He was finding that fame can bring its own problems but he accepted this quite calmly. I remember his handing me a strange letter from a displeased reader. After I had finished reading it, he gave me a resigned smile with the words, ‘You can’t win ’em all, boy!’
Such sharp little wounds to his ego, however, were few and far between as his popularity continued to accelerate throughout the 1970s but, despite this, Alf continued to maintain as low a profile as possible, politely but firmly declining all the many invitations to revisit the United States. Ironically, it was his friends and family who gleaned far more enjoyment and satisfaction from holidays there.
In the late 1970s, Brian Sinclair – who was now famous as Tristan – toured America on several occasions, speaking about his friend James Herriot. He received wonderful hospitality from his hosts, many of whom were veterinarians, like himself. Brian used to meet Alf regularly in those days, regaling him with stories about his American experiences, and Alf would rarely return from these meetings without another humorous anecdote.
One of his favourite memories was that of Brian recounting a social occasion at which there was a Scotsman dressed in full Highland regalia. He was wearing a magnificent kilt, hanging in front of which was a highly-coloured, hairy sporran. This splendid human being was approached by a pleasantly inebriated woman. She had heard of the mysteries that lurked beneath a Scotsman’s kilt and was fascinated by the dangling sporran. She pointed at it unsteadily and, in a slurred voice, said, ‘Now tell me, truthfully, what exactly doyou carry in your scