The Real James Herriot

by Jim Wight

  The two men got on famously. On meeting his namesake for the very first time, Alf Wight extended his hand with the timeless words, ‘James Herriot, I presume!’ Football, of course, was discussed at length, and my father gave the ex-goalkeeper a signed book; Jim Herriot, in return, gave him one of his Scottish international football jerseys – a gift that remained a treasured possession.

  Throughout his years of fame, Alf was amused to receive letters from some of his fans enquiring whether he could be related to them. People with the name of Herriot, fully believing it to be his real name, were hoping that the famous author was a long-lost cousin.

  One particular incident in 1972 amused him. His second book had just been published when he was approached by one of the local Thirsk solicitors.

  ‘I hadn’t realised that you were so intelligent!’ the man said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Alf asked.

  ‘Just that!’ carried on the solicitor. ‘And a scholar with a deep knowledge of medieval history as well.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Certainly. I’m very impressed that you chose the name of Herriot.’

  ‘Oh… yes?’

  The man continued. ‘I’m amazed that you knew that a “herriot” was the best calf in the herd that the feudal lord exacted from his serf every year. What an inspired choice!’

  Alf gave the man a knowing look. ‘Well, there you are!’ he said. ‘Don’t you be so quick to judge a person in future.’

  For his first book, Alf Wight received £200 as an advance from Michael Joseph, half on signature of the contract on 5 August 1969 and the other half due on publication. This advance would be set against royalties of 10% of the book’s published price for the first 2,000 books sold, rising to a maximum of 17½% should the book become a best-seller. At his first meeting with Anthea Joseph, she had explained to him that advances for first books by unknown authors were rarely high; it was not so much the outlay in advance they had to consider when taking on a new author, but the fact that the book would take up a place on the publishing list and would need time and care spent on it by all the departments.

  It was indeed a modest amount but he fingered that first cheque in wonderment. He was soon, however, to receive a far bigger boost to his financial status. In November, Jean LeRoy negotiated the sale of the serial rights to the influential newspaper, the London Evening Standard. The book was to be serialised, prior to publication, in a newspaper with a huge circulation in London and the home counties.

  Alf thought that he had entered the world of fantasy when he received a telephone call from his agent informing him of the deal that had been struck. The newspaper was to pay £36,710 for the serial rights – a sum that would be considered good today, but thirty years ago was monumental. I was there when he received the call and saw him nearly fall off his chair. To a man who had had only £20 four years before, it was unbelievable. On that day, with grim words like ‘mortgages’ and ‘overdrafts’ soon to be spectres of the past, he reckoned that his financial worries were over for all time.

  I remember my father’s happiness at the time as he began to feel that people were on his side. He had had to make many decisions in his life, but that of employing an agent was surely the very best. He often said to me, ‘I love to think of all those people beavering away on my behalf, taking all the decisions and negotiating deals, while I sit up here in Yorkshire and just carry on writing!’

  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 poigna
nt 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.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  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 th
e 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.