by Jim Wight
There are references to this in his letters to them. In one from Sunderland in 1940, he wrote: ‘Here’s 30 bob from my pay; buy yourself 10 Woodbines, Pop old boy!’ And from Thirsk in 1941: ‘Funny how hard it is to save! I don’t spend much and I’ve only given you folks £40 since I came. I do wish it could have been more.’ In later years, as he regularly sent money to them, he referred to it as ‘the pension’. It must have amounted to a fair sum over all that time; he rarely missed a week.
In 1958, he bought his parents’ house in Glasgow. As rent-paying tenants, they were faced with the possibility that the owner was going to sell the house which would have meant their having to find a new home. It cost Alf £1000, a substantial sum at that time. The debt he felt he owed his parents was repaid many times over.
Alf Wight received nothing in the way of financial aid throughout his life and this, combined with his generous and responsible nature, goes a long way to explaining his lack of any capital at that time. His position was hardly surprising, and indeed was no worse than that of many of his professional colleagues of the day, with his lack of readily available money balanced by freedom from any form of debt, save for the mortgage on his house. Admittedly, he was a worried man when he learned that he had no more than £20 to his name in 1966, but he did not allow this to spoil a life that was both rewarding and brimming with a wide variety of interests.
One day, in the early 1960s, while on a visit home during my years at Glasgow Veterinary School, I came across a small manuscript in one of the drawers at Rowardennan. It was a short story called Left Winger and it was about football. I sat down then and there to read it. Having noticed my father’s familiar scrawl superimposed over parts of the typewritten text, I then approached him with it.
‘This is very good,’ I said. ‘Did you write it?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, almost apologetically. ‘You really think it’s good, do you?’
‘I really do! Why don’t you send it to a publisher or a magazine?’
‘I have,’ he said. ‘Several.’
‘And?’
‘No one seems to want it.’ He thought for a moment before continuing. ‘But you think it’s good?’ He seemed singularly interested in my opinion.
‘Yes, I do!’
He seemed satisfied and dropped the subject.
I knew that my father had been writing for a year or two, and presumed that he was continuing to pursue yet another of his ‘crazes’. This latest hobby seemed to be one at which he appeared to be not only adept but one also that he was clearly taking a little more seriously than the others. I continued to believe, however, that – as with many of his other interests, – he would persevere with this new enthusiasm for a while longer before giving it up for something else. I was wrong.
Chapter Twenty
‘May I borrow one of your magazines, Joan?’ Alf asked of his secretary one day, a slightly sheepish expression upon his face. Joan Drake, who had joined the practice straight from school in 1959, four years previously, considered that she knew her employer quite well. She had regarded him as a man who was at home drinking beer in the company of his friends, or standing on the packed terraces of football grounds, but definitely not the type to read women’s magazines. It was a strange request and she looked at him a little more closely.
‘I’ll give it back to you as soon as I have read it!’ he promised. Detecting the look of puzzlement on her face, he lowered his voice before continuing. ‘I want to have a look at the short stories.’
Unknown to many, including Joan Drake, Alf’s pastime of writing – for which he was obtaining information and ideas from every possible source – had, in fact, been occupying an increasing amount of his time for several years. Around the late 1950s, he had bought books on the art of writing and, in his spare time, had tentatively begun to tap away on his typewriter.
The idea of writing a book had been one of Alf’s long-held dreams. I remember his talking about it during my schooldays and a letter written by Joan to his parents dated 2 October 1955 is very revealing: ‘I must tell you that there is great excitement in the house as it’s Alf’s birthday tomorrow. Guess what I have bought for him – a typewriter! I’m sure he will be writing to you much more often now; he may even get down to writing that book he has been talking about for thirteen years!’
Although Joan had been listening to Alf’s ideas for writing a book almost from the day they first met, it took him more than twenty years to think seriously of turning his dream into reality.
He had an excellent grounding in that he was extremely well-read, and was a dedicated and accomplished letter-writer. He had observed tremendous change taking place within his profession and he felt a burning desire to put it all down in print. He wanted to talk about the quirky characters he had met, with their fascinating, old-fashioned customs and remedies. He felt compelled to describe the old Yorkshire he had grown to love – a way of life that was fast disappearing – and he wanted to preserve it for others to enjoy. A humorous slant could be provided by his friends, Donald and Brian Sinclair, with whom he had had so many hilarious times.
It was following the recovery from his nervous breakdown that, with such fertile ideas, he began to write in earnest, but he soon discovered that it was not going to be as easy as he thought. After about eighteen months of chopping and changing his story, he came to the conclusion that he was going nowhere. His book, a succession of long sentences full of florid adjectives was, in his own words, like a ‘schoolboy’s essay and a poor one at that’. He had to think again.
The pages of Alf’s very first attempt are covered in corrections and alterations; he must have spent countless hours re-writing the book. The end result was a somewhat jerky collection of stories about farmers and his veterinary friends, Donald and Brian, whom he called Edward and Henry Vernon. Some of the episodes are ones that were eventually to appear in his first published book, but they are a pale shadow of the work that was to appear years later.
