The Real James Herriot (37 page)

Alf, while having to admit that he greatly enjoyed meeting so many people from overseas, preferred to spend most of his time away from the spotlight. Not only had he bought, in 1977, his house in Thirlby where he and Joan were secreted away from the thousands of prying eyes but, in 1978, he acquired a cottage in the village of West Scrafton – a cluster of grey stone houses and farms, lying on the southern side of Coverdale and surrounded by wild fells and moorland. It was here, where he could merge into obscurity among his beloved Yorkshire Dales, that he found total peace – where, in the morning, he would awake to a silence broken only by ‘the sound of the bleating of sheep or the cry of the curlew'.

He and Joan stayed in the West Scrafton cottage regularly, in all weathers and at all times of the year. Here, he would walk his dogs
endless miles over the green tracks while drinking in the sweet, clear air of the high dales. There was nowhere he would have rather been.

It was an idyllic spot in the summer, but in the darker months of the year, West Scrafton could show a different side to its nature. One late October afternoon, he was walking his dogs along the road towards the neighbouring hamlet of Swineside. His head was lowered to protect himself from the driving rain, screaming in from the surrounding moors. On the road, he met one of the local farmers, surrounded by cows and elegantly attired in a torn mackintosh, around which was an ancient hessian sack held in place with a piece of string. The road was running with water and mud.

The farmer paused in the lee of one of the stone buildings before raising his weather-beaten face to Alf. He shouted above the noise of the wind. ‘Afternoon, Mr Wight!'

‘It's not much of a day!' yelled Alf in response.

‘Nay, you're right!' continued the farmer, looking around him at the desolate scene. ‘You're 'avin' a bit o' holiday up 'ere, eh?'

‘Yes, just having a nice break from the practice.'

The farmer scrutinised the damp figure before him. Everyone in the village knew who he was; they all knew he had the means to spend his holidays on sun-drenched beaches in exotic locations. The farmer had spent almost his entire life working in the village, and a hard life it had been. Many people are entranced by the beautiful scenery of the Yorkshire Dales, but those who try to make a living out of the place can sometimes take a different view.

The farmer looked again at the rippling puddles in the road, the rapidly darkening sky and the filthy wet dogs standing expectantly at Alf's feet. He looked him steadily in the face before turning to set off after the mass of cows. A puzzled look passed over his features as he paused for a final word. ‘Why der yer come '
ere?'

Whilst not really enjoying the massive publicity that surrounded him, Alf was, in fact, making matters worse for himself; he was still seated in front of the television with his typewriter. He did it for neither fame nor fortune; he simply loved writing. With lists of ‘headings' secreted away in the drawers of his desk, there was still plenty of material.

Between the years of 1978 and 1981, two more books appeared. One of these was to sell more copies in hardback than any of his previous six and was largely responsible for the never-ending coachloads of
tourists pouring into his part of England. This book – one that he almost never wrote – was destined to become his greatest best-seller. It was called
James Herriot's Yorkshire.

One day in 1978, my father called me to his house in Thirlby. ‘Jim,' he said, ‘I want to ask you something.' I always knew when he was going to mention something important; he spoke slowly and quietly with a slight trace of uncertainty.

‘Michael Joseph would like to produce a picture book of those parts of Yorkshire I have made famous through my writing. It would be accompanied by a text, written by me. They want to call it
James Herriot's Yorkshire.
'

His eyes were now focused directly on mine as he continued. ‘What do you think of the idea? Do you think that my words alongside photographs would interest people?'

I felt somewhat flattered that this established best-selling author valued my opinion, but I was not really surprised. Although not without confidence in his own ability, he continually sought suggestions from others – maintaining until the end of his life that he was simply ‘an amateur at the writing game'.

I thought for a few moments. ‘No, Dad. I don't think that it's a good idea at all.'

‘Why not?'

‘Why should someone from, say, California, want to look at some pokey little corner of Swaledale?' I replied confidently. ‘These places bring back great memories for us, but I can't see the fascination in them for anyone else. Forget it. It won't sell.'

‘You don't think so?'

‘No.'

‘Perhaps you're right.' He lapsed into thought and dropped the subject.

He must have listened to me because he told his publishers that he had serious misgivings about the project. However, their persuasive arguments finally won the day, and Alf agreed to go ahead. This beautifully illustrated book, the inspired idea of Alan Brooke, then editorial director at Michael Joseph – and whose concept received wholehearted support from Alf's editor Anthea Joseph – went on to
become a mega best-seller, far exceeding all his previous books. It became the ‘essential companion' for the thousands of fans from all over the world who flocked to see those ‘pokey little corners' of Yorkshire that I had confidently predicted would hold no interest for them.

