Despite this energetic marketing campaign, advance sales were disappointing, with only 8,500 copies of the book in the shops two weeks before publication. Tom, however, remained convinced that if only a leading reviewer would read it, like it and give it a good review, then the book would take off. The vast American public, he felt sure, needed only a taste of All Creatures Great and Smallbefore they would want more; all he asked was that someone would give it to them.
This was a brave venture from a man who had put his whole future on the line. The failure of this book – on which he had pinned so many hopes – could have serious consequences for both himself and his company. As publication day approached, Tom McCormack crossed his fingers and waited.
All Creatures Great and Smallwas published in November 1972 to a profound silence from the major reviewers. Tom was bitterly disappointed. Was there anyone else in the United States of America, he wondered, who shared his appreciation of the writing of this man, James Herriot? Was he the only one in the vast publishing industry who saw the author’s potential? Had he made a massive mistake in risking his future on the work of the unknown Yorkshire veterinarian? He waited, desperately, for a tiny glimmer of hope.
It was not long before his questions were answered. On 12 November, while reading the Chicago Tribunes‘Sunday Book World’, he felt a surge of excitement. On the front page of this enormously influential newspaper was a review of James Herriot’s book. The review, by a man called Alfred Ames, radiated superlatives.
‘If there is any justice, this book will become a classic of its kind.… With seemingly effortless art, this man tells his stories with perfect timing. Many more famous authors could work for a lifetime and not achieve more flawless literary control.’
This was the break Tom McCormack had been waiting for. This one review set in motion a host of others. Anatole Broyard wrote in the New York Timeson 14 December: ‘James Herriot, a British veterinary surgeon, is one of those rare men who know how to appreciate the ordinary … He’s a veterinarian, that’s what he is, and when his right arm is free, he’s a helluva writer as well.’
By January 1973, the reviews were pouring out. The Houston Chronicleheaded its review: ‘Superlatives aren’t enough. This book is absolutely super, a rarity, magnificently written, insightful, unforgettable. If you have ever loved a friend, human or otherwise, this is the book for you.’
These reviews provided the spark to ignite a sales inferno that swept across the United States of America. The book was on Timemagazine’s best-seller list by early January 1973, and that of the New York Timeslater that month. James Herriot’s fame soon spread from coast to coast and, within one year, his book had been selected by book clubs, serialised in magazines and published as a condensed book by Reader’s Digest. Within a few months of publication, the paperback rights were bought by Bantam Books, and after two hundred thousand were sold in hardback, a further million followed in paperback – 1973 was a truly phenomenal year, for both James Herriot and Tom McCormack.
The name of James Herriot had been propelled into millions of households within weeks of publication. Tom McCormack had gambled and he had won. He had spent over $50,000 in promoting the book but, as he was to acknowledge later, If it weren’t for a man named Alfred Ames, it all might have turned out different.’
Despite the staggering success of his new author, Tom McCormack did not rest on his laurels. Sales of All Creatures Great and Smallhad hit the market like a typhoon – one he had no intention of allowing to abate. What better way was there, he thought, of ensuring this than by inviting James Herriot himself over to the States on a promotional tour?
Alf, although excited by all the publicity he was receiving, felt that his primary allegiance was to the practice and, with the busy time of lambing fast approaching, his initial reaction was to refuse the invitation. There were only four vets in the practice at that time, but we assured him that it was too good an opportunity to miss, so in late February 1973, he visited America for the first time.
The trip only lasted a week but it pulsated with action from beginning to end. There were long successions of television appearances and book signings, interspersed with tours around the sights of New York, with visits to exotic restaurants and cocktail parties. To a man used to the steady life among the even steadier Yorkshire people, it was like a dream.
When he returned home, my mother and I asked how it had all been. He replied, ‘Utterly fantastic – but I’m knackered!’ The high life in America had been a truly wonderful experience but he was pleased to be back in Yorkshire. Much as he had enjoyed his time in the United States, he assured us that he would never do another promotional tour.
It was not to be. Throughout the summer of 1973, sales of the paperback were so massive that he finally agreed to do a second tour in the autumn of that year, this time organised by Bantam Books. The tour lasted three weeks and was even more exhausting than the first. Joan accompanied him on this second trip but they had little time to themselves. They flew to several big cities and the tour was, again, a long procession of book signings and television appearances. It seemed to Alf that every room in the United States had a television – every one of which appeared to be switched on permanently – and his face must have been seen in millions of homes, morning after morning.
During phone-in sessions, he was asked questions about skunks and alligators (animals rarely seen in the surgery of Skeldale House), he argued with people about the ethics of religious slaughter (Alf always hated to discuss emotive subjects that could result in explosive argument) while, all the time, there was the pressure of an ever-tightening schedule that had to be adhered to.
He returned from this second trip totally drained. After a few days recovering from the ordeal, he put down his memories of the tour.
… To a book signing session in New York where a queue of fans brought not only their books but their pets, too. They deposited shaggy creatures on the table with requests like, ‘You gotta sign this to Fluffy, Dr Herriot.’ Some of the names were unusual. Naming a pair of hamsters Hermann and Lucius struck me as a little bizarre, but the feeling of wonder wore off as I autographed books to cats called Hamburger, Sweet Feets, Pancake, Noo-catt Noo-catt, Popcorn and there was a canary in the queue, William Byrd. The dear Americans! Warm-hearted, generous and even more scatty over their animals than we are.
I had only one respite in the entire three weeks, one blessed Sunday when I awoke to find no appointments fixed. It was in San Francisco and, outside my bedroom window, the Californian sun poured down on the Golden Gate bridge spanning the blue waters of the bay to the mountains beyond. I knew I should be out there tasting the delights of this most beautiful of cities but I lay motionless hour after hour staring glassily at the ceiling. And yet I have survived. The floors have stopped moving, my cheeks have stopped twitching and my stomach has almost agreed to make peace and let bygones be bygones. Still, the parting thought remains. I love America and its people but I’m not going back, just yet …
It took Alf several weeks to recover. He returned with bronchitis, cystitis and severe phlebitis in both his legs and, for a while, he took on the appearance of an old man. This, he vowed, had been his last promotional tour, and it was. Over the next five years, his subsequent books were combined into two further volumes for the American market, both storming the best-seller lists and remaining at the top for weeks. His sales did not need the boost of any more personal appearances.