The Real James Herriot

by Jim Wight

  During his years of fame, my father received mountains of fan mail from all over the world. His stories entranced so many of his readers that they felt compelled to write and tell him how much his books meant to them. Many of the letters delivered to his door by the overworked postmen carried a similar theme: his fans sought the real truth behind the stories. They wanted to get to know the real man but, above all, they wanted to join James Herriot in a world that seemed so far removed from their own modern, high-pressure existence. In writing this book, I hope I have answered them.

  Much of the material that I needed to fill the following pages, I have in my head but, after beginning, I discovered a mass of extra information. Having asked my mother for permission to go through her house on a fact-finding mission, I found more than I could have hoped for. I had not realised that my parents had kept so much in the way of papers, letters and newspaper cuttings – some of it going back to before the Second World War. For much of this, I have to thank my mother. My father, too, retained copious amounts of paper but making sense of his ‘filing system’ was difficult. He was never the most organised of men and I spent many hours going over hundreds of scraps of crumpled paper – but it was time well spent.

  Another person I have to thank for providing me with invaluable information is my father’s mother, dear old Granny Wight. I spent my student days in Glasgow lodging with my grandmother but, in all of my five years there, I had no idea that her house at 694 Anniesland Road contained such a rich store of archive material. She was one of life’s hoarders; she threw nothing away. In the summer of 1981, the years had finally established their mark upon this astonishingly independent and energetic lady. Having reached the age of eighty-nine, with her mind (and body) beginning to wander, it was imperative that she be moved closer to her family in Yorkshire. Two or three weeks following her move into a nursing home in Harrogate, I hired a van to travel to Glasgow and collect her belongings. There was a vast amount, including amongst it the contents of the ‘glory hole’. This was a tiny room into which Granny Wight had stuffed just about everything she hadn’t thrown away. The contents of that little room were transferred to my father’s attic in Thirlby and lay there, forgotten, for more than sixteen years until I unearthed it all in 1997. It has provided a wealth of information.

  Alf Wight was always a prodigious letter writer and wrote to his parents regularly, right up until the 1980s. His mother had preserved all of these letters, many of which make fascinating reading. Some of them which date back to a time when he was struggling emotionally as well as financially, reveal his feelings during a difficult and exacting period of his life. The dusty, untidy heap of letters from that neglected old den in Glasgow has given me a peep into a part of my father’s life that had previously been denied to me. Many people have helped with the research for this book but no one contributed more than the old lady who had so assiduously preserved everything connected with the son who meant so much to her.

  Everyone has revelations at some time or other in their lives and I have had a whole bundle of them since I decided to write this biography. Foremost is the realisation that I did not really appreciate my father’s work until well after his death. In my defence, this is not surprising as he spoke so little about his literary achievements. I remember in the mid 1970s when his books were hogging the number one spot in the New York Times best-seller lists, he would occasionally say, ‘I’m in my fifteenth week at the top of the best-sellers in America, isn’t that amazing?’ ‘Great, Dad!’ I would reply and the subject would be dropped. That was fine by him; he was really far more interested in talking about other things.

  The local people, including the farming community, said very little about their local ‘vitinry’s’ fame but that is not to say they were unaware of it. My father liked it that way and, indeed, he once said to me that he would be surprised if more than a handful of his farming friends had read his books. He may have been wrong.

  One day he was operating on a cow and the long, laborious task of suturing the abdominal wound was under way. Such operations on the bovine race are often extremely interesting, especially Caesarean sections where the delivery of a calf ‘through the side door’ is one of the most satisfying experiences for the country practitioner. Closing up the wound is a tedious business, however, and it is at such times as these that a bit of conversation between farmer and vet can break the monotony.

  On this particular occasion, the farmer suddenly said to him, ‘Ah’ve read one o’ yer books, Mr Wight.’

  This came as a real shock to my father who never expected the local people to show interest in his work, especially busy farmers. He hardly dared to ask the next question. ‘What did you think of it? Did you enjoy it?’

