by Jim Wight
Another call from my mother, however, changed my mind. The practice, at that time, was going through a difficult period and was reduced to a three-man outfit. This meant that my father, at the age of over fifty, was having to do regular night work, alternating on a one-in-two rota with the remaining assistant, Tony Kelly. My mother added that, with the financial position within the practice not as good as it might have been, my return would be a great help, especially as I could live at home, alleviating the problem of finding accommodation for a new veterinary surgeon. I returned to Thirsk in October 1967 which, as well as providing extra help for my father by taking on his night work, gave him more time to rewrite his book.
I have always found it intriguing that my father not only wrote his novel while working full time in the practice but, from August 1966, he had been on call every alternate night. He must have had amazing dedication to sit down and begin writing after a full day’s work, a time when most people would have just wanted to put their feet up.
During my first few months working in Thirsk, I remember him restructuring his book. He did not have a study, but simply tapped away on his typewriter among the rest of us in the sitting-room. He wrote that book in front of the television, having the ability to shut off his mind and concentrate on the words in front of him, but if something interested him on the television, he would stop and enjoy it before effortlessly switching himself back into writing mode. Truly remarkable.
By the summer of 1968, Alf had re-written his book, this time a semi-autobiographical account of his first year in veterinary practice in Yorkshire. Although it was now written in the first person, many of the stories were ones that had appeared in his previous book. As before, the main characters were based on the Sinclair brothers. He changed the title from The Art and the Science to If Only They Could Talk.
This title was suggested to him in November 1967 by a client called Arthur Dand, a dairy farmer who lived on an uncompromising little farm at the foot of the White Horse near Kilburn. He was a farmer with a difference. He, too, was a keen writer and sent off parcels of his work to various publishing houses. Like Alf, he was meeting with little success. Whenever Alf visited Arthur Dand’s farm, the visit was a long one as the two men compared notes and discussed their aspiring ambitions to become well-known authors. Alf always thought that Arthur was one of, perhaps, thousands of writers whose work, sadly, will never be enjoyed by the rest of the world. It was he, however, who provided the title for Alf’s first book.
In July of that year, Alf re-submitted his much improved book to Collins. The book was sent on to Mrs Wadham, but little happened for a while as she not only had other reading commitments but was due to go on holiday to Ireland. She wrote to Alf in early September, assuring him that she had started the manuscript with the same amount of enthusiasm as she did the previous time and that she hoped to let him hear about it very soon. There was then a period of silence for three months. As before, Alf retained a ray of hope. Could they, again, be thinking seriously about publishing it? With the practice becoming busier again, he had plenty to occupy his mind but, in late November, his curiosity got the better of him and he posted off a letter of enquiry.
He received a prompt and courteous reply in which the publishers stated that they were sorry but their ‘lists were full’. This was a polite way of saying that they did not want his manuscript. He had been rejected again which, after the initial disappointment, did not really surprise him. The length of time required for the reply, plus the fact that he had had to remind them about the manuscript, led him to ponder whether anyone had even bothered to read it.
Two days later, however, he received an apologetic letter from Juliana Wadham. She had read and greatly enjoyed the manuscript, but her enthusiasm had not been shared by Collins. Her letter, dated 29 November 1968, said:
I was appalled to hear, today, that you still haven’t heard from Collins as I sent your book in several weeks ago. I really can’t apologise too much as you have been so kind and patient and I, myself, as you know, am an enthusiastic supporter of If Only They Could Talk.
By now, I expect you will have heard that Collins themselves don’t feel it is quite the book for their present lists… I, personally, am very sad that Collins are not going to do it and I hope you have more luck in the future.
There was still a tiny glimmer of hope. His manuscript had been passed on by Collins’ editorial department to an associate company, Geoffrey Bles Ltd in Doughty Street. Three weeks later, however, Alf received an all-too-familiar message; their lists were also full. At this point, he asked that his manuscript be returned to him direct. He later recalled, ‘The thud that it made coming back through the door was the loudest of all!’
This rejection was, he felt, the final blow. He had had enough. He had to accept that he was a veterinary surgeon not a writer, and he finally admitted defeat. He had tried; he had tried very hard, but he had failed.
He still felt proud of what he had done. Quite apart from having written a book that could be passed down through generations of his family, he had had the satisfaction of having his work genuinely praised by John Morrison and Juliana Wadham, two highly-experienced readers who had no reason to enthuse over his little book other than that they thought it had real potential.
Alfred Wight had knocked on the door of the world of publishing but he had not managed to walk through. He had, he thought, done pretty well to have progressed so far but this was the end of the road. He put his sorry brown paper parcel into a drawer and immersed himself in the job that he was trained for, the one that he loved best – veterinary practice.
These were happy days in the practice. Tony Kelly, the longest-serving assistant ever to work for Sinclair and Wight, was a most likeable and reliable vet with a great sense of humour, and there was both hard work and plenty of laughter in our daily routine.
