Anthea Joseph passed the manuscript of If Only They Could Talkto her part-time secretary, Jennifer Katz, to read. Young people in editorial departments often took manuscripts home to read and report on; it was one way of adding to the notoriously low salaries paid to junior publishing staff. Jennifer took it home for the weekend and, like Jean LeRoy, returned to the office on the Monday morning, waving the manuscript in the air and exclaiming, ‘We mustpublish this book! It is the funniestbook I have read for years!’ Such was her enthusiasm that Anthea Joseph duly packed it into her briefcase, along with four or five other manuscripts she had to read, and took it home.
Anthea Joseph, widow of the company’s founder, was an extremely astute publisher and she could ‘smell’ a good book when she met it – whether the book was literary or commercial. At the following week’s editorial meeting, she consulted with her colleagues: could they publish another book with a veterinary background, starting off a new author from scratch? Dick Douglas-Boyd, sales director at the time, was certain they could.
However, there was one other factor which may have contributed towards the destiny of If Only They Could Talk. Some years later, Anthea Joseph told Alf that it was the words of Clarence Paget, then editorial director of Pan Books, that had helped her make the decision to go ahead and publish this unknown vet from Yorkshire. Clarence and Anthea were long-time publishing friends and would often lunch together to talk about the authors they jointly published, Michael Joseph in the original hardback edition and Pan Books in the subsequent paperback edition. A rising star for both publishing houses at that time was Dick Francis.
Clarence was a publisher held in high regard by Anthea and it is very probable that during a lunch Anthea would have mentioned ‘the vet from Yorkshire’ and her concern whether, following the three Alex Duncan books, there would be room for another with a veterinary background. It appears that Anthea sent Clarence part of the manuscript for his opinion since, according to Alf, he had returned it to her almost immediately, stating very emphatically, ‘You could have a real seller there!’
This story has been viewed with some scepticism by those connected to the publishing world. Anthea Joseph was a very shrewd publisher, and it is highly debatable whether she would have needed the advice of anyone else. Nevertheless, Alf was convinced of the veracity of the story. One thing is certain: Clarence Paget as well as Anthea Joseph would forever occupy a special place in his memory: two more of the many players whom Alf regarded as having tilted fortune his way in that long game of chance on the road to success.
Alf Wight’s fingers went into trembling mode again as he opened another letter from David Bolt at David Higham Associates. This letter, written on 18 June 1969, informed him that his book was definitely going to be published. The contents made sweet reading:
Dear Mr Wight
IF ONLY THEY COULD TALK (J. Walsh)
I’m delighted to say that we’ve had an offer from the very first publisher we tried, the excellent house of Michael Joseph. I had Anthea Joseph, the deputy chairman, on the telephone this morning and after a little discussion settled on the following terms, subject, of course, to your approval.… As you may know, Joseph are particularly good with ‘animal books’ and ought, I think, to do very well with this one.
We settled, didn’t we, on the pseudonym ‘James Herriot’ after you discovered that there is, in fact, a James Walsh in practice?
Receiving this letter was one of the greatest moments of Alf’s life. Having always loved browsing through bookshops from his years as a boy in Glasgow, the thought of seeing his own work on the shelves gave him shivers of excitement.
He was shortly invited to London again, this time to meet Anthea Joseph. He found her a charming woman, and the two of them developed an instant liking for each other. They met for lunch, at which Anthea Joseph told him how much she had enjoyed his book, as well as telling him about other similar authors the firm had published. As David Bolt had said, they had successfully published books with an animal or medical theme: apart from Alex Duncan, there was Paul Gallico, Richard Gordon and Monica Dickens. As she progressed to explaining the contract and how money would be paid as an advance against future royalties, Alf began to like her more and more.
There had been one decision that he had had to make quickly, one to which David Bolt had referred in his letter. Alf could not use his real name – Alfred Wight – as this would have been construed as advertising; the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons were very strict about this in those days. Any form of advertising was regarded as unprofessional conduct and Alf obviously could not afford to be suspended or, possibly, struck off the Veterinary Register. He had had to choose a pseudonym.
To find a name that he liked had been a strangely difficult task. He had got used to ‘James Walsh’, the name he had used for his original novel – and he had submitted the manuscript of If Only They Could Talkunder that name – but now, with publication a reality, he had to re-think. There was already a ‘James Walsh’ in the Veterinary Register.
On the evening of 11 February 1969, while watching a fifth round Football Association cup tie on television between Birmingham City and Manchester United, he had noted that the Birmingham goalkeeper was called Jim Herriot. My father, who was continually thinking of ideas for a pseudonym, had liked the name; it was an unusual one and he had reached, yet again, for the Veterinary Register. To his surprise, there were no veterinarians with the name of Herriot. He had marked the name down for possible future use, little dreaming that the name of Birmingham City’s Scottish international goalkeeper, who played six times for his country, would one day become world-famous. On that February evening, Alf Wight’s search for a pseudonym had come to an end.
Years later, in 1988, a Glasgow newspaper, the Sunday Mail, ran an article on the origins of Alf’s literary name, bringing the original Jim Herriot, who was then working as a builder in Larkhall, Lanarkshire, to visit the surgery in Thirsk. He was not a keen reader but had watched the television series of the books. He had had no idea that the famous Yorkshire vet had borrowed his name, and was astonished that the celebrated author was excited at the prospect of meeting him.
The two men got on famously. On meeting his namesake for the very first time, Alf Wight extended his hand with the timeless words, ‘James Herriot, I presume!’ Football, of course, was discussed at length, and my father gave the ex-goalkeeper a signed book; Jim Herriot, in return, gave him one of his Scottish international football jerseys – a gift that remained a treasured possession.
Throughout his years of fame, Alf was amused to receive letters from some of his fans enquiring whether he could be related to them. People with the name of Herriot, fully believing it to be his real name, were hoping that the famous author was a long-lost cousin.
One particular incident in 1972 amused him. His second book had just been published when he was approached by one of the local Thirsk solicitors.
‘I hadn’t realised that you were so intelligent!’ the man said. ‘What do you mean?’ Alf asked.
‘Just that!’ carried on the solicitor. ‘And a scholar with a deep knowledge of medieval history as well’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Certainly. I’m very impressed that you chose the name of Herriot.’
‘Oh … yes?’
The man continued. ‘I’m amazed that you knew that a “herriot” was the best calf in the herd that the feudal lord exacted from his serf every year. What an inspired choice!’