The dubious quality of my advice was emphatically illustrated some sixteen years later. In 1995, four months after my father's death, Rosie and I took part in a BBC television programme about outdoor activities called ‘Tracks'. Part of this weekly programme described those walks that were particular favourites of selected celebrities and, for James Herriot's favourite, we had chosen to film the programme in the upper reaches of Swaledale.

This wild and unspoilt area figures largely in the Yorkshire book. He loved it for its beauty and loneliness but we were not alone for long on that occasion. I was astonished to see a coach disgorge a throng of American tourists who strode purposefully past us, many of them clutching their copy of
James Herriot's Yorkshire
! Sixteen years after publication, it still held its fascination for so many of his fans.

This book was published in 1979 and is totally factual. Such was its success that it became the trailblazer for many look-alike publications, including
Wynford Vaughan-Thomas's Wales, Poldark's Cornwall, Catherine Cookson's Northumberland
and the highly popular series of books by the enigmatic fellwalker, Alfred Wainwright. My father loved reading Wainwright's books; he wrote simply, but with great feeling, for the high country of the British Isles, especially the Lake District and Scotland, and I feel sure that had he and my father met, they would have had much in common.

The superb photographs in
James Herriot's Yorkshire
were taken by the freelance photographer, Derry Brabbs; it was his first book and its tremendous success was to make his name. He was to go on and illustrate many more of the books that would follow in its wake, including the Wainwright series.

Derry was chosen in a somewhat bizarre fashion. Nowadays, photographic agencies would be asked to submit the portfolios of their major clients but not so in 1978. Michael Joseph decided that a Yorkshire-based photographer would be best, for obvious reasons: not only would he or she be close at hand, but would already understand the vagaries of the Yorkshire weather. The firm's managing director, Victor Morrison – who, with his considerable flair for design, oversaw the book's production – had a secretary whose husband was a freelance photographer.
He was consulted and suggested that a simple way to start would be to check the
Yellow Pages
directories for Yorkshire, under the heading
PHOTOGRAPHERS
, and see what emerged. Victor Morrison did just that and compiled a list. Derry Brabbs, having the luck to have a surname starting with B, was approached first of all – and the search for a photographer ended there.

James Herriot's Yorkshire
is lavishly illustrated with photographs of places that evoked many happy memories for Alf. The pictures of Wensleydale brought back images of the hard, early years helping his old friend Frank Bingham, at a time when he had first set eyes upon the magic of the Yorkshire Dales. There is an account of a Youth Hostelling holiday when I and a schoolfriend, Ian Brown, walked with my father through Wensleydale and Swaledale. Such was the popularity of the book, that this walk has been traced by many people and has become known as the ‘Herriot Way'.

The vivid photographs of the Thirsk area, the place where the vast majority of the stories had their origins, and where my father brought us up along an uncertain but happy road, had especial meaning for him.

The North York Moors and the Yorkshire coast are not forgotten. Derry Brabbs's pictures of the old Grand Hotel in Scarborough made Alf shiver as he recalled his days in the RAF, drilling on the beach and sleeping in the cold, windswept dormitories. On a softer note, he fondly remembers the town of Harrogate, his haven of escape every Thursday afternoon at a time when he was working day and night to establish himself as a veterinary surgeon.

Every section of the book stirred memories, some of them hard but all of them happy. ‘But what I see most clearly on my map,' Alf wrote in the book's introduction, ‘is the little stretch of velvet grass by the river's edge where I camped or picnicked with my family. I can see the golden beach where my children built their castles in the sand. These are the parts, when my children were very young, which stand out most vividly from the coloured paper. These, indeed, as I look down on my Yorkshire, are the sweet places of memory.'

James Herriot's Yorkshire
is about the recollections of a best-selling author. To his family, it meant a little more. It invoked memories of a father who ensured that we were able to share his happiness in those days when we were young.

By 1979, over 12 million books by James Herriot had been sold, and Alf had little more to prove to his publishers, but writing had become a way of life and, in 1981, his seventh book of stories was published. This book, entitled
The Lord God Made Them All,
took him over four years to complete but there were reasons for this. Not only had he written the text for
James Herriot's Yorkshire
since the last volume of stories,
Vet In A Spin
published in 1977, but the new book was much longer. This was primarily for the American market with its insatiable demand for ‘big' books, and enabled St Martin's Press to publish
The Lord God Made Them All
at the same time as the British edition. They had, of course, had to wait to publish
Vets Might Fly
until
Vet In A Spin
was published, so they could produce one big volume,
All Things Wise and Wonderful.

