Alf always regarded this as a wonderful book, beautifully produced, and a treasure trove of information for every James Herriot fan. ‘Just look at this book!’ he said shortly after he received his first copy. ‘This will make a terrific gift. I’m sure it will sell well!’
I refrained from giving my opinion this time. He was right; it was another best-seller – one with which my father was particularly proud to be associated.
The final years of the 1970s and the earliest ones of the 1980s marked the zenith of the James Herriot success story. They were golden years during which everything he did resulted in astounding success. He had written eight worldwide best-selling books, the television series had projected his name into the living-rooms of millions of households and he had, by that time, attained complete financial security. For a man who had started with virtually nothing, it was a staggering achievement.
However, with the welfare of his family and friends meaning a great deal more to him than material success, inevitably there were one or two unhappy events, the effects of which would, for a time, outweigh his feelings of intense satisfaction over his literary achievements.
As a true animal lover, the death of his noisy but lovable little dog, Hector, was a shattering experience. At the age of fourteen, Hector was having difficulty eating. Suspecting a cancerous condition of the oesophagus, Alf took him to Denton Pette for a second opinion, where his worst fears were realised. Denton had no alternative but to say it would be kindest to put him to sleep. Alf, totally desolated, staggered from Denton’s surgery before climbing into his car for the long, quiet journey home. Denton, observing his friend’s obvious distress, suggested that Hector be buried in his own garden – an offer to which the distraught Alf readily agreed. The little dog, to this day, lies in Eve Pette’s garden in the village of Aldborough St John.
One of the most difficult tasks confronting the veterinary surgeon is that of having to end the life of a dearly loved pet; it can be a traumatic experience for both owner and veterinary surgeon. This was the first time that Alf had had to make the decision to end the life of one of his own animals; having found himself in the unenviable position of so many of his clients for whom he had had to perform this delicate service, it gave him an even greater understanding of their feelings.
Hector’s death was one of the most emotionally draining experiences of Alf’s life, but the passing of his little companion did not mean that he was without a dog; he had Dan, a black Labrador, who was originally my dog. In 1967, when I returned to work in Thirsk from my first job in Staffordshire, I brought Dan with me, and he and Hector took to one another straightaway. They soon became inseparable, riding everywhere together in my father’s car.
Like Hector, Dan became a much-photographed member of the canine race. He appeared in many magazines and newspapers when the name of James Herriot was becoming well known, and is the dog staring up expectantly at Alf on the cover of James Herriot’s Yorkshire. This was a typical pose for Dan; his whole life was one of chasing or carrying sticks and the photograph on the cover shows him staring intently at one held in Alf’s hand. His car was constantly littered with an assortment of Dan’s sticks and the big, black dog covered endless miles alongside Alf, always with a stick in his mouth.
He was very different in character from Hector, maintaining a dignified silence in the passenger seat of the car, as he surveyed the scene around him with noble indifference. There was one occasion, however, when Dan revealed a deeper side to his character.
A journalist from the Far East had come to interview Alf for a magazine article. They had driven around the countryside with Dan in the back seat, before stopping at a pub for lunch. On their return to the car, they were shocked to discover that Dan had torn into pieces the notes the journalist had left on the car seat. This was completely out of character – the only time in his entire life that he had shown any destructive tendencies. Did the big dog know that in parts of the Far East, people ate dogs? And was this his way of lodging his protest? Never again would Dan display such behaviour.
Dan’s companionship was a great comfort following Hector’s death, but it would be less than four years before Alf had to face, again, the distress of losing a dog. One day in 1981, after weeks of agonising over such a difficult decision, he asked me to put Dan to sleep. With the old dog having been weakening for some time with advanced arthritis of the hips, Alf had tried everything to help him, but his time had come. Dan lies buried in the field behind my father’s house.
Many argue that, once having lost a pet, it is impossible to find another to take its place. Alf, who wasted no time in acquiring another pet, thought differently. Many dogs occupied different stages of his life; every one had its own distinctive personality and each one left its own particular memories.
It was during the decade following the mid 1970s that James Herriot’s massive contribution, not only to the image of the veterinary profession, but to the feeling of well-being within the community as a whole, was fully recognised. With his writing having brought pleasure to millions, honours began to be showered upon him. It is well-nigh impossible to enumerate every recognition of respect that was bestowed on Alf Wight, but some of them were particularly special.
It was a proud moment for all the family when we saw the New Year’s honours list in the newspaper on 30 December 1978. We had known in advance that my father was to receive the Order of the British Empire in recognition of his services to literature, but to see it in print was particularly thrilling.
It was an unforgettable experience when Alfred Wight received his honour from the Prince of Wales at the ceremony in Buckingham Palace at the end of the following February. As I looked at him, I cast my mind back almost twenty years to the time he began writing stories simply because it was something he had always wanted to do. Who would have thought that those unpretentious but charming accounts of life so long ago in far-off Yorkshire would have led to James Alfred Wight shaking hands with the Prince of Wales?
It was, also, a memorable evening the night before. Courtesy of Pan Books, a splendid party had been arranged for us – and for those with whom my father was connected in the world of publishing. As we quaffed never-ending glasses of champagne that helped to forge effortless friendships with total strangers, I remember thinking what a wonderful life it was, being the son of such a famous man.
True to his character, he talked very little of this honour, proud though he was to receive it. One day, many years later, after writing another colossal cheque to the Inland Revenue, he said to us, ‘I think I know the reason why I received the OBE. By remaining in this country and paying so much tax, I must have been largely responsible for the continuing solvency of Her Majesty’s Government!’
He was, however, to receive some compensation. An elegant envelope arrived one morning in October 1979. An equally impressive piece of paper within, from Buckingham Palace, said that Her Majesty the Queen requested the honour of the company of Alfred Wight for lunch. I remember goggling at the invitation while he simply said, ‘I don’t think I can decline this one, do you?’
The family, understandably, was intrigued to hear all about it and bombarded him with questions on his return from the Palace.
I asked him if he had sat next to her.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘They stuck some minor individual between myself and the Queen.’
‘Who was that?’ I asked.
He smiled gently. ‘The Governor of the Bank of England.’
As he lunched in the magnificent dining-room, a footman at attention behind every chair, his memory flickered back almost fifty years to the penniless young vet, seated in his tiny car in the Yorkshire Dales, chewing at his cheese sandwiches.