The Real James Herriot (25 page)

Rosie took her task very seriously. When the time came for her to attend school in 1952, at the age of five, she was racked with worry lest her father could not cope on his rounds without her.

During my years at secondary school, when I had already decided to become a vet, and had begun a more serious appraisal of my chosen profession, I had the opportunity to study him at work. I noticed his conscientious and caring approach, and particularly enjoyed watching him calving and lambing, procedures he performed with extreme gentleness. He said many times that lambing ewes was easily his favourite job, one he could perform quickly as well as gently when the need arose. One afternoon, he was confronted with sixteen visits to lambing ewes; three hours later, he had completed them all.

Another animal he treated very skilfully was the pig. I had little doubt, as a teenager, that I had chosen the right profession, but the visits to pigs with my father tested my resolve to its limits. I was terrified of pigs.

In those days, with home-cured bacon still figuring prominently in the Yorkshire country person's diet, there were many local smallholders with ramshackle sheds at the bottom of their gardens that housed huge, fat sows. These formidable animals did not appreciate needles being driven into their bodies and were especially aggressive when their piglets required treatment. Large sows possess a fine set of teeth but my father, who seemed to have no fear of them, would enter their
domain, armed simply with a board or an old broom and skilfully inject them, despite their savage barks of protest.

When the piglets needed attention, the sow would be tempted outside with some food and the door locked, enabling the vet to carry on with his work in safety. The pig has been described as a difficult animal to treat, one that ‘responds vociferously to the mildest of restraint'. This is certainly true and piglets are endowed with stupendous vocal chords from the moment they are born. I spent many an hour in my youth, helping my father inject squealing piglets, while outside, the enraged mother sow, driven on by the deafening noise of her offspring, furiously attacked our shaky refuge. My sole aim throughout these ear-splitting sessions was to establish an escape route should the colossal sow blast her way into the building.

I remember my father once asking me to inject a sow when I was about fifteen years old. Quivering with terror, I shot the needle into her leg. The vast pig erupted from the straw with a roar and I vaulted back out of the pen, my needle still protruding from her thigh. I received a severe dressing down.

‘Damn it, Jim!' he shouted. ‘You'll never make a vet if you run away from your patient!'

‘I don't want to lose a leg!' I replied. ‘Have you seen the size of those teeth?'

‘You have got to get in and out quickly!' he shouted. ‘It's no good being frightened of the bloody things!'

Although a sympathetic man, he was quick to chastise me if he thought I was not ‘framing' properly, and would grunt with frustration should I fail to catch a young bovine by the nose first time, or receive a sharp kick from a cow through faulty milking technique.

‘Don't stand back off her!' he would yell. ‘Get in close! You'll get your head knocked off if you stand back!'

He repeatedly drummed into me that I would look an utter fool on a farm if I could not handle the animals properly. His instruction certainly stood me in good stead in later years. In 1975, in the
Daily Express,
I was amused to see a photograph of James Herriot chasing a small pig. This was, quite obviously, purely for the benefit of the article. Alf would have been the first to say that there is no future in chasing pigs; they can run at amazing speeds and possess superb body swerves. The only way to catch them is by the deployment of cunning tactics.

My father and I often had to inject dozens of lively pigs at one time.
When confronted by a pink, squealing wave hurtling around a yard, he would corner them with a large gate. Once trapped in a tight corner, the pigs would scream loudly and he would say, ‘Wait, they'll calm down in a minute.' He was always right. All at once the noise would stop and the pigs would freeze. He would then inject them all, using a multidose syringe, and hardly a pig would move. Simple.

Although mainly a farm-animal vet, Alf Wight had to turn his hand occasionally to horse work. He had had plenty of experience in his first years in Thirsk, docking the tails of foals and castrating wild colts, while the foalings on the huge heavy draught mares were especially taxing. Donald, who had a fine reputation as an equine veterinarian – and was the Thirsk Racecourse Veterinary Surgeon for over forty years – did most of the horse work, but Alf was no novice when called upon to treat horses.

