by Jim Wight
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.
The video was launched at a private showing in Leeds that October, where the title of ‘Honorary Yorkshireman’ was conferred on Alf Wight and Chris Timothy. As my father was not well enough to attend the reception, I accepted the honour on his behalf. He was very proud to have been recognised by his adopted county – one that he had done so much for.
In 1994, his book James Herriot’s Cat Stories was published. This book was like the earlier James Herriot’s Dog Stories in that it contained chapters taken from all his previous books, but otherwise it was very different. For a start, it was a small book and very short. The reason for this was simple – Alf had not written many stories about cats. Jenny Dereham at Michael Joseph read through the first seven books and found only five or six stories which would be suitable; the rest, she said, had a tendency to be about splattered cats arriving on the operating table after being hit by cars. Since the stories were to be illustrated throughout in colour, these were not very suitable. When she heard that Alf was writing one more book, Every Living Thing, she asked if he could possibly write some ‘nice’ cat stories which could go into the later compilation. Alf, as always, helpfully agreed.
Although a great lover of cats, Alf only ever owned a few and then for short periods; this meant that he referred less to them in his writings than to his dogs. He had them as a boy in Glasgow, and he and Joan once had a sweet little tabby called Topsy but, after her premature death, they did not get another for over ten years until Oscar arrived.
Oscar was a stray who turned up on the doorstep of Rowardennan but he was with us for only a few weeks before he simply disappeared one night, never to be seen again. Alf endured the agony, like so many of his clients when their own cats disappeared, of being left with the heart-rending uncertainty of their final demise. He later wrote a story about a cat called Oscar (which was also turned into one of the children’s books) and he gave the story a happier ending.
No more cats were to share Alf’s life until, in his final few years, two little wild strays took up residence in the log shed behind their house in Thirlby. After months of patient coaxing, he finally managed to get close enough to stroke them, but they never became house cats as Bodie pursued them relentlessly. These two, named Ollie and Ginny, made star appearances in both Every Living Thing and James Herriot’s Cat Stories.
Cat Stories had exquisite water-colour illustrations by Lesley Holmes. It was a runaway bestseller, especially in the USA where it sold more copies than any other previous James Herriot book, staying on the New York Times best-seller list for almost six months. After Alf’s death, two companion volumes were published: James Herriot’s Favourite Dog Stories and James Herriot’s Yorkshire Stories. Both were again illustrated by Lesley Holmes, who not only portrayed the animals so well but captured the magic of the Yorkshire landscape.
Towards the end of 1994, Alf received what was to be the last tribute paid to him prior to his death. It was also one that meant a great deal to him.
In November, he received a letter from the Dean of the University of Glasgow Veterinary School, Professor Norman Wright, in which it was proposed that the new library in the school be named the ‘James Herriot Library’. It was in recognition of his services to the profession and the letter went on to say that the Veterinary School was very proud that James Herriot was a graduate of Glasgow and could they have permission to use his name? Deeply moved by this proposed dedication, he replied in his letter of acceptance: ‘I regard this as the greatest honour to ever have been bestowed upon me.’
He had many tributes paid to him throughout a distinguished veterinary and literary career, but his response to this final appreciation revealed an undiminished affection for the city in which he spent the formative years of his life.
As well as this final tribute from his old Alma Mater, visits to Sunderland to watch his football team served to lighten his flickering last few weeks. Despite his rapidly failing strength, he insisted on following the fortunes of his team – his last visit being in early 1995, only one month prior to his death. He needed constant support when making his way painfully to his seat in the stand, and Joan expressed great concern that he might suffer a final collapse, but Rosie was very positive about it.
‘It is a great thing that he still wants to go,’ she told her. ‘At a time like this, we should give him as much pleasure as possible and, anyway, should he die at Roker Park, what better place to end his life.’ We knew that he had not long to go and I have often thought, since his death, that had he not died at home, he would have approved of ending his days in the company of the red and white stripes – and less than a mile away from Brandling Street where he first looked upon the world all those years ago in 1916.
Right up until a few days before his death, he refused to give in – remaining determinedly mobile by walking around the house and garden every day. I have strong feelings of consolation that, remarkably, he was a bed-ridden invalid for no more than two days. If ever a man fought cancer with fortitude, it was my father.
