The Real James Herriot (13 page)

Donald Sinclair's practice, at that time, covered a very large area. Within the part of Yorkshire which stretches some sixty miles from Helmsley in the east to Hawes, a town at the far end of Wensleydale in the west, there were very few practices and Donald's and Frank Bingham's were two of them. Frank, having no desire to undertake the TB Testing work, offered it some years later to Donald who, naturally, grabbed it with both hands. They entered into a tenuous partnership, one which for a few years was known as ‘Bingham, Sinclair and Wight'.

When Alf first started work in Thirsk, his days were very long. He travelled across to Frank Bingham's Leyburn practice in the mornings
to test endless cows before returning to Thirsk in the afternoons to deal with the work that had accumulated there. He covered vast distances but in doing so he had a wonderful introduction to the Dales, an area that was a revelation to him the first time he set eyes upon it. He was totally captivated by the wild majestic fells sweeping down to the green valleys, with the stone walls winding down from the high tops to the sturdy grey villages and farmsteads. He loved the sweet, clean air punctuated with the sounds of birds – curlew, lapwing, skylark and grouse. It is no surprise that, many years later, he would set his books in the Dales; he would see many beautiful places in his lifetime but there was nowhere he would love more than the Yorkshire Dales.

Another bonus resulting from this arduous regime was that he became well acquainted with Frank Bingham. Frank, a distinguished-looking man with fair hair and blue eyes, was almost twenty years older than Alf, and was a man who had travelled widely. He had been a Mountie in Canada and had spent time in Australia riding the rabbit fences, enduring many long hours in the saddle, with the result that he was an artist when it came to dealing with horses. This elegant and soft-spoken man was someone to whom Alf Wight took an immediate liking. He and his Swiss wife, Emmy, enriched his first years in the Dales with their wonderful kindness and hospitality.

Alf was always hungry in those days. He would set out from Thirsk in his basic little car, with just a pack of cheese sandwiches to last him the whole day, but there was more than cheese waiting for him whenever he walked into the Binghams' house in Leyburn. Emmy was a magnificent cook, and she fed him like a king. Delectable stews, apple pies and cakes passed his willing lips, while Frank would sit back and talk quietly as though there were all the time in the world.

Frank, who went about his work calmly and methodically, was one who would never be hurried. His great saying was ‘Always set your stall out first', and he would never embark upon any job unless he was thoroughly prepared. To a young, eager-to-learn veterinary surgeon like Alf Wight, he was a joy to watch. Some of the principles to which he adhered in his work – great care combined with scrupulous cleanliness – are just as valid today as they were fifty or more years ago. Alf used to be amused when he saw Frank boil up his instruments and wrap them in clean brown paper before every operation, but he noticed that Frank's surgical wounds always healed rapidly and cleanly.

He was a real horseman who could rope and throw wild colts with
effortless ease, and on one remarkable occasion, Alf watched fascinated as Frank cast an unbroken young horse with one hand while rolling a cigarette with the other. He was equally at home when dealing with cows. One of the most daunting challenges to a veterinary surgeon is the replacement of a prolapsed uterus in the bovine. This involves the returning of an enormous pink mass of tissue through the vagina, a task rather like trying to stuff a large cushion up a drain pipe. It can be a demoralising and exhausting job. Frank, as usual, made little of such a challenge, and young Alf Wight watched in amazement on a Dales farm one day as he covered the huge mass with sugar before rolling the cow onto a small stool to stop her straining the uterus back out. The sugar sucked the moisture out of the tissues, reducing it to a fraction of its size, while Frank, gently, replaced it – a freshly rolled cigarette dangling from his lips as he worked. As the young vet watched, he reflected that such things are not taught at veterinary college; they are acquired over years of experience.

Frank Bingham appears in the third of James Herriot's books,
Let Sleeping Vets Lie,
under the name of Ewan Ross, and the admiration Alf felt for the man shows clearly in his writing. Perhaps not everyone shared his opinion, however. Frank was regarded by most as a fine veterinary surgeon – when he made himself available.

