The Real James Herriot (31 page)

Alf Wight remained loyal to David Higham Associates throughout his career, never forgetting the good work they did for him. David Bolt, the agent who sold the first book to Michael Joseph, left the firm at the beginning of 1971 to establish another agency and, realising the potential of James Herriot, wanted Alf to move with him. Fully aware of how much David Bolt had helped him, this was a difficult decision, but Alf opted to stay with the firm rather than the individual agent. From that time onwards, his agent at David Higham was Jacqueline Korn, who dealt with every James Herriot book and continues to handle his literary affairs to this day. Sadly, Jean LeRoy – the author-cum-agent who had
been so instrumental in kick-starting Alf's literary career – died in 1970. She was never to see the phenomenal rise to success of the little-known vet who had sent her his frayed manuscript on that fateful day in 1969.

The serialisation of
If Only They Could Talk
by the
Evening Standard
in the spring of 1970 was a time of high excitement. I remember the thrill my father felt as he read the copies of the newspaper, seeing his work actually in print for the very first time.

He would receive mountains of fan letters during his life but he never forgot the very first one. It was from an elderly man living in the East End of London who had read the first episode in the newspaper. This was the incident in the opening chapter where James Herriot spends hours calving a cow in the middle of the night. After finally completing the job in a state of exhaustion, the farmer asks him whether he would like a drink. To the reply of ‘That's very kind of you, Mr Dinsdale, I'd love a drink,' James Herriot receives the curt response, ‘Nay, I meant for t' cow!'

I remember my father telling us about that episode at the time it actually happened, and we had all found it very funny. James Herriot's very first fan, however, was not so amused. The letter was barely literate but it exuded pure outrage. The shaky writing was deeply imprinted into the paper: ‘If I'd been you, I would've chucked that bucket of water (bloody) over his head!'

If Only They Could Talk
was published in April 1970 and 3,000 copies were printed. It sold steadily and, later in the year, another 1,000 came off the press. This was by no means spectacular but it was good for a first book by an unknown author.

Alf could not resist looking in the local bookshops to see whether his book was being prominently displayed. He was disappointed. Very few copies seemed to be on view and, in many cases, it was placed in the children's sections. Brian Sinclair, who was delighted to be portrayed as Tristan, was very supportive. He, often assisted by John Crooks – Alf's first veterinary assistant – went into every bookshop, he could find, switching the book onto the best-seller shelves to help the sales!

This eager support from Brian contrasted sharply with the attitude displayed by Donald, whose response to the release of
If Only They Could Talk –
from the first day of publication – had been one of almost
total silence. The two brothers, sharing many qualities through their singular behaviour, were, in other respects, so very different.

Alf looked for references to his book in the review pages of numerous newspapers and magazines but without much success. However, despite the lack of publicity, he was a man still hardly able to believe his good fortune in becoming a published author, and was more than satisfied.

One person who loudly extolled the virtues of the book was his ebullient cousin, Nan Arrowsmith, in Sunderland. Not only was she the most fanatical lover of animals of all Alf Wight's relatives – always possessing at any one time a noisy menagerie of assorted dogs and cats – but she and Tony ran a bookshop in the town and she looked forward eagerly to selling his book. Half of Sunderland must have known that her cousin was now an author.

One day, a young sales representative walked into the shop. ‘You may be interested in this new book,' he said, showing her a copy of
If Only They Could Talk.
‘Some old vet has written down his experiences. It's all been done before, but it may be worth stocking a couple of copies or so?'

He could not have anticipated the dramatic response. ‘Let me tell
you,
young man!' Nan exploded, blasting cigarette smoke into his face. ‘James Herriot is
my
cousin and he is
not
old! He's nobbut a lad! And I'll tell you something else – his books are going to be best-sellers and I personally will sell hundreds. You mark my words, you cheeky young bugger!' The long grating laugh that followed helped to put the startled sales rep at ease.

It is not surprising that many people saw the potential of that first book. It is written in an easy-to-read, conversational style, with vivid characterisation woven into the poignant descriptions of a bygone way of life. Above all, the book conveys a warm feeling to the reader, with an abundance of humour and astute observations into that most fascinating of subjects, human nature.

It is revealing to compare this polished final product with the earlier book that was rejected in 1967. There is no doubt that Alf had made huge strides in the art of writing within the space of only two years.

In Chapter 8 of
If Only They Could Talk,
Siegfried takes James to a farm to perform a post mortem. He forgets his knife and has to borrow a carving knife from the farmer's wife.

This story was included in the original novel, and the following is an extract:

‘When he arrived at the house he found that he had forgotten to take his p.m. knife and decided that he would have to borrow a carving knife.'

In the published version, it is told differently:

‘We arrived at the farmhouse with a screaming of brakes. Siegfried had left his seat and was rummaging about in the boot before the car had stopped shuddering. “Hell!” he shouted, “no post mortem knife! Never mind, I'll borrow something from the house.” He slammed down the lid and bustled over to the door.'

The flat narrative of his earlier effort is replaced with a graphic illustration of the character of his eccentric partner. The stories of Siegfried and Tristan in
If Only They Could Talk
are so masterfully reproduced in print that I enjoyed reading about them even more than hearing them first hand.

During the years at the end of the 1960s, when my father was re-writing his book, I was only dimly aware of his dedication and determination. None of us really expected that he would become a published author and, anyway, being young, carefree and finding my own feet in my new profession, I had other things on my mind. I was pleased that my old man was enjoying his hobby but I showed little interest in the final product. That is, until he showed me the letter from David Bolt.

Realising that he must be a better writer than I had thought, I read the manuscript. I read it purely for enjoyment – the way it was meant to be read – and I enjoyed it primarily because it
was
very funny. The fact that I knew most of the characters within its pages made it all the more fascinating.

I could see my father was pleased that I had read the book and he repeatedly asked me for my opinion on it. Throughout his literary career, he seemed to attach great importance to his family's views on his work and, from that time onwards, I read every one of his manuscripts prior to publication. I provided a fair amount of material for him; he was always on the look-out for fresh stories and a proportion of them, even in the first two books, were based on my own experiences. He had an ear for any little incident, with the storyteller's ability to turn it into an enjoyable tale.

After my father received his letter of acceptance from the publishers, I wanted to tell people about his success but he felt differently. Years before, he had asked us to keep quiet about his writing, and he re-emphasised his wish that I tell no one.

‘I don't want anyone to know about this,' he said to me.

‘Why not?' I asked. ‘It's a great achievement.'

‘Well, I wouldn't like some of the characters in the book to recognise themselves,' he replied.

I was surprised. Most of them came over as appealing personalities; also, some were so vividly described that I was sure the real people would recognise themselves anyway.

‘Everyone will know that “Atom” Thompson is Phin Calvert in the book,' I said, ‘and Miss Warner is unmistakable as Mrs Pumphrey!'

My father winced. ‘Not if I keep denying it! These people may not like to be portrayed as they have been. They probably won't read it anyway, but please don't say a word.'

He had set the book in the Dales, whereas nearly all the stories occurred around Thirsk. He also placed everything in the period before the war and gave his date of qualification as 1937 rather than 1939; this was to put anyone off the scent in case they tried to find out who James Herriot really was. ‘I want to continue to be known as a vet round here, not as an author!' he said.

This cautious outlook was typical of his character. His primary concern may well have been that he did not hurt the feelings of others, but there was also a certain logic in this secretive approach to his success; some of the more old-fashioned Yorkshire people could be very prickly if they thought that someone was having a chuckle at their expense.

In retrospect, it seems laughable that Alf Wight should have gone to such great lengths to preserve his anonymity, but he did – never losing the instinct to keep secret the true facts behind his stories. For the next twenty years, he repeatedly asserted that his first books contained incidents that had occurred before the Second World War, and that the characters within them were either very old, or even dead. In fact, many of the stories had their origins in comparatively recent events. He stuck stubbornly to his statement, as though hoping that his true identity would remain a secret, and that no one about whom he had been writing would be offended by their portrayal in his books.

An amusing incident occurred in the mid 1970s – long after his cover had been blown. Old Mr Smedley, from the village of Coxwold, berated him one day in the surgery for
failing
to include him in any of his books! Alf Wight's fear of upsetting the Yorkshire folk may well have been groundless.

Alfred Wight was not the only one to be pleased with the sales of
If Only They Could Talk.
Anthea Joseph was delighted and asked him to consider writing a sequel which, she felt, would add impetus to the popularity of the first book. She soon heard that her new author was on his way already; he had enjoyed writing his first book so much that, by January 1970 – three months before the publication of the first – he had already completed 40,000 words of a new one. With plenty of material at hand and his confidence riding high, he was now fully locked into the ‘hobby' that had fascinated him for so long.

The completed manuscript of his second book, called
It Shouldn't Happen to a Vet,
was in the hands of Anthea Joseph in February 1971. The contract – for which he received an advance of £300 – was signed on 22 March 1971, and the book was published in January 1972. Once again, to the delight of my father and his bank manager, the
London Evening Standard
serialised the book prior to publication. This book received far more publicity than the first, and was reviewed in various papers and magazines.

One review in the
Sunday Express
of 23 January 1972, by the then literary editor, Graham Lord, meant a great deal to Alf. Lord's glowing appraisal of the book did wonders for Alf's morale who was convinced that this one review, in a widely-read paper, gave him one of the biggest breaks of his literary career. My father, ever the appreciative man, contacted Graham Lord to express his thanks and was to remain grateful to him to the end of his days.

John Junor, the editor of the
Sunday Express,
liked the book so much that his paper, from 1974 through to the 1980s, was to serialise all the James Herriot books prior to their publication, bringing them to the attention of millions of readers and giving the sales a tremendous boost. John Junor, who was brought up very close to Alf's Yoker area of Glasgow, was a man with whom Alf corresponded for years, always maintaining that the
Sunday Express
editor was a very influential figure in helping him along the path to success.

Another factor that aided the increased sales of the second book was
the adoption of a very different dust-jacket. The jacket of
If Only They Could Talk –
showing a young carthorse rearing up while being held by a young boy – had bestowed the aura of a children's novel on it, and was probably the reason for the book being put into the children's department in the bookshops. Michael Joseph, realising their mistake, commissioned a jacket illustration from the popular artist ‘Larry' and also asked him to produce a cartoon for each chapter opening, which emphasised the book's humorous content. Not only did ‘Larry' go on to illustrate the next four James Herriot books, but he also produced a new dust-jacket cartoon for
If Only They Could Talk
which appeared on the second and subsequent reprints of Alf's first book.

Eight thousand copies of the second book were printed, a very big increase over the first book, showing Michael Joseph's confidence in their author from Yorkshire. James Herriot was not yet a household name but his books were selling well; he was on his way.

It Shouldn't Happen to a Vet
is 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 Vet
illustrates 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 Lie
was 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:

My dear girl, I hasten to assure you that your feelings of remorse are entirely unnecessary and, in fact, there is something ludicrous in apologising to me, the veteran of a thousand untimely disappearances and as many black and hopeless dawns. I see you describe yourself as a ‘sordid little heap in the Ladies'. Well that's a good description of me but for ‘Ladies' read ‘Gents' or ‘Friend's back room' or ‘Back seat of car' or, in one case, ‘Corner of tennis court'.

Let me further assure you that your ‘awful behaviour' was probably not even noticed by a roomful of people who had punished the champers for a couple of hours, then waded into the vino for a similar period. It remains rather a blur to me.

I dimly remember the two Michael Joseph men making rather incoherent speeches of thanks to which, they tell me, I made a slurring twelve-word reply. I honestly don't remember and that goes for a very drunken Tristan and most of the others.

But I do remember meeting you right at the start and that was lovely!

Much love, James Herriot

Gill received another souvenir of that memorable evening. ‘Larry', the cartoonist whose brilliant illustrations brightened each chapter of the books, was also a guest at the party. On hearing that Gill was a doctor, he drew her a cartoon depicting a needle on the end of a massive syringe being thrust into an equally imposing backside. The drawing was completed in a matter of seconds, a feat watched with amazement by Alf; to him, painting or drawing – like mathematics – were pursuits that would forever remain shrouded in mystery.

I have cause to remember that evening as it was then that I heard, for the first time, Brian Sinclair giving a strident rendition of his ‘maniac laugh', that my father had described to us so often. After the party was over and we were beating our uncertain way back to our hotel, he suddenly let loose. As I listened to the London streets echoing to the sinister, primeval cries, I felt exceedingly grateful that the man causing them was none other than old ‘Uncle Brian' himself. At heart, he had changed little since those wild days in Thirsk so many years ago.