Alf was never to become regularly involved with equine work, but when it came to treating family pets, it was a different story. As the 1950s progressed, with the amount of small animal work gradually increasing, I had the opportunity to observe him perform in this vastly different arena. Here, not only did he display his all-round expertise as a sound and competent veterinarian but, as with his life out in the farmyards and fields of Yorkshire, he came across some fascinating characters whom, years later, he would masterfully and humorously commemorate to print.

During the years of the 1950s, despite the small animal cases taking second place to farm work in the Sinclair and Wight practice, Alf became highly regarded as a sound small animal clinician. He realised that this branch of veterinary medicine could become increasingly important in the years ahead, and that a sympathetic approach to his patients would be of paramount importance.

The dictum, ‘It's not what you do, it's the way that you do it' – one that he repeatedly drummed into every assistant – was something he carried out unfailingly himself. This quality of care and compassion towards a case is as important today as it was all those years ago. An article appeared in the newsletter of the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons in March 1992:

‘James Herriot is the yardstick by which the whole profession is judged and while his veterinary science may be, by today's standards, painfully out of date, his veterinary art is not. Alf Wight's promotion of veterinary surgeons remains the envy of every other profession.'

He always thought carefully before he acted, and approached each case very thoroughly. Despite his sound clinical expertise, however, he never aspired to become a specialist in the field of small animal veterinary medicine. As new techniques came to the fore, he tended to leave this to the younger men in the practice; indeed, he remained suspicious of many of the modern anaesthetics, preferring to keep his patient conscious if at all possible.

He retained his deep respect for general anaesthesia well into the 1960s and 1970s, preferring to perform comparatively major operations on animals simply under local anaesthetic. He removed large mammary growths from bitches and operated many times on dogs with entropion – where the ingrowing eyelid undergoes corrective surgery – purely under local anaesthetic. He always derived especial pleasure after entropion operations merely from observing the dog's tremendous relief from pain and irritation.

There was one procedure at which he regarded himself an expert – the ‘wrapping' of cats. Using nothing more than an old blanket, he
could reduce a savage, snarling cat to a trussed-up sausage in a matter of seconds. He was especially proud of his expertise in this ‘field of veterinary surgery' and I remember him saying to me one day after completing one of these lightning performances, ‘I probably won't be remembered for much after I've gone, Jim, but at least you'll be able to say that your old man was good at one thing! He could sure wrap a cat!'

It was his sympathetic approach to his cases that, more than anything, won him so many fans amongst his clients, with no one appreciating this more than Miss Marjorie Warner and her little dog, Bambi. This lady and her appealing Pekingese, who lived in a fine big house in Sowerby, were immortalised in the early James Herriot books as ‘Mrs Pumphrey' and ‘Trickie Woo', and they were to become two of the most well known of all his characters.

Bambi Warner was a delightful dog who loved everyone – and how we loved him! Every time this thoughtful little animal took his holidays, which was frequently, magnificent hampers would arrive at our door, addressed simply to ‘Uncle Wight'. These contained foods we had previously only dreamed about: caviar, pâté de foie, honey-roast hams, exotic preserves and many other mouthwatering delicacies. Whenever Bambi visited the Yorkshire coast, large boxes of Whitby kippers were delivered to our door; it is hardly surprising that Alf, who loved kippers, wrote so affectionately about Bambi and Miss Warner in his books. He made the most of this situation, never forgetting to send prompt letters of appreciation.

Unfortunately, he made two fundamental mistakes that almost resulted in the termination of these wonderful gifts. He addressed his first letter to Miss Warner herself. After Bambi had expressed his displeasure, Alf promptly rescued the situation by dispatching a grovelling letter of apology to the little Peke. His second mistake was to address another one to ‘Master' Bambi Warner when the correct mode of address should, of course, have read ‘Bambi Warner, Esq'. Writhing with guilt, he fired off another letter but this time received no response. These were worrying days for the family as weeks passed without the delivery of a single hamper! Happily, with the passage of time and several attentive visits to his little friend, Bambi forgave him and the stream of succulent hampers began again. Alf had learned his lesson; in future, Bambi would receive the deference his status deserved.

