‘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.’
‘I think that would be a splendid place,’ I had replied.
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Yes, I do!’
I have never forgotten his spontaneous reply, ‘I’ll save you a place next to me!’
Donald did not die at the hand of a jealous husband; his own hands were to finally end his life as he remained true to his lifelong dedication to voluntary euthanasia.
In July, a memorial service for Donald and Audrey was held in Thirsk church, followed by refreshments at Southwoods Hall. I felt heavy-hearted as I gazed around the grounds of the fine old house where I had spent such good times but, as my eyes rested upon that grass field below the pine wood at the foot of the hill, I could not help smiling as memories of Donald flooded back. He had been one of the most engaging, as well as impossible, men I had known. The traumas that we experienced while trying to persuade him to retire when well over eighty are still fresh in my mind, and many people have said that no one but Alf could have worked with him for so long, but he did have many special qualities.
Only weeks before my father died, I had been listening to him reminiscing about his life with Donald. I asked him how he had coped with Donald’s eccentricities over all their years together, and he paused before replying.
‘I don’t really know,’ he said, ‘but I can tell you this. We had a hell of a lot of laughs together and, from the first day I met him, I knew that he would never stab me in the back.’
He became immersed in thought again before continuing with his appraisal of his unforgettable partner. His face broke into a smile. ‘Where else would I have found such a wonderful character to weave into my stories?’
My own overriding memories of Donald are of a man who would never do anyone a wrong turn, a loyal colleague who did not speak a single disparaging word of his fellow professionals, and one with that endearing quality of total humility. He would regale us all, not with his successes, but his failures, and I remember his words, ‘If there are mistakes to be made, I have made them. Listen to me and you will learn a lot!’
Above all, I remember a man forever surrounded with an aura of humour and laughter, and whenever I think of him, I am smiling – just as my father did throughout his many years spent enriched by the company of one of the most colourful and entertaining men he had ever known.
Although my father’s quiet and unassuming funeral was something that he himself would have wished for, we realised that many others, besides his own family, would want the opportunity to pay their final respects. With these thoughts foremost in our minds, the memorial service for James Alfred Wight was planned during the summer of 1995 and, on 20 October, eight months after his death, the service was held in the magnificent setting of York Minster. This occasion was a memorable one, not only for the moving service and the glorious music, but for the humour rather than the sadness that pervaded the Minster that day. It was truly a celebration of a life that had meant so much to so many.
Chris Timothy and Robert Hardy both gave virtuoso performances reading extracts from James Herriot and P. G. Wodehouse. I gave an address, Rosie’s daughter, Emma, gave a reading, and Alex Taylor delivered a moving tribute to his oldest friend. My daughter, Zoe, played the trumpet during the ceremony, as part of the St Peter’s School brass group, part of which included a fanfare on the theme music from ‘All Creatures Great and Small’, especially composed by the St Peter’s School Music Master, Andrew Wright.
Two thousand three hundred people attended the service. There were representatives from the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons, the British Veterinary Association and many other professional bodies. His associates from the publishing world were represented, as well as countless friends, clients of the practice, and former assistants who had learned so much from him in those first uncertain steps in their careers.
Fans of his books came from all over the country, from Scotland to the south coast of England – many to honour a man who, simply through his writing, was someone they felt they really knew. My father had remained astonished by his success until the very end of his life and I, too, found the occasion at the Minster almost too much to grasp. I felt privileged to have had a father who had achieved so much from modest beginnings – one to whom so many people had poured into York Minster to pay their respects.
No one, of course, felt the death of my father more keenly than my mother. She had not only lost a husband whom she had loved dearly, but one with whom she had shared a happy and fulfilling life. The quiet house after his death was something that she – as with so many other widowed people – had to learn to live with. Fortunately, in Bodie, the Border Terrier, she still had someone to look after, but this ceased when I put Bodie to sleep eighteen months after my father’s death.
My mother, however, is not alone. My father was almost never without a dog, but the only animal that still stalks around his house is a tortoiseshell cat called Cheeky. Around the time I had the sad task of putting Bodie to sleep, this gentle little creature arrived on the doorstep completely uninvited. I have always regarded this as a remarkably providential incident and my mother has proved to be every bit as soft with her animals as her husband had been.
This fortunate cat, as well as being fed as well as Alf Wight had been, has a centrally-heated porch in which to sleep. The man who installed it could not quite believe what he was doing. ‘I’ve been asked to do some funny things in my time,’ he said to me, ‘but central heating … for a cat?’
In March 1996, the veterinary practice of Sinclair and Wight moved from 23 Kirkgate to new premises on the outskirts of Thirsk. The old house may have had a certain charm but with its long winding corridors, lack of space and inadequate parking facilities, it had become a liability. We, literally, had to move to survive.
The famous ivy-covered front with its red door, however, has been preserved as a memorial to James Herriot. In 1996, the local authority, Hambleton District Council, purchased the premises and have converted it into a visitor centre under the title of ‘The World of James Herriot’. Skeldale House will live on for many years to come and it is a fitting tribute by the people of North Yorkshire to one of its most distinguished adopted sons.