Although he had a great deal to learn from his younger colleagues, we in turn had much to learn from him. We soon realised that many of our customers were far more impressed with a man of experience than one full of ‘book learnin’’.
In turn, Alf never forgot that it was his life among the farming community that had provided him with much of his material, and would continue to do so. His veterinary work throughout the 1970s took on extra meaning as, with his mind now switched onto writing, he was continually looking for new material, asking me or other members of the practice to jot down anything interesting that had occurred on the daily rounds. His first six books contained many incidents that actually happened around this time, rather than in the years either side of the war when he set the stories.
To remember incidents, he relied simply on ‘headings’. There are notebooks full of these headings in his virtually illegible handwriting. He did not, as already mentioned, keep a regular diary; these simple headings were all he needed to remind him of the many interesting or funny incidents that he might incorporate into his books, and he referred to them continually as he wrote.
Alf repeatedly maintained that his celebrity status meant very little to the local people of Thirsk but, when one considers the average Yorkshire person’s reluctance to display his feelings openly, it is likely that he may have been mistaken. There is no doubt that a large proportion of them – farmers included – were not only well aware of his achievements but derived pleasure themselves through his worldwide acclaim. The fact that they rarely exhibited their opinions on his success suited Alf very well. He often said how lucky he was to have spent most of his working life amongst them. During his years of literary fame, whenever he appeared under the spotlight, he never seemed fully at ease. I observed him many times on television, wearing the vague and uneasy look of someone who wished that he were elsewhere. The fact was that he was not comfortable when under the media glare; it was something he never fully enjoyed. Alf Wight was at home among the farmers of North Yorkshire and his oft-repeated expression, ‘I am ninety-nine per cent vet and one per cent author’ was one spoken from the heart.
All of this contrasted sharply with the open admiration expressed by his adoring fans from further afield. One day, an American visitor had accompanied Alf to a farm and said to the farmer, ‘What’s it like having such a world-famous author as a vet? It must be great! Yeah?’
The farmer displayed no emotion. ‘’E’s just one o’ the boys round ’ere!’ he replied.
This is exactly how Alf wanted to be known. He did not seek deference from those people he had known for so long. ‘The farmers round here couldn’t care less about my book-writing activities. If one of them has a cow with its ‘calf-bed’ hanging out, he doesn’t want to see Charles Dickens rolling up!’
This casual approach to his fame by the local people was illustrated by an incident that remained etched in his memory. In 1974, when Alf had four published books to his name, BBC Television cameras descended on Thirsk. They were there to film for the ‘Nationwide’ programme – and the object of their attention was James Herriot and his meteoric rise to fame. The film crews were there all day. Zoom lenses homed in on him as he calved cows, cameras were held inches from his face as he drove from farm to farm, and the premises at 23 Kirkgate were festooned with all the latest in modern technical equipment and what seemed like miles of cable. It was a long and tiring day.
It was well into evening surgery when the director finally said to Alf, ‘Mr Wight, would it be possible – just to round everything off nicely – to interview one of the interesting old characters that you talk about in your books? Can you think of anyone?’
‘There happens to be a man in the waiting-room who would fit the bill perfectly,’ replied my father, pleased to be able to take a break from the exhausting schedule. ‘His name is Mr Hogg, an engaging chap, and a well-respected breeder of sheepdogs.’
Not only was Mr Hogg, a farmer from nearby Kilvington indeed, something of a character, he was also a good talker. He revelled in his appearance in front of the cameras, and the director got more than his money’s worth.
When the interview had finally ended, the farmer sidled up to the director and whispered quietly into his ear. ‘I ’eard that yer wanted ter talk to a local character. Is that right?’
‘Yes,’ replied the director.
Mr Hogg’s voice sank to a whisper. He pointed a soiled finger towards Alf. ‘Yer should ’ave a word wi’ Mr Wight. ’E’s a very interestin’ feller!’
‘Oh yes?’ said the director.
‘Aye! In fact, Ah’ll tell tha summat!’ He put his face even closer to the director’s ear. ‘Don’t let it go no further, like, but … just between you an’ me … Ah’ve ’eard ’e’s written a couple o’ books!’
In tandem with the literary success, there were many happy occasions in the first half of the 1970s. In September 1973, Rosie was married and twelve months later it was my turn to leave the family home. I was thirty-one years old and I think my parents were pretty relieved that I had finally taken the plunge. Having been living at home for almost seven years, they were beginning to think that I was going to be a permanent resident.
One of the happiest events occurred in May 1973 when our beloved football team, Sunderland – against all the odds – beat Leeds United in the FA Cup Final. This, the most coveted prize in the English game, had last been won by Sunderland way back in 1937.
Alf travelled to Wembley with his old friend Guy Rob, and I well remember the smiling, swaying figure staggering back home that Saturday night. In 1990, he wrote about that memorable day in a newspaper article:
‘When the referee blew the final whistle at Wembley and I found myself dancing with my arms round a distinguished-looking gentleman in a camel coat who was a total stranger, I felt that from that moment on I could die happy.’
Alf derived enormous pleasure and satisfaction from his literary achievements, but nothing would thrill him more than watching that tremendous victory for the red and whites.
There were other less happy events. In June 1972, Joan’s brother, Joe Danbury, died in hospital following a protracted illness. This distinguished and good-natured man was liked by everyone and his death was a severe blow, especially to Joan.
Then, on the last day of December 1973, Alf’s great friend and colleague, Gordon Rae, died. Despite his dedication to physical fitness, Gordon had developed severe arthritis in both hips, followed by a series of heart attacks. His death was felt keenly by both Alf and Joan. Their weekly Thursday outings to Harrogate were a little darker without Gordon’s open and laughing face. He was one of the most likeable men Alf had had the privilege of knowing.
At his funeral, Alf and Joan recalled their impecunious days of the 1960s when, unable to afford the cost of dinner out to celebrate their silver wedding anniversary, Gordon and Jean Rae had saved the day. As Alf had also just had his 50th birthday, he was asked where he would like to spend the occasion. ‘The Double Luck Chinese restaurant!’ had been his immediate response. The occasion was to be modest, but both enjoyable and delicious – and one that would, for ever, be fondly remembered by Alf and Joan.