Alf would always remember this explosive but clever man with great affection and as yet another of the great characters who have graced the veterinary profession.
The insecurity of his position at McDowall’s was never far from Alf’s mind. With the ever-present threat of dismissal should the practice fall upon leaner times, he regularly scanned the Veterinary Recordfor alternative employment. Mac himself had assured Alf that prospects of his obtaining a permanent post within the practice were remote. Not that he relished the idea of going into partnership with Mac: he was a delightful man in many ways but one who enjoyed the high life a little too much. Alf envisaged years of slavery stretching ahead.
There was another reason for casting his net in more distant waters, and this was a reluctance to spend his future in Sunderland. The north-east of England had been hit especially hard during the depression and there was little money about. Although he had great affection for the place of his birth, Sunderland could be a grim place in which to work. During the winter months, which seemed to last for half the year, the north-east winds screamed into the town and roared along the streets, often accompanied by sleet, snow or freezing rain. Huge waves smashing onto the roads on the sea front, and the rows of drab, terraced houses standing defiantly against the elements epitomised the aura of depression that hung over the town. It was a dismal place to begin a professional career.
There were very few positions advertised in the veterinary journals but one day, while leafing through the pages of the Record, he noticed that there was one available in Thirsk. He had never heard of the place. Where was Thirsk? Upon perusing a map, he discovered that it was in Yorkshire, only about fifty miles south of Sunderland. The job was described as ‘Mainly agricultural work in a Yorkshire market town’, with the principal of the practice being a veterinary surgeon by the name of D. V. Sinclair.
Although the majority of the work in Sunderland had been with dogs and cats, he was interested. He had enjoyed his taste of work with the larger animals and the thought of spending more time with farm animals intrigued him. Yorkshire held no particular appeal for him. He knew little about it – having an image of the county as a flat, industrial wasteland, full of smoking factory chimneys – but it was not far to go for a look. He wrote for an interview and, to his surprise, he received a reply. On a sunny day in June 1940, he set off to see Thirsk for himself.
Many people who have read the James Herriot books have their own particular favourites. My father’s family and his close friends have little hesitation in nominating the first book, If Only They Could Talk, closely followed by the second, It Shouldn’t Happen to a Vet. These two books, which were later combined into one volume under the title of All Creatures Great and Smallfor the American market, are full of the episodes that were already familiar to us since we had heard my father tell the stories so often.
The authenticity of the narrative added extra appeal. In these books are to be found many of the most colourful characters who entered his life at this point. Nowhere is his ability to manipulate the reader’s emotions more brilliantly illustrated than in that first book which quietly appeared on the bookshelves of Britain in 1970. Here, the whole foundation of the Herriot saga is laid, upon which successive best-sellers were built. The scene is set as the reader is introduced first to the stage upon which his show would be performed – the town of Thirsk, to be immortalised in the books as Darrowby, and the Yorkshire Dales, among whose green pastures and high, windswept moorland he determined that his stories would unfold. The main characters that run through James Herriot’s books appear in the pages of these early works – his partner Siegfried, Siegfried’s younger brother, Tristan, and James Herriot’s future wife, Helen. The reader is also introduced to many of the most colourful Yorkshire people among whom he worked. For any book – or television series – to be successful, rich and varied characterisation is essential. James Herriot’s books radiate with unforgettable characters. He did not have to invent them; they were all around him, contributing towards making his first years in Thirsk among the hardest but happiest of his life. Many of the incidents that James Herriot recounted in If Only They Could Talkwere reproduced just as they happened. His first meeting with Siegfried was no exception.
When Alf Wight knocked on the door of Donald Sinclair’s surgery, at 23 Kirkgate in Thirsk, he was about to experience the first of a lifetime of surprises with his future partner. Donald had completely forgotten that the young vet from Sunderland was coming for the interview and was not at home. The housekeeper, Mrs Weatherill, did not seem particularly surprised that her employer had overlooked the appointment; she apologised, gave him a cup of tea and told him to make himself at home. I am not in the least surprised that Donald forgot that appointment. After joining the practice myself, over twenty-seven years later, it was not long before I realised that whenever Donald was involved in the organisation of anything, confusion and disarray inevitably followed. Little had changed in the passing years. By the time he finally returned home that day back in 1940, Alf had fallen asleep under an old acacia tree in the garden. He woke to find Donald standing in front of him. He staggered hastily to his feet.
‘My name is Donald Sinclair. You must be Alfred Wight!’ he said, as the two men shook hands and, at that moment, the association between Sinclair and Wight was born. It would have a very shaky beginning, and there would be times when Alf would doubt his judgement in hitching his life to such a singular man, but it would survive.
The description of Donald in the first Herriot book fits him perfectly: ‘He was just about the most English-looking man I had ever seen. Long, humorous, strong-jawed face. Small, clipped moustache, untidy, sandy hair. He was wearing an old tweed jacket and shapeless flannel trousers. The collar of his check shirt was frayed and the tie carelessly knotted. He looked as though he didn’t spend much time in front of a mirror.’
James Herriot’s last sentence of that paragraph is very true. Donald was the archetypal gentleman, very much the ladies’ man, but over many years in his company, I never saw him comb his hair, let alone admire himself in a mirror. Perhaps he had become bored of the image of himself, as he seemed to remain unchanged with the passage of time. Alf said once, describing his partner, ‘When Donald was thirty he looked fifty and when he was seventy he looked fifty.’
Donald exuded charm. Everyone liked him, but he was also a most erratic and unpredictable man. ‘Eccentric’ is almost too mild a term to describe him but, above all, he was a warm, humorous and interesting person. As ‘Siegfried’, he would be the pivotal character in the Herriot books, and a heaven-sent personality around which Alf was to set so many of his stories.
Many people believe that the character of Siegfried was grossly exaggerated in the books. ‘Surely he was not really like that?’ is a question that has been put to me many times.
‘You are right!’ is my usual reply. ‘He was not like that at all. His character was considerably toned down.’
This opinion was shared by those who knew him best, specifically the Yorkshire farmers who observed him for years, hurtling impatiently into and out of their farmyards. ‘By gaw, yer Dad’s got old Sinclair right in them books!’ was something I heard more than once during the early years of my father’s literary success. There was never a man quite like Donald Sinclair and no one knew him better, or portrayed him more vividly, than that great observer of human character, James Alfred Wight.