Michael Joseph, therefore, were in no rush to sign a contract for If Only They Could Talkwith 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.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
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.