure, Alf stood on the platform of Thirsk railway station where he beheld Jim's successor alighting from the train. He stared disbelievingly at the tall figure with the black moustache and the dark, flashing eyes – a badger draped over his shoulder and a huge dog striding by his side. He had always known the veterinary profession to be wonderfully varied, as the old principal at the Glasgow Veterinary College, Dr Whitehouse, had promised – and this spectacle certainly confirmed it.

Brian Nettleton had arrived. Alf reckoned that the new assistant was going to be an interesting one if nothing else. He was right. Brian was to provide his employers with rich memories that would be reborn in
the guise of ‘Calum Buchanan', a character who would enthral millions of television viewers many years later.

I doubt that a single one of the older farmers in our practice has ever forgotten Brian Nettleton – ‘t' vet wi't badger'. Brian was a unique character but also a very fine veterinary surgeon, one of the finest to walk the corridors of 23 Kirkgate. He was not only a big, strong man who impressed the clients with his no-nonsense, practical approach; he was also a skilled surgeon who could perform delicate operations upon all species. He was meticulously clean and his neat wounds always healed rapidly. He had a wonderful rapport with animals, a great asset for a man in his profession. This impressed the clients, many of whom looked upon him as someone approaching a ‘Dr Doolittle' character.

He visited a herd of cows at Ampleforth one day, where he treated many of them to bring them into season. Brian, unknown to the herdsman, had erroneously calculated the dose of the drug, administering to each animal ten times the recommended amount.

The herdsman was impressed. A day or two later when speaking to Alf, he said, ‘Ah've never seen owt like it! 'E injected all them cows an' 't whole bloody lot came on. Ah reckon it were t' moustache as did it!'

There was a touch of the gypsy about Brian who seemed to be at home in the wild. I used to accompany him on early morning trips into the hills around Thirsk where we would observe a rich variety of wild animals – creatures I hardly knew existed before Brian gave me a peep into their dark and secret world.

He was one of the most popular assistants to grace the practice of Sinclair and Wight but, at times, he was also one of the most difficult. He had a personality which meant that anything approaching a routine lifestyle was alien to him; even such a basic pastime as eating was not followed regularly. On one occasion Alf observed Brian, who had eaten nothing the preceding day, demolish two whole fruit cakes, while I myself saw him consume two and a half roast ducks at one sitting. Brian's was a free spirit – one that seemed to be forever trying to break loose – and, gifted veterinarian though he was, he always seemed to be looking for something beyond just veterinary practice.

His singular approach to life was certainly not suited to the running of an organised practice. Preferring to get up very early, he asked Alf whether he could start work at six o'clock every morning and finish at three in the afternoon – a request which was not granted. He also had a habit of disappearing from the practice for long periods without
anyone knowing where he was. He infuriated Donald by cooking large quantities of foul-smelling tripe for his badgers in the flat above the surgery, while foxes running around the garden and owls flying down the corridor of 23 Kirkgate did little to improve his employer's mood!

The practice cars had a rough time under Brian's usage. Not only did he test the engines to their limits as he flew from call to call, but his badgers created havoc in the back seats which virtually ceased to exist after a week or two. He returned one day with one front wing of the car completely missing. When he saw the look of horror on Alf's face, he broke into a smile and said, ‘Oh, I'm sorry, Mr Wight. I was hoping that perhaps you wouldn't notice it!' Brian's abundance of charm meant that he always got away with it.

Despite these local difficulties, Alf was very fond of him and had mixed feelings when he eventually left in November 1958. Alf already had a highly unusual colleague in Donald Sinclair and, much as he admired Brian, the presence of two of them in the same practice had been very demanding. Nevertheless, it was a sad day for Alf when Brian left to take a job in Halifax, Nova Scotia. He had been one of the most interesting and popular veterinary surgeons to grace the practice – another unforgettable character to be imprinted forever in the mind of the future James Herriot.

Brian Nettleton may have upset Donald with his erratic lifestyle but the senior partner, in turn, tested the patience of a whole host of assistants who worked for him.

Donald was a man of unusually limited patience. His being incapable of remaining on the telephone for long, made it nigh on impossible for clients to convey their full message. Veterinary surgeons know all too well the frustration of having to listen to long monologues issuing from the earpiece. Donald had a very simple solution. Upon tiring of the conversation, which he invariably did very quickly, he would simply say, very gently, and in the politest of voices, ‘Goodbye!' This invariably resulted in the assistant's arrival at the farm without some essential equipment to do a job that Donald had failed to note during the swiftest of telephone calls. A loud ‘ear bashing' for the unfortunate young vet invariably followed.

Whilst he was always polite to the clients, he was not so courteous to members of his family. His brother, Brian, once told Alf that he had had the misfortune to telephone Donald when he was watching his favourite television programme.

Donald, as usual, had seized the telephone before it had had the chance to ring fully. The conversation had been brief.

‘206! Who's there?'

‘Brian.'

‘Dad's Army's
on!' The receiver was banged down.

Another of his habits, when in the mood, was that of taking on a huge number of calls. Despite protestations from his colleagues, he assured them that he would complete them all. He, of course, did not and the assistant on call would have to mop up Donald's remaining visits during the evening.

Donald always got away with it. He would apologise profusely, invite the young man for tea, and be totally forgiven every time. His natural charm was his saving grace.

‘You know,' Alf said once, expounding on his partner, ‘everyone is born with some quality that helps them along life's road. With Donald, it is his natural charm. No matter what he has done, you just cannot be annoyed with him for long. For as long as I have known him, he has possessed the ability to have people running around working for him. I wish that I could say the same of myself!'

One of Donald's genuinely endearing qualities, however, was his attitude to children. This phenomenally impatient man displayed a total reversal of character whenever a small child was involved. He gave plenty of time to his own two children, Alan and Janet – with whom Rosie and I played for many hours around the huge, magical Southwoods Hall – and he showed no less patience with those of others.

I remember him talking one day to a client in our office, when he was abruptly interrupted by a little girl. She had just completed a drawing of a frog and was longing to show it to someone. She chose the right man in Donald Sinclair.

He turned away from the client, stooped down towards the child and said, ‘How very interesting! Let me see.' He examined the drawing carefully while the little girl jumped up and down with delight. ‘And what do you call this little frog?' he asked gently.

‘Francis!' cried the child, jumping higher and higher.

‘Francis Frog! What a nice name!' Donald said.

There followed an excited account about her frog while Donald listened intently. He then took the little girl by the hand and led her out into the garden to show her some flowers – having totally forgotten
about his paying customer in the office. What an extraordinary man! He had little patience with his fellow men but he had all the time in the world for a small child.

My father had two other ‘assistants' – my sister and myself, and we accompanied him frequently on his rounds throughout the 1950s. One way we were of genuine assistance was through our dedication to opening and closing gates. The modern farm has far fewer gates, most of which have been replaced by cattle grids, but in those days a considerable slice of the veterinary surgeon's time was spent leaping out of the car to deal with the gates. When visiting the Ainsley brothers of Nevison House, Alf had to climb in and out of his car fourteen times to open and shut the gates, every one of them held together with old string. It turned a visit to this farm into a marathon session, so much so that he wrote about the place with its ancient gates and deeply rutted track in the opening to
The Lord God Made Them All