The Real James Herriot (42 page)

This story is based on a memorable individual by the name of Harry Bulmer. Harry was often to be found propping up the bars of Thirsk where he always had a good audience for his seemingly exaggerated anecdotes. He was regarded by most of the locals as a ‘right romancer', with very few believing his pretentions to be on first-name terms with countless celebrities. There was one story he often told about the time he lent his bat to Len Hutton whose own had broken during an innings of a Test Match at Headingley. Harry gleefully reported that, when the great batsman returned the bat, after successfully scoring over a hundred runs, he had done so with the words, ‘Thanks, Harry! That's a lovely bit of wood you have there.'

There was, however, a surprise in store for the locals who continually poked fun at him. A major hockey match was due to be played at the Thirsk Athletic Ground and Harry assured everyone that he knew many
of the players, some of them internationals from other parts of the country. Everyone thought that Harry would be exposed for the storyteller they believed him to be but, on the day of the match, there was more than one open mouth as several of the players approached him after the game with cries of ‘Look! It's Harry! How are you, Harry?' No one laughed quite so hard at Harry's stories following that day at the Thirsk Athletic Ground.

Alf, in fact, enjoyed Harry's company. He was a man with a great knowledge of cricket and football – subjects that Alf never tired of discussing. There is a photograph, taken in the Three Tuns Hotel, of Harry – his head back and mouth open – regaling everyone with yet another fantastic tale. Standing by his side is Alf, eyes wide with delight. One can almost see him making a mental ‘heading' for his notebook.

The story of Arnold Braithwaite in
Every Living Thing –
one that has been described as simply being based on a hoary old joke – is just another example of the factual basis behind James Herriot's stories. Not only would Alf have been the first to acknowledge that many of his stories were embellished – and that he changed the dates of a number of the incidents within them – but he accepted with equanimity the fact that there was a significant number of people who were unimpressed with his writing. To be referred to as a writer of fiction, however, is something to which he would most certainly have taken exception.

Throughout the second part of the 1980s, Alf was able to observe, from a comparative distance, the onward roll of the ‘James Herriot Industry'. Despite the Herriot-mania all around him, he succeeded in adopting a very low profile and, apart from devotedly signing thousands of books for his fans (to whom he always felt very grateful), his involvement with the celebrity status was minimal. He spoke little about it; indeed, he could sometimes appear to be almost bored by the whole thing.

He had additional opportunities to make big money by allowing his name to be used to endorse items such as pet feeds, but he would not countenance the idea. Displaying sparse interest in anything that smacked of commercialism, that old glazed look would come over his eyes whenever any strategies for making more money were suggested to him.

One of the most striking features of my father's character was his ‘vagueness'. On many occasions when I was speaking to him, his glassy
expression betrayed a mind that was racing away elsewhere. Some subjects that particularly failed to interest him could send him spinning off into a virtually hypnotic state within seconds, and it could be a frustrating experience trying to re-establish contact.

One thing, however, that was always guaranteed to erase any film in front of his eyes was the mention of football – especially anything to do with Sunderland Football Club. Having become a season ticket holder, he rarely missed a home game, and the club were quick to realise that they had a major personality as a supporter.

In 1991, having bought some shares in the club, he received a letter. It was one that meant a great deal to him. The directors were offering him the honorary position of Life President of the club ‘in view of your lifelong support and loyalty and your assistance and contribution in so many ways … You will be entitled to two free directors' box seats, car park and the use of the 100 club for all home games … We believe that you certainly deserve this recognition.'

He regarded this honour as one of the most satisfying he had ever received, but he declined the free seats in the directors' boxes, preferring instead to cheer his team along from among the crowd as he had always done on countless happy occasions throughout his life.

His football team always provided him with wonderful entertainment. They were never a boring team, with almost every match seeming to have some significance as they continually strived for either honours or sheer survival at the end of every season. In 1992, he had the great satisfaction of seeing Sunderland again perform in the FA Cup Final at Wembley. He arranged seats at the stadium for a party of his family and friends where, despite the team losing to Liverpool, everyone enjoyed a memorable day out.

The club has now moved to a brand new stadium in Sunderland, where the chairman, Bob Murray, and his directors, have set aside a room within it called ‘The James Herriot Room'. Pictures of Alf Wight adorn the walls, one photograph depicting his own football-playing days at Glasgow Veterinary College. The club has not forgotten the famous author whose pleasure at the success of his team on the football field was never to take second place to that engendered by his astonishing literary achievements.

After his death, a tribute appeared in the north-east newspaper, the
Sunday Sun,
ending with the words: ‘For here was a genuine football man who truly understood the agony and the ecstasy of being a Sunderland
supporter. A caring, compassionate man who loved all creatures great and small … and all creatures red and white.'