Many people helped him through his illness. He was so grateful to the doctors and nursing staff at the Friarage Hospital that he gave a very substantial sum of money towards the acquisition of a scanner for the hospital, in appreciation of the wonderful treatment he had received.
Joan, of course, was the person who helped him more than any other. She bore the dis
tress of watching him slowly but surely deteriorate, managing the vast majority of the work in tending to his needs. From their first days together, she had supported him through good times and bad – most of them good – but never would her devotion to her husband shine more brightly than during those final, dark months of his life.
Alex and Lynne Taylor, too, played their part in brightening his days while Donald Sinclair still managed to make him smile as he had done, unconsciously, since they first met all those years before.
The last thing he ever wrote was the foreword to a small booklet about the White Horse Association. It was at the request of one of his friends, a farming client called Fred Banks, who was president of the association. The famous White Horse, which had been cut into the hillside above the village of Kilburn in 1857, is a vivid landmark which, together with the Whitestone Cliffs, formed a majestic background to Alf’s work in veterinary practice for almost fifty years. He wrote the foreword only three days before he died, saying in it:
I had spent only a few days in Thirsk when … I had one of my most delightful surprises – my first sight of the White Horse of Kilburn. I find it difficult to describe the thrill I felt at the time and it is something which has remained with me over the years. As a young man, it was one of my favourite outings to take my young children to sit up there on the moorland grass and savour what must be one of the finest panoramic views in England; fifty miles of chequered fields stretching away to the long bulk of the Pennines.
Alf’s love of writing, and his willingness to cooperate with so many requests, had lasted up until his final days.
In late January 1995, on one of my visits to his house, I was alarmed at his appearance. He was always a man who hid his pain from others, but he could not conceal it this time. He told me that he had an excruciatingly sore point in his back. There was little to see, but to touch the area provoked an agonised response.
The last time that I had seen something similar was many years before, when I had visited my old Chemistry master, John Ward, who was suffering from lung cancer that had finally spread to his spine. He was in tremendous pain and died only a day or two after my visit.
As I spoke to my father that day, I could not help but notice the similarity and I knew that the end was near. I left his house with one thought on my mind – a fervent hope that he would not have to suffer for much longer. He had been through some bad days and it could only get worse.
I did not have to wait long. On the evening of Tuesday, 21 February, unable to remain on his feet, he was confined to his bed. A syringe pump, delivering morphine into his system, helped to ease the pain.
I visited him that evening but his usually lively conversation was absent. Heavily drugged, he could only talk slowly and unsteadily but still managed a smile or two as Alex Taylor reminded him of some of the countless funny times they had shared in their youth.
He deteriorated steadily throughout the following day and soon could no longer speak coherently. I remember, having at one point sat gently on the side of his bed, being startled to see him gasp and grimace with pain. Knowing how stoically he had borne his disease for so long, I wondered what sort of horrendous assault his body had endured to generate such a reaction.
I saw him alive for the last time on the evening of 22 February and I knew the end was very close. I shot out to a farm visit the following morning before visiting him again, but he was dead before I arrived at the house. My mother, Rosie and Emma were by his side when he died.
As I looked at him that morning, I felt utterly alone. The shock of his death was not as severe as the one I had received over three years earlier when I first knew he had cancer; instead, I felt nothing but an overwhelming sorrow, and I knew that my life would never be quite the same again. On that morning of 23 February 1995, the world lost its best-loved veterinary surgeon. His family, and those close to him, lost a great deal more.
Chapter Thirty
Within twenty-four hours of my father’s death, letters of condolence began to arrive on his family’s doorsteps. My mother received literally thousands, while Rosie and I had hundreds to read. They came not only from close friends, but from clients of the practice, local people who had felt privileged to know him personally, former assistants who had worked at 23 Kirkgate, many members of the veterinary profession and, of course, admirers of his work from all over the world. With so many, including those who knew him only through his writing, feeling that they, too, had lost a great friend, we were not alone with our thoughts at that time.
