The Real James Herriot (27 page)

This disease has been described as a depressive one but it seemed to have the opposite effect on Alf. He became light-headed and happy, lying in bed while cracking jokes to which he, himself, would respond with wild and hysterical laughter, often listened to with ill-concealed amusement by his children. Years later, he was to write a chapter in
Every Living Thing,
in which he described the unusual symptoms that he experienced. These attacks were very short-lived and he always returned to work quickly. Fortunately, he did not suffer any long-term effects from the disease – unlike many of his professional colleagues who developed such symptoms as crippling arthritis or severe and lasting depression. It is difficult to disregard Brucellosis entirely as a contributory factor towards Alf's illness, but it cannot be held solely
responsible for pitching his emotions into such a grievous turmoil. The causes were far more complex than that.

Despite his marked deterioration following Pop's death, he managed to hide his depression from others, with his colleagues at work having little idea that there was anything wrong. He put a brave face on everything but there were times when even he could not conceal the effects of his illness from his family.

In October 1960, he took Rosie with him to visit his mother in Glasgow. As they approached the city, quite suddenly he seized his young daughter's hand and held it tightly to the gearstick of the car. She was only thirteen years old at the time but she can still remember the look of tension on her father's face, holding her hand in a vice-like grip as he approached his mother's home. Was the memory of his father's death too much to bear or was there an inherent fear of his mother that was coming to the surface? After he recovered from his breakdown, he was to adopt a far more relaxed approach to his mother but as he drew near to his old home that day, Rosie's hand firmly in his own, there were certainly some very powerful and devastating emotions within him.

To his eternal credit, however, he kept his feelings from us as much as he could and, reading the letters he sent to his mother, there is no hint of the upheaval within his mind. He fought his illness in the only way he knew – he kept working. The practice was thriving and, thanks to the increase in TB Testing work, three assistants were working there through most of 1960. In the spring of 1961, however, two of them left. It was at a time when my father was very low and he found himself having to revert to night work again, working as hard as he had ever done in his life. This was probably therapeutic and helped take his mind off his escalating worries.

In a letter to his mother in March 1961 he wrote: ‘This morning I was out on a sunny hillside outside Ampleforth lambing a ewe and just thinking what other job in the world could be so wonderful.' The ability to still appreciate his good fortune in having a job that he loved must have been a great comfort to him in those difficult times.

Despite his high work rate, he made time for his hobbies of gardening, tennis and playing the violin – and he never forsook his family. In 1960 we went on our annual holiday as usual, staying with Alex and Lynne Taylor who, by this time, were in Glenlivet in north-east Scotland. Nor did he forget his mother in Glasgow, continuing to write weekly letters
to her, supplying advice and support during a period when she felt so low at the loss of her husband. He was still the caring father to us, and the loyal son to his mother.

In October 1960, Eddie Straiton, while on a visit to Thirsk to speak to the local veterinary clinical club, had noticed that his old friend was not well. Six months later, having heard that there was little improvement, he offered to come to Thirsk to work as a locum in the practice while sending Alf and Joan to his holiday house in Banalbufar on the island of Majorca – all of this at his expense. This generous gesture was one Alf would never forget.

That restful holiday in June 1961 was Alf and Joan's very first trip abroad. The complete change of surroundings, with the wonderful scenery and the warm hospitality of the local people, provided a turning point in his recovery.

I remember collecting my parents from Thirsk railway station on their return from Majorca. Having not seen my father for three weeks, I was shocked at his appearance. He had lost a great deal of weight, his inability to resist the delicious Majorcan fruit and vegetables having had a stimulating effect upon his digestive system. He was wearing a large white sun hat which seemed to dwarf his scrawny body.

I walked up to him and shook his hand. ‘How was your holiday, Dad? Great to see you back!'

The sunken eyes in the white face looked at me for a moment. He must have been thinking how well I looked. We had had a heat wave in Yorkshire and I had been playing tennis with Eddie as well as accompanying him around the practice in his open-topped sports car. I looked like the one who had been to sun-drenched Majorca, not the pale figure standing before me.

‘Marvellous, Jim!' he said, and his gaunt face broke into a smile. I knew then that he was on the road to recovery. The eyes, though tired, had lost their distant look and there was a twinkle of that old glow of humour and affection that I used to know. He looked ghastly but I knew he was turning the corner.

He returned from holiday to discover that one of the assistants in the practice was ill and unable to work and, weak though he was, he returned to the time-honoured therapy for nervous illness – hard work. As the weeks went by, however, there were occasions when he lapsed
back into his quiet moods, and this prompted us to persuade him to take another holiday.