It was while he was sadly taking stock of all his efforts that an idea came to him. His book was, in essence, just a collection of short stories, tenuously connected together. He had always been a great admirer of the art of short-story telling, with the stories of Conan Doyle, H. G. Wells and O’Henry remaining some of his all-time favourites. He decided temporarily to shelve the idea of a long book and try his hand at short-story writing. While on his rounds, as he listened attentively to stories on the car radio, he thought to himself, ‘Surely I can do as well as that?’ With renewed feelings of confidence and excitement, he began.
For around a year or so, he wrote stories about football, golf, various outdoor activities and human relationships in general. Having re-read them many times over, he thought that they were really quite good and that his style was improving. He was quite impressed with his efforts. With feelings of delicate optimism, he soon began to wonder what others might think of them. He decided to take the plunge and sent some of the stories to selected magazines and periodicals, as well as to the British Broadcasting Corporation. Perhaps he might get the odd one published.
It is widely believed that James Herriot wrote innumerable stories that never reached publication. In fact, there were not many. He was working hard in the practice, managing to write only in short bursts in his free time, and the result of his labours was no more than seven or eight stories. After his death, I found one in his study entitled The Saint’s Day, a story that I had never seen before. This story, about the discomfort suffered by a middle-aged man while on a sponsored walk with his young daughter, took me a long time to read; I had to keep stopping to wipe the tears of laughter from my eyes.
I read the stories at the time with great enjoyment, but it seemed that not everyone agreed with my opinion. His efforts at getting his work published drew a blank. His stories came back to him by return of post and he became, as he said later, ‘a connoisseur of the sickening thud that a manuscript makes as it falls through the letterbox’. Not only did no on
e seem to want his work, but he was even further disheartened by the total absence of any comments or words of encouragement. The stories of James Alfred Wight had completely failed to interest anyone; as a potential author, he was a nobody.
Alf said very little to anyone about his hobby. As he did not really expect to attain the heady heights of published authorship, he kept his rejections very much to himself. He was discouraged but by no means beaten. He enjoyed writing and he did not take it too seriously, tapping out his stories in his own time with no one to pressurise him – but, deep within him, feelings of intense frustration were growing. He genuinely believed that the stories he submitted were as good as many he had read or listened to on the radio. Realising that he must be doing something wrong, he returned to studying the art of writing.
One day, he returned for lunch to regale my mother with yet another funny incident that had happened to him on his rounds. ‘It would be a good story for the book!’ he said.
She looked at him and said, ‘The book, Alf? You have been talking about writing a book for the past twenty years. You’ll never write a book!’
‘Why on earth not?’ he replied.
‘It will soon be our silver wedding anniversary,’ she countered, ‘and you still have not written it. Men of almost fifty don’t start writing books!’
He explained away the twenty-odd barren years by suggesting that he was not the impulsive type and needed time to assemble his master-piece. His wife was unimpressed.
Her remarks, however, had stung him and, on that very same day, he had a revelation. He realised he should return to writing about something on which he was well-informed, not just topics that interested him. He was an expert on only one subject – veterinary practice. He had been on the right track at the start. He would unearth his old book and begin again.
The more he thought about it, the more excited he became. He had fresh ideas and bought more books on the art of writing, studying them all closely. He had many hilarious episodes firmly fixed in his mind and he felt sure that, this time, with a year or two of ‘practising’ behind him, he could make a good job of it. He sensed a new surge of enthusiasm.
He began writing this book around the autumn of 1965, taking about eighteen months to complete it. It was a slow process as he was working full time in the practice, including some periods of night work. Abandoning the use of impressive and complicated words, he completely rewrote several chapters of his original book, changing the story many times over until, by the early months of 1967, he felt that he could improve upon it no more. His simpler, conversational style was, he felt, far more readable than his previous one.
He had finished. He felt that this was not only a great improvement on his original effort but was a book that could be enjoyed by people of all ages. With a warm glow of satisfaction, he realised that he had completed one of his life’s ambitions.
For a few weeks, he relaxed and enjoyed the feeling of achievement. He had produced a book that his family would remember him by, a nice little story for his grandchildren to read, and for a while he put it to the back of his mind. The practice was busy at the time – experiencing the rush of early spring lambing – and he had plenty of work to occupy him, but it was not long before he began to feel restless. There was still a nagging question that remained unanswered: ‘Was his book good enough to interest a publisher?’ He just had to know.
He was not very optimistic. With the rejections of his earlier work having been such a disappointment, he had little reason to expect better luck with this one. He thought long and hard about the next step.
Joan had a suggestion. Having thoroughly enjoyed the ‘Doctor’ series of books by Richard Gordon – amongst them Doctor in the House and Doctor at Large – which recounted hilarious incidents about the medical profession, she reasoned that her husband’s book was in a similar vein. Why not therefore send his manuscript to the publishers of those books? Alf was in full agreement and, having ascertained that they were published by Michael Joseph Ltd, prepared to post off the manuscript to the London publishing house.
