The Real James Herriot (44 page)

But there's something else in Herriot's writing that I can't quite articulate, a glow of decency that makes people want to be better humans. I guess we'd call it spirituality these days, this profound belief of Herriot's that humans are linked to all animals, whether they be calves he helped birth or pampered pets like Tricki Woo, Mrs Pumphrey's lovable but overfed Pekingese.

Alf's own profession did not forget the massive contribution that his writing had made in enhancing the image of the veterinary surgeon. His very first veterinary assistant, John Crooks, wrote his obituary in the
Veterinary Record
in March 1995:

James Alfred Wight, under his pen name James Herriot, was without doubt the world's best known and best loved veterinary surgeon. Others better qualified than I, will, no doubt, write of his literary prowess and of his immense contribution to the veterinary profession, as shown by the honours showered on him throughout the world. These accolades he accepted with great pleasure yet total humility.

The last time we met, only a few months before his death, he expressed genuine, slightly bemused astonishment at his phenomenal literary success. I treasure our last conversation which was all of veterinary matters, of difficult cases and hilarious situations. Although he qualified in the pre-antibiotic era, Alf quickly adapted to new medicines, new anaesthetics, new surgical techniques and laboratory procedures. When I joined the practice in 1951 I found it totally up to date. He had small, sensitive hands and was especially skilled in obstetrical work. Although not long in the arm, it was amazing with what facility he dealt with difficult calvings in the large shorthorn cows common in the 1950s. One farmer said to me, ‘Aye, 'e got us a grand live calf – but 'e near 'ad to climb in to get it out!' He handled animals with gentleness and firmness. He loved his work.

The world will remember a brilliant and modest writer who made his profession famous. Those of us who had the privilege of working with him, and those who had the privilege of having their animals cared for by him, will remember him for what he most aspired to be – a highly competent and caring veterinary surgeon.

I know that my father would have approved of these words. Throughout his years of literary fame, he persistently regarded himself as primarily a veterinary surgeon, but the praise heaped upon him was always in reference to his achievements as a writer. John's appreciation of his
friend as a vet – a view shared by many others – would have meant a great deal to him.

Alf Wight – and his alter ego, James Herriot – was, indeed, loved by many, but it is important to remember that he was only one of countless veterinarians the world over who are every bit as caring and compassionate as he was. He had, however, that extra quality – the gift of the born raconteur which resulted in his becoming the best ambassador the veterinary profession could have ever hoped for. It was through his writing that he displayed to the world the veterinary surgeons' dedication and concern for their patients – in effect, humanising his profession in a world becoming increasingly motivated purely by profit and efficiency. As a veterinary surgeon, he was just one of many others who shared his fine qualities.

As a writer, however, he stood alone. The warmth and affection that he felt for others, animal and human, flowed from his pen as though writing were an outlet for the emotions that he felt deeply but could never fully unleash. It is within the pages of James Herriot's books that the real character of Alfred Wight is to be found.

It could be argued that being the son of such a man could have posed serious problems in trying to live up to his example – but it has not. Alfred Wight never cast a shadow over his family. Far from being in awe of his massive success, his modest approach to it ensured that I have felt nothing but pride in the achievements of a man whom I considered simply as a great friend and father rather than a world-famous personality.

If my father had a gravestone, I would inscribe upon it the advice that we, as his younger colleagues, heard from him time and again: ‘It's not what you do, it's the way that you do it.'

I am unable to inscribe this lasting tribute to him as he has no headstone; instead, his ashes are scattered among the moorland grass at the top of the Whitestone Cliffs from where a huge area of his beloved North Yorkshire can be seen. Rosie suggested this spot and it is entirely fitting for his final resting place. I have stood here for many an hour, looking at the places where my father played out a great slice of his life. His practice, where he toiled manfully among all creatures great and small, is stretched out below, as far as the distant Pennines which first captivated him in those far-off days in 1940. Thirsk, where he brought up his family, and Thirlby, his home for the last eighteen years of his life, are clearly visible but, above all, it is a fresh and clean part of
Yorkshire with a breath of the wildness and freedom that was so close to his heart.

My father described this stretch of Yorkshire as having the ‘finest view in England'; for a man with such feeling for the beauty of the country around him, there could be no better place to lie.

I return to that spot many times when walking my dog, and only last week I sat there with her – just as my father had done countless times with his dogs. As I gazed out at the patchwork of fields stretched below, I had feelings of sadness and nostalgia.

The world that James Herriot wrote about has all but disappeared and the countless family farms which James, Siegfried and Tristan visited in their rattly little cars are now few in number. Almost all of the fascinating old Yorkshire farmers that James Herriot immortalised are now dead and gone, together with the hard-working bands of farm men with whom he spent many happy hours.

Large cultivated fields, splashed with the colour of modern buildings, have partly taken the place of the greens and browns of hedges and old farmsteads but, apart from this, the picture of ‘Herriot Country' laid out before me was not very different from the one I knew as a boy. As well as sadness, however, I had feelings of gratitude; how many men can claim to have had a father who left such great memories that could be shared with so many?

My memories that day, however, were not of James Herriot the author, but of Alfred Wight, the father. Following his death, one of his fans sent me the famous prayer by Henry Scott Holland, Canon of St Paul's Cathedral (1847–1918). The words are moving ones and bring great comfort to those who grieve at the loss of a loved one. The first and final sentences of the prayer seemed to have especial significance at that time:

‘Death is nothing at all. I have only slipped away into the next room … Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner. All is well.'

As I sat that day with the ‘finest view in England' stretched before me, I did wonder whether I would ever see my father again. I would give a great deal to be able to do so. I have so much to say to him and countless questions to ask. I do not know and I can only hope.

There is, however, one thing of which I am certain. James Herriot, the unassuming veterinary surgeon who enthralled millions, was no
fictional character. There was a man I knew, who possessed all the virtues of the famous veterinarian – and more. A totally honest man whose fine sense of humour and air of goodwill towards others ensured that he was respected by all who knew him. A man on whom, after his death, a Yorkshire farmer delivered his final verdict: ‘Aye, he were a right decent feller.' That man was James Alfred Wight.