More honours were heaped on him during the late 1980s and early 1990s. In 1987, the Humane Society of the United States decided to make an annual award, in his name, to a person selected by the society for conveying concern and compassion for animals.

In April 1989, he was invited to address the World Small Animal Veterinary Association Congress that was to be held that year in Harrogate. This was a great honour that he could not refuse – and it was conveniently close to home – but he was full of trepidation about speaking in front of so many of his learned colleagues from all over the world. He rose to the occasion and, true to his character, delivered a speech full of modest references to his own life as a veterinarian. His self-effacing speech did little to prevent his being the star of the show. When it came to expertise and knowledge of the latest techniques in modern veterinary practice, he was, indeed, among his betters that day but, as every veterinarian there realised, Alfred Wight's own contribution towards the image of his profession was unequalled.

This was summed up by the highly respected American veterinarian, Dr Stephen Ettinger. He stated in a television interview around that time: ‘Without any doubt, James Herriot is the most famous veterinarian in the world and, perhaps, the most respected. He has shown the world that the veterinarian is the gentle doctor.'

In 1992, Alf became the first recipient of the British Veterinary Association's new Chiron Award for ‘exceptional service to the veterinary profession' although, by then, he had retired from veterinary practice. At the end of 1989, feeling that he had little to contribute to the everyday activities within the practice – and suffering the indignity one day of being helped out of a pig pen by two youthful farm lads – he considered it might be time to call it a day. Finding it increasingly difficult to keep pace with the huge changes occurring within his profession, he knew that he was making the right decision.

He was, by then, seventy-three years old and had completed almost fifty years working as a veterinary surgeon. There had been times of triumph and disaster, days of happiness and despair but, above all, there had been years of working at a job that had never failed to fascinate him.

Donald Sinclair, although five years older than Alf, steadfastly refused
to retire and continued to ‘work' on until 1991, but that year, he suffered a stroke which effectively ended his days at 23 Kirkgate. Incredibly – although perhaps unsurprisingly – Donald, who was admitted to hospital, paralysed down one side of his body, discharged himself nine hours later. He made a complete recovery from that stroke and, within a few months was, aged over eighty, once again walking about in the hills above Southwoods Hall.

Donald, living so close to Alf, was always around to brighten his life, as was Alex Taylor, but the late 1980s had seen the demise of more old friends, among them, one of his greatest: Brian Sinclair.

On 13 December 1988, Brian, who had been suffering for some time from circulatory problems, succumbed to a heart attack. Brian, who had always rejoiced in his portrayal as Tristan, had been one of Alf's closest friends and it was a bleak day for him when he learned that he would never again look on his open and laughing face. It was a mournful occasion for us all as we attended his funeral in Harrogate where many tears were shed for such a popular and respected man.

I remember, so well, my father talking about his great friend shortly after his death. He spoke with great feeling about the man with whom he had spent so many uplifting hours of fun and laughter.

‘Brian may have been a practical joker for most of his life,' he said, ‘but, beneath that hilarious veneer, was a sound and dependable man. A true friend in every sense of the word.'

Brian's death was a blow to so many people. A day or two after he died, I went to see Donald at his house and expressed my sorrow at his brother's death.

He looked away from me before gazing out at the rolling hills around Southwoods Hall. ‘Thank you, Jim,' he replied. ‘It's a bugger, isn't it?'

He lowered his head and wept quietly. As I consoled him, I realised that those frightful shouting sessions of the 1940s, described so vividly in the books of James Herriot, had surely hidden Donald's true feelings for his wayward but so engaging younger brother.

They were sad times for me, too, to see my father's friends fade away but December 1991 would be a month his family would never forget. It was when we learned that the days of Alfred Wight were numbered. For this man – with whom, over a period of more than fifty years as a father, friend and professional colleague, I had never had a cross word – the end was in sight.

Early one Friday morning in December 1991, I received a telephone call from Malcolm Whittaker, the consultant surgeon at the Friarage Hospital, Northallerton. He had some bleak news to convey.

The previous month, Alf had suffered a severe rectal bleed while walking in the field behind his house and, following some tests, had eventually been admitted to hospital for an operation. During the pre-operative examination, Mr Whittaker had noticed a small lump in Alf's groin.

‘What is that?' he had asked.

‘I think it is just a benign lipoma, Malcolm,' Alf had replied.

The consultant had not been so sure. ‘How long has it been there?'

‘Oh, for several months.'

Having felt again around the nameless growth, Malcolm Whittaker had suggested a little further investigation. His suspicions had been well-founded. Upon analysis, the ‘harmless lipoma' had proved a far different proposition. It was, in fact, an adenocarcinoma – a secondary cancerous spread from some primary source within the body which, after tissue-typing, was thought to be the prostate gland.

All this was transmitted to me over the telephone that day and it hit me like an express train. Having been informed that my mother and sister had already been told, I asked the consultant the obvious question.