The rejected book lying in the drawer was the last thing on my mind. Watching my father laughing at some of Tony’s latest escapades one day, I thought that he, too, had forgotten all about it and had finally cast off his ambitions to be a published author. With the figure in front of the television now no longer having a typewriter in front of him, I felt that this latest enthusiasm had had its day. Once again, I was mistaken.
One day in the spring of 1969, Joan said to Alf, quite out of the blue, ‘Why don’t you send your manuscript to Michael Joseph, as we were going to do originally?’
Knowing her husband well, she sensed that, even though his book had lain in a drawer untouched for weeks, he could not really stop thinking about it. With her words, yet again, having re-kindled the smouldering desire to get his manuscript published, he opened the drawer and took out his book.
He did not send it straight to Michael Joseph; he had another idea. Two years previously, Alf had bought a book called Sell Them A Story by someone called Jean LeRoy. In it, she advised that anyone who wished to have their work published should first approach an agent – and she would know because, according to the biographical note on the jacket flap, she herself was a literary agent.
Until this time, Alf had not seriously considered sending his book to an agent, but suddenly the idea seemed a very good one. He located Sell Them A Story on his crowded bookshelves, took it to bed, and began to read it again. Alf found the book inspiring and, as he read it for the second time, his ideas took a new turn. Not only would he send his manuscript to an agent, he would send it to none other than the author of that little book, Jean LeRoy herself.
As he lay in bed that night, he must have wondered whether he would ever meet with success. As a veteran of so many rejections, he was not too optimistic but, believing that his book was easy to read and contained material that could be enjoyed by people of all ages, he still felt hopeful.
It was a fateful spring day in 1969 when Alfred Wight opened the drawer and lifted out his tattered manuscript. As the well-travelled parcel sped on its way to Miss Jean LeRoy, c/o David Higham Associates, 76 Dean Street, Soho, Lon
don, questions flashed across his mind.
Would the amusing stories about Donald and Brian Sinclair that his friends and family had heard about for so many years ever reach a wider audience? Would the agent read his book and, if so, would she like it? Would she consider it worthy of publication? This time, he would not have to wait long for his answer.
Chapter Twenty-one
One April morning, barely a week after he had sent off his manuscript to Jean LeRoy, I came down for breakfast to find my father seated at the table. His hands were trembling as he fingered a letter that had just arrived.
He looked at me and said, very quietly, ‘Jim, I can’t believe it but my book might be published! After all these years! I just can’t believe it!’
He handed me the letter. It was from David Bolt, a director at David Higham Associates, saying that he liked the book ‘enormously’ and considered it would have every chance of reaching publication.
This was a revelation. After so many rejections, Alf had received a positive response – and within such a short time. It was beyond anything he had dared to hope for. The letter included an invitation to visit the literary agency in London, which happened to be extremely convenient as he was already going down to the capital to see the football match between England and Scotland at Wembley. As Alfred Wight watched Scotland take on the ‘auld enemy’ that day, he had more than just football on his mind.
On its arrival at the David Higham offices, Jean LeRoy had taken the manuscript home, and almost immediately had started to read it. After only one or two chapters, she had realised that she was in the company of an unusually gifted writer. The author’s wonderful descriptions of Yorkshire, his vivid characterisation, the humour and the easy, readable style, had convinced her that she was in possession of something special.
Jean LeRoy was thrilled with what she had read, and walked excitedly into the David Higham offices, waving the manuscript and exclaiming, ‘This is a find!’ As she personally handled newspaper and magazine rights rather than selling to publishers, she passed Alf’s manuscripts to David Bolt. He too was greatly enthused, and felt sure they could be on to a winner. A letter to the unknown author was soon on its way to Yorkshire.
At the meeting in London, where Alf met both Jean LeRoy and David Bolt, he was told that they felt very positive about the book, and had the ideal publishing house in mind.
‘Which one is that?’ Alf asked.
‘Michael Joseph,’ replied David Bolt – the very publisher to whom Joan had suggested Alf should send the first manuscript, over three years previously.
When the manuscript of If Only They Could Talk arrived at the offices of the publishing company of Michael Joseph Ltd in Bloomsbury, centre of London’s publishing world, Mrs Anthea Joseph, deputy chairman and one of the company’s editorial directors, did not read it straightaway. This was not unusual. Manuscripts of all descriptions flowed through the doors of Michael Joseph each day, with the ones sent in by agents meriting more attention than those arriving unsolicited from hopeful members of the general public. Only a fraction of the manuscripts received would achieve publication. Although any manuscript arriving from David Higham Associates – an agency Anthea Joseph rated highly – would be considered carefully, the company had published, in the previous decade, three novels with a veterinary background, and Anthea was not certain there was room for any more in a similar vein. These three books – A Vet’s Life, The Vet Has Nine Lives and Vets In The Belfry – were by an author called Alex Duncan which was, in fact, a pseudonym used by the thriller writer Madeleine Duke, whom the company also published.
Anthea Joseph passed the manuscript of If Only They Could Talk to her part-time secretary, Jennifer Katz, to read. Young people in editorial departments often took manuscripts home to read and report on; it was one way of adding to the notoriously low salaries paid to junior publishing staff. Jennifer took it home for the weekend and, like Jean LeRoy, returned to the office on the Monday morning, waving the manuscript in the air and exclaiming, ‘We must publish this book! It is the funniest book I have read for years!’ Such was her enthusiasm that Anthea Joseph duly packed it into her briefcase, along with four or five other manuscripts she had to read, and took it home.
