Two days later, however, he received an apologetic letter from Juliana Wadham. She had read and greatly enjoyed the manuscript, but her enthusiasm had not been shared by Collins. Her letter, dated 29 November 1968, said:
I was appalled to hear, today, that you still haven’t heard from Collins as I sent your book in several weeks ago. I really can’t apologise too much as you have been so kind and patient and I, myself, as you know, am an enthusiastic supporter of If Only They Could Talk.
By now, I expect you will have heard that Collins themselves don’t feel it is quite the book for their present lists … I, personally, am very sad that Collins are not going to do it and I hope you have more luck in the future.
There was still a tiny glimmer of hope. His manuscript had been passed on by Collins’ editorial department to an associate company, Geoffrey Bles Ltd in Doughty Street. Three weeks later, however, Alf received an all-too-familiar message; their lists were also full. At this point, he asked that his manuscript be returned to him direct. He later recalled, ‘The thud that itmade coming back through the door was the loudest of all!’
This rejection was, he felt, the final blow. He had had enough. He had to accept that he was a veterinary surgeon not a writer, and he finally admitted defeat. He had tried; he had tried very hard, but he had failed.
He still felt proud of what he had done. Quite apart from having written a book that could be passed down through generations of his family, he had had the satisfaction of having his work genuinely praised by John Morrison and Juliana Wadham, two highly-experienced readers who had no reason to enthuse over his little book other than that they thought it had real potential.
Alfred Wight had knocked on the door of the world of publishing but he had not managed to walk through. He had, he thought, done pretty well to have progressed so far but this was the end of the road. He put his sorry brown paper parcel into a drawer and immersed himself in the job that he was trained for, the one that he loved best – veterinary practice.
These were happy days in the practice. Tony Kelly, the longest-serving assistant ever to work for Sinclair and Wight, was a most likeable and reliable vet with a great sense of humour, and there was both hard work and plenty of laughter in our daily routine.
The rejected book lying in the drawer was the last thing on my mind. Watching my father laughing at some of Tony’s latest escapades one day, I thought that he, too, had forgotten all about it and had finally cast off his ambitions to be a published author. With the figure in front of the television now no longer having a typewriter in front of him, I felt that this latest enthusiasm had had its day. Once again, I was mistaken.
One day in the spring of 1969, Joan said to Alf, quite out of the blue, ‘Why don’t you send your manuscript to Michael Joseph, as we were going to do originally?’
Knowing her husband well, she sensed that, even though his book had lain in a drawer untouched for weeks, he could not really stop thinking about it. With her words, yet again, having re-kindled the smouldering desire to get his manuscript published, he opened the drawer and took out his book.
He did not send it straight to Michael Joseph; he had another idea. Two years previously, Alf had bought a book called Sell Them A Storyby someone called Jean LeRoy. In it, she advised that anyone who wished to have their work published should first approach an agent – and she would know because, according to the biographical note on the jacket flap, she herself was a literary agent.
Until this time, Alf had not seriously considered sending his book to an agent, but suddenly the idea seemed a very good one. He located Sell Them A Storyon his crowded bookshelves, took it to bed, and began to read it again. Alf found the book inspiring and, as he read it for the second time, his ideas took a new turn. Not only would he send his manuscript to an agent, he would send it to none other than the author of that little book, Jean LeRoy herself.
As he lay in bed that night, he must have wondered whether he would ever meet with success. As a veteran of so many rejections, he was not too optimistic but, believing that his book was easy to read and contained material that could be enjoyed by people of all ages, he still felt hopeful.
It was a fateful spring day in 1969 when Alfred Wight opened the drawer and lifted out his tattered manuscript. As the well-travelled parcel sped on its way to Miss Jean LeRoy, c/o David Higham Associates, 76 Dean Street, Soho, London, questions flashed across his mind.
Would the amusing stories about Donald and Brian Sinclair that his friends and family had heard about for so many years ever reach a wider audience? Would the agent read his book and, if so, would she like it? Would she consider it worthy of publication? This time, he would not have to wait long for his answer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
One April morning, barely a week after he had sent off his manuscript to Jean LeRoy, I came down for breakfast to find my father seated at the table. His hands were trembling as he fingered a letter that had just arrived.
He looked at me and said, very quietly, ‘Jim, I can’t believe it but my book might be published! After all these years! I just can’t believe it!’
He handed me the letter. It was from David Bolt, a director at David Higham Associates, saying that he liked the book ‘enormously’ and considered it would have every chance of reaching publication.
This was a revelation. After so many rejections, Alf had received a positive response – and within such a short time. It was beyond anything he had dared to hope for. The letter included an invitation to visit the literary agency in London, which happened to be extremely convenient as he was already going down to the capital to see the football match between England and Scotland at Wembley. As Alfred Wight watched Scotland take on the ‘auld enemy’ that day, he had more than just football on his mind.
On its arrival at the David Higham offices, Jean LeRoy had taken the manuscript home, and almost immediately had started to read it. After only one or two chapters, she had realised that she was in the company of an unusually gifted writer. The author’s wonderful descriptions of Yorkshire, his vivid characterisation, the humour and the easy, readable style, had convinced her that she was in possession of something special.
Jean LeRoy was thrilled with what she had read, and walked excitedly into the David Higham offices, waving the manuscript and exclaiming, ‘This is a find!’ As she personally handled newspaper and magazine rights rather than selling to publishers, she passed Alf’s manuscripts to David Bolt. He too was greatly enthused, and felt sure they could be on to a winner. A letter to the unknown author was soon on its way to Yorkshire.
At the meeting in London, where Alf met both Jean LeRoy and David Bolt, he was told that they felt very positive about the book, and had the ideal publishing house in mind.
‘Which one is that?’ Alf asked.
‘Michael Joseph,’ replied David Bolt – the very publisher to whom Joan had suggested Alf should send the first manuscript, over three years previously.
When the manuscript of If Only They Could Talkarrived at the offices of the publishing company of Michael Joseph Ltd in Bloomsbury, centre of London’s publishing world, Mrs Anthea Joseph, deputy chairman and one of the company’s editorial directors, did not read it straightaway. This was not unusual. Manuscripts of all descriptions flowed through the doors of Michael Joseph each day, with the ones sent in by agents meriting more attention than those arriving unsolicited from hopeful members of the general public. Only a fraction of the manuscripts received would achieve publication. Although any manuscript arriving from David Higham Associates – an agency Anthea Joseph rated highly – would be considered carefully, the company had published, in the previous decade, three novels with a veterinary background, and Anthea was not certain there was room for any more in a similar vein. These three books – A Vet’s Life, The Vet Has Nine Livesand Vets In The Belfry –were by an author called Alex Duncan which was, in fact, a pseudonym used by the thriller writer Madeleine Duke, whom the company also published.