‘How long has he got to live?'

‘It's difficult to say,' replied the surgeon, whose voice then acquired a lighter note as if trying to lift my feelings, ‘but he could have as much as three years.'

Having thanked Malcolm for his call, I sat down at the table and buried my head in my hands. Tears ran down my face as I tried to grasp the reality of the situation. Three years! I kept thinking of the time span, hoping fervently that it would be longer.

In retrospect, we should have suspected something like this, as Alf had shown symptoms of prostatic problems for some time. He had begun to have difficulty passing urine some five years previously and, around 1988, had started passing blood. His prostate gland had been
investigated, found to be enlarged and attempts made to remove it. Biopsies taken at the time, however, showed no sign of malignancy, and we had assumed it was just a benign enlargement. Our optimism, however, was now dashed.

I visited him at his home, Mirebeck, shortly after I had received the dread news. He seemed to have taken it very calmly and was hopeful that the treatment he was about to undergo could stave off the cancer for a considerable period of time.

‘It's wonderful what can be done nowadays,' he said. ‘I'm just going to carry on enjoying myself and looking forward.' We were delighted with his optimistic approach but Rosie, being a doctor, knew the harsh facts. Three years was the
most
that we could hope for.

Before leaving Mirebeck that day, I glanced back into the sitting-room. As I looked at him, seated in front of his word processor whilst putting the final touches to
Every Living Thing,
I wondered whether I would have had the courage to launch straight back into work should I have just received such fearful news. He had begun his long battle against cancer in the only way he knew; he was going to keep busy and continue being active for as long as he possibly could.

He was put onto a series of monthly Zoladex injections, and both chemotherapy and radiotherapy started. Throughout 1992, he did not appear to deteriorate much, although the radiotherapy and the Zoladex made him feel sick for a while. This stoical acceptance of his condition, together with the apparent stabilisation of the symptoms, gave us hope that, perhaps, the cancer could indeed be beaten.

He gave Joan a terrible fright early in 1993 when, having suffered a sudden cardiac arrythmia followed by a cerebral anoxia, he lost consciousness and collapsed on the floor of the kitchen. Having immediately rung Rosie, she was then at a loss as to how to help him. She cradled his head in her arms which, in fact, could have resulted in his death by further restricting the blood flow to his head. The prompt arrival of Rosie, who laid him out flat on the floor, saved the day, after which, following a short stay in hospital, he made a complete recovery.

In fact, 1993 was quite a good year for Alf, with the satisfaction of seeing
Every Living Thing
continuing to prove just as successful as his previous books. Later that year, however, having begun to experience symptoms of the carcinoma spreading, he found himself in hospital again where he underwent yet another operation. This was the beginning of grimmer times ahead – a time when we realised that the cancer, having
kept a misleadingly low profile for almost two years, was beginning to show its true colours.

The brave veneer that he put on his condition cracked only once, in the autumn of 1993, when my mother rang me to say, ‘Please come up to see your father. I am at a loss to know what to do with him.'

This was an unusual call. My mother had, very admirably, borne the burden of watching her husband slowly deteriorate, rarely asking for any assistance, but he had become so severely depressed that she now felt powerless to help him. As I sat with him that day, I was reminded of the bad times over thirty years before, when he had suffered his great depression. He now looked at me, once again, with eyes that were a million miles away.

The position was very difficult for Rosie and me. We tried to cheer him up by talking about his hugely successful life, and the joy that he had given so many people, but we were looking into the eyes of a sensitive and private man, a sincere and deeply caring person with a complex personality which, despite our close relationship with him for so many years, we had never managed to fully comprehend. There had always been a part of my father that I had never really reached and, as I looked at him that day, I knew that I had little chance of unlocking the secret emotions that were troubling him. He had kept his innermost feelings to himself for so many years; why should he release them now?

He assured us that the cause of his despondency was not the fact that his days were coming to an end. I could well believe this. Although without any strong religious faith to help him through those difficult times, he had not only always been a selfless man whose concern for the welfare of others transcended any thoughts of his own well-being, but he, himself, had no fear of death. During his short speech on the occasion of his Golden Wedding anniversary in 1991, he had spoken of his good fortune in having enjoyed such a fascinating and fruitful life, dominated by good health and a supportive wife and family, and that, whatever the future held for him, life had already dealt him a more-than-generous hand. Realising that he still held that philosophy – and that he faced his future with a calm inevitability – I knew that the cause of his present depression was far deeper than just the bleak prospect of his worsening health. Those same mysterious emotions that had always simmered beneath the surface were, once again, exerting their influence.

‘What
is
the matter, Dad?' I asked. Well out of my depth, such a banal and basic question was delivered more in hope than expectation.

He continued staring out of the window and I remember his answer well. ‘I have this feeling of profound and overwhelming melancholy.' He would say no more.

