The Real James Herriot (32 page)

The fourth book,
Vet in Harness,
was published in 1974 and was another immediate success, this time with an initial printing of 20,000 copies. The reader is introduced to the larger-than-life Granville Bennett while, in chapter 25, a village cricket match on a hopelessly sloping and uneven pitch is described. Alf, always a great cricket fan, was very proud to receive a letter from Sir Leonard Hutton, whom he rated as one of the all-time great Yorkshire and England batsmen. He had obviously enjoyed the chapter. Dated 26 February 1976, it read:

I have just read your new book. May I congratulate you on the cricket match; it reminded me so much of one or two of my earliest matches in Yorkshire.

Thank you so much for making two dark February evenings so enjoyable. I know the people so well whom you have spent your life amongst. We have them in cricket, too.

This was where Alf scored. His books were not just a collection of stories about animals and vets. His professional experiences were a backcloth to a description of so many different walks of life; there was something in them to interest everyone.

As he kept generating more books in the early 1970s, Alf's confidence grew. He had attempted the art of introducing flashbacks in the novel that was rejected in 1967, but he returned to this technique for his next
two books,
Vets Might Fly
which was published in 1976, and
Vet in a Spin
which appeared on the booksellers' shelves in 1977. So successful was he now, that 60,000 copies of
Vets Might Fly
were printed by Michael Joseph and they flew off the shelves within a very short time.

These two books hark back to his time in the Royal Air Force and he returned to those earlier days with much greater skill in the use of flashbacks than in his previous attempts. By this time, he was a household name, with his books entering the best-seller lists within a couple of weeks of publication. As each new book was published, it acted as a catalyst for the sales of the preceding titles and, by the mid 1970s, he had sold hundreds of thousands of copies in hardback together with millions in paperback.

Paperback books, of course, sell more copies than the more expensive hardback editions. In the 1970s, Michael Joseph – along with many other publishers at the time – did not have a regular paperback partner with whom they shared profits. They would sell paperback rights to any number of paperback houses, Penguin Books, Pan Books and Corgi being some of the leading names.

With the shelf-life of a commercial hardback book rarely being more than six months nowadays, the paperback edition usually follows a year after the hardback is published – often coinciding, if the author is prolific, with the next hardback. In the 1970s, however, the hardbacks usually continued in circulation for much longer and, with a higher income from the hardback rather than a part-share of a lower-priced book, the gap between hardback and paperback publication was often two years.

Michael Joseph, therefore, were in no rush to sign a contract for
If Only They Could Talk
with a paperback publisher and, in the event, they sold the first two books at the same time to Pan Books. The contract between Michael Joseph and Pan was signed in June 1972, six months after the publication of
It Shouldn't Happen to a Vet;
the serialisation of the two books and the favourable reviews and media interest would not have gone unnoticed by Pan. The leading player in negotiating this contract was none other than Clarence Paget who, in 1969, had encouraged Anthea Joseph to take a chance with the ‘unknown vet from Yorkshire'.

The first two books were published in tandem by Pan in November 1972, with 60,000 copies of each being printed. It would prove to be a wise move by Pan. The sales accelerated throughout the following years
as the successive books were published in paperback until, by early 1979, Alf found himself the recipient of no less than six ‘Golden Pan' awards. Each of his first six books sold more than one million copies in paperback – an achievement equalled only, at that time, by Ian Fleming, the author of the hugely successful James Bond books.

Alfred Wight, although a man who had carved out his life with his own hands, was quick to acknowledge any help he had received in attaining this heady success. The dedications in his earlier books reflect his gratitude.

In the first book, the dedication is to Eddie Straiton. Alf never forgot that it was he who had introduced him to the former Collins executive, John Morrison, who in turn had passed his manuscript on to that publishing house. It was, in effect, the advice of the Collins' reader, Juliana Wadham – to transform his original novel into a semi-autobiographical account of his life – that was a major turning point in his fortunes. Juliana Wadham was responsible for the addition of that magic ingredient to James Herriot's work; the fact that his memorable stories were based upon real-life incidents.

The dedication in the second book – to the Sinclair brothers – reflects the appreciation of his good fortune in having spent much of his life in the company of those colourful characters who had provided him with incomparable material for his stories.

