The Real James Herriot (33 page)

This was the break Tom McCormack had been waiting for. This one review set in motion a host of others. Anatole Broyard wrote in the
New York Times
on 14 December: ‘James Herriot, a British veterinary surgeon, is one of those rare men who know how to appreciate the ordinary… He's a veterinarian, that's what he is, and when his right arm is free, he's a helluva writer as well.'

By January 1973, the reviews were pouring out. The
Houston Chronicle
headed its review: ‘Superlatives aren't enough. This book is absolutely super, a rarity, magnificently written, insightful, unforgettable. If you have ever loved a friend, human or otherwise, this is the book for you.'

These reviews provided the spark to ignite a sales inferno that swept across the United States of America. The book was on
Time
magazine's best-seller list by early January 1973, and that of the
New York Times
later that month. James Herriot's fame soon spread from coast to coast
and, within one year, his book had been selected by book clubs, serialised in magazines and published as a condensed book by Reader's Digest. Within a few months of publication, the paperback rights were bought by Bantam Books, and after two hundred thousand were sold in hardback, a further million followed in paperback – 1973 was a truly phenomenal year, for both James Herriot and Tom McCormack.

The name of James Herriot had been propelled into millions of households within weeks of publication. Tom McCormack had gambled and he had won. He had spent over $50,000 in promoting the book but, as he was to acknowledge later, ‘If it weren't for a man named Alfred Ames, it all might have turned out different.'

Despite the staggering success of his new author, Tom McCormack did not rest on his laurels. Sales of
All Creatures Great and Small
had hit the market like a typhoon – one he had no intention of allowing to abate. What better way was there, he thought, of ensuring this than by inviting James Herriot himself over to the States on a promotional tour?

Alf, although excited by all the publicity he was receiving, felt that his primary allegiance was to the practice and, with the busy time of lambing fast approaching, his initial reaction was to refuse the invitation. There were only four vets in the practice at that time, but we assured him that it was too good an opportunity to miss, so in late February 1973, he visited America for the first time.

The trip only lasted a week but it pulsated with action from beginning to end. There were long successions of television appearances and book signings, interspersed with tours around the sights of New York, with visits to exotic restaurants and cocktail parties. To a man used to the steady life among the even steadier Yorkshire people, it was like a dream.

When he returned home, my mother and I asked how it had all been. He replied, ‘Utterly fantastic – but I'm knackered!' The high life in America had been a truly wonderful experience but he was pleased to be back in Yorkshire. Much as he had enjoyed his time in the United States, he assured us that he would never do another promotional tour.

It was not to be. Throughout the summer of 1973, sales of the paperback were so massive that he finally agreed to do a second tour in the autumn of that year, this time organised by Bantam Books. The tour lasted three weeks and was even more exhausting than the first. Joan accompanied him on this second trip but they had little time to
themselves. They flew to several big cities and the tour was, again, a long procession of book signings and television appearances. It seemed to Alf that every room in the United States had a television – every one of which appeared to be switched on permanently – and his face must have been seen in millions of homes, morning after morning.

During phone-in sessions, he was asked questions about skunks and alligators (animals rarely seen in the surgery of Skeldale House), he argued with people about the ethics of religious slaughter (Alf always hated to discuss emotive subjects that could result in explosive argument) while, all the time, there was the pressure of an ever-tightening schedule that had to be adhered to.

He returned from this second trip totally drained. After a few days recovering from the ordeal, he put down his memories of the tour.

… To a book signing session in New York where a queue of fans brought not only their books but their pets, too. They deposited shaggy creatures on the table with requests like, ‘You gotta sign this to Fluffy, Dr Herriot.' Some of the names were unusual. Naming a pair of hamsters Hermann and Lucius struck me as a little bizarre, but the feeling of wonder wore off as I autographed books to cats called Hamburger, Sweet Feets, Pancake, Noo-catt Noo-catt, Popcorn and there was a canary in the queue, William Byrd. The dear Americans! Warm-hearted, generous and even more scatty over their animals than we are.