Frank Bingham had a problem common to many veterinary surgeons of the day. He liked a drink – and he liked more than one. Numerous are the tales of his long sessions in the inns and public houses of the Yorkshire Dales, sessions that could last for days. Frank worked only when he felt like it, and once he was comfortably seated beside a warm fire with a drink in his hand, it was a persuasive man who could winkle him out. As many of the Dales folk were from strict Methodist families, such drinking habits may well have been frowned upon, but it was not this aspect of his character that Alf remembered. The warm friendship that this easy-going and charming man had extended to him, ensured that Alf's early days in the Yorkshire Dales were ones that he would always recall with happiness and nostalgia.

I hardly remember Frank Bingham, since I was only eight years old at the time of his death in 1951, but I do have a recollection of a visit to a café in the Dales shortly after he died. The waitress was none other than Emmy Bingham who was working there to earn a little extra money. My father, deeply upset to learn of her financial misfortune, could not finish his food. He was unable to come to terms with the
situation of being waited on by the lady who had been so kind to him during those first years in the Yorkshire Dales.

It was not unusual in those days for veterinary surgeons to die leaving their wives in penury. They worked so hard that survival was a priority, with thoughts of pensions and insurance policies hardly crossing their minds. In due course, the profession became aware of the number of veterinarians' families who were struggling financially, and a fund known as the Veterinary Benevolent Fund was established, its aim being to provide such families with assistance. Alf Wight contributed generously to this fund during the years when he was making money as a writer, but he was in no situation to help Emmy Bingham all those years ago, at a time when he, himself, had to account for every penny.

During those first four months in Thirsk, the practice was fully stretched. He wrote to his parents about the kind of life he was leading.

Dear Folks,

I've been trying to find time to write for ages but just recently I have been working harder than I've ever done in my life. There is far too much for one man to do and, frankly, I don't know how I ever get through all the work. I've been rising at 6.30 am and working till dark for ages and then there's all the writing to be done on top of that. And bills! Oh boy, I never realised how things could pile up and how much it would cost to live. I can't believe I've been here for four months. Time slips past when you're working and, apart from my weekend in Sunderland at the beginning, I've never had a day off, never been out with a girl, never played a game. It's enough to age anybody!

Today, the young veterinary surgeon leads a far more civilised life, with better working facilities, an arsenal of modern drugs to combat disease, and comfortable cars to ride around in – but whether they are happier than those slaves of yesterday is debatable. The modern veterinary surgeon is beset by rules and regulations while the demands of his clients become ever more exacting. The stress associated with the job is high, both financially and emotionally, with threats of litigation lurking around every corner. Young Alf Wight worked hard, but it is likely that his unbridled, outdoor way of life, set in one of the most beautiful parts of the country, is one that is now looked on by many with more than a touch of envy.

Following Donald's and Eric Parker's departure for the Royal Air Force, a deep sense of isolation began to descend on Alf. He was not only trying to establish himself in a new job in an unfamiliar environment but, apart from Frank Bingham in Leyburn, he had no one to turn to for advice, nobody with whom to share his hopes and fears as he drove the long and lonely miles. The Yorkshire farmers did little to bolster his confidence; many had developed a great deal of faith in Donald and Eric, and few could conceal their disappointment upon beholding the unknown and inexperienced vet driving on to their farms. Never had Alf felt the need of moral support as fervently as he did during those first few weeks in Yorkshire.

It was not long before he did something about it. He suspected that his friend Eddie Straiton, having recently qualified, may not have got a job. He was right; Eddie was desperate to find some work and when Alf offered him the chance to join him in Thirsk, the young man leapt at the opportunity. Alf could not pay him but he would put a roof over his head and feed him, in return for which Eddie would be able to gain some practical experience while helping Alf in his everyday work. Eddie was doubly grateful, as he knew, when applying for jobs elsewhere, that to be able to say that he had had some weeks working in practice, would stand him in good stead.