  The farmer replied slowly, ‘Aye … why … it’s all about nowt!’

  This was a veiled compliment. The book had been read and enjoyed, despite describing a way of life only too familiar to the reader.

  I knew my father as well as anyone but I, too, was one of the many who made little fuss of his achievements. He would have made light of this but now, some four years after his death, I realise that I underestimated him. His qualities as a friend, father and professional colleague, I have always appreciated; it was his qualities as an author that I did not. That is, until now. Although he and I were always the closest of friends, he was acutely aware of my shortcomings. Organisation was never one of my strong points. ‘You’re just like me, Jim. You couldn’t run a winkle stall!’ was a cry I heard only too often, and it was with such encouraging thoughts that I embarked upon this biography.

  I have, however, done something right. I decided at the outset to re-read all my father’s books and, in so doing, I have at last realised what a great storyteller he was. Others, of course, all over the world, saw his qualities as a writer very quickly but I still think that it is easy to underestimate James Herriot. He had such a pleasant, readable style that one could be forgiven for thinking that anyone could emulate it. How many times have I heard people say, ‘Oh, I could write a book. I just haven’t the time.’ Easily said. Not so easily done. My father, contrary to popular opinion, did not find it easy in his early days of, as he put it, ‘having a go at the writing game’. Whilst he obviously had an abundance of natural talent, the final, polished work that he gave to the world was the result of years of practising, re-writing and reading. Like the majority of authors, he had to suffer many disappointments and rejections along the way, but these made him all the more determined to succeed. Everything he achieved in life was earned the hard way and his success in the literary field was no exception.

  When I re-read his books, I set out with the idea of analysing them, of trying to pick up some tips from the master, but I always ended up in the same state – the book on the floor and my head back, crying with laughter. I know he would have approved. To have his writing subjected to detailed appraisal was never his wish; he wanted it, quite simply, to be enjoyed. That period of re-reading James Herriot’s books has been one of the most revealing and enjoyable times of my life.

  The veterinary profession has undergone enormous change since the days when my father qualified from Glasgow Veterinary College in 1939, with great strides having been made in the ongoing quest to conquer animal diseases. Many of the old ailments that my father wrote about have largely been brought under control but others rise up to take their place, presenting continually fresh challenges for the profession. The practice in Thirsk has changed out of all recognition since ‘James Herriot’s’ heyday – a period of his life he described, many times, as ‘harder, but more fun’. Gone are the days of driving round the hills visiting little farms, treating a cow with ‘wooden tongue’ here, a pig with Erysipelas there. As the number of farm visits declined and the small animal work increased, so the practice has now become about fifty per cent pet-orientated.

  Thanks largely to my father, however, a window on the veterinary profession of the past has been kept open. Many young people who watched
the highly popular television series, ‘All Creatures Great and Small’, based on the Herriot books, were eager to take up veterinary medicine as a career, but they soon discovered a very different picture from the one displayed on the screen. The world of James Herriot is history.

  An American reader wrote to my father’s publisher in 1973, in appreciation of his work: ‘Herriot seems to possess the quality of being the universal observer with whom the reader can readily empathize. He is one of those individuals who is a natural audience to the quirks and vagaries of the human species.’ My father was, indeed, a great observer of human nature but now it is his turn to be put under the spotlight. Throughout his literary career, James Herriot had millions of fans and countless numbers wrote to him. One of his biggest fans is now about to write about him – not just as an author but as a colleague, friend and father. While other veterinary surgeons look to the future, I am travelling back into the past but maybe, as my father would have said, I will ‘have more fun’. I will carry the regret to the end of my days that I never told him what I really thought about him, but at least there is one thing I can do. I can tell everyone else.