As an illustration of his deeply sensitive nature, I remember his giving an interview to Lynda Lee-Potter of the
Daily Mail.
Having had a few drinks beforehand, he gave her an unusually frank interview in which he poured out his feelings, expressing especially his intense and lasting love for Rosie and Emma. On reading this in the paper, he was deeply upset. He said that he could not remember releasing his feelings so effusively; it was certainly not in his nature to do so.

It was a full two years later before I fully realised how much this had affected him. I had driven him, my mother and Gill up into the Dales for the day and he and I were walking along a green track high above Summerlodge in Swaledale. In those final years of his life, there was nothing he liked better than being driven across to the Yorkshire Dales; he would sit quietly looking at the places that must have rekindled so many happy memories and, despite his advanced condition, he would always insist on getting out of the car for a moment or two to take in the wild scenery and drink in the fresh, clean air.

On this particular day, it was a short walk; with the cancer, by then, having a firm hold upon his body, he could move only with difficulty. Suddenly, he stopped and put his finger to his lips.

‘Jim, I want to ask you a question,' he said, looking down at the winding valley of the river Swale, far below. I said nothing, but allowed him to continue.

He did not look directly at me as he spoke. ‘Tell me … have you ever felt that I thought more about Rosie than you?'

I hesitated, as the question had taken me completely by surprise. There followed a silence, broken only by the sound of the wind coursing across the high moorland. I looked straight at him but he continued to stare into the distance, waiting quietly for my response.

‘Such a thought has never even crossed my mind, Dad,' I replied.

He nodded his head but no words escaped his lips. The subject was never to be raised again.

As we climbed back into the car, I thought to myself, ‘For how long has he been tormented with this? How much of an effort was it to ask that question?'

1994 was a bad year. We watched him lose weight steadily as his condition became worse, and many were shocked at his appearance during the final year of his life.

From the very first day that the cancer had been diagnosed, he expressed a wish that we should tell no one about it, but it did not take a qualified doctor to know the cause of his weight loss in those last few months. It was as though he was still trying to keep his troubles to himself – but everyone knew by then.

He received a bad setback in June 1994. A sheep had strayed into his garden and, in trying to escape, shot past him and knocked him to the ground. Alf sustained a fracture of the femur and, once more, he found himself in hospital where he underwent an operation to pin his leg. It was another period of severe pain and one that he could well have done without. I have always admired the way he bore the distressing conditions that afflicted him in his last few years. Not only did the invasive cancer induce severe pain, but he had to endure the post-operative distress following each operation. He had managed to steer clear of hospitals for so many years but, at that time, he seemed to be in and out of them regularly.

For reasons that I am unable to explain, the melancholic feeling that descended on him in 1993 did not last long, and the final three years of his life were certainly not ones entirely of gloom. He acquired satellite television which proved to be a boon. He watched hours of sport – especially cricket, football and tennis – and, in addition, he was able to enjoy many of the old comedy programmes that were re-shown. His favourite comedians were a joy for him during his years of pain, and still managed to bring tears of laughter to his eyes.

Despite the dark rumbling clouds of cancer, his outlook on life remained generally very positive as he continued to occupy himself fully. The continuing barrage of fan mail certainly kept him busy and he tried to reply to all the letters that arrived at the house. He walked, gardened and read, just as he had done all his life.

His mind remained very alert and he continued to take an active interest in the world around him. Not only were his favourite newspapers read every day from cover to cover as he maintained his lifelong interest in current affairs, but he continued reading books almost until the end. When I went to see him a few days before he died, he was reading one of his all-time favourites,
The Historical Romances of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

‘What a wonderful book this is,' he said. ‘I have read it umpteen times and it still grabs me! That is the mark of a great writer.'

‘I think that
your
books have grabbed a few people as well, Dad!' I replied, wondering whether he realised that his books, like those of one of his most favourite authors, had been and would be, read over and over again and that many of his fans regarded him, too, as a fine writer?

I am not sure that he did. Throughout his life, he always said he was just an average writer who had struck lucky. Rosie and I went to see him regularly, and in the last few weeks of his life, he was often to be found stretched out on the sofa watching the television, but he always gathered the strength to get to his feet. When we left, he always came to see us off with the words, ‘Thanks for coming.'

Thanks for coming?! It was as though he regarded our visits as a duty we felt that we had to perform. We both told him that his company was, and always had been, very special to us; whether this self-effacing man really believed us or not, we shall never know.

His failing health did little to slow down the onward march of the ‘James Herriot Industry', and in 1993 a video, ‘James Herriot's Yorkshire', was produced. It featured Christopher Timothy in some of James Herriot's favourite locations, and 22,000 copies were sold by Christmas of that year. The health of James Herriot may have been declining but his name stood as strongly as ever.