This was summed up by the highly respected American veterinarian, Dr Stephen Ettinger. He stated in a television interview around that time: ‘Without any doubt, James Herriot is the most famous veterinarian in the world and, perhaps, the most respected. He has shown the world that the veterinarian is the gentle doctor.’
In 1992, Alf became the first recipient of the British Veterinary Association’s new Chiron Award for ‘exceptional service to the veterinary profession’ although, by then, he had retired from veterinary practice. At the end of 1989, feeling that he had little to contribute to the everyday activities within the practice – and suffering the indignity one day of being helped out of a pig pen by two youthful farm lads – he considered it might be time to call it a day. Finding it increasingly difficult to keep pace with the huge changes occurring within his profession, he knew that he was making the right decision.
He was, by then, seventy-three years old and had completed almost fifty years working as a veterinary surgeon. There had been times of triumph and disaster, days of happiness and despair but, above all, there had been years of working at a job that had never failed to fascinate him.
Donald Sinclair, although five years older than Alf, steadfastly refused to retire and continued to work’ on until 1991, but that year, he suffered a stroke which effectively ended his days at 23 Kirkgate. Incredibly – although perhaps unsurprisingly – Donald, who was admitted to hospital, paralysed down one side of his body, discharged himself nine hours later. He made a complete recovery from that stroke and, within a few months was, aged over eighty, once again walking about in the hills above Southwoods Hall.
Donald, living so close to Alf, was always around to brighten his life, as was Alex Taylor, but the late 1980s had seen the demise of more old friends, among them, one of his greatest: Brian Sinclair.
On 13 December 1988, Brian, who had been suffering for some time from circulatory problems, succumbed to a heart attack. Brian, who had always rejoiced in his portrayal as Tristan, had been one of Alf’s closest friends and it was a bleak day for him when he learned that he would never again look on his open and laughing face. It was a mournful occasion for us all as we attended his funeral in Harrogate where many tears were shed for such a popular and respected man.
I remember, so well, my father talking about his great friend shortly after his death. He spoke with great feeling about the man with whom he had spent so many uplifting hours of fun and laughter.
‘Brian may have been a practical joker for most of his life,’ he said, ‘but, beneath that hilarious veneer, was a sound and dependable man. A true friend in every sense of the word.’
Brian’s death was a blow to so many people. A day or two after he died, I went to see Donald at his house and expressed my sorrow at his brother’s death.
He looked away from me before gazing out at the rolling hills around Southwoods Hall. ‘Thank you, Jim,’ he replied. ‘It’s a bugger, isn’t it?’
He lowered his head and wept quietly. As I consoled him, I realised that those frightful shouting sessions of the 1940s, described so vividly in the books of James Herriot, had surely hidden Donald’s true feelings for his wayward but so engaging younger brother.
They were sad times for me, too, to see my father’s friends fade away but December 1991 would be a month his family would never forget. It was when we learned that the days of Alfred Wight were numbered. For this man – with whom, over a period of more than fifty years as a father, friend and professional colleague, I had never had a cross word – the end was in sight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Early one Friday morning in December 1991, I received a telephone call from Malcolm Whittaker, the consultant surgeon at the Friarage Hospital, Northallerton. He had some bleak news to convey.
The previous month, Alf had suffered a severe rectal bleed while walking in the field behind his house and, following some tests, had eventually been admitted to hospital for an operation. During the pre-operative examination, Mr Whittaker had noticed a small lump in Alf’s groin.
‘What is that?’ he had asked.
I think it is just a benign lipoma, Malcolm,’ Alf had replied.
The consultant had not been so sure. ‘How long has it been there?’
‘Oh, for several months.’
Having felt again around the nameless growth, Malcolm Whittaker had suggested a little further investigation. His suspicions had been well-founded. Upon analysis, the ‘harmless lipoma’ had proved a far different proposition. It was, in fact, an adenocarcinoma – a secondary cancerous spread from some primary source within the body which, after tissue-typing, was thought to be the prostate gland.
All this was transmitted to me over the telephone that day and it hit me like an express train. Having been informed that my mother and sister had already been told, I asked the consultant the obvious question.
‘How long has he got to live?’
‘It’s difficult to say,’ replied the surgeon, whose voice then acquired a lighter note as if trying to lift my feelings, ‘but he could have as much as three years.’
Having thanked Malcolm for his call, I sat down at the table and buried my head in my hands. Tears ran down my face as I tried to grasp the reality of the situation. Three years! I kept thinking of the time span, hoping fervently that it would be longer.
In retrospect, we should have suspected something like this, as Alf had shown symptoms of prostatic problems for some time. He had begun to have difficulty passing urine some five years previously and, around 1988, had started passing blood. His prostate gland had been investigated, found to be enlarged and attempts made to remove it. Biopsies taken at the time, however, showed no sign of malignancy, and we had assumed it was just a benign enlargement. Our optimism, however, was now dashed.
I visited him at his home, Mirebeck, shortly after I had received the dread news. He seemed to have taken it very calmly and was hopeful that the treatment he was about to undergo could stave off the cancer for a considerable period of time.
‘It’s wonderful what can be done nowadays,’ he said. ‘I’m just going to carry on enjoying myself and looking forward.’ We were delighted with his optimistic approach but Rosie, being a doctor, knew the harsh facts. Three years was the mostthat we could hope for.
Before leaving Mirebeck that day, I glanced back into the sitting-room. As I looked at him, seated in front of his word processor whilst putting the final touches to Every Living Thing, I wondered whether I would have had the courage to launch straight back into work should I have just received such fearful news. He had begun his long battle against cancer in the only way he knew; he was going to keep busy and continue being active for as long as he possibly could.
He was put onto a series of monthly Zoladex injections, and both chemotherapy and radiotherapy started. Throughout 1992, he did not appear to deteriorate much, although the radiotherapy and the Zoladex made him feel sick for a while. This stoical acceptance of his condition, together with the apparent stabilisation of the symptoms, gave us hope that, perhaps, the cancer could indeed be beaten.
He gave Joan a terrible fright early in 1993 when, having suffered a sudden cardiac arrythmia followed by a cerebral anoxia, he lost consciousness and collapsed on the floor of the kitchen. Having immediately rung Rosie, she was then at a loss as to how to help him. She cradled his head in her arms which, in fact, could have resulted in his death by further restricting the blood flow to his head. The prompt arrival of Rosie, who laid him out flat on the floor, saved the day, after which, following a short stay in hospital, he made a complete recovery.