He could afford to be away from the practice, as two more young assistants had been recruited by this time, and Rosie and I, together with one of her schoolfriends, accompanied him on a walking holiday in the Yorkshire Dales. This holiday, during which I watched him getting better every day, has remained one of my most memorable.

The exercise in the fresh air was a tremendous tonic. Instead of worrying about everything, he had to concentrate on the physical challenge of keeping up with younger people. We walked through Wensleydale, Swaledale and Dentdale. We climbed over high fells and marched along green river valleys. We stayed in Youth Hostels, where we slept the deep and refreshing sleep that follows days of exercise in the open air and, despite suffering pain from blisters and developing a swollen knee while descending Great Shunner Fell, he enjoyed every minute of it. As I watched him improve, mentally as well as physically, it was as though the pure Yorkshire air was cleansing his mind and washing away the worries that had plagued him for so long.

On 18 August, while we were still in the Dales, my A-level examination results were due. My father had worried for weeks about these, knowing that, should I fail, I would not gain admission to Glasgow University. The tension was high as I telephoned from the Moorcock Inn at Garsdale Head for my results.

The headmaster, Steve King, gave me the news. I had done better than I could ever have expected and I recall the joy on my father's face as we celebrated over a pint or two at the inn. Never again would he worry about his children's education. Later, Rosie went on to do even better and was offered a place at both Oxford and Cambridge Universities. Thirsk School had done us proud.

After that walking holiday in the Dales, Alf's recovery gained momentum. He would remain a private man for the rest of his life but rarely would he allow his emotions to get the better of him. He had been in a very dark place and had emerged from it a wiser man. When he looked back on those bad days, he realised that there had been little to really worry about. His family's health and his financial status had been sound, while the practice had been thriving without any dark clouds to obscure the future. Realising that he should have confided in us more, he became a Samaritan in the mid 1960s, spending many hours just listening to other people, allowing them to unload their worries
onto him. It was something he, himself, should have done many years earlier.

People had helped him through his illness. My mother with her unflinching support, Eddie Straiton with his wonderful gesture of friendship and, in our own way, my sister and I in doing well at school and alleviating his fears; but one man deserves most of the credit – Alfred Wight himself.

It would have been easy to give up work but he refused to do so. He had hardly a single day off, labouring valiantly throughout what must have been a terrible time. I have always felt great admiration for the way that he fought his illness and beat it. There were days, towards the end of 1960, when we feared that he would never recover, but he did.

In the years ahead, there would be periods which were to provide him with real cause for concern, but he had learned a lesson. Never again would he allow his inner feelings to tear him apart.

It was fortunate that Alf had emerged from his illness a stronger man. In the years following his recovery, there was plenty to occupy his mind, with many demands upon his financial status. Not only was the gradual replacement of grass fields by arable land continuing, but the remaining stock farmers were becoming more knowledgeable, with an increasing number of them treating their own animals. Alf accepted this as part of the inevitable march of progress within the farming industry but, with small animal work still very much regarded as a sideline, it spelt a reduced cash flow coming in to the business.

The practice continued to be busy, and his income remained one worthy of his professional standing, but there was still plenty for him to worry about.

One stress-factor in running the practice was the job of keeping a ‘weather eye' on the performance of the young assistants. Donald and Alf always liked to employ new graduates; they emerged from the veterinary schools full of up-to-date information which they could impart to the two partners who, in return, could mould the young men into the ways of the practice, giving them the invaluable practical experience of working with two men who had learned a great deal over the years.

The acquisition of knowledge is not in itself enough to equip a person for a life in practice; a willingness to learn, and a liberal dash of common sense are vital qualities for a successful veterinary surgeon. Most of the young graduates adapted very quickly to their new life but there were a few who found it difficult.

There was always a good-humoured atmosphere at 23 Kirkgate which, most importantly, provided a happy environment for the young vets starting out on their new careers. The two partners had a list of ‘rules' which they imparted to every assistant; although given very much with the tongue in the cheek, each one contained a grain of common sense.

In my student days of the early 1960s, I remember Donald taking me
round the farms, expounding his Golden Rules. I can hear his voice as though he were sitting beside me.

‘Always attend! I don't care if a farmer rings in the middle of the night for a visit to an animal that has been ill for six weeks,
you will attend
!' Donald, of course, was very rarely the one who was asked to do so.

‘Be pleasant! When asking for a bucket of warm water, say ‘please'. It's no good trying to talk down to a Yorkshire farmer. They appreciate common courtesy like anyone else.'