Anthea Joseph, widow of the company’s founder, was an extremely astute publisher and she could ‘smell’ a good book when she met it – whether the book was literary or commercial. At the following week’s editorial meeting, she consulted with her colleagues: could they publish another book with a veterinary background, starting off a new author from scratch? Dick Douglas-Boyd, sales director at the time, was certain they could.
However, there was one other factor which may have contributed towards the destiny of If Only They Could Talk. Some years later, Anthea Joseph told Alf that it was the words of Clarence Paget, then editorial director of Pan Books, that had helped her make the decision to go ahead and publish this unknown vet from Yorkshire. Clarence and Anthea were long-time publishing friends and would often lunch together to talk about the authors they jointly published, Michael Joseph in the original hardback edition and Pan Books in the subsequent paperback edition. A rising star for both publishing houses at that time was Dick Francis.
Clarence was a publisher held in high regard by Anthea and it is very probable that during a lunch Anthea would have mentioned ‘the vet from Yorkshire’ and her concern whether, following the three Alex Duncan books, there would be room for another with a veterinary background. It appears that Anthea sent Clarence part of the manuscript for his opinion since, according to Alf, he had returned it to her almost immediately, stating very emphatically, ‘You could have a real seller there!’
This story has been viewed with some scepticism by those connected to the publishing world. Anthea Joseph was a very shrewd publisher, and it is highly debatable whether she would have needed the advice of anyone else. Nevertheless, Alf was convinced of the veracity of the story. One thing is certain: Clarence Paget as well as Anthea Joseph would forever occupy a special place in his memory: two more of the many players whom Alf regarded as having tilted fortune his way in that long game of chance on the road to success.
Alf Wight’s fingers went into trembling mode again as he opened another letter from David Bolt at David Higham Associates. This letter, written on 18 June 1969, informed him that his book was definitely going to be published. The contents made sweet reading:
Dear Mr Wight
IF ONLY THEY COULD TALK (J. Walsh)
I’m delighted to say that we’ve had an offer from the very first publisher we tried, the excellent house of Michael Joseph. I had Anthea Joseph, the deputy chairman, on the telephone this morning and after a little discussion settled on the following terms, subject, of course, to your approval …. As you may know, Joseph are particularly good with ‘animal books’ and ought, I think, to do very well with this one.
We settled, didn’t we, on the pseudonym ‘James Herriot’ after you discovered that there is, in fact, a James Walsh in practice?
Receiving this letter was one of the greatest moments of Alf’s life. Having always loved browsing through bookshops from his years as a boy in Glasgow, the thought of seeing his own work on the shelves gave him shivers of excitement.
He was shortly invited to London again, this time to meet Anthea Joseph. He found her a charming woman, and the two of them developed an instant liking for each other. They met for lunch, at which Anthea Joseph told him how much she had enjoyed his book, as well as telling him about other similar authors the firm had published. As David Bolt had said, they had successfully published books with an animal or medical theme: apart from Alex Duncan, there was Paul Gallico, Richard Gordon and Monica Dickens. As she progressed to explaining the contract and how money would be paid as an advance against future royalties, Alf began to like her more and more.
There had been one decision that he had had to make quickly, one to which David Bolt had referred in his letter. Alf could not use his real name – Alfre
d Wight – as this would have been construed as advertising; the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons were very strict about this in those days. Any form of advertising was regarded as unprofessional conduct and Alf obviously could not afford to be suspended or, possibly, struck off the Veterinary Register. He had had to choose a pseudonym.
To find a name that he liked had been a strangely difficult task. He had got used to ‘James Walsh’, the name he had used for his original novel – and he had submitted the manuscript of If Only They Could Talk under that name – but now, with publication a reality, he had to re-think. There was already a ‘James Walsh’ in the Veterinary Register.
On the evening of 11 February 1969, while watching a fifth round Football Association cup tie on television between Birmingham City and Manchester United, he had noted that the Birmingham goalkeeper was called Jim Herriot. My father, who was continually thinking of ideas for a pseudonym, had liked the name; it was an unusual one and he had reached, yet again, for the Veterinary Register. To his surprise, there were no veterinarians with the name of Herriot. He had marked the name down for possible future use, little dreaming that the name of Birmingham City’s Scottish international goalkeeper, who played six times for his country, would one day become world-famous. On that February evening, Alf Wight’s search for a pseudonym had come to an end.
Years later, in 1988, a Glasgow newspaper, the Sunday Mail, ran an article on the origins of Alf’s literary name, bringing the original Jim Herriot, who was then working as a builder in Larkhall, Lanarkshire, to visit the surgery in Thirsk. He was not a keen reader but had watched the television series of the books. He had had no idea that the famous Yorkshire vet had borrowed his name, and was astonished that the celebrated author was excited at the prospect of meeting him.