by Jim Wight
In an address to the Harrogate Medical Society in 1974, Alf tried to explain the American people’s fascination for his work: ‘I think that the American people like my stories because they are reaching out for the simple things which they, in their materialistic and urbanised society, have lost: old, unspoiled Yorkshire and a way of life so different from their own.’
Through his warmth, understanding and compassion for both his patients and fellow men, James Herriot, in effect, humanised his profession, and the many fans who travelled the thousands of miles to see him found that the real man behind the caring image was every inch the gentleman they imagined him to be.
The tidal wave of admiration from the other side of the Atlantic was one that could, so easily, have never happened. As with his publishing achievements in Great Britain, it was through a small twist of fate that he got his first foothold in the United States, and one man, more than any other, was responsible for establishing James Herriot’s enduring grip on the American public’s imagination. His name was Tom McCormack.
McCormack was the chief executive of the New York publishing house, St Martin’s Press. He flew to London in the summer of 1970 on a buying trip, hoping to acquire some books that would have good potential sales in the United States. He was desperate for something spectacular since St Martin’s was struggling to keep afloat. Unless a best-selling author could be found to turn around the fortunes of St Martin’s Press, there was a real possibility that the company would have to close down, with the loss of many jobs.
While in London, he arranged a meeting with David Bolt at David Higham Associates, one of many such meetings he had during his visit. An agent would always try to interest visiting American publishers in books in which they held American rights, where they had a responsibility to the author to try to place the book in America. David Bolt would have discussed a number of the company’s clients with Tom McCormack and when he handed him a copy of If Only They Could Talk, it would not have been with any great hope since the book was very British and an unlikely one for the American public.
If Only They Could Talk had not been published long and its sales had not caused any ripples in the pool of London publishing. Tom McCormack looked at the book distastefully: not only was it small (Americans like to read big books, preferably about Americans, and at that time were not very interested in short British books), he did not like the jacket which he thought gave it the impression of being a children’s book. He liked the title even less, and when he learned that it was written by some unknown vet from Yorkshire, his interest evaporated. Common courtesy, however, dictated that he did not throw the book back at David Bolt so he packed the unexciting little volume into his case and took it back home. Three years earlier, James Herriot’s work had lain around in London, completely forgotten, and the same fate was to befall it in New York. It lay, unopened, in the chief executive’s house for a full three months.
He may never have read the book but his wife, Sandra, picked it up one evening and began to read it. It was not long before she voiced her opinion. Turning to her husband, she said, ‘You gotta read this – and if you don’t publish it, you booby, I’ll kill you!’
In the face of such compelling words, he had little choice but to read it himself. With every passing chapter, his excitement grew as he began to realise that he was enjoying the work of a master story-teller; by the time he had finished reading the book, the germ of an idea had become established in his mind. Could this be the author he had been looking for?
As the weeks went by, the idea grew into a firm resolve that the rest of the United States was going to read the book, too. In the years to come, he would have cause to bless the forceful advice from his wife on that memorable evening in New York.
My family has always admired Tom McCormack for his unwavering determination in getting that first book published. He was so convinced that he had a potential best-seller, he was prepared to stake his whole career on its success. He saw this man, James Herriot, as the possible saviour of his ailing firm – but he had some enormous obstacles to overcome.
The first was that the book was too short; if he were to win over the American public, he needed a book twice the length. Early in 1971, however, his prayers were answered. He contacted Claire Smith of the Harold Ober agency in New York – the American associate of the David Higham agency in London; she too had been trying to interest American publishers in If Only They Could Talk, but with little success. When Tom McCormack approached Claire Smith, she told him that she had heard from London that the vet had completed another book. This was exactly the news that Tom had been waiting for. As soon as he could, he obtained a copy of the book from the David Higham agency in London. After enjoying it as much as he had the first, he saw that the two books could be combined into one volume.
Tom still had a problem; he wanted the book to have a more definite ending – something that the second book, like the first, did not have. Through David Higham Associates, he contacted Alf, very tentatively asking if he could write a finale to the book – one where James Herriot marries Helen, in order to give the story a satisfying conclusion. He wondered what the strange vet in distant Yorkshire would make of such a request, but he was not to be disappointed. Alf, intensely excited at the prospect of his books being published in America, was only too happy to oblige and, in Tom McCormack’s words, ‘He wrote three chapters, gave us a wedding, and an ending that chimes as gloriously as The Sound of Music.’
Rosie proposed a title for this new book, ILL Creatures Great and Small while, coincidentally, someone at St Martin’s Press had come up with the title ALL Creatures Great and Small. Alf was keen to use Rosie’s title, but Tom preferred to adopt the more traditional title. There was no argument and Tom got his way; these were exciting days and, bemused as he was by the enthusiastic approach of his new-found publisher in America, Alf was willing to cooperate in every way that he could. In later years, when he had become an established best-selling author, he had the confidence to stand his ground when Tom wanted to alter parts of his stories, but in those early days, he toed the line.
On 17 September 1971, as Alfred Wight signed the contract with St Martin’s Press for All Creatures Great and Small, he could hardly believe his good fortune; but no one could have anticipated just how momentous that signature would turn out to be.
1972 was a hectic year for Tom McCormack, during which he had to overcome another huge hurdle – convincing everyone at St Martin’s Press that the memoirs of the first two years in the professional life of an obscure vet in faraway Yorkshire could possibly become a best-seller. Having finally persuaded his colleagues, he next had to convince the booksellers to support it. He began a ‘campaign of enticement, intimidation and force-feeding’.
He threw everything into the marketing of the book. Six thousand copies of the first chapter were printed and given away to selected librarians, bookstores and reviewers. A money-back guarantee was offered to anyone who was not delighted with the book, little ivory animals were sent to major bookstores as a gimmick to draw their attention to the book, while Tom wrote personally to all the major reviewers. In his letters he described the reading of the book as a ‘rich and joyful experience’, while saying of James Herriot and his work, ‘he conveys a love of life that seems thoroughly justified. No book I’ve worked on in fifteen years of publishing has given me more pleasure.’
Despite this energetic marketing campaign, advance sales were disappointing, with only 8,500 copies of the book in the shops two weeks before publication. Tom, however, remained convinced that if only a leading reviewer would read it, like it and give it a good review, then the book would take off. The vast American public, he felt sure, needed only a taste of All Creatures Great and Small before they would want more; all he asked was that someone would give it to them.
This was a brave venture from a man who had put his whole future on the line. The failure of this book – on which he had pinned so many hopes – could have serious con
sequences for both himself and his company. As publication day approached, Tom McCormack crossed his fingers and waited.
All Creatures Great and Small was published in November 1972 to a profound silence from the major reviewers. Tom was bitterly disappointed. Was there anyone else in the United States of America, he wondered, who shared his appreciation of the writing of this man, James Herriot? Was he the only one in the vast publishing industry who saw the author’s potential? Had he made a massive mistake in risking his future on the work of the unknown Yorkshire veterinarian? He waited, desperately, for a tiny glimmer of hope.
It was not long before his questions were answered. On 12 November, while reading the Chicago Tribune’s ‘Sunday Book World’, he felt a surge of excitement. On the front page of this enormously influential newspaper was a review of James Herriot’s book. The review, by a man called Alfred Ames, radiated superlatives.
‘If there is any justice, this book will become a classic of its kind …. With seemingly effortless art, this man tells his stories with perfect timing. Many more famous authors could work for a lifetime and not achieve more flawless literary control.’
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.