‘Paint a black picture! If you say a case is going to recover, you could be in trouble if it doesn't!' No one was a finer exponent of this than Donald Sinclair.

‘Always do
something
! Never leave a farm without injecting something! Give a shot of vitamins … anything!'

‘Be positive in your approach, and give everything a name. Never say you don't know what's wrong!' This may seem a little ridiculous today, but there was some logic in the rule – especially years ago when dealing with some of the older clients. ‘Don't send that apprentice onter my farm again! 'E didn't know what were wrong wi't cow!' was a cry heard more than once by Alf and Donald.

Donald finished his recitation with his final rule – one that he had, quite clearly, learned the hard way. ‘Always park with the nose of the car pointing out of the farm!'

One day, he gave some advice to an assistant who had the unenviable task of judging at a horse show. This is one of the most thankless jobs that a vet has to perform – should there be twenty contestants aspiring to win one prize, unequalled potential exists for making nineteen enemies. Donald had some sound advice for him.

‘Be positive!' he said. ‘Be friendly but firm. Thoroughly examine every animal, and do not let anyone sway your decision. And keep the car engine running!'

Donald, quite rightly, always insisted on the adoption of a professional approach to the customer at all times. He stressed that smart attire, even though the job was a rough and dirty one, was essential. He was particularly upset when any of his employees failed to wear a tie.

I remember, one extremely hot afternoon, walking into the surgery wearing an open-necked shirt.

‘Where's your tie, Jim?' he snapped.

‘I'm sorry, Donald,' I replied. ‘I've left it in the car.'

‘I want you to wear a tie!' Donald said. He began to walk towards the door before suddenly stopping and pointing at me. ‘You're a disgrace to the profession!'

These ‘rules', light-hearted examples of the ‘art' of veterinary practice, were something Alf had learned from the earliest stages of his career, but there was another art that he developed after his recovery from depression, that of learning how to relax.

Having always regarded lunch as the most important meal of the day, no matter how hard he was working, he usually found the time to enjoy it. It was during this daily break from work that he developed the art of ‘cat napping'. In my working years of living with my parents, in the late 1960s and early 1970s, I watched him sit down after his lunch, close his eyes and fall, almost instantaneously, into a deep sleep that rarely lasted for more than ten minutes. He assured me that he awoke refreshed for the afternoon's activities, adding that some of the great men of history – among them, Winston Churchill – had shared this ability to snatch refreshing sleep in the middle of the day.

Above all, at that time of his life, he was a man more at ease with himself. Realising that, only a few years previously, he had been close to suffering a total, irreversible collapse, he could now see everything in perspective. His life in veterinary practice was by no means an easy one, but he was now able, more than ever before, to count his blessings.

Having, for so many years, regarded the company of a dog as a vital ingredient towards the enjoyment of his leisure time, Alf – following the untimely death of his beagle, Dinah, in 1963 – wasted little time in replacing her. Hearing that John Bumby, a farmer from near Topcliffe, had a litter of Jack Russell terrier puppies, it was not long before he and Rosie visited the farm. One of the puppies leapt towards Rosie and furiously began to lick her face. Minutes later, they left the farm with a tiny black and white ball of energy bouncing around in the car. He was to be called Hector.

Hector would be the first of James Herriot's dogs to appear with him in the many photographs taken during the early years of his fame as an author. He was a vital part of Alf's life and accompanied him everywhere on his daily rounds. He extracted maximum enjoyment out of life; he loved everyone and everyone seemed to love him. Upon Alf's arrival at a farm in his open-topped car, the sharp face of Hector was
often the first thing the farmer saw. He was a dog who would not be ignored and he rarely was. Cries of ‘Morning, Mr Wight! 'Ello 'Ector! By… 'e's a grand little dog!' were a common start to a visit as the farmer fought off the pointed, friendly nose darting at his face.

Hector never missed a thing while on his travels. His favourite position, as he gazed eagerly out of the window, was with his front paws balanced on Alf's hand while he held the gear lever; no dog in the world could have changed gear so often as Hector!

He was the noisiest of all Alf's dogs. In the years when I worked from home, before I was married, I often followed my father's car on our short trip down to the surgery. I could see the silhouette of his head with, next to him, the outline of his small companion – paws on the gear lever and his little mouth opening and closing at regular intervals as he barked into my father's left ear. The racket in the car must have been terrific but, to my father, Hector could do no wrong.