I had only one respite in the entire three weeks, one blessed Sunday when I awoke to find no appointments fixed. It was in San Francisco and, outside my bedroom window, the Californian sun poured down on the Golden Gate bridge spanning the blue waters of the bay to the mountains beyond. I knew I should be out there tasting the delights of this most beautiful of cities but I lay motionless hour after hour staring glassily at the ceiling. And yet I have survived. The floors have stopped moving, my cheeks have stopped twitching and my stomach has almost agreed to make peace and let bygones be bygones. Still, the parting thought remains. I love America and its people but I'm not going back, just yet…

It took Alf several weeks to recover. He returned with bronchitis, cystitis and severe phlebitis in both his legs and, for a while, he took on the appearance of an old man. This, he vowed, had been his last promotional tour, and it was. Over the next five years, his subsequent books were combined into two further volumes for the American market, both
storming the best-seller lists and remaining at the top for weeks. His sales did not need the boost of any more personal appearances.

Let Sleeping Vets Lie
and
Vet in Harness
were combined into one volume,
All Things Bright and Beautiful
which was published in September 1974.
Vet in a Spin
and
Vets Might Fly
were amalgamated into
All Things Wise and Wonderful
and this hit the market in September 1977. Both came out to glowing reviews followed by tremendous sales.

Alf never showed any inclination to return to the United States. He loved to meet the American people – and his affection for them never wavered – but he was content to see them on his own ground. Over the years, he must have shaken hands with many thousands of tourists as they flooded into his part of Yorkshire, but he never allowed his massive popularity to overwhelm him. As far as he was concerned, his celebrity status made no difference to his attitude towards the many friends and acquaintances he had made over his years in Thirsk. This aspect of his character, one that was greatly appreciated by the local people, would be reflected in their constant protection of his privacy in the face of so many visitors. He was still regarded in the local community as Alf Wight, not James Herriot – something he had wanted since those very first days along the road to fame.

It was fortuitous that, as well as this level-headedness, his sense of humour did not desert him since he was occasionally reminded that his writing did not please everyone. In 1977, he wrote in the magazine
Pedigree Digest:

The letters, like my visitors, are mainly complimentary. I read them with my morning tea and it is a good start to the day to learn that I have given pleasure to many people in many ways. The letters which touch me most deeply are from people who are ill or who have suffered bereavements and who tell me that I have made them laugh and helped them to face life.

But nothing is perfect and even the letters have their other side. It makes me choke over my tea when I am suddenly accused of an ‘obsession with drink and profanity' or out of the blue I am told that my books ‘reek of male chauvinism'. The Americans in particular castigate me for ‘taking the Lord's name in vain' based on what I had thought to be an occasional innocent ‘My God' in my writings.

One or two visitors expressed disappointment upon meeting him. On the covers of the American editions, James Herriot was depicted as a
handsome young hulk but Alf, of course, was around sixty when the hordes of tourists began to invade Thirsk. Some of them, expecting to see a younger man, received a surprise. He wrote about one such incident in the magazine
Pedigree Digest
in 1977:

Many readers of my books come along to the surgery expecting to see a dashing young vet of twenty-five. When they are confronted by a grizzled sixty-year-old they often find it difficult to disguise their dismay.

Most of them are diplomatic about this but one lady was disconcertingly forthright. ‘You know', she said, ‘it was so funny when I introduced my daughter to you this afternoon. She thought she was going to meet a young man and she got a dreadful shock when she saw you!' Fortunately, this information was imparted to me in a pub and I was able to reach for a quick restorative.

He was finding that fame can bring its own problems but he accepted this quite calmly. I remember his handing me a strange letter from a displeased reader. After I had finished reading it, he gave me a resigned smile with the words, ‘You can't win 'em all, boy!'

Such sharp little wounds to his ego, however, were few and far between as his popularity continued to accelerate throughout the 1970s but, despite this, Alf continued to maintain as low a profile as possible, politely but firmly declining all the many invitations to revisit the United States. Ironically, it was his friends and family who gleaned far more enjoyment and satisfaction from holidays there.

In the late 1970s, Brian Sinclair – who was now famous as Tristan – toured America on several occasions, speaking about his friend James Herriot. He received wonderful hospitality from his hosts, many of whom were veterinarians, like himself. Brian used to meet Alf regularly in those days, regaling him with stories about his American experiences, and Alf would rarely return from these meetings without another humorous anecdote.

One of his favourite memories was that of Brian recounting a social occasion at which there was a Scotsman dressed in full Highland regalia. He was wearing a magnificent kilt, hanging in front of which was a highly-coloured, hairy sporran. This splendid human being was approached by a pleasantly inebriated woman. She had heard of the mysteries that lurked beneath a Scotsman's kilt and was fascinated by the dangling sporran. She pointed at it unsteadily and, in a slurred
voice, said, ‘Now tell me, truthfully, what exactly
do
you carry in your scrotum?!'

It was not only Brian, but many other friends, who benefited from the high regard in which Alf was held in America. On trips over there, whenever they mentioned that they were from Yorkshire, the name of James Herriot almost invariably arose. It was one that bonded many friendships across the Atlantic.

Tom McCormack and Alfred Ames – two men who played vital parts in helping Alf to his success – were held in very high esteem by the family. Tom and his wife Sandra met Alf and Joan several times over the years during their frequent visits to Great Britain, while the Alfreds – Ames and Wight – and their wives were to meet in Yorkshire in August 1988. That vital and influential review in the
Chicago Tribune
so many years before remained fresh in the minds of both men.

Alf Wight was a man who always appreciated those who had helped him and, in return, Tom McCormack never forgot the Yorkshire vet whose writing helped put his firm back on a safe footing. In October 1995, eight months after Alf's death, he and Sandra made the special journey from America to pay their respects at the memorial service in York Minster. It was to be his final gesture towards the author to whom he said, all those years ago in 1973, ‘Beyond the money, you do bring Sandra and me a personal pride unmatched by anyone else we publish. You are exactly the kind of man one comes into publishing for.'

Despite fans from all over the world thronging the waiting-room at 23 Kirkgate, Alf never allowed this world-wide adulation to unseat his sense of priorities. He had been twice to America where he had been treated like a hero. He was an international celebrity, with his financial worries now behind him, but he was still exactly the same man that I had always known. Not only did he speak very little about his achievements, but his attitude to his family, friends and local people remained completely unchanged.

Around 1977, I remember approaching him for some advice about a problem in the practice. I apologised and said, ‘I shouldn't really be bothering you with this, Dad. You are a best-selling author now. You shouldn't have to worry about the practice any more.'

He replied swiftly, ‘I don't care how many million books I have sold, the welfare of this practice will always be more important to me!'

The explosion of publicity surrounding his literary success was beyond anything that any of us could have imagined but, during those exciting years of the 1970s, he was still, first and foremost, a family man and a veterinary surgeon.

A period of ten years had seen a dramatic upturn in the fortunes of Alfred Wight. The 1970s opened with the publication of his first book, followed by undreamed-of success and subsequent financial security. The beginning of the previous decade had started with the sudden death of his father, succeeded by a period of nervous exhaustion and escalating worry. There is little wonder he frequently referred to that period of his life as the ‘horrible sixties'.

I asked him one day how he thought his life would have turned out had he not been so successful as an author.

‘I would have carried on working full time,' he replied. ‘I had a modest pension on the go, lots of little insurance policies and would probably have sold the house to buy a bungalow somewhere in Thirsk. I would have floated away into an obscure retirement, probably every bit as happy as the one I am enjoying now!'

These were not empty words. My father, never one to regard money as a means to an end, rarely exhibited the lifestyle of a rich man. His high earnings, however, did allow him some luxuries that he had previously been unable to afford. In April 1977, he bought Mirebeck, a bungalow situated under the Hambleton Hills that was to be his home until his final days. He was able to buy rather more expensive cars, he and Joan went on holiday abroad, and he did not need to think twice about taking his friends out for dinner; apart from these comparatively modest indulgences, his way of life remained largely unchanged.

It would be an exaggeration, however, to say that he was disinterested in his new financial status. He gained great satisfaction out of helping others and, especially in the final few years of his life, gave away large sums of money to various charities and to several of his friends. Rosie and I, especially, had great cause to be grateful for his generosity in assisting us with such vital outgoings as buying houses and the funding of our children's education. A more helpful and thoughtful father would be hard to imagine.

As well as satisfaction, he derived considerable amusement out of his improved financial position, not least upon observing the deference
that was accorded him in some circles. Whenever he walked into his bank, the attitude of the manager and staff towards him was in sharp contrast to the reception he used to receive in his younger days. On one occasion back in 1950, after Joan had lost her engagement ring, he bought her a replacement which did little to lessen his overdraft at the bank. Mr Smallwood, the manager of the Midland Bank in Thirsk – and someone who regarded Alf Wight, with his never diminishing overdraft, as something of a liability – was not amused. He summoned Alf to his office.

‘This just will not do, Mr Wight!' he said. ‘It will not do! A man in your position cannot squander money on luxuries. I don't want you ever to repeat such a reckless action without consulting me beforehand.'

After his literary success, Alf had many a smile while recalling this incident. Gone were those days of slinking into the dreaded inner sanctum of the bank manager's office to cower beneath the stern reprimands from the man in charge of his life.

Although he tried hard, throughout his celebrity years, to maintain his comparatively modest way of life, it was not possible to stay out of the limelight completely. His position as one of the most popular authors in the country required his playing a full part in supporting the momentum of the James Herriot industry. However, this was something that, especially in the early years of his fame, he often enjoyed.

Dick Douglas-Boyd, the sales director at Michael Joseph, was someone whom Alf and Joan got to know well over the years. Whenever a new book was published, there were inevitable requests from booksellers for signing sessions and Dick would usually attend these to ensure everything went smoothly. In fact, he and Anthea Joseph used to vie for the pleasure of travelling from London to be with Alf, Anthea usually winning the literary lunches or dinners. With everyone so interested in his rise to fame, Alf found himself thrust into the world of after-dinner speaking; it was something he never really enjoyed but, with such an interesting story to tell – and an equally interesting profession about which to talk – he was soon in great demand.

One function he really enjoyed was the annual ‘Authors of the Year' reception, run by Hatchards, the famous booksellers in London's Piccadilly. At these parties, he met the
crème de la crème
of that year's authors – like him, the ones who had made the tills rattle the most. He often recalled the first one he attended, at New Zealand House in London. Alf could hardly believe the upturn in his fortunes. As he
and Joan stood on the Martini Terrace, the top floor of New Zealand House which looks out over Trafalgar Square, Westminster and the lights of the City, they sipped champagne while rubbing shoulders with such celebrities as H. E. Bates, Jilly Cooper, Antonia Fraser and Spike Milligan. Alf and Joan attended many Hatchards' parties over the years, and on one occasion were introduced to the Queen and Prince Philip. They always enjoyed meeting the other authors and some very famous personalities, the majority of whom used to greet them like old friends. They also learned that the public images these people sometimes portrayed could be a misleading reflection of their real selves.

One politician whom they regarded with less than a friendly eye was the Labour Prime Minister, Harold Wilson. The fact that his government was plundering Alf's income through punitive taxation did not improve his opinion of him. ‘He may be a clever man,' he said, ‘but I don't trust him an inch! I wouldn't buy a second-hand car from Harold!' Edward Heath, the leader of the Conservative Party, was, in Alf's opinion, a far more genuine and upstanding man than the Labour leader. How he wished that Heath, not Wilson, was in charge of his country.

Then, at one of the ‘Authors of the Year' receptions in the mid-1970s, he met none other than Harold Wilson himself, and I shall never forget my father's later remarks.

‘I met Harold Wilson! What a grand little man!'

‘I thought he wasn't one of your favourite people,' I replied in amazement.

‘He comes from a similar background to myself,' my father continued enthusiastically, ‘and he is a dog lover and a football supporter! We had a rare old chat together. Do you know, he is just the sort of man I like! I could have spent all night talking to him.'

Alf's income from the practice during the first years of the seventies was still welcome. He did not become a really wealthy man until 1976, and it was not until the following decade that he could consider himself a millionaire.

His accountancy files for that period make interesting reading. In 1972, he earned less than £2,000 from his book sales. This rose to £3,578 in 1973; then there was a big jump to £37,252 in 1974. It is true that he earned additional sums from, for example, newspaper serialisation rights, but his earnings in those opening years of the 1970s, for a man
needing to establish a secure future for himself, were not enough to enable him to work part-time.

One of the reasons he was not quite as affluent as others imagined him to be, was that he was not receiving the full income from his phenomenal sales in America. On the advice of his accountants, he spread his earnings over a number of years rather than taking it as it was earned, so mitigating the tax burdens that were beginning to assume ever-increasing importance. Through not receiving the income from the sales of his books at the time, much of the money that was generated was, instead, diverted into other accounts, some of which, months or years later, would prove difficult to unlock when he actually wanted the money.

