A period of ten years had seen a dramatic upturn in the fortunes of Alfred Wight. The 1970s opened with the publication of his first book, followed by undreamed-of success and subsequent financial security. The beginning of the previous decade had started with the sudden death of his father, succeeded by a period of nervous exhaustion and escalating worry. There is little wonder he frequently referred to that period of his life as the ‘horrible sixties’.
I asked him one day how he thought his life would have turned out had he not been so successful as an author.
‘I would have carried on working full time,’ he replied. ‘I had a modest pension on the go, lots of little insurance policies and would probably have sold the house to buy a bungalow somewhere in Thirsk. I would have floated away into an obscure retirement, probably every bit as happy as the one I am enjoying now!’
These were not empty words. My father, never one to regard money as a means to an end, rarely exhibited the lifestyle of a rich man. His high earnings, however, did allow him some luxuries that he had previously been unable to afford. In April 1977, he bought Mirebeck, a bungalow situated under the Hambleton Hills that was to be his home until his final days. He was able to buy rather more expensive cars, he and Joan went on holiday abroad, and he did not need to think twice about taking his friends out for dinner; apart from these comparatively modest indulgences, his way of life remained largely unchanged.
It would be an exaggeration, however, to say that he was disinterested in his new financial status. He gained great satisfaction out of helping others and, especially in the final few years of his life, gave away large sums of money to various charities and to several of his friends. Rosie and I, especially, had great cause to be grateful for his generosity in assisting us with such vital outgoings as buying houses and the funding of our children’s education. A more helpful and thoughtful father would be hard to imagine.
As well as satisfaction, he derived considerable amusement out of his improved financial position, not least upon observing the deference that was accorded him in some circles. Whenever he walked into his bank, the attitude of the manager and staff towards him was in sharp contrast to the reception he used to receive in his younger days. On one occasion back in 1950, after Joan had lost her engagement ring, he bought her a replacement which did little to lessen his overdraft at the bank. Mr Smallwood, the manager of the Midland Bank in Thirsk – and someone who regarded Alf Wight, with his never diminishing overdraft, as something of a liability – was not amused. He summoned Alf to his office.
‘This just will not do, Mr Wight!’ he said. ‘It will not do! A man in your position cannot squander money on luxuries. I don’t want you ever to repeat such a reckless action without consulting me beforehand.’
After his literary success, Alf had many a smile while recalling this incident. Gone were those days of slinking into the dreaded inner sanctum of the bank manager’s office to cower beneath the stern reprimands from the man in charge of his life.
Although he tried hard, throughout his celebrity years, to maintain his comparatively modest way of life, it was not possible to stay out of the limelight completely. His position as one of the most popular authors in the country required his playing a full part in supporting the momentum of the James Herriot industry. However, this was something that, especially in the early years of his fame, he often enjoyed.
Dick Douglas-Boyd, the sales director at Michael Joseph, was someone whom Alf and Joan got to know well over the years. Whenever a new book was published, there were inevitable requests from booksellers for signing sessions and Dick would usually attend these to ensure everything went smoothly. In fact, he and Anthea Joseph used to vie for the pleasure of travelling from London to be with Alf, Anthea usually winning the literary lunches or dinners. With everyone so interested in his rise to fame, Alf found himself thrust into the world of after-dinner speaking; it was something he never really enjoyed but, with such an interesting story to tell – and an equally interesting profession about which to talk – he was soon in great demand.
One function he really enjoyed was the annual ‘Authors of the Year’ reception, run by Hatchards, the famous booksellers in London’s Piccadilly. At these parties, he met the crème de la crèmeof that year’s authors – like him, the ones who had made the tills rattle the most. He often recalled the first one he attended, at New Zealand House in London. Alf could hardly believe the upturn in his fortunes. As he and Joan stood on the Martini Terrace, the top floor of New Zealand House which looks out over Trafalgar Square, Westminster and the lights of the City, they sipped champagne while rubbing shoulders with such celebrities as H. E. Bates, July Cooper, Antonia Fraser and Spike Milligan. Alf and Joan attended many Hatchards’ parties over the years, and on one occasion were introduced to the Queen and Prince Philip. They always enjoyed meeting the other authors and some very famous personalities, the majority of whom used to greet them like old friends. They also learned that the public images these people sometimes portrayed could be a misleading reflection of their real selves.
One politician whom they regarded with less than a friendly eye was the Labour Prime Minister, Harold Wilson. The fact that his government was plundering Alf’s income through punitive taxation did not improve his opinion of him. ‘He may be a clever man,’ he said, ‘but I don’t trust him an inch! I wouldn’t buy a second-hand car from Harold!’ Edward Heath, the leader of the Conservative Party, was, in Alf’s opinion, a far more genuine and upstanding man than the Labour leader. How he wished that Heath, not Wilson, was in charge of his country.
Then, at one of the ‘Authors of the Year’ receptions in the mid-1970s, he met none other than Harold Wilson himself, and I shall never forget my father’s later remarks.
‘I met Harold Wilson! What a grand little man!’
‘I thought he wasn’t one of your favourite people,’ I replied in amazement.
‘He comes from a similar background to myself,’ my father continued enthusiastically, ‘and he is a dog lover and a football supporter! We had a rare old chat together. Do you know, he is just the sort of man I like! I could have spent all night talking to him.’
Alf’s income from the practice during the first years of the seventies was still welcome. He did not become a really wealthy man until 1976, and it was not until the following decade that he could consider himself a millionaire.
His accountancy files for that period make interesting reading. In 1972, he earned less than £2,000 from his book sales. This rose to £3,578 in 1973; then there was a big jump to £37,252 in 1974. It is true that he earned additional sums from, for example, newspaper serialisation rights, but his earnings in those opening years of the 1970s, for a man needing to establish a secure future for himself, were not enough to enable him to work part-time.
One of the reasons he was not quite as affluent as others imagined him to be, was that he was not receiving the full income from his phenomenal sales in America. On the advice of his accountants, he spread his earnings over a number of years rather than taking it as it was earned, so mitigating the tax burdens that were beginning to assume ever-increasing importance. Through not receiving the income from the sales of his books at the time, much of the money that was generated was, instead, diverted into other accounts, some of which, months or years later, would prove difficult to unlock when he actually wanted the money.
This was not the fault of St Martin’s Press but it did cause Alf considerable worry. His agents, David Higham Associates, were in constant touch with St Martin’s, attempting to clarify the situation, but there was a considerable delay before the money that was rightfully his was lodged in his bank account. The continuing viability of the American publishing house was something that, understandably, gave him cause for concern; should it become bankrupt, there was every chance that his huge earnings in the United States would disappear without trace. Happily, the fortunes of St Martin’s Press improved, and as the 1970s progressed, his money eventually found its way across the Atlantic.