So vivid were the descriptions of Mrs Pumphrey and Trickie Woo in the James Herriot books, Miss Warner quickly realised that they were based upon her and Bambi, but she bore no resentment. Alf always had a genuine liking for the lady and her charming little dog, portraying her as a warm-hearted and passionate, if slightly ‘over-the-top', dog lover.

Alf Wight, although a popular vet, was the first to admit that he could not please everyone. There were certain farms where, no matter how hard he tried, his efforts resulted in disaster. He called them his ‘bogey farms' and would go to great lengths to avoid visiting them.

One day Donald said to him, ‘There's a cow with a bad eye at Furness's, Alfred. It's in your direction so will you go there?'

‘No,' he replied firmly, ‘I'm sorry but I'd rather not. Every time I visit that farm, something drops dead! Frank Furness is a lovely man and, despite my record of decimating his stock every time I set foot on his farm, I think he still likes me. I have no wish to stretch his good nature any further.'

‘But you are going past the door, Alfred. It's pointless to send someone up there specially. It's only a cow with a bad eye, and you've only to put some ointment onto it. Nothing can go wrong!'

Donald was right. It was nothing more than a mild case of New Forest Disease. Reluctantly, Alf agreed and visited the farm where he duly applied the ointment to the cow's eye. It had been a simple and straightforward case.

He received a telephone call the following day. The cow was no better; in fact, she was worse, and her joints were beginning to swell. ‘What on earth have swollen joints to do with bad eyes?' he thought, as he sped back towards the farm.

The cow was, indeed, much worse. Not only could she barely walk, but her breathing was laboured, with a profuse discharge pouring from her nose. With grim determination, Alf tried all he knew to save her. He injected her with antibiotics; he administered steroids and fluids intravenously; he shot high doses of vitamins into her and, before leaving the farm, he personally blanketed her up to keep her as comfortable as possible. He returned home with one thought drumming in his brain: ‘What has all this to do with a sore eye?'

Alfred Wight's hand of doom had struck again. The following day saw a massive deterioration, with his patient recumbent and sunken-
eyed. The knacker man arrived the same day to put her out of her suffering.

With this experience having served only to strengthen Alf's conviction that genuine ‘bogey farms' do exist, it was a long time before he set foot on that farm again. Frank Furness never blamed Alf and, years later, when the James Herriot books began to hit the headlines, he wrote a delightful letter of congratulations to him.

It was not only with the large animals that Alf realised a veterinary surgeon cannot win all the time. There was a lady in Sowerby who regarded him as an idiot – likeable, but nevertheless an idiot. Each time he treated her dog, something went wrong. In due course, the dog became terminally ill, suffering from renal failure, and she asked for it to be put painlessly to sleep. Realising that he was on delicate ground, he had elected to inject the barbiturate into the abdomen, rather than by the less easy – but more reliable – intravenous route of administration. To his dismay, the drug seemed to have no effect; thirty minutes later, the dog was still walking around the floor.

The woman turned on him. ‘Mr Wight! Over the years that I have brought my dog to you, you have consistently failed to improve his condition. Now that I want you to destroy him, you can't even do that properly!'

As the 1950s progressed, some major small animal surgery was tentatively undertaken. Towards the end of this decade, Alf was performing cat and bitch hysterectomies, but more complicated cases were sent to a small animal specialist twenty-six miles away in Darlington. Denton Pette, an imposing, accomplished small animal surgeon, was to become one of Alf's greatest friends – one who would, many years later, be immortalised as ‘Granville Bennett', first appearing in the fourth Herriot book,
Vet in Harness.

The description in the book fits the real man perfectly. ‘Not over tall but of tremendous bulk … he wasn't flabby, he didn't stick out in any particular place, he was just a big, wide, solid, hard-looking man.'