As he would have wished, the funeral – conducted one week later by the Reverend Toddy Hoare in the nearby village of Felixkirk – was a quiet family affair. As well as the immediate family, only Donald Sinclair, his daughter Janet, Alex and Lynne Taylor, their daughter, Lynne, too, and Eve Pette, Denton’s widow, were present. A small service was conducted afterwards at the crematorium in Darlington.
On the day after he died, the James Herriot Library was due to be opened at the Veterinary School in Glasgow. I had agreed, at the time that it was proposed to him three months before, to accept the honour on his behalf.
When they heard the sad news, the Veterinary School suggested that the ceremony be postponed, but I felt that it was something that I had to do. This was the last honour he had received – and one that had meant so much to him. It presented me with an emotionally challenging task but I had a feeling of great pride when I saw my father’s portrait looking, almost poignantly, across the library and out of the window to the Campsie Fells where he had spent so many happy hours in his youth.
On either side of the plaque in the James Herriot Library there are two photographs, one of Alfred Wight and the other of Sir William Weipers – two very famous graduates who made enormous contributions to their profession. I have often wondered what my father would have thought, all those years ago as an insignificant student at Glasgow Veterinary College, had he known that one day he would be pictured alongside the man he had so admired? I feel sure that he would have been a very proud man had he lived just those few more days to have seen it.
My low spirits following my father’s last days were not improved by the death, shortly afterwards, of Donald Sinclair. Donald had had an emotionally turbulent few months. The death of my father had hit him so hard that he could not summon up the courage to speak to me until a full week later. When he did, it was in typical fashion. The telephone rang in my house and when I lifted the receiver, a voice said, simply, ‘Jim?’
‘Yes, Donald?’ I replied.
There was a long pause, which was unusual for such an impatient man. When he spoke, his voice was unsteady. ‘I’m fed up about your dad.’
I had no chance to respond. The telephone went dead. It had been the briefest of conversations but I knew how he felt – and what he had tried to say.
Worse was to come Donald’s way. His wife, Audrey, who had been failing for some time, died that June, three and a half months after my father. Donald had been totally devoted to her throughout their fifty-two years together and, following this devastating blow, he seemed like a lost person, drained of all his humour and vitality.
One day not long after Audrey’s death, he walked into the surgery in Kirkgate and stood beside me as I operated on a dog. He had always been a startlingly thin man but, on that day, he seemed to have shrunk to almost nothing. That gloriously volatile aura of eccentricity was absent as he stood quietly, observing me at work. The wonderful character I had known for so many years bore little resemblance to the old man at my side, and I felt a pang of sympathy as I glanced at his face – one that betrayed an air of loneliness and hopelessness.
Suddenly, he broke his silence. ‘Jim, do you mind if I come and live here?’ he asked quietly.
‘These premises belong to you,’ I said, ‘so you can do what you like.’
‘I have always wanted to live in that top flat. Looking over Thirsk to the hills – the one where your mother and father had their first home,’ he continued.
‘Yes, there is something very nice about the flat,’ I replied. Although I knew that Donald had become depressed living alone in Southwoods Hall, I hardly expected him to move house at such an advanced age.
‘I’ll move in tomorrow,’ he said, and disappeared as suddenly as he had arrived. It was the last time that I saw Donald Sinclair alive.
The following morning he was found, at Southwoods Hall, in a coma. He had taken an overdose of barbiturate, leaving a scribbly note indicating his desire not to be resuscitated. His children, Alan and Janet, were soon by his side and, after five days of heartache and uncertainty, he finally passed peacefully away.
Surprisingly, for such a mercurial man as Donald, his death was, in some ways, predictable. Many years ago, when I first joined the practice, Donald had once talked to me about his enthusiasm for voluntary euthanasia, with the conversation eventually becoming focused upon death and final resting places. For a young man of twenty-four, it was a rather disconcerting subject.
One of Donald’s acquaintances had recently suddenly died at a Rotary Club luncheon, and I had said to him, ‘It’s not a bad way to go really. He was a good age and he died at his favourite pastime – eating!’
‘I know a better way,’ Donald had said.
‘Oh? And what is that?’
‘Shot in the back of the head, at ninety, by a jealous husband!’
He had continued our slightly morbid discussion with, ‘When I die, Jim, I would like to be buried at Southwoods in that field below the pine wood near the third gate, the one that looks up to the hill.’