This was not the fault of St Martin's Press but it did cause Alf considerable worry. His agents, David Higham Associates, were in constant touch with St Martin's, attempting to clarify the situation, but there was a considerable delay before the money that was rightfully his was lodged in his bank account. The continuing viability of the American publishing house was something that, understandably, gave him cause for concern; should it become bankrupt, there was every chance that his huge earnings in the United States would disappear without trace. Happily, the fortunes of St Martin's Press improved, and as the 1970s progressed, his money eventually found its way across the Atlantic.

In 1976, his income from book sales soared to £165,000 but he had another problem to contend with by then. A Labour Government had been elected and the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Denis Healey, was famously said to declare his intent to ‘Squeeze the rich until the pips squeaked'. James Herriot's pips made plenty of noise around that time. Alf had to pay a top rate of tax of 83%, together with the hardly credible figure of 98% on investment income.

The tax bills that my father received make horrendous viewing. He said to me many years later, after having paid millions into the coffers of Her Majesty's Treasury, ‘There are two words in the English language that are music to my ears – Tax Free!' No wonder.

He and his accountant fought long battles with the local tax inspectors – surely some of the most unpopular people in the land. His every little move to avoid tax legally was stubbornly contested by the men from the Inland Revenue. He was not surprised to learn that his opinion of them was shared by many of his customers.

While visiting one of his clients, John Atkinson, Alf noticed that the
farmer appeared to be a little preoccupied, and remarked that he did not seem his usual self.

The farmer replied, ‘One o' them tax fellers is comin 'ere ter talk ter me.'

‘That could be awkward, John,' Alf said, with some feeling.

‘Aye, it's a bad job! Ah doubt ah'll 'ave ter snarl 'im down a bit!'

The tax man certainly ‘snarled' Alf Wight down throughout his years of success, but he refused to resort to complicated ways of avoiding tax. He and Joan did, however, visit the tax haven of Jersey in 1974. Had he remained there, whilst benefiting from the island's favourable tax laws in operation at that time, he could have realised a considerable sum which he could have legally brought home.

‘Are you going to live there for a year?' I asked him on his return.

‘No, Jim, I'm not,' he said.

‘Surely it's worth shacking up there for a while? There is a lot of money at stake.'

‘If I earn £100,000 and I pay tax, I am still left with nearly £20,000,' he replied. ‘That is still one hell of a lot of money, and quite enough for us. No, I'll stay here and pay up! I am now nearly sixty years old,' he continued. ‘The remaining years I have left are very important to me. I love living in Yorkshire among my friends and family – and Jersey is a long way from my football team! Tell me this, how do you put a price upon one whole year of your life?'

Two years later, his accountant, Bob Rickaby, exhorted him to consider other legal ways of avoiding the astronomical tax bills. Bob was involved in mountainous heaps of correspondence with accountants in London who specialised in the tax affairs of high earners. Their advice was tempered by the fact that my father doggedly refused to live abroad. Other best-selling authors such as Leslie Thomas, Richard Adams and Frederick Forsyth were all residing overseas to limit the effect of the taxman's teeth, but Alf Wight insisted on staying where he was.

Many other ingenious schemes were put forward by the London accountants – varying from buying large tracts of forestry to owning racehorses. One way of limiting the tax burden was by setting up trusts that would benefit his relatives several generations down the family tree. This was an efficient means of tax avoidance but it meant that his immediate family would hardly benefit from his earnings.

‘Why should I give my money to someone I am never going to
know?' was his response. ‘I can just picture some young person, years from now, fingering my money and celebrating the memory of an unknown great, great grandpappy Wight! No, I would rather pay more tax and give a little of what is left to the family that I know.' Not surprisingly, I agreed with him.

One way that he did achieve a little tax relief was by putting my mother and me onto the payroll. My mother helped with his increasing piles of correspondence while I read his manuscripts as well as providing him with several incidents for his stories. The tax man fought this tooth and nail – and we were only allowed a very small sum – but at least it was a minor victory in his continuing war against the punitive taxation laws.

In desperation, one of the accountants said to him, ‘Look, there are only two really best-selling authors still living in this country – you and Jack Higgins. Why not telephone him and find out how he tackles this problem?'

Jack Higgins had achieved phenomenal success with his novel
The Eagle Has Landed,
and Alf seemed to remember that he was living somewhere in South Yorkshire. He eventually managed to discover his address only to receive a brief, taped message on the telephone to the effect that Mr Higgins was now in residence on the island of Jersey! He, too, had failed to defeat the Inland Revenue.