Above all, Denton Pette was a man of enormous presence. His wife, Eve, who is still a close friend of my mother, once said that a friend of hers asked someone how she would recognise Denton, having never before met him. ‘Just look for a square man!' was the reply.

As James Herriot, Alf wrote very affectionately about his friend, referring widely to Denton's capacity to enjoy himself to the full. This
incredibly generous man was the first to buy everyone a round of drinks but, with his apparently indestructible constitution having an ability to endure hours of extravagant socialising without any perceivable ill effects, one needed to be in good shape to survive an evening with Denton Pette.

Alf and Joan enjoyed many memorable occasions in the company of Eve and Denton, with Alf frequently senseless at the end. I, too, would spend many enjoyable hours with the Pettes – like my father, almost invariably ending up glassy-eyed and incoherent. He and I were, many times, driven home by my mother after roisterous sessions with Denton and his friends. ‘What would all the James Herriot fans think of their hero if they could see him now?' I remember my mother saying one night, as she smiled at the slumped figures in the rear seat.

Despite Denton's exhilarating social life, much of which I experienced during my time seeing practice with him as a student, he always appeared immaculate each morning, in beautiful suits and sparkling shirt cuffs. As I listened to his rich, soothing voice with the clients hanging on his every word, I realised that I was in the company of a highly successful man.

His surgical expertise was amazing. He had thick, stubby fingers that seemed to caress the tissues as he worked, and he operated with lightning speed. One day, when working in Thirsk, I took a small dog to him in Darlington for an eye operation. Denton was beginning a surgical list. When he told me that he had three hysterectomies to perform, I suggested that I wander round the town for an hour or so and return later.

‘Not at all, laddie!' he replied. ‘I'll be with you in twenty minutes!'

‘But you have three bitch spays to do, Denton!' I exclaimed. These operations – full ovario-hysterectomies – take the average surgeon about half an hour to perform.

‘Twenty minutes! We'll have some coffee first! Care to assist me?'

I then watched him complete the three operations in exactly seventeen minutes; if I had not seen it for myself, I would never have believed it. He was a wonderfully gifted surgeon – fast, yet gentle. As Granville Bennett, James Herriot would, very accurately, portray his friend as the talented, colourful and generous man we all knew. In the later years of the 1950s, while watching Denton at work, Alf realised he was taking a peep into the future, where the veterinary surgeon's day would become ever more involved in the treatment of family pets. Much as he admired
Denton's work, however, his more rural existence among the farmers of North Yorkshire was the one he still preferred.

As James Herriot, Alf Wight said many times that his life in veterinary practice was far harder in his early days than it was in the last two decades of the century. It may have been more demanding physically, but he was the first to admit that, in other respects, it was far less stressful. The modern veterinary surgeon treads a minefield, where one mistake can result in distressing legal procedures. His every move has to be carefully made lest he breaks one of an endless list of rules and regulations, while the end of the day is usually taken up with filling in never-ending forms. Paperwork sails into the modern vet's life in mountainous waves.

Alf's life in the heyday of his professional career was not so bedevilled and, in addition, he did not have the pressure of long hours consulting indoors, which is the norm for the modern vet. He spent hours driving to small family farms, with his typical working day, demanding though it was, often finishing at five or six o'clock with tea in the company of his family. At this hour, for the modern veterinary surgeon in a high-powered urban practice, his day can be just getting into its stride with a full waiting-room.

I observed the tremendous rise in small animal work in the 1970s and, even in a largely rural area like Thirsk, tea with my own family was a rare occasion indeed. This may well have been a factor in not one of my three children showing the slightest inclination to become a veterinary surgeon. When I look back on my father's life in practice during the 1950s, my abiding memory is of a sunburned figure in an open-topped car, his dogs by his side, driving from one case to another among some of the prettiest countryside in England. There is little wonder that he wrote about those days with such feeling.