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 Talkhad 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 Smallwhile, coincidentally, someone at St Martin’s Press had come up with the title ALL Creatures Great and SmallAlf 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 Smallhe 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.’