It Shouldn’t Happen to a Vetis a very similar book to the first one, with the mixture much as before – plenty of humour, a genuine insight into a fast-disappearing way of life and some dashes of pathos thrown in, too. Like its predecessor, it has the ability to move the reader to tears of both joy and sadness. Alf quickly saw the potential for a third, maybe even a fourth book, and decided to introduce another character who could run through the subsequent titles. He brought in a little love interest, and Helen Alderson, who was based upon Joan, enters James Herriot’s life for the first time.
The book opens with a chapter on Mr Handshaw. James Herriot visits a recumbent cow that he considers, after treating her for several days, will never walk again. He advises humane slaughter. The farmer does not take his advice, but keeps her for several weeks, after which the cow suddenly jumps to her feet. This was a great triumph for Mr Handshaw who had ‘put one over’ on the professional man.
The real Mr Handshaw, a man by the name of Billy Goodyear, is still alive and, only recently, one of the practice’s young assistants paid a visit to his farm.
‘He’s an interesting old fellow!’ the assistant said to me on his return. ‘He told me a story about your father.’
‘Oh yes?’ I replied. I could guess what was coming.
‘He said that your dad treated a cow years ago and said “it would never get up n’ more”. He kept it alive, against your dad’s advice, and it got up!’
Billy Goodyear never let my father forget about the cow that would ‘never get up n’more’ and I sometimes wonder what Alf Wight would have thought, had he known that the farmer would still be basking in that moment of glory, years after his death.
It Shouldn’t Happen to a Vetillustrates another aspect of James Herriot’s writing – that of his altering the characters by changing their sex, or making one composite personality out of several others.
In chapter 7 of the book, a character called Mr Worley appears. He is a man who is completely devoted to pigs. His whole life revolves round them, and there is nothing he likes better than sitting by the fire, ‘talking pigs’.
The ‘real’ Mr Worley was based upon a lady called Mrs Bush who ran a country inn at Byland Abbey near Thirsk. She kept Saddleback pigs in the yard behind the inn and she loved every one of them. She liked my father as she was convinced that he, too, loved her pigs. I am not quite so sure about that. Not only were Mrs Bush’s black and white sows pretty formidable creatures, especially at farrowing time, but she had the awkward habit of calling us out in the early hours of the morning to attend to them. In her eyes, however, he was a real ‘pig vet’.
One evening, Alf had an unnerving experience while having a quiet drink at the inn. Mrs Bush approached him and said, ‘Ooh, Mr Wight, I did enjoy reading your book. And I liked the chapter about that man and his pigs!’
A thin film of sweat appeared on Alf’s brow. Surely she had not recognised herself? ‘I’m glad you liked it, Mrs Bush,’ he replied.
‘I know exactly how he felt!’ she continued.
‘Do you really?’
‘Aye. D’you know, Mr Wight … it could’ve been me!’
The second book ends with a wonderful story – one whose origins I remember very well – that illustrates, perfectly, the unique character of Donald Sinclair. Siegfried, while escorting some upper-class, influential people to the races, meets an old friend and becomes inebriated after which, following the loss of his car keys, he has to borrow his friend’s filthy old vehicle to transport his outraged guests away from the racecourse. The final touch of farce is provided, as usual, by Siegfried who is watched in disbelief by the unsmiling occupants as he attempts to clean the car window with a dead hen!
*
In the following five years up to 1977, Alf produced four more books, an impressive feat for a man working full time as a veterinary surgeon. As in those long years when he was writing the short stories and novels, he worked in the living-room, right in front of the television. By now he found it no hardship to settle down at the end of a working day, with the stories flowing effortlessly from his typewriter. Having watched him put in a full day’s work in the practice, I used to stare in amazement at the contented figure tapping away. He had one great advantage; he genuinely loved writing, unfailingly regarding it as a hobby rather than a profession.
From 1973 onwards, everything that he published received enthusiastic reviews before climbing rapidly to the top of the best-seller lists. His third book, Let Sleeping Vets Lie, a title suggested by Joan, was published in April 1973. This book, like the previous two, was serialised by the Evening Standard, and it hit the ground running – immediately becoming a best-seller. Michael Joseph printed 15,000 copies which disappeared off the bookshelves with lightning speed. The reader is introduced to more characters, including Ewan Ross, the neighbouring vet for whom James Herriot T.B. tested endless cows, and Carmody, the student. There are endless tales of the Yorkshire farmers with their funny ways, and the gentle love story between James and Helen winds through the book, finally resulting in their marriage and honeymoon in the Yorkshire Dales.
The opening chapter is about a formidable dog belonging to Joe Mulligan, a deaf old Irishman. In real life, he was a man called Mr Thompson, and the dog was one that no vet in his right mind would dream of approaching. This enormous animal – known simply as ‘Thompson’s dog’ – sparked waves of high tension along the corridors of the surgery whenever he walked through the door.
One day, Alf was walking his little Jack Russell terrier, Hector, across the fields near Thirsk, when he beheld the misleadingly benevolent face of ‘Thompson’s dog’ shambling along beside the old man. To his horror, Hector began to gambol around the huge animal. The big, shaggy creature displayed little more than mild interest towards the small black and white form that was swarming all over him, but my father was still concerned. Old Mr Thompson could see the consternation on Alf’s face. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Wight,’ he shouted, ‘’e only eats Alsatians!’
On 18 April 1973, at Michael Joseph’s new offices in Bedford Square, the official publication of Let Sleeping Vets Liewas celebrated. So pleased was the publishing house of Michael Joseph with their increasingly popular author that, besides throwing the special publication party for him, they had – two months previously – already contracted him to write three more books, for which they paid a total advance of £5,250. These were still early days and the figure was not a generous one, but to Alf Wight, with his ever accelerating sales over the next few years, this would turn out to be of little significance.
One of the benefits of having a now-famous father was the frequent attendance at many excellent parties, together with the meeting of hordes of interesting people. New friendships were forged at these functions, commonly enhanced by the presence of liberal quantities of alcohol. This first publication party was right up to expectations. Many of the family’s friends were willing participants. Denton Pette (later to be depicted as Granville Bennett), Brian Sinclair (Tristan, of course) and their wives were there, (Donald Sinclair remained at home to manage the practice), as was Eddie Straiton, as well as my future wife Gillian, who had been invited as a close friend of Rosie’s. Gill, unfortunately, having under-estimated the alcoholic content of the drinks that seemed to be poured into her glass in never-ending quantities, spent the latter part of the evening in a moribund state in the ladies’ cloakroom.
Full of remorse the following day, she wrote an abject letter of apology to the author. His reply is one that she has kept as a treasured memento: