From 1980, Sinclair and Wight was a five-person practice. With Alf’s workload being lighter than it had been, he had plenty of time, had he so wished, to rush round the world furthering his image. The real reason for his reluctance was that he had had enough. He was determined to prevent the relentless publicity taking him over and he wanted, quite simply, to be left alone. Nothing was going to change his way of life, and it was his success in maintaining this ideal that was largely responsible for his continuing happiness in the face of an avalanche of publicity that could so easily have overwhelmed him.
Now Alf Wight, the retiring family man, was coming to a decision that would disappoint millions of his fans. He declared in 1981 that he would write no more books.
It was becoming impossible to completely dodge the spotlight. Everyone knew who he was. Tourists poured into the surgery while ever-bigger waves of fan mail were stuffed through his letter box. One envelope was addressed to ‘James Herriot, Darrowby, Scotland’; it homed in on the unwilling celebrity like all the others.
In a newspaper article in July 1981, following an exhausting promotional tour of Britain after the publication of The Lord God Made Them All,Alf made the following statement:
‘I feel I just have to escape. I’m nearly sixty-five and all I want is a bit of a rest. I’ve never been one for the limelight and now, all I want is to get back to normal. I want to spend more time with my grandchildren. I want to start enjoying again the things I used to enjoy, gardening and walking. I want to get involved again in the thing I do best, my work as a vet. At this very moment, the very mention of writing makes me want to scream.’
His massive literary success had brought him a sense of deep satisfaction but, for someone who did not enjoy the attendant publicity, it was becoming a burden. Life at home among his family and friends, and around the farms of North Yorkshire, was closer to his heart.
Alfred Wight fully appreciated the tremendous benefits writing had bestowed upon him but he was acutely aware of something else; he had been a happy man long before James Herriot walked into his life. He was, indeed, grateful for all James Herriot had done for him, but the time had now come to show him the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
One of the greatest benefits bestowed upon Alf Wight by his friend James Herriot – financial security – was enhanced by the election to power of a Conservative government in 1979. Its lower levels of personal taxation meant that Alf could retain a higher proportion of his earnings so, by 1981, he could consider himself a millionaire.
He was not an inspired businessman but, more importantly, he had common sense. He had no desire to stretch his financial horizons to the limit, while words like ‘Off-shore Investments’ and ‘Split Capital Trusts’ meant little to him. A distrust of the stockmarket, coupled with a cautious approach to investing money, led to his missing out on the great share bull market of the 1980s, but he lost little sleep over this. He retained his distrust of ‘smart deals’ and ‘unbeatable offers’ until the end, and a favourite expression was ‘Beware glossy brochures!’
He certainly derived a great deal of pleasure out of his money and was very generous with it. From as early as 1977, he worked in the practice for only £2,000 per year – a change that benefited not only myself, but Donald Sinclair, too. In one year, after deducting car expenses from his practice profits, he was left with little over £1,000 to show for a year’s veterinary work.
Bob Rickaby, his accountant, was aghast. ‘Alf, you have worked for a whole year for the practice and you have earned no more than you did in 1946!’
His response was to simply shrug his shoulders. ‘Don’t worry about it Bob. I couldn’t care less!’
Never a greedy man, he was, throughout his life, amazed at the lack of generosity he sometimes observed in others. Although unable to identify with it, he could see the funny side.
I remember him telling me, many years ago, of a visit he made to a shop in Thirsk to buy some fireworks. He asked for some rockets.
Another customer overheard his request and leaned towards him. ‘Don’t buy rockets, Mr Wight,’ he whispered, ‘they ’ave a good selection o’ Roman candles an’ some right good Catherine wheels, at good prices an’ all!’
Alf was mystified. ‘My kids love to see rockets soaring into the sky. Anyway, what’s wrong with the rockets?’
The man eased in closer. ‘Why, everyone else can see ’em!’
Alf could now do the things he wanted, without wondering whether he could afford it. More holidays and meals out with friends figured very prominently. The Thirsk area abounds with fine eating places and Alf always enjoyed his food. Having a cosmopolitan taste, he frequented a wide variety of restaurants but he was never happier than when seated in a Chinese or Indian restaurant having already consumed a few pints of good Yorkshire ale at a nearby pub.
Two of Alf’s greatest friends, Alex Taylor and Brian Sinclair, brightened his life during the 1980s. In 1981, Alex retired from his job in the north of Scotland and, three years later, he and Lynne decided to spend their retirement near Thirsk. Alf was delighted; to have his oldest friend living so close was a wonderful bonus.
Alex’s company was a constant source of enjoyment. From their very first days together in Glasgow, he had always had the capacity to make Alf laugh and, with Joan and Lynne being such good friends, this they all continued to do for ten more years.
Another who never failed to paralyse Alf with laughter was, of course, Brian Sinclair, James Herriot’s Tristan. Following Brian’s retirement in 1977, the two of them met almost every Thursday afternoon in Harrogate. Gordon Rae’s death in 1973 had cast a shadow over my father’s Thursday afternoons, but the appearance of the smiling face of Brian among the crowded bookshelves of W. H. Smith – their favourite meeting place – added, once again, that extra touch of pleasure to those visits to his favourite town. Over several cups of coffee, they would reminisce back to the old days in Thirsk, and Alf would revel in the endless funny stories from Brian’s seemingly inexhaustible repertoire.
One person who especially lightened Alf’s life at this time was his daughter. Never were two people closer than Rosie and her father. Since she lived next door, it was natural they should spend a great deal of time with each other – and they had much in common. Holidays, both at home and abroad, hundreds of miles of dog-walking and regular visits to football matches were favourite occupations. Rosie supplied a constant source of interest and conversation to brighten his days and, in the last years of his life, she – with her mother – would provide him with tremendous support.
Alf stated that one reason for turning his back on the limelight was a desire to spend more time with his grandchildren. By 1981, he had four of them. Emma, Rosie’s daughter, was born in 1975, and my son, Nicholas, in 1976. The dedication in James Herriot’s Yorkshireis to both of them.
My daughter, Zoe, arrived in 1980 and my third child, Katrina, in 1981. The Lord God Made Them Allis dedicated to Zoe, and Katrina received her recognition in James Herriot’s Dog Stories.
Alf saw far more of Emma than his other grandchildren. Rosie, as a single parent, received tremendous assistance from her parents in raising Emma, who grew to regard her grandfather more as a father. He was a truly dedicated grandfather and had great patience with her as a small child – walking for miles to pick wild flowers, or reading to her from countless storybooks.