Alf Wight was always a prodigious letter writer and wrote to his parents regularly, right up until the 1980s. His mother had preserved all of these letters, many of which make fascinating reading. Some of them which date back to a time when he was struggling emotionally as well as financially, reveal his feelings during a difficult and exacting period of his life. The dusty, untidy heap of letters from that neglected old den in Glasgow has given me a peep into a part of my father’s life that had previously been denied to me. Many people have helped with the research for this book but no one contributed more than the old lady who had so assiduously preserved everything connected with the son who meant so much to her.
Everyone has revelations at some time or other in their lives and I have had a whole bundle of them since I decided to write this biography. Foremost is the realisation that I did not really appreciate my father’s work until well after his death. In my defence, this is not surprising as he spoke so little about his literary achievements. I remember in the mid 1970s when his books were hogging the number one spot in the New York Timesbest-seller lists, he would occasionally say, ‘I’m in my fifteenth week at the top of the best-sellers in America, isn’t that amazing?’ ‘Great, Dad!’ I would reply and the subject would be dropped. That was fine by him; he was really far more interested in talking about other things.
The local people, including the farming community, said very little about their local ‘vitinry’s’ fame but that is not to say they were unaware of it. My father liked it that way and, indeed, he once said to me that he would be surprised if more than a handful of his farming friends had read his books. He may have been wrong.
One day he was operating on a cow and the long, laborious task of suturing the abdominal wound was under way. Such operations on the bovine race are often extremely interesting, especially Caesarean sections where the delivery of a calf ‘through the side door’ is one of the most satisfying experiences for the country practitioner. Closing up the wound is a tedious business, however, and it is at such times as these that a bit of conversation between farmer and vet can break the monotony.
On this particular occasion, the farmer suddenly said to him, ‘Ah’ve read one o’ yer books, Mr Wight.’
This came as a real shock to my father who never expected the local people to show interest in his work, especially busy farmers. He hardly dared to ask the next question. ‘What did you think of it? Did you enjoy it?’
The farmer replied slowly, ‘Aye … why … it’s all about nowt!’.
This was a veiled compliment. The book had been read and enjoyed, despite describing a way of life only too familiar to the reader.
I knew my father as well as anyone but I, too, was one of the many who made little fuss of his achievements. He would have made light of this but now, some four years after his death, I realise that I underestimated him. His qualities as a friend, father and professional colleague, I have always appreciated; it was his qualities as an author that I did not. That is, until now. Although he and I were always the closest of friends, he was acutely aware of my shortcomings. Organisation was never one of my strong points. ‘You’re just like me, Jim. You couldn’t run a winkle stall!’ was a cry I heard only too often, and it was with such encouraging thoughts that I embarked upon this biography.
I have, however, done something right. I decided at the outset to re-read all my father’s books and, in so doing, I have at last realised what a great storyteller he was. Others, of course, all over the world, saw his qualities as a writer very quickly but I still think that it is easy to underestimate James Herriot. He had such a pleasant, readable style that one could be forgiven for thinking that anyone could emulate it. How many times have I heard people say, ‘Oh, I could write a book. I just haven’t the time.’ Easily said. Not so easily done. My father, contrary to popular opinion, did not find it easy in his early days of, as he put it, ‘having a go at the writing game’. Whilst he obviously had an abundance of natural talent, the final, polished work that he gave to the world was the result of years of practising, re-writing and reading. Like the majority of authors, he had to suffer many disappointments and rejections along the way, but these made him all the more determined to succeed. Everything he achieved in life was earned the hard way and his success in the literary field was no exception.
When I re-read his books, I set out with the idea of analysing them, of trying to pick up some tips from the master, but I always ended up in the same state – the book on the floor and my head back, crying with laughter. I know he would have approved. To have his writing subjected to detailed appraisal was never his wish; he wanted it, quite simply, to be enjoyed. That period of re-reading James Herriot’s books has been one of the most revealing and enjoyable times of my life.
The veterinary profession has undergone enormous change since the days when my father qualified from Glasgow Veterinary College in 1939, with great strides having been made in the ongoing quest to conquer animal diseases. Many of the old ailments that my father wrote about have largely been brought under control but others rise up to take their place, presenting continually fresh challenges for the profession. The practice in Thirsk has changed out of all recognition since ‘James Herriot’s’ heyday – a period of his life he described, many times, as ‘harder, but more fun’. Gone are the days of driving round the hills visiting little farms, treating a cow with ‘wooden tongue’ here, a pig with Erysipelas there. As the number of farm visits declined and the small animal work increased, so the practice has now become about fifty per cent pet-orientated.
Thanks largely to my father, however, a window on the veterinary profession of the past has been kept open. Many young people who watched the highly popular television series, ‘All Creatures Great and Small’, based on the Herriot books, were eager to take up veterinary medicine as a career, but they soon discovered a very different picture from the one displayed on the screen. The world of James Herriot is history.
An American reader wrote to my father’s publisher in 1973, in appreciation of his work: ‘Herriot seems to possess the quality of being the universal observer with whom the reader can readily empathize. He is one of those individuals who is a natural audience to the quirks and vagaries of the human species.’ My father was, indeed, a great observer of human nature but now it is his turn to be put under the spotlight. Throughout his literary career, James Herriot had millions of fans and countless numbers wrote to him. One of his biggest fans is now about to write about him - not just as an author but as a colleague, friend and father. While other veterinary surgeons look to the future, I am travelling back into the past but maybe, as my father would have said, I will ‘have more fun’. I will carry the regret to the end of my days that I never told him what I really thought about him, but at least there is one thing I can do. I can tell everyone else.