In 1976, his income from book sales soared to £165,000 but he had another problem to contend with by then. A Labour Government had been elected and the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Denis Healey, was famously said to declare his intent to ‘Squeeze the rich until the pips squeaked’. James Herriot’s pips made plenty of noise around that time. Alf had to pay a top rate of tax of 83%, together with the hardly credible figure of 98% on investment income.
The tax bills that my father received make horrendous viewing. He said to me many years later, after having paid millions into the coffers of Her Majesty’s Treasury, ‘There are two words in the English language that are music to my ears – Tax Free!’ No wonder.
He and his accountant fought long battles with the local tax inspectors – surely some of the most unpopular people in the land. His every little move to avoid tax legally was stubbornly contested by the men from the Inland Revenue. He was not surprised to learn that his opinion of them was shared by many of his customers.
While visiting one of his clients, John Atkinson, Alf noticed that the farmer appeared to be a little preoccupied, and remarked that he did not seem his usual self.
The farmer replied, ‘One o’ them tax fellers is comin ’ere ter talk ter me.’
‘That could be awkward, John,’ Alf said, with some feeling.
‘Aye, it’s a bad job! Ah doubt ah’ll ’ave ter snarl ’im down a bit!’
The tax man certainly ‘snarled’ Alf Wight down throughout his years of success, but he refused to resort to complicated ways of avoiding tax. He and Joan did, however, visit the tax haven of Jersey in 1974. Had he remained there, whilst benefiting from the island’s favourable tax laws in operation at that time, he could have realised a considerable sum which he could have legally brought home.
‘Are you going to live there for a year?’ I asked him on his return.
‘No, Jim, I’m not,’ he said.
‘Surely it’s worth shacking up there for a while? There is a lot of money at stake.’
‘If I earn £100,000 and I pay tax, I am still left with nearly £20,000,’ he replied. ‘That is still one hell of a lot of money, and quite enough for us. No, I’ll stay here and pay up! I am now nearly sixty years old,’ he continued. ‘The remaining years I have left are very important to me. I love living in Yorkshire among my friends and family – and Jersey is a long way from my football team! Tell me this, how do you put a price upon one whole year of your life?’
Two years later, his accountant, Bob Rickaby, exhorted him to consider other legal ways of avoiding the astronomical tax bills. Bob was involved in mountainous heaps of correspondence with accountants in London who specialised in the tax affairs of high earners. Their advice was tempered by the fact that my father doggedly refused to live abroad. Other best-selling authors such as Leslie Thomas, Richard Adams and Frederick Forsyth were all residing overseas to limit the effect of the taxman’s teeth, but Alf Wight insisted on staying where he was.
Many other ingenious schemes were put forward by the London accountants – varying from buying large tracts of forestry to owning racehorses. One way of limiting the tax burden was by setting up trusts that would benefit his relatives several generations down the family tree. This was an efficient means of tax avoidance but it meant that his immediate family would hardly benefit from his earnings.
‘Why should I give my money to someone I am never going to know?’ was his response. ‘I can just picture some young person, years from now, fingering my money and celebrating the memory of an unknown great, great grandpappy Wight! No, I would rather pay more tax and give a little of what is left to the family that I know.’ Not surprisingly, I agreed with him.
One way that he did achieve a little tax relief was by putting my mother and me onto the payroll. My mother helped with his increasing piles of correspondence while I read his manuscripts as well as providing him with several incidents for his stories. The tax man fought this tooth and nail – and we were only allowed a very small sum – but at least it was a minor victory in his continuing war against the punitive taxation laws.
In desperation, one of the accountants said to him, ‘Look, there are only two really best-selling authors still living in this country – you and Jack Higgins. Why not telephone him and find out how he tackles this problem?’
Jack Higgins had achieved phenomenal success with his novel The Eagle Has Landed, and Alf seemed to remember that he was living somewhere in South Yorkshire. He eventually managed to discover his address only to receive a brief, taped message on the telephone to the effect that Mr Higgins was now in residence on the island of Jersey! He, too, had failed to defeat the Inland Revenue.
Alf’s determination never to live overseas, with the resulting payment of colossal sums to Her Majesty’s Chancellor, meant that it would be many years before he could call himself a seriously wealthy man.
He said to his accountant, Bob Rickaby, one day, ‘I get masses of letters asking me to donate money to good causes and fund scholarships for veterinary schools. They must all think I’m a millionaire.’
‘You could have been,’ replied Bob, ‘but by living in this country you have written five books for the tax man and one for yourself!’
To his credit, Alf did not let his failure to amass huge sums of money worry him. His agent, Jacqueline Korn, said to me recentiy that, of all the best-selling authors whose literary affairs she has looked after, he was the one whose fame altered his lifestyle the least.
Although Alf had been pitched into the world of the celebrity, the vast majority of his time was still spent as a veterinary surgeon in Thirsk. The practice of Sinclair and Wight, in the early 1970s, was busy, and still only a four-man operation. It would have been impossible to run the business with any fewer, and Alf worked full time for the following ten years, right up until 1980 when more assistance was acquired. By then, he was almost sixty-five years old, and was entitled to take his foot off the pedal a little.
He and I always got on well together and there were occasions when I was grateful for his compassionate approach to his younger colleagues. In those early years of the 1970s when I was living at home, he observed on many occasions my delicate condition after an evening on the town. As the telephone was by his bedside, he took the night calls when I was on duty. I always heard the ringing in my room – an unwelcome noise it was in the early hours of the morning. He had two ways of answering these calls. His usual response was, ‘Very well, we’llbe out’ – in which case I knew it would be me crawling out of my bed. On the odd happy occasion, however, I would hear him say, ‘Right, I’llbe out.’ This meant that he had felt sympathy for his wayward son, and would soon be on his way to a cold farmyard while I buried my head deeper into the pillow. These are some of my fondest memories of a merciful father.
I did not always get off so lightly. On one occasion, he was scanning the list of work for the day. ‘Let me see, now,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘There is a visit to Felixkirk to see a poorly calf, and what have we here? Oh yes, a trip to Ainsley of Nevison House to castrate twenty large bulls.’
‘Which one do you want me to do?’ I asked tentatively. Ainsley’s beasts were noted for their huge size and lightning response to any form of interference.