  List of Illustrations

  1. Hannah Bell, Alf’s mother

  2. James Henry Wight, Alf’s father

  3. The formal wedding photograph

  4. A typical tenement building in Yoker

  5. Pop with members of the Glasgow Society of Musicians

  6. Alf with young friend in Sunderland

  7. Jim and Hannah Wight, with young Alfie

  8. Alf on holiday with his parents near Loch Lomond

  9. Alf with Jack Dinsdale

  10. On holiday with his mother and relations

  11. Several holidaying families gathered together near High Force

  12. With Don as a young puppy

  13. Alf with Stan Wilkins

  14. At Hillhead School

  15. Ready for a game of football

  16. The Glasgow Veterinary College football team

  17. With his mother in Llandudno

  18. Alf and Peter Shaw beside Loch Ness

  19. On holiday with the Boys’ Brigade at North Berwick

  20. Alf with Donald Sinclair and Eric Parker

  21. Market day in Thirsk, c.1940

  22. Alf in the vegetable garden at 23 Kirkgate

  23. TB-testing in the Yorkshire Dales

  24. Alf with his baby son

  25. Joan on the beach at Llandudno

  26. Pop and Alf with Rosie and Jimmy

  27. With his mother in the Campsie Fells

  28. Alf with Jimmy and Rosie, Alex Taylor with Lynne

  29. Picnic time with Pop and Granny Wight

  30. Alf and Jimmy Youth-Hostelling in the Dales

  31. Kirkgate in Thirsk

  32. Snow drifts were a common winter hazard

  33. Brian Sinclair c.1948

  34. The garden at 23 Kirkgate

  35. Brian Nettleton, t’ vet wi’t badger

  36. The author, with his father, ‘always a comforting presence’

  37. Hector the Jack Russell and Dan the Labrador

  38. Joan was as fond of the dogs as Alf

  39. Walking up onto Sutton Bank with Hector and Dan

  40. Bodie, the Border Terrier

  41. Rosie with Bodie and Polly at Sanna Bay

  42. The Whitestone Cliffs on Sutton Bank

  43. The brass plate outside 23 Kirkgate

  44. The brass plate outside ‘Skeldale House’

  45. James Herriot meets the other James Herriot

  46. Writing in front of the television in the evening

  47. The in’s and out’s of a vet’s life …

  48. Arthur Dand with Alf

  49. The fury of the chase

  50. At the Authors of the Year party

  51. At a Yorkshire Post literary lunch

  52. Signing books for Austin Bell in his front room

  53. The queue in W.H.Smith, Harrogate, 1977

  54. The crowded waiting-room at 23 Kirkgate

  55. The queue waiting for the doors of 23 Kirkgate to open

  56. Alf, after receiving the OBE in 1979

  57. Simon Ward and Lisa Harrow with Alf and Joan

  58. James Alderton, Lisa Harrow and Colin Blakely

  59. Partners in more senses than one

  60. Alf with Christopher Timothy

  61. Christopher Timothy

  62. With granddaughters Zoe and Katrina

  63. With Sunderland F.C.fans on King’s Cross Station

  64. After the memorial service at York Minster

  Chapter One

  Jim Murray, a Scottish cowman working in North Yorkshire, presented a small, wiry bundle of displeasure as he stood, his jaw set like a vice, staring into my face. His sharp little eyes were about an inch from my own. I was still in my early years in Thirsk as a fully qualified veterinary surgeon and thought I had performed a good professional job in delivering a fine calf out of a pedigree Beef Shorthorn cow but I could sense that he did not share my feelings of satisfaction.

  ‘You young vets are all the same!’ he growled. ‘Always leavin’ the soap in the watter!’

  Having been so engrossed in my task, I had completely forgotten about the nice, clean bar of soap that the cowman had provided for me; I had left it simmering gently in the bucket of scalding hot water. Jim was now fingering a small, green, glutinous ball that had previously been his soap.

  ‘Yer faither never does this!’ he barked. ‘He never wastes onything. A guid Scotsman never wastes onything!’