Eddie was a great help to Alf in more ways than one. Not only was he good company during the long drives up into the wildest reaches of the Dales, but he was an able assistant. He was put to work early almost every morning as the old Ford car often needed a good push before it could be persuaded to start, but it was up on the bleak hill farms, helping to catch the animals, that Eddie came into his own. The TB Testing was tough work as the two young vets were thrown about by rough, hairy cattle who had no intention of making the job any easier. Eddie was not a big man but he was strong and fearless, and Alf had abiding memories of the small figure with the jet black hair bobbing around in a throng of angry, steaming cows and being hurled around like a cork on the ocean. Once Eddie had his fingers in a beast's nose, he hung on like a terrier.

Many years later, Eddie Straiton would reminisce about the time he spent working with his old college friend in the hills and dales of Yorkshire. He went so far as to say that they were among the happiest weeks of his life – hard and penniless, but carefree and full of fine memories.

As well as the TB Testing in the Dales, the practice at Thirsk was always busy and it was here one evening that Alf and Eddie received a lesson in the up-and-down fortunes of the veterinary surgeon's life that they were never to forget.

They were called to a calving at Knayton, a village near Thirsk, and arrived full of enthusiasm. A calving is a dramatic event, with success boosting a new veterinary surgeon's reputation. On the other hand, should things turn out badly, the vet could have a mountain to climb, re-establishing his image.

Alf stripped to the waist and inserted his arm into the cow. His confidence drained away within seconds. He could feel only a large mass of hair and bone. There were no legs, no feet and no head. Was this a calf? What else could it be? He explored the mysterious depths of the cow, trying desperately to find something that was familiar, but there was only the huge hairy ball of tissue lodged firmly within the pelvis of the cow. He grappled with the nameless lump for a while longer before turning to his friend. ‘Edward, would you care to feel this for me?'

‘Certainly, Alf,' replied Eddie, stepping forward confidently.

Alf's expectations of a successful calving began to sink even lower as he watched the wriggling figure behind the cow, the face set in grim determination. Eddie, too, was obviously finding this a challenge. He eventually withdrew his arm and spoke.

‘I think you had better have another feel, Alf,' he said. ‘It is a rather strange case.'

Alf resumed the struggle, his mind in a turmoil. Whatever this thing was, it was not going to come out. These were the days before Caesarean section was an option; the ‘calf' – or whatever else it might be – had to be extracted out of the passage that nature intended. There was no other route. What was he to do? An important quality of a good veterinary surgeon is the ability to make a firm decision; it is of little use procrastinating in periods of crisis. He had to do something, and he did.

He turned to the farmer and said in as steady a voice as he could muster, ‘I am afraid that what we have here is the uncalvable cow. It could kill her to take this huge calf out of her but if you slaughter her as quickly as possible, she will dress out well and you should receive a reasonable price for her carcass.' Such confidently spoken words belied his inwardly seething emotions.

The farmer was staring blankly at Alf when suddenly a voice broke the oppressive silence in the gloomy cow byre. ‘Ah'll 'ave a go!' Another man had silently drifted in to observe the proceedings, a heavy-set, lugubrious individual who had been observing the contortions of the two young men with apparent indifference. The farmer seemed agreeable, and Eddie and Alf were in no position to argue. The man rolled up his sleeves, took out an old knife and, with it carefully covered by his hand, inserted his arm in the cow's vagina and set to work.

To the two young vets, the next hour or so seemed like days as this man produced a decomposing calf, bit by bit, out of the cow until, finally, the result of his labours lay in shreds on the cow byre floor, relieving the exhausted cow of her unwanted burden. He had succeeded where the veterinary surgeons had failed.

Eddie and Alf muttered their thanks before slinking out of the byre and rattling off down the country road back to Thirsk. The shame was overwhelming. They were so demoralised that nothing was said for a long time, but eventually Eddie broke the silence with a remark that my father would never forgot.

‘The ruin of two promising careers, Alf!' he said, staring gloomily out of the old cracked windscreen.

‘Aye, Eddie, you're probably right,' he replied. ‘News travels fast round here – especially bad news. Oh, they're going to love this! The farmer had to do the vet's job! They'll be shouting it from the roof tops! This'll be all over Yorkshire by tomorrow!'