‘She may be no use to me any more,’ he said to me, ‘but she’s going to spend the rest of her days right here!’
After I told this story to my father, the notebook was, once again, produced. ‘Keep feeding me the information,’ he said, ‘and I’ll do the rest!’
A farming friend of mine told me, a year or two ago, ‘It’s a “numbers game” now.’ He was absolutely right. Gone are the days of calling cows Buttercup and Bluebell; they are simply part of an enterprise driven on, as with most things, by money. In today’s commercially dominated world there is less room for sentiment although that is not to say that the modern farmer is without feeling for his stock.
I was to observe an example of the close bond between the farmer and his animals on a recent visit to a hill farm.
The visit – to a farm in the Hambleton Hills to put down an old cow – was an unusual one. As the farmer took me over to her, he requested that I perform the job as painlessly as possible. She was lying on a bed of straw, unable to rise, and she presented a pitiful picture. Her taut, wrinkled skin, gentle, grey face and pure white eyelashes – all hallmarks of a very old animal – caught my attention immediately. As she turned her head slowly towards me, she seemed to be appealing for help, but I knew that I could do little for her.
‘This auld girl is twenty-two year auld,’ said the farmer unsteadily. ‘She’s been a grand cow in ’er time an’ Ah want ’er to go quietly.’ He paused a moment as he composed himself. ‘Can yer inject ’er to put ’er away? Ah don’t want ’er to be shot.’
Shooting is a swift and humane way to destroy an animal but he was adamant that she received an injection, despite the fact that this would render her carcass unsuitable for dog meat, let alone human consumption. It was a most unusual request.
‘Of course, George,’ I replied, ‘but you do realise that this means you will receive absolutely nothing for her?’
‘No matter,’ he replied, walking over to the old animal and stroking her head gently. His voice trembled with emotion. ‘She owes me nowt! Yer don’t mind if Ah don’t watch, der yer?’
His eyes filled with tears as he turned away to walk into the house. As the old cow collapsed back onto the straw after the injection, I felt that I had suddenly stepped back into James Herriot’s world – and visions of Blossom the Cow swam before my eyes. The ‘numbers game’ had not completely taken over, not quite.
Although not actually writing more books at this time, Alf was never allowed to forget that he was a famous author, and he still spent a large part of his time in the Kirkgate surgery signing books for his many fans. Years of this activity eventually resulted in his developing arthritis in his hand and, in the last few years of his life, he spent time at home signing, at his own pace, countless self-adhesive labels that his admirers could stick into their books.
Occasionally, during long signing sessions in the surgery waiting-room, he had to politely decline requests for wordy dedications. One day, following yet another such session, he returned to the office, smiling.
‘Most people are quite satisfied with “Best Wishes, James Herriot”,’ he said, ‘but one guy has just asked for “To Ray, Elsie, Kevin, Holly and Louise on your first ever visit to Yorkshire. With very best wishes, James Herriot, Helen, Siegfried and all the rest at Skeldale House!” I made the excuse that the old hand would probably seize up half-way through!’
The new television series of ‘All Creatures Great and Small’, for which he began to write new material in 1986, proved to be every bit as popular as the previous one; it ran on into 1990 and finally ended with a ‘Christmas Special’ in December of that year. The only change in the cast was the introduction of Lynda Bellingham, who played the part of Helen in place of Carol Drinkwater. She, like the previous two actresses who had portrayed Joan, stepped into the role perfectly.
This series did not ring with quite the same authenticity as the earlier ones. Having virtually exhausted James Herriot’s original material, extra writers were needed – with some of the later episodes only loosely based upon his stories. Nevertheless, they were, as with the previous series, a great success – and were watched and enjoyed by millions.
New characters appeared for this series, many of whom were to reappear in Alf’s final book, Every Living Thing –a title suggested by his American publisher, Tom McCormack. This book, published in 1992, was one my father thoroughly enjoyed writing. Not only did he now have a word processor to assist him – to quote his favourite expression at the time, ‘How did I ever manage without one?’ – but he told very few people that he had intentions of writing another book. This meant he could proceed in his own time without the pressure of any deadlines.
‘I don’t want anyone looking over my shoulder holding a contract,’ he told me. ‘I can write this book in my own time, so please don’t tell anyone what I am doing!’
It took him, in fact, over four years to complete the book, finally unleashing the news to his publishers in 1991. This was received with delight, as well as surprise, and the book, like its predecessors, soon shot into the UK best-seller lists.
He had some arguments with Tom McCormack about several of the chapters which Tom wished to change – but he was, by now, such a confident author that he allowed very little tampering with his original manuscript. Despite these minor disagreements, the result was a book that sold 650,000 copies in hardback in America in the first six weeks, and remained on the New York Timesbest-seller lists for almost eight months.
Every Living Thingintroduces the reader to Calum Buchanan, ‘the vet with t’ badger, and based on the real-life character, Brian Nettleton, Alf’s memorable assistant. Brian was such a fascinating personality that Calum figures in eleven of the fifty-two chapters and his vibrant character strides through the pages of the book, bringing back many happy memories for all of us who knew him.
Sadly, Brian was never to read about himself in Every Living Thing. More than twenty years after leaving the practice, he came back to see us in Thirsk, where we were delighted to be reacquainted with the piercing dark eyes, the flamboyant moustache and the ageless enthusiasm of a man who had changed little over the years. We were so pleased to have had that opportunity to have spoken to him; less than one month later, Brian was tragically killed in a car accident in Canada. It is good to know that, in Calum Buchanan, he will live forever.
Another assistant who appears in Every Living Thingwas my father’s very first one, John Crooks. In this single case, he used John’s real name – an indication of the lasting respect and friendship the two men enjoyed for so many years.
I, too, come into the book, and it was a revealing experience for me as I read it, wide-eyed, for the first time. In chapter 7, he writes about Rosie and me accompanying our father on his rounds when we were smalclass="underline"
She always ran to get things for me while Jimmy invariably walked. Often, in the middle of a case, I’d say, ‘Fetch me another syringe, Jimmy,’ and my son would stroll out to the car, often whistling, perfectly relaxed … And I have often noticed that now, when he is a highly experienced veterinary surgeon, he still doesn’t hurry.