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 mycousin and he is notold! 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 poignant 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 Talkare 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 wasvery 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 failingto 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.