One day, as he was spooning black treacle into his mouth, he was reminded of an old farmer who had told him that he was fed by his employer on the cheapest food available – black treacle and dumplings. The old man went on to tell him that t’ dumplings stayed inside yer fer about a week, an’t treacle went straight through yer!’ I don’t know what effect this strange diet had on my father’s digestive system but, whatever the reason, he dispensed with it after a few months.

His resolve in following Gayelord Hauser’s regime was further tested on the days when he followed another of the guru’s recommendations – that of having a ‘fruit day’. This was a day when nothing but fruit was to be eaten, the idea being to ‘cleanse and detoxify’ the system. He would return for his lunch, famished after a morning around the farms, to sit down to a couple of apples and an orange while his family around him devoured plates of roast beef, Yorkshire puddings and potatoes, all smothered in rich brown gravy. I used to think that my mother gleaned satisfaction out of torturing him by producing these mouthwatering meals on his ‘fruit days’. He, of course, cracked under the pressure and was soon joining the rest of us among our lakes of gravy.

Another craze he undertook in 1958 was the playing of the violin. He had always loved listening to music, and had joined the Thirsk and District Music Society the previous year, but now he decided that he would like to play.

The violin was always Alf’s favourite instrument. He had all the great violin concertos on record, and admired in particular the famous performers like Alfredo Campoli and Jaschia Heifitz. Many years later, as James Herriot, he appeared on the radio show, ‘Desert Island Discs’. He had no hesitation in choosing as his all-time favourite, the Violin Concerto by Elgar.

His excursion into violin playing lasted for two to three years. He played with Steve King, headmaster at the local school, and through their common love of music and sport, they became good friends. Steve played the cello and the two spent many hours playing duets as well as performing in the local school orchestra. Alf wrote to his parents in 1958 about his new hobby:

‘The old fiddle is progressing fast and I have improved out of all recognition. I am now nearly as good as those poor blokes you hear in the streets. But I do love it! I grab the instrument at every opportunity and it is funny how quickly the room empties after I start sawing.’

He did not progress much further with the violin and he received little encouragement from his family. The violin needs to be played very well to sound acceptable, and there were some very scratchy sessions around the fireside on those winter evenings. With the veterinary practice becoming increasingly busy, it was hard to find the time to devote to his hobby and, although he enjoyed his short association with the instrument, it finally scraped to a halt in 1960.

For Alf, the 1950s were years of enjoyment and satisfaction but towards the end of that decade, a darker period was beginning. It gradually worsened, almost unnoticed, but an event in 1960 would precipitate him into the abyss of a nervous breakdown that lasted for almost two years. It would be the only period of my life when I could say I had a father I hardly knew.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Friday 8 April 1960 began happily for Alf Wight. With his friend, Guy Rob, he left Thirsk for the international football match between Scotland and England at Hampden Park in Glasgow, to which they would be accompanied by his father. These visits were enjoyable and relaxing occasions. Alf would not only have the pleasure of seeing his parents again, he would be able to talk football with Pop, always one of their favourite topics of conversation.

The letters that Pop wrote to Alf and Joan invariably began with the formalities of asking after the family, telling in a short sentence or two how he and Granny Wight were faring – the remainder consisting of long accounts of football matches, views on the state of Sunderland AFC, or his latest opinions on the England cricket team. They radiated the words of a sports fanatic, and Alf’s letters to his parents, although not quite so heavily weighted, were in a similar vein. Joan would read the first couple of lines of Pop’s letters, but on seeing the start of a three – or four-page report of a match between Rangers and Celtic, would then hand the rest over to her husband.

His son’s visits to Glasgow were the highlight of Pop’s year and they were equally enjoyed by Alf who never tired of his father’s company.

But that day in 1960 was to be a tragic one. On arrival at his parents’ home in Anniesland Road, Alf was horrified to see a hearse outside the door. His father had died suddenly of a heart attack while he and Guy were en route from Thirsk. Instead of enjoying the great atmosphere of an England v Scotland match, he found himself making funeral arrangements, while poor Guy Rob caught the next train home.

This unexpected and shocking experience was a body blow – one that was to have devastating consequences. He had lost someone he loved dearly and, for more than a year afterwards, his emotions would carry him downhill into a state of deep and serious depression.

My mother, Rosie and I travelled to Glasgow for Pop’s funeral and I remember the look on my father’s face at the Maryhill Crematorium. He appeared to be completely bewildered, bravely fighting back tears, while all around him, people, myself included, were crying at the loss of someone we all loved. The emotional pressure on him at the time must have been incredible.

In a letter to his mother shortly after his father’s death, he tried to raise her spirits while expressing his own feelings: ‘I know how he must be filling your thoughts and of the awful emptiness you feel. I feel it too, as you will know. But, you know, I feel now a kind of companionship with Pop. When something comes up about football or anything else in which we were both interested, I feel I am discussing it mentally with him. These things are all a closed book to us but what is certain is that the love and the memories never die and are a comfort to those who are left.’

It is not surprising that Pop’s sudden and shocking death hit Alf so hard; there was a tremendous bond of friendship and affection between the two men. Pop’s death was a blow to me, too. I was seventeen at the time, and in September of the following year was due to stay with my grandparents at Anniesland Road while I attended the Glasgow University Veterinary School. One of my greatest regrets is that Pop was not there to share my university days – but it was much sadder that he was not alive to see the wonderful achievements of his son as a writer. He would have been a very proud man indeed, and no one would have devoured his books more avidly, or appreciated the skill of James Herriot more than Pop.

He would also have been proud to watch his son receive so many tributes from all over the world. Alf, too, had regrets that Pop never had the opportunity to read his work, but he thought that there was one tribute that his father would have been particularly pleased about.

One day, more than thirty years later, at the time when his fame and popularity were at their height, he was walking with Alex Taylor and they were talking about Alf’s recent distinction of being made Honorary President of Sunderland Football Club. ‘You know, Alex,’ he said, ‘old Pop would have loved to see my literary success but he would have considered thisto be my greatest achievement!’

Pop’s sudden death was the catalyst for sending Alf Wight spiralling into a nervous breakdown but it was not solely responsible; he had been deteriorating emotionally for some time before that event. Nervous breakdowns can be very difficult to understand and, in his case, there were many factors involved.