Hector possessed a seemingly endless supply of energy. He would often be allowed out of the car at the farms where the large, resident farm dogs, sensing his open and friendly disposition, would play with him happily. These frantic sessions did not last long, however; I saw many a panting dog lying exhausted on the ground with a small black and white torpedo remorselessly tearing into him. An odd snarl or a trembling upper lip were signals to Hector that the game was over.

One game the farm dogs took very seriously was the escorting of visiting motor vehicles off the farm. These chases were the highlights of their day. My father and I often saw them slinking around during our visits, waiting for their big moment which, when it arrived, heralded frenzied activity. Our departures from some farms were tumultuous occasions. As soon as the car wheels were set in motion, packs of lean, hairy creatures would appear from everywhere to accompany us down the long farm roads, their faces a picture of taut concentration. This threat to his domain drove Hector frantic as he rocketed around the inside of the car, barking defiance at the dogs outside.

These frenetic episodes were not without danger to the dogs. They had a habit of darting in towards the car and biting the wheels, which sometimes resulted in serious injury. One way of cooling the enthusiasm of our assailants was a well-directed jet of water. This was my job; I would load up a multidose syringe and, at the precise moment, fire at the panting faces when they got too close.

It seemed to be very effective. On receipt of the cold blast of water,
the dog would grind to a halt before running off dejectedly back to the farm. On occasions I felt rather guilty about this, especially when the dog shook its head before following this with a reproachful look as if saying, ‘What did you have to do that for? We're only having a bit of fun!'

Those days of ‘riding shotgun' with my father were a source of great entertainment from my earliest years. The farm dogs provided the action and, later, Hector supplied the soundtrack.

Although basically a sound little animal – and much in demand locally as a stud dog – Hector became virtually blind at the age of five or six. He suffered from a disease called Keratitis Sicca, a slowly progressive drying of the conjunctiva, resulting in a curtain of black pigment creeping across the eye surface. There are modern treatments for this disease now, but in those days, having little idea as to the cause, we could only attempt to ease the severity of his condition while watching helplessly as Hector's window on the world gradually became darker. Despite the pain and blackness, the little dog remained as vibrant as ever, peering expectantly out of the car and barking defiantly.

Hector was, without doubt, Alf's favourite of all the dogs who shared his life. Much has been written over the years of the many benefits of pet ownership, with countless examples cited of the positive effects upon the health of those who enjoy the company of a pet. No animal had a more exhilarating effect upon its owner than that bestowed upon Alfred Wight by Hector, whose insatiable and infectious zest for life provided him with the perfect therapy to follow his recent years of illness.

Well aware of his good fortune in having emerged relatively unscathed, he determined to enjoy his life again to the full. Always having believed that there was more to life than just work, he began, once again, to take an interest in the world around him. The early years of the 1960s were a time when he decided to see more of it.

In 1961 and 1962, he visited Russia and Turkey as official Ministry of Agriculture veterinarian in charge of shipments of pigs, sheep and cattle, during which time he kept a diary, later using some of the entries in
The Lord God Made Them All.
He was so intrigued by Russia that, on returning home, he began to teach himself Russian; he decided against learning Turkish. Following their holiday in Majorca in Eddie Straiton's villa, Alf and Joan revisited the island twice more: in 1965, they drove
through France and Spain to reach the island, during which time Alf again kept a diary. In 1965, he attended night school in Thirsk to study Spanish.

Beginning to feel so much better physically, he not only began to play much more tennis again – even representing Thirsk at the age of forty-six when he and Rosie teamed up in a doubles match – but he took up skiing in the winter as an additional interest. All this, together with his unchanging pastimes of walking, gardening, reading and watching football, resulted in his life becoming, once again, one of multiple activities.

His old enthusiasm had returned. With his marriage sound, as was the health of both himself and his family, Alf's outlook on life had taken a remarkable turn for the better. As he eagerly threw himself into his work in the practice, his exhausting illness of such a short time before seemed but a distant memory.

Alf not only made time to spend with the practice's assistants, he was enormously helpful to me. In the summer of 1965, he made arrangements with Eddie Straiton for me to see practice with him in Staffordshire. It was an enjoyable two months during which I learned a great deal from Eddie who was a first-class veterinary surgeon. For part of my time there, Eddie took a break in Majorca while I continued to work with the help, when needed, of his neighbouring colleagues – and my father.

I was on the telephone to Thirsk every day, asking about the treatment for scouring pigs, lame cows and coughing horses. I asked for advice on calving cows, and how to treat batches of calves with pneumonia and, in every case, I received invaluable assistance. My father had enough work of his own and it must have been very trying, giving advice to a young, green student more than 150 miles away – but he did, and I hung on his every word.