After reading this, I began to analyse myself, and quickly realised that my father was quite right! Excepting occasions when a sudden burst of activity is desperately needed, I have never been one to hurry along life’s road, but it was not until I read this chapter that I was aware of this aspect of my character. Donald Sinclair must have had a similar experience, many years before, when the character of Siegfried Farnon first sprang out at him from the pages of If Only They Could Talk, and I was reminded of the old quotation from the Scottish poet, Robert Burns – one of my father’s favourites: O wad some Power the giftie gie us, To see oursels as others see us!’
There have been occasions when people have stated that James Herriot was ‘a writer of fiction’, questioning the veracity of some of the stories and claiming that Herriot had simply used well-worn jokes to his own advantage.
In chapter 26, there is a story about a character called Arnold Braithwaite. He is a boastful man who regales everyone in the local pub with stories of the many celebrities whom he claims to know personally. No one, of course, believes him but Arnold has the last laugh when, at the end of a hockey match in Darrowby, several of the players, many of them internationals, walk over to shake Arnold by the hand.
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.