CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
In the years between his finally finishing The Lord God Made Them Allin 1980, and beginning serious work on Every Living Thingin 1988, Alfred Wight wrote no other books. Despite this, several new ones were to appear under his name during that period. As well as The Best of James Herriot, which was published in 1982, James Herriot’s Dog Storieswas published in 1986, together with a succession of children’s books that came out throughout the 1980s, the last one being produced in 1991.
The book of dog stories was a compilation taken from the previously published books. The introduction is of particular interest as it is the only time that James Herriot gave his many fans an insight into his life as a young man at Glasgow Veterinary College – where the dog was regarded in those days as a species of minor importance, and the cat was hardly ever mentioned! How different it is for the veterinary student of today.
For the children’s books, as with Dog Stories, Alf had little to write. Each one was a story taken from the earlier Herriot works – brightly illustrated to appeal to the younger generation. In consultation with his editor, Jenny Dereham, some of these stories were quite heavily re-written, with the more explicit veterinary descriptions considerably toned down and the stories trimmed or stretched out to the appropriate length. They were an inspired idea. Each one was based on a specific character – Blossom the cow, Oscar the cat and Bonny the cart-horse amongst them. One of the books, The Christmas Day Kitten, was an international best-seller. James Herriot’s gift of bestowing endearing qualities on these engaging creatures, together with the colourful illustrations by the talented artists, Peter Barrett and Ruth Brown, guaranteed their success.
As the children’s books began to appear, Alf received countless letters from his many young fans, as well as drawings of their favourite animal characters. James Herriot’s easy style appealed to all readers, from the discerning professional reviewer down to the young child in primary school. His fan club truly encompassed all readers great and small.
Two of those stories have special significance for me, as it was I who was responsible, many years previously, for providing the material within them. Moses the Kittenwas the first in the series for children, and was published in 1984. It originated from a visit I paid to Terry Potter’s farm at Baldersby near Thirsk. I had just completed my work on the farm when Ted, the pigman, said to me, ‘Come over ’ere. Ah’ve summat ter show ther!’
He took me over to a pen in which there was a huge sow suckling an enormous litter of shiny, pink piglets. It was not this scene of utter contentment that impressed me the most, however; I was astonished to see that one of the piglets in the row was black!
‘Ah bet yer’ve never seen a pig like yon little youth!’ said Ted. ‘’Ave a closer look!’
The ‘piglet’ was, to my amazement, a cat – and a fairly well-grown one, too. ‘Ah found ’im wanderin’ about t’buildings ’alf dead wi’ cold an’ Ah thowt Ah’d give ’im a chance an Ah put ’im ter this auld sow,’ said Ted. ‘Look at ’im now! By! ’E ’as done well!’ The sleek, black coat was one of the finest I had ever seen on a cat. The creature gave me a cursory glance before elbowing his way deeper into the row of fat, feasting piglets.
I recounted this experience to my father over lunch. He suddenly stopped eating and sprang upstairs for his notebook. ‘Another story to add to the James Herriot collection,’ he said, after returning to his knife and fork.
Another of the children’s books, Blossom Comes Home, had its origins on the farm of my father’s old friend and client, Arthur Dand. Arthur showed me an old cow that was quite obviously past her productive life. She had been a wonderful cow in her time but her overgrown feet, protruding hip bones and sagging udder displayed stark evidence of a lifetime of high milk production.
Arthur had always been very attached to her but, one day, having realised that he could no longer afford to keep her, he had reluctantly come to the decision to send her for slaughter. As he gazed after the wagon that was taking his old friend away on her final journey, she put her head out of the back of the trailer before emitting a long and plaintive cry. The sight of the old cow, staring out for the last time at the pastures she loved, was too much for Arthur. He leapt into his car, raced after the slaughterman’s wagon, flagged it down and, within minutes, Blossom was back home.
‘She may be no use to me any more,’ he said to me, ‘but she’s going to spend the rest of her days right here!’
After I told this story to my father, the notebook was, once again, produced. ‘Keep feeding me the information,’ he said, ‘and I’ll do the rest!’
A farming friend of mine told me, a year or two ago, ‘It’s a “numbers game” now.’ He was absolutely right. Gone are the days of calling cows Buttercup and Bluebell; they are simply part of an enterprise driven on, as with most things, by money. In today’s commercially dominated world there is less room for sentiment although that is not to say that the modern farmer is without feeling for his stock.
I was to observe an example of the close bond between the farmer and his animals on a recent visit to a hill farm.
The visit – to a farm in the Hambleton Hills to put down an old cow – was an unusual one. As the farmer took me over to her, he requested that I perform the job as painlessly as possible. She was lying on a bed of straw, unable to rise, and she presented a pitiful picture. Her taut, wrinkled skin, gentle, grey face and pure white eyelashes – all hallmarks of a very old animal – caught my attention immediately. As she turned her head slowly towards me, she seemed to be appealing for help, but I knew that I could do little for her.
‘This auld girl is twenty-two year auld,’ said the farmer unsteadily. ‘She’s been a grand cow in ’er time an’ Ah want ’er to go quietly.’ He paused a moment as he composed himself. ‘Can yer inject ’er to put ’er away? Ah don’t want ’er to be shot.’
Shooting is a swift and humane way to destroy an animal but he was adamant that she received an injection, despite the fact that this would render her carcass unsuitable for dog meat, let alone human consumption. It was a most unusual request.
‘Of course, George,’ I replied, ‘but you do realise that this means you will receive absolutely nothing for her?’
‘No matter,’ he replied, walking over to the old animal and stroking her head gently. His voice trembled with emotion. ‘She owes me nowt! Yer don’t mind if Ah don’t watch, der yer?’
His eyes filled with tears as he turned away to walk into the house. As the old cow collapsed back onto the straw after the injection, I felt that I had suddenly stepped back into James Herriot’s world – and visions of Blossom the Cow swam before my eyes. The ‘numbers game’ had not completely taken over, not quite.
Although not actually writing more books at this time, Alf was never allowed to forget that he was a famous author, and he still spent a large part of his time in the Kirkgate surgery signing books for his many fans. Years of this activity eventually resulted in his developing arthritis in his hand and, in the last few years of his life, he spent time at home signing, at his own pace, countless self-adhesive labels that his admirers could stick into their books.
Occasionally, during long signing sessions in the surgery waiting-room, he had to politely decline requests for wordy dedications. One day, following yet another such session, he returned to the office, smiling.
‘Most people are quite satisfied with “Best Wishes, James Herriot”,’ he said, ‘but one guy has just asked for “To Ray, Elsie, Kevin, Holly and Louise on your first ever visit to Yorkshire. With very best wishes, James Herriot, Helen, Siegfried and all the rest at Skeldale House!” I made the excuse that the old hand would probably seize up half-way through!’