In the third book, he acknowledges his wife. In her own way, Joan had contributed more than anyone in helping him on the road to success – not only by gently goading him into writing his first book and then encouraging him to persevere with getting it published, but by providing a happy and stable family environment. One of his favourite sayings was that he wrote his books, not alone, but ‘in the bosom of my family'. Joan, through her enduring support of her husband, was mainly responsible for his family life being a contented and happy one.

The dedication in the fourth book, to his mother in Glasgow, is testimony to his undying gratitude to the woman who, during those difficult years of the depression in Yoker so many years before, displayed astonishing determination that her son would be a success in the world. She was, of course, extremely proud of her son's achievements, so much so that she began to accost people in the street with the words, ‘Now, you know who I am, don't you? I am James Herriot's mother!' On her
correspondence, too, she would no longer sign her name as Hannah Wight – just ‘James Herriot's mother'.

The dedications in the fifth and sixth books (the former to his beloved dogs, Hector and Dan, the latter to Rosie, Gill and me) were in appreciation of some of those with whom he always maintained he spent many of the happiest times of his life.

By the mid 1970s, James Herriot's books had become established best-sellers in Great Britain, but it was not only his astonishing success in his own country that bemused him. Long before this, his reputation had spread beyond its shores. With his prodigious book sales abroad having resulted in their being translated into most of the world's major languages, he had become known as the ‘World's Most Famous Vet', but it was his massive popularity in one country that had been largely responsible for rocketing him to international fame. Nowhere was he held in higher esteem than in the United States of America.

One Wednesday afternoon, some time in the late 1970s, I was aware of a great deal of noise in the waiting-room of 23 Kirkgate. The small animal side of the practice was beginning to expand to such an extent that it now accounted for a high proportion of our income, and it was good news that the waiting-room was so full.

‘It looks as though we're going to have a good surgery today, Dad,' I said. ‘That room is heaving!'

My father put his head round the door and looked inside. He strode back into the office with an apologetic smile. ‘Don't get too excited, boys,' he said. ‘I've just counted two hamsters, one Yorkshire Terrier and forty-five Americans!'

This invasion by tourists of our modest little premises was becoming commonplace. The name of James Herriot had become so famous that thousands from all over the world flocked to Thirsk to see his veterinary surgery. As well as from Great Britain, they travelled from Europe, Canada, Australia and even Japan – but by far the greatest number came from the United States. It seemed that he had become an icon on the other side of the Atlantic.

Alf Wight had always liked the American people. Long before he became famous, he had been attracted to their open friendliness and love for life.

‘The Americans like us,' he often used to say. ‘Lots of other nations don't, but they do. I like people who like me!' As his stratospheric sales in the United States continued, his affection for the people of that country deepened.

Alf never forgot the debt he owed the Americans, always endeavouring to see every one that had paid him the compliment of travelling so far to see him. As these intrusions into their working day could be a nuisance to the other veterinary surgeons in the practice, he set aside two afternoons a week to talk to the visitors and sign their books. The queues down Kirkgate on Wednesday and Friday afternoons were enormous, especially during the summer months.

These book-signing sessions went on for many years and we all
became used to the throngs of tourists pouring into the waiting-room. I often watched, with amazement, the excitement on the faces of these people as they shook hands with my father. He meant more to them than just an author whose work they admired; he was someone they felt they knew personally through his warm and compassionately written stories.

Alf, who always considered himself to be a very ordinary man, could never really understand this adulation. He said to me on many an occasion, ‘Here's me, an ordinary “run of the mill” vet and all these people are flocking to see me as though I was the new Messiah!' Some who travelled to worship at the ‘shrine' of 23 Kirkgate were fellow veterinarians with a string of degrees to their names; Alf used to say that he felt a fraud to be treated with such respect. Despite his bemusement, he was, indeed, someone special, with many of those fortunate enough to meet him regarding the occasion as one of the highlights of their entire lives.

I gained a great respect for many of the fans who came to see him. A large number, understanding that ours was a working business, did not intrude; they would simply approach the building and photograph it. Others who came inside displayed astonishing generosity. After signing their books, my father would invite them to give a donation to a local charity that he supported; this was a stray dog sanctuary – the Jerry Green Foundation Trust – that had a branch near Thirsk. On several occasions a £50-note was found when the little red box was emptied. It was not only James Herriot himself who profited from his incredible success.

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 consequences 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.'