Before he acted, however, he had another thought. He telephoned his friend Eddie Straiton, who had had several books published by the Farming Press and had contacts in the publishing world. Eddie was very keen to help, but rather than send the book to Michael Joseph, he suggested he should contact a friend called John Morrison who had worked with the large publishing firm of Collins.
Alf therefore sent his manuscript down to Eddie, who read it before passing it on to his publishing friend. John Morrison read and liked the book, got back in touch with Eddie who, in turn, suggested a meeting between the three men in London. This was huge encouragement for Alf. Someone of influence had read his book – and had actually enjoyed it!
In a state of great excitement, Alf travelled down to London to meet Eddie and John Morrison, lunching at a restaurant called La Dolce Vita in Soho. Here he heard John Morrison confirm his enthusiasm and say that he planned to pass the manuscript to Collins to consider it for publication. This was music to Alf’s ears.
A few days after returning to Yorkshire, he received a heartening note from John Morrison, dated 27 March 1967:
Just a little note to confirm that your three-volume typescript was duly sent off by special messenger to the chairman of Messrs Collins in St James’ Place which will ensure that it is read carefully and sympathetically. As I told you and Eddie, I greatly enjoyed your book. You have two of the most important qualities of a good story teller – a graphic power of description of nature and scene, and evocative character delineation … I do not read many novels these days and am not conversant with today’s trends in this medium but I hope that there will always be room for something so natural and sound and healthy (wholesome) as your story!
John Morrison’s optimistic attitude together with his small note – the first real pieces of encouragement outside of his own family that Alf had ever received – gave him a tremendous lift. With his book on its way to one of the biggest publishers in the land, he wondered whether, perhaps this time, he would meet with some success?
The book was written as a novel. On the first page of the manuscript, which the family still has, are written the words: ‘The Art and the Science: A novel by J. A. Wight’. His hero is called James Walsh, and is loosely based on himself and his experiences in practice.
It is fascinating to compare this book with his earlier and later works. He included, as he had in his first attempt years earlier, flashbacks to his veterinary college days, introducing two other fictional veterinary characters, Hugh Mills, and the quiet and apprehensive Bernie Hill. Both these men qualified with Walsh and had little adventures of their own. Donald and Brian Sinclair were there and, for the first time, appear as Siegfried and Tristan, although still retaining the surname of Vernon from the original effort. A love story between Walsh and a farmer’s daughter ran through the script.
It was a fine effort, revealing touches of descriptive flair that were to be the hallmark of the future James Herriot, and some of the funny scenes were well done. There were, however, too many leading veterinary characters for a not-very-long novel, while the story, which seemed to jump from one character to another, lacked continuity.
Alf waited hopefully for news from London. He waited a long time. Nothing happened. Rather than being downcast, he felt a twinge of hope. As his other efforts had boomeranged back to the house by return of post, he thought that perhaps the deafening silence meant that his book was receiving serious consideration.
At last, after six long months, he received a letter from John Morrison. In it, he learned that the manuscript had been passed to one of Collins’ most highly-regarded readers, Juliana Wadham. She had given it a favourable report and had passed it back to the Collins editorial department where it had received ‘serious consideration’. This explained the long wait, but the end result was another grim disappointment: Collins did not want to publish it. He had been rejected yet again.
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sp; John’s letter of 11 September 1967, however, contained much to encourage Alf:
On my return from holiday, I found your typescript and the enclosed letters awaiting me. These, as I hope you will recognise, are immensely encouraging and explain the long delay in their writing on the matter. I hope you will now give full consideration to the suggestions made by Juliana Wadham and lose no time in putting these to effect!
Anyway, I hope you’ll be happy to know that, in the opinion of several of the leading authorities in one of the biggest publishers in the world, you are well over half way to success as an author.
Enclosed with John’s letter was one from the Collins reader in which she stated that, although she had enjoyed the book, the publishers, while considering it to have ‘so much good material’, had decided that ‘it was not satisfactory as a novel’. But there was something else in that letter – some advice from Juliana Wadham that would be some of the finest that Alfred Wight would ever receive.
She asked him: ‘Why have you written this as a novel? These stories are, quite obviously, based upon real incidents so why turn them into fiction? Why don’t you re-write it in the first person as an autobiographical work? The stories will be all the more appealing to your readers if they realise they are ones that are based upon fact!’
My father read her letter again and again. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made, and he set about re-structuring his book with supercharged enthusiasm. It was a twist of irony that his very first effort, years previously, had been written in the first person, as Juliana Wadham now suggested!
In September 1967, when I was still working with Eddie Straiton, I received a telephone call from my father. He wanted me to join him in the Thirsk practice.
I did not really want to. I was having a great time in Staffordshire, and wanted to get some more experience before returning home at such an early stage in my career. I replied that I would give it serious consideration but that I was happy where I was, and my father – selfless as ever – did not pursue the matter.
