Chris Timothy and Robert Hardy both gave virtuoso performances reading extracts from James Herriot and P. G. Wodehouse. I gave an address, Rosie’s daughter, Emma, gave a reading, and Alex Taylor delivered a moving tribute to his oldest friend. My daughter, Zoe, played the trumpet during the ceremony, as part of the St Peter’s School brass group, part of which included a fanfare on the theme music from ‘All Creatures Great and Small’, especially composed by the St Peter’s School Music Master, Andrew Wright.
Two thousand three hundred people attended the service. There were representatives from the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons, the British Veterinary Association and many other professional bodies. His associates from the publishing world were represented, as well as countless friends, clients of the practice, and former assistants who had learned so much from him in those first uncertain steps in their careers.
Fans of his books came from all over the country, from Scotland to the south coast of England – many to honour a man who, simply through his writing, was someone they felt they really knew. My father had remained astonished by his success until the very end of his life and I, too, found the occasion at the Minster almost too much to grasp. I felt privileged to have had a father who had achieved so much from modest beginnings – one to whom so many people had poured into York Minster to pay their respects.
No one, of course, felt the death of my father more keenly than my mother. She had not only lost a husband whom she had loved dearly, but one with whom she had shared a happy and fulfilling life. The quiet house after his death was something that she – as with so many other widowed people – had to learn to live with. Fortunately, in Bodie, the Border Terrier, she still had someone to look after, but this ceased when I put Bodie to sleep eighteen months after my father’s death.
My mother, however, is not alone. My father was almost never without a dog, but the only animal that still stalks around his house is a tortoiseshell cat called Cheeky. Around the time I had the sad task of putting Bodie to sleep, this gentle little creature arrived on the doorstep completely uninvited. I have always regarded this as a remarkably providential incident and my mother has proved to be every bit as soft with her animals as her husband had been.
This fortunate cat, as well as being fed as well as Alf Wight had been, has a centrally-heated porch in which to sleep. The man who installed it could not quite believe what he was doing. ‘I’ve been asked to do some funny things in my time,’ he said to me, ‘but central heating … for a cat?’
In March 1996, the veterinary practice of Sinclair and Wight moved from 23 Kirkgate to new premises on the outskirts of Thirsk. The old house may have had a certain charm but with its long winding corridors, lack of space and inadequate parking facilities, it had become a liability. We, literally, had to move to survive.
The famous ivy-covered front with its red door, however, has been preserved as a memorial to James Herriot. In 1996, the local authority, Hambleton District Council, purchased the premises and have converted it into a visitor centre under the title of ‘The World of James Herriot’. Skeldale House will live on for many years to come and it is a fitting tribute by the people of North Yorkshire to one of its most distinguished adopted sons.
I have been asked many times whether my father would have approved of such a massive venture being undertaken in his name – especially as he always tended to shun publicity. He was always grateful for the low-key approach to his success by the local people, but they have revealed their true feelings for him in their overwhelming support for the project. I know that he would have been greatly moved by this gesture of appreciation and respect.
The innumerable tributes paid to Alfred Wight since his death reveal that respect and affection in which he was held by so many throughout the world.
One, from the Chicago Tribune –the newspaper that was so influential in igniting the name of James Herriot across the United States of America in 1973 – echoed the feelings of so many people. Mary Ann Grossman wrote:
People often ask me about my favourite author, probably expecting me to wax eloquent about Proust or Shakespeare, so I used to be a little embarrassed to honestly reply, ‘James Herriot’. But not any more. After spending a wonderful weekend re-reading Herriot’s books, I realized that his writing has everything; finely-drawn and colorful characters, empathy for humans and animals, a good story set in a gentler time, humor, respect for uneducated but hardworking people and an appreciation of the land.
But there’s something else in Herriot’s writing that I can’t quite articulate, a glow of decency that makes people want to be better humans. I guess we’d call it spirituality these days, this profound belief of Herriot’s that humans are linked to all animals, whether they be calves he helped birth or pampered pets like Tricki Woo, Mrs Pumphrey’s lovable but overfed Pekingese.
Alf’s own profession did not forget the massive contribution that his writing had made in enhancing the image of the veterinary surgeon. His very first veterinary assistant, John Crooks, wrote his obituary in the Veterinary Recordin March 1995:
James Alfred Wight, under his pen name James Herriot, was without doubt the world’s best known and best loved veterinary surgeon. Others better qualified than I, will, no doubt, write of his literary prowess and of his immense contribution to the veterinary profession, as shown by the honours showered on him throughout the world. These accolades he accepted with great pleasure yet total humility.
The last time we met, only a few months before his death, he expressed genuine, slightly bemused astonishment at his phenomenal literary success. I treasure our last conversation which was all of veterinary matters, of difficult cases and hilarious situations. Although he qualified in the pre-antibiotic era, Alf quickly adapted to new medicines, new anaesthetics, new surgical techniques and laboratory procedures. When I joined the practice in 1951 I found it totally up to date. He had small, sensitive hands and was especially skilled in obstetrical work. Although not long in the arm, it was amazing with what facility he dealt with difficult calvings in the large shorthorn cows common in the 1950s. One farmer said to me, ‘Aye, ’e got us a grand live calf – but ’e near ’ad to climb in to get it out!’ He handled animals with gentleness and firmness. He loved his work.
The world will remember a brilliant and modest writer who made his profession famous. Those of us who had the privilege of working with him, and those who had the privilege of having their animals cared for by him, will remember him for what he most aspired to be – a highly competent and caring veterinary surgeon.
I know that my father would have approved of these words. Throughout his years of literary fame, he persistently regarded himself as primarily a veterinary surgeon, but the praise heaped upon him was always in reference to his achievements as a writer. John’s appreciation of his friend as a vet – a view shared by many others – would have meant a great deal to him.
Alf Wight – and his alter ego, James Herriot – was, indeed, loved by many, but it is important to remember that he was only one of countless veterinarians the world over who are every bit as caring and compassionate as he was. He had, however, that extra quality – the gift of the born raconteur which resulted in his becoming the best ambassador the veterinary profession could have ever hoped for. It was through his writing that he displayed to the world the veterinary surgeons’ dedication and concern for their patients – in effect, humanising his profession in a world becoming increasingly motivated purely by profit and efficiency. As a veterinary surgeon, he was just one of many others who shared his fine qualities.