The new television series of ‘All Creatures Great and Small’, for which he began to write new material in 1986, proved to be every bit as popular as the previous one; it ran on into 1990 and finally ended with a ‘Christmas Special’ in December of that year. The only change in the cast was the introduction of Lynda Bellingham, who played the part of Helen in place of Carol Drinkwater. She, like the previous two actresses who had portrayed Joan, stepped into the role perfectly.
This series did not ring with quite the same authenticity as the earlier ones. Having virtually exhausted James Herriot’s original material, extra writers were needed – with some of the later episodes only loosely based upon his stories. Nevertheless, they were, as with the previous series, a great success – and were watched and enjoyed by millions.
New characters appeared for this series, many of whom were to reappear in Alf’s final book, Every Living Thing –a title suggested by his American publisher, Tom McCormack. This book, published in 1992, was one my father thoroughly enjoyed writing. Not only did he now have a word processor to assist him – to quote his favourite expression at the time, ‘How did I ever manage without one?’ – but he told very few people that he had intentions of writing another book. This meant he could proceed in his own time without the pressure of any deadlines.
‘I don’t want anyone looking over my shoulder holding a contract,’ he told me. ‘I can write this book in my own time, so please don’t tell anyone what I am doing!’
It took him, in fact, over four years to complete the book, finally unleashing the news to his publishers in 1991. This was received with delight, as well as surprise, and the book, like its predecessors, soon shot into the UK best-seller lists.
He had some arguments with Tom McCormack about several of the chapters which Tom wished to change – but he was, by now, such a confident author that he allowed very little tampering with his original manuscript. Despite these minor disagreements, the result was a book that sold 650,000 copies in hardback in America in the first six weeks, and remained on the New York Timesbest-seller lists for almost eight months.
Every Living Thingintroduces the reader to Calum Buchanan, ‘the vet with t’ badger, and based on the real-life character, Brian Nettleton, Alf’s memorable assistant. Brian was such a fascinating personality that Calum figures in eleven of the fifty-two chapters and his vibrant character strides through the pages of the book, bringing back many happy memories for all of us who knew him.
Sadly, Brian was never to read about himself in Every Living Thing. More than twenty years after leaving the practice, he came back to see us in Thirsk, where we were delighted to be reacquainted with the piercing dark eyes, the flamboyant moustache and the ageless enthusiasm of a man who had changed little over the years. We were so pleased to have had that opportunity to have spoken to him; less than one month later, Brian was tragically killed in a car accident in Canada. It is good to know that, in Calum Buchanan, he will live forever.
Another assistant who appears in Every Living Thingwas my father’s very first one, John Crooks. In this single case, he used John’s real name – an indication of the lasting respect and friendship the two men enjoyed for so many years.
I, too, come into the book, and it was a revealing experience for me as I read it, wide-eyed, for the first time. In chapter 7, he writes about Rosie and me accompanying our father on his rounds when we were small:
She always ran to get things for me while Jimmy invariably walked. Often, in the middle of a case, I’d say, ‘Fetch me another syringe, Jimmy,’ and my son would stroll out to the car, often whistling, perfectly relaxed … And I have often noticed that now, when he is a highly experienced veterinary surgeon, he still doesn’t hurry.
After reading this, I began to analyse myself, and quickly realised that my father was quite right! Excepting occasions when a sudden burst of activity is desperately needed, I have never been one to hurry along life’s road, but it was not until I read this chapter that I was aware of this aspect of my character. Donald Sinclair must have had a similar experience, many years before, when the character of Siegfried Farnon first sprang out at him from the pages of If Only They Could Talk, and I was reminded of the old quotation from the Scottish poet, Robert Burns – one of my father’s favourites: O wad some Power the giftie gie us, To see oursels as others see us!’
There have been occasions when people have stated that James Herriot was ‘a writer of fiction’, questioning the veracity of some of the stories and claiming that Herriot had simply used well-worn jokes to his own advantage.
In chapter 26, there is a story about a character called Arnold Braithwaite. He is a boastful man who regales everyone in the local pub with stories of the many celebrities whom he claims to know personally. No one, of course, believes him but Arnold has the last laugh when, at the end of a hockey match in Darrowby, several of the players, many of them internationals, walk over to shake Arnold by the hand.
This story is based on a memorable individual by the name of Harry Bulmer. Harry was often to be found propping up the bars of Thirsk where he always had a good audience for his seemingly exaggerated anecdotes. He was regarded by most of the locals as a ‘right romancer’, with very few believing his pretentions to be on first-name terms with countless celebrities. There was one story he often told about the time he lent his bat to Len Hutton whose own had broken during an innings of a Test Match at Headingley. Harry gleefully reported that, when the great batsman returned the bat, after successfully scoring over a hundred runs, he had done so with the words, ‘Thanks, Harry! That’s a lovely bit of wood you have there.’
There was, however, a surprise in store for the locals who continually poked fun at him. A major hockey match was due to be played at the Thirsk Athletic Ground and Harry assured everyone that he knew many of the players, some of them internationals from other parts of the country. Everyone thought that Harry would be exposed for the storyteller they believed him to be but, on the day of the match, there was more than one open mouth as several of the players approached him after the game with cries of ‘Look! It’s Harry! How are you, Harry?’ No one laughed quite so hard at Harry’s stories following that day at the Thirsk Athletic Ground.
Alf, in fact, enjoyed Harry’s company. He was a man with a great knowledge of cricket and football – subjects that Alf never tired of discussing. There is a photograph, taken in the Three Tuns Hotel, of Harry – his head back and mouth open – regaling everyone with yet another fantastic tale. Standing by his side is Alf, eyes wide with delight. One can almost see him making a mental ‘heading’ for his notebook.
The story of Arnold Braithwaite in Every Living Thing –one that has been described as simply being based on a hoary old joke – is just another example of the factual basis behind James Herriot’s stories. Not only would Alf have been the first to acknowledge that many of his stories were embellished – and that he changed the dates of a number of the incidents within them – but he accepted with equanimity the fact that there was a significant number of people who were unimpressed with his writing. To be referred to as a writer of fiction, however, is something to which he would most certainly have taken exception.
Throughout the second part of the 1980s, Alf was able to observe, from a comparative distance, the onward roll of the ‘James Herriot Industry’. Despite the Herriot-mania all around him, he succeeded in adopting a very low profile and, apart from devotedly signing thousands of books for his fans (to whom he always felt very grateful), his involvement with the celebrity status was minimal. He spoke little about it; indeed, he could sometimes appear to be almost bored by the whole thing.