  This was not the first time I had been unfavourably compared to my father, but I had an ace up my sleeve. ‘I’m sorry about this, Jim,’ I replied, ‘it won’t happen again. But I must tell you that you’re wrong about my dad. He’s not a Scotsman. He’s an Englishman.’

  ‘Awa wi’ ye!’ was the sharp reply as the little figure stumped indignantly out of the cowshed. Another successful visit from J. A. Wight junior had drawn to a close.

  Jim Murray was not alone in his belief that Alf Wight was a Scotsman as he never lost the soft Glaswegian accent he developed over his twenty-three years in that great Scottish city. Long after he had become James Herriot, newspaper articles still often referred to him as the ‘Scottish vet who adopted Yorkshire as his home’. Indeed, he is described on the inside jacket of his third book, Let Sleeping Vets Lie, as being born in Glasgow and practising all his life in Yorkshire. He was not a Scotsman, nor did he spend his entire life as a practising veterinary surgeon in Yorkshire. He was an Englishman born of English parents in an English town.

  James Alfred Wight was born on 3 October 1916 in the industrial north-eastern town of Sunderland. He did not remain there long. Aged just three weeks, he was moved to Glasgow where he was to spend the formative years of his life. Although he left his birthplace as such a tiny creature, he retained close connections with Sunderland and visited it regularly throughout the years when he lived in Glasgow.

  Although Alf was an only child, he was, in effect, part of a very large family. Both his parents came from large families so he inherited a host of uncles, aunts and cousins, and he kept in close touch with them throughout his life.

  Alf Wight was born at 111 Brandling Street, a modest terraced house in the Roker area of Sunderland. The name of the house was ‘Fashoda’ and it was owned by Robert Bell, his maternal grandfather who was a printer by trade. His parents, James Henry Wight and Hannah Bell, had married on 17 July 1915 in the Primitive Methodist chapel in Williamson Terrace, Sunderland, where his father had been the organist. Following the wedding they had moved to Glasgow to live, but Hannah Wight returned to the family home in Sunderland fifteen months later, especially to have her baby.

  Alf’s father, Jim Wight, was by trade a ship plater, like his father before him. The major sources of employment in Sunderland were ship-building, coal-mining and steel-working and in those early years of the century the Sunderland shipyards were booming. The onset of Worl
d War One ensured that there was plenty of work, with one third of the adult male population employed in the shipbuilding industry. Despite holding down a steady job in the Sunderland shipyards, Alf’s father had left his home town for alternative employment in Glasgow in November 1914 – eight months before he was married. This seems surprising but there were good reasons for his doing so. He enjoyed his work in the shipyards but, unlike the majority of his workmates, Jim Wight was more than just a ship plater; he was also an accomplished musician – one of the qualities that appealed to his future wife during their courtship in the years before the war.

  He had been playing in cinemas in Sunderland, partly to supplement his earnings but also to satisfy his great love of playing the piano and the organ. Hannah, too, loved music. Her parents were well known in local Sunderland music circles, within which she, herself, was an accomplished contralto. She sang at many minor concerts but she longed to improve herself, and Sunderland, despite its many good qualities, was not really the cultural centre of the north. Where else in Britain could she go that would ensure that her husband could carry on earning his living in the shipyards, and where both of them could further their musical aspirations? Glasgow fitted the bill perfectly. Hannah always wanted to better herself, and her determination to move in cultured circles resulted in her acquiring the title of ‘Duchess’ from her more down-to-earth relatives. However, behind the rather ‘superior’ front she displayed to the world, there were fine qualities. She was a dedicated wife and mother, and this determination to achieve the best for her family would, in the years to come, contribute substantially to the future success of her son.

  In 1914, therefore, this forceful young lady sent her future husband off to the big, vibrant city that teemed with cinemas, theatres and concert halls – one that reverberated not only with the clatter of shipyards and steel, but with the sound of music. There, Jim Wight was able to find work among the cinemas and theatres as well as in the great shipyards on the River Clyde.