To find a name that he liked had been a strangely difficult task. He had got used to ‘James Walsh’, the name he had used for his original novel – and he had submitted the manuscript of If Only They Could Talkunder that name – but now, with publication a reality, he had to re-think. There was already a ‘James Walsh’ in the Veterinary Register.
On the evening of 11 February 1969, while watching a fifth round Football Association cup tie on television between Birmingham City and Manchester United, he had noted that the Birmingham goalkeeper was called Jim Herriot. My father, who was continually thinking of ideas for a pseudonym, had liked the name; it was an unusual one and he had reached, yet again, for the Veterinary Register. To his surprise, there were no veterinarians with the name of Herriot. He had marked the name down for possible future use, little dreaming that the name of Birmingham City’s Scottish international goalkeeper, who played six times for his country, would one day become world-famous. On that February evening, Alf Wight’s search for a pseudonym had come to an end.
Years later, in 1988, a Glasgow newspaper, the Sunday Mail, ran an article on the origins of Alf’s literary name, bringing the original Jim Herriot, who was then working as a builder in Larkhall, Lanarkshire, to visit the surgery in Thirsk. He was not a keen reader but had watched the television series of the books. He had had no idea that the famous Yorkshire vet had borrowed his name, and was astonished that the celebrated author was excited at the prospect of meeting him.
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 fixture.’
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 Talkby the Evening Standardin 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 Talkwas 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!