This title was suggested to him in November 1967 by a client called Arthur Dand, a dairy farmer who lived on an uncompromising little farm at the foot of the White Horse near Kilburn. He was a farmer with a difference. He, too, was a keen writer and sent off parcels of his work to various publishing houses. Like Alf, he was meeting with little success. Whenever Alf visited Arthur Dand’s farm, the visit was a long one as the two men compared notes and discussed their aspiring ambitions to become well-known authors. Alf always thought that Arthur was one of, perhaps, thousands of writers whose work, sadly, will never be enjoyed by the rest of the world. It was he, however, who provided the title for Alf’s first book.
In July of that year, Alf re-submitted his much improved book to Collins. The book was sent on to Mrs Wadham, but little happened for a while as she not only had other reading commitments but was due to go on holiday to Ireland. She wrote to Alf in early September, assuring him that she had started the manuscript with the same amount of enthusiasm as she did the previous time and that she hoped to let him hear about it very soon. There was then a period of silence for three months. As before, Alf retained a ray of hope. Could they, again, be thinking seriously about publishing it? With the practice becoming busier again, he had plenty to occupy his mind but, in late November, his curiosity got the better of him and he posted off a letter of enquiry.
He received a prompt and courteous reply in which the publishers stated that they were sorry but their ‘lists were full’. This was a polite way of saying that they did not want his manuscript. He had been rejected again which, after the initial disappointment, did not really surprise him. The length of time required for the reply, plus the fact that he had had to remind them about the manuscript, led him to ponder whether anyone had even bothered to read it.
Two days later, however, he received an apologetic letter from Juliana Wadham. She had read and greatly enjoyed the manuscript, but her enthusiasm had not been shared by Collins. Her letter, dated 29 November 1968, said:
I was appalled to hear, today, that you still haven’t heard from Collins as I sent your book in several weeks ago. I really can’t apologise too much as you have been so kind and patient and I, myself, as you know, am an enthusiastic supporter of If Only They Could Talk.
By now, I expect you will have heard that Collins themselves don’t feel it is quite the book for their present lists … I, personally, am very sad that Collins are not going to do it and I hope you have more luck in the future.
There was still a tiny glimmer of hope. His manuscript had been passed on by Collins’ editorial department to an associate company, Geoffrey Bles Ltd in Doughty Street. Three weeks later, however, Alf received an all-too-familiar message; their lists were also full. At this point, he asked that his manuscript be returned to him direct. He later recalled, ‘The thud that itmade coming back through the door was the loudest of all!’
This rejection was, he felt, the final blow. He had had enough. He had to accept that he was a veterinary surgeon not a writer, and he finally admitted defeat. He had tried; he had tried very hard, but he had failed.
He still felt proud of what he had done. Quite apart from having written a book that could be passed down through generations of his family, he had had the satisfaction of having his work genuinely praised by John Morrison and Juliana Wadham, two highly-experienced readers who had no reason to enthuse over his little book other than that they thought it had real potential.
Alfred Wight had knocked on the door of the world of publishing but he had not managed to walk through. He had, he thought, done pretty well to have progressed so far but this was the end of the road. He put his sorry brown paper parcel into a drawer and immersed himself in the job that he was trained for, the one that he loved best – veterinary practice.
These were happy days in the practice. Tony Kelly, the longest-serving assistant ever to work for Sinclair and Wight, was a most likeable and reliable vet with a great sense of humour, and there was both hard work and plenty of laughter in our daily routine.
The rejected book lying in the drawer was the last thing on my mind. Watching my father laughing at some of Tony’s latest escapades one day, I thought that he, too, had forgotten all about it and had finally cast off his ambitions to be a published author. With the figure in front of the television now no longer having a typewriter in front of him, I felt that this latest enthusiasm had had its day. Once again, I was mistaken.
One day in the spring of 1969, Joan said to Alf, quite out of the blue, ‘Why don’t you send your manuscript to Michael Joseph, as we were going to do originally?’
Knowing her husband well, she sensed that, even though his book had lain in a drawer untouched for weeks, he could not really stop thinking about it. With her words, yet again, having re-kindled the smouldering desire to get his manuscript published, he opened the drawer and took out his book.
He did not send it straight to Michael Joseph; he had another idea. Two years previously, Alf had bought a book called Sell Them A Storyby someone called Jean LeRoy. In it, she advised that anyone who wished to have their work published should first approach an agent – and she would know because, according to the biographical note on the jacket flap, she herself was a literary agent.
Until this time, Alf had not seriously considered sending his book to an agent, but suddenly the idea seemed a very good one. He located Sell Them A Storyon his crowded bookshelves, took it to bed, and began to read it again. Alf found the book inspiring and, as he read it for the second time, his ideas took a new turn. Not only would he send his manuscript to an agent, he would send it to none other than the author of that little book, Jean LeRoy herself.
As he lay in bed that night, he must have wondered whether he would ever meet with success. As a veteran of so many rejections, he was not too optimistic but, believing that his book was easy to read and contained material that could be enjoyed by people of all ages, he still felt hopeful.
It was a fateful spring day in 1969 when Alfred Wight opened the drawer and lifted out his tattered manuscript. As the well-travelled parcel sped on its way to Miss Jean LeRoy, c/o David Higham Associates, 76 Dean Street, Soho, London, questions flashed across his mind.
Would the amusing stories about Donald and Brian Sinclair that his friends and family had heard about for so many years ever reach a wider audience? Would the agent read his book and, if so, would she like it? Would she consider it worthy of publication? This time, he would not have to wait long for his answer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
One April morning, barely a week after he had sent off his manuscript to Jean LeRoy, I came down for breakfast to find my father seated at the table. His hands were trembling as he fingered a letter that had just arrived.
He looked at me and said, very quietly, ‘Jim, I can’t believe it but my book might be published! After all these years! I just can’t believe it!’
He handed me the letter. It was from David Bolt, a director at David Higham Associates, saying that he liked the book ‘enormously’ and considered it would have every chance of reaching publication.