‘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 yourbooks 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 Storieswas published. This book was like the earlier James Herriot’s Dog Storiesin 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 Thingand James Herriot’s Cat Stories.
Cat Storieshad 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 Timesbest-seller list for almost six months. After Alf’s death, two companion volumes were published: James Herriot’s Favourite Dog Storiesand 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 distress 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.