The new book became an instant best-seller on both sides of the Atlantic, and such was James Herriot's popularity in the United States that over half a million copies were sold there in hardback alone.

Although I and many of my father's close friends have always regarded his earliest books as our favourites, this one contains some wonderful material, and like the others, brings to life a whole host of new and fascinating characters.

In chapter 15, he describes his treatment of a dog with demodectic mange, belonging to Sister Rose. This character was based upon a woman called Sister Ann Lilley, from the Friarage Hospital in nearby Northallerton. She was closely involved with my father's favourite animal charity, the Jerry Green Foundation Trust, and she ran several small dog sanctuaries of her own. She is someone for whom Alf had great respect. It is a sad story ending in the death of Amber, a beautiful golden retriever, to whom, in real life, my father had become very attached.
The Lord God Made Them All
is another book that illustrates not only the triumphs but also the heartbreaks that punctuate the life of every veterinary surgeon.

The period in which the book was set had moved on, and now included stories about Rosie and me – who were both given our real names. Extracts from James Herriot's books were reproduced in countless periodicals and magazines, primarily in Britain and America, and there was one chapter in
The Lord God Made Them All
which proved to be the most popular of all.

The story tells of James Herriot's attendance at a concert at which his young son was performing. I was about eight years old when the
concert, organised by my piano teacher Miss Stanley, took place in the Sowerby Methodist Chapel. The concert was a succession of recitals by her young pupils and they all performed admirably – all except me. I made two disastrous attempts at a little piece called ‘The Miller's Dance' before, to wild and relieved applause from the assembled parents, I finally succeeded at the third try. The effect on my father's nervous system was devastating.

The hilarious description in the book is one that I have read many times, and I can understand why it is so popular; the tension of watching one's offspring performing in public is something with which many a parent must identify. James Herriot's harrowing experience of witnessing his child transforming a nice little concert into a farce is one that many must dread.

Years later, when my father was asking me if I remembered the incident, and I replied that I didn't think I had ever been so frightened, he replied, ‘Well, it might have frightened you, but it very nearly killed me!'

I had always felt a little guilty about my reluctance to practise the piano, and thus waste the cost of the lessons, but at least it provided my father with material for a chapter that became one of the most popular he ever wrote.

On reading his manuscript prior to publication, I found as usual the humorous stories the most enjoyable, especially his account of saving his own life in the face of an enraged bull by smashing the creature repeatedly over the nose with an artificial vagina – but there is, of course, far more to his writing than this.
The Lord God Made Them All
is a book that, once again, illustrates James Herriot's understanding of human nature – it is a book not just about animals and veterinary surgeons, but about the everyday emotions that everyone experiences.

The spectacular triumph of
James Herriot's Yorkshire
had not gone unnoticed by the Reader's Digest Association. Having published much of James Herriot's work in their condensed books on both sides of the Atlantic – and sold millions of copies – they approached Michael Joseph with the idea of producing an illustrated volume of selected stories from the James Herriot books. Alan Brooke, Michael Joseph's editorial director, together with Alf's editor, Jenny Dereham – who had succeeded Anthea Joseph following her tragic death from cancer early in 1981 – came up to Yorkshire with representatives of the Reader's Digest, to
talk my father into the idea of the book. He was soon won over. This book, published in 1982, was called
The Best of James Herriot.

Apart from the introduction, Alf had comparatively little original work to do for this book. It was a compendium of his stories, and Alf had final approval of the content. Interspersed amongst the stories were sections which covered different subjects connected with Alf, Yorkshire and the veterinary profession. These sections were superbly illustrated with a mixture of historical photographs of the places about which he wrote, new colour photographs of the incomparable Yorkshire landscape, and a multitude of line drawings. Readers interested in a post-war cow-drencher, a Swaledale sheep, or the intricacies of a dry-stone wall would find it all in this book.

Alf always regarded this as a wonderful book, beautifully produced, and a treasure trove of information for every James Herriot fan. ‘Just look at this book!' he said shortly after he received his first copy. ‘This will make a terrific gift. I'm sure it will sell well!'

I refrained from giving my opinion this time. He was right; it was another best-seller – one with which my father was particularly proud to be associated.

The final years of the 1970s and the earliest ones of the 1980s marked the zenith of the James Herriot success story. They were golden years during which everything he did resulted in astounding success. He had written eight worldwide best-selling books, the television series had projected his name into the living-rooms of millions of households and he had, by that time, attained complete financial security. For a man who had started with virtually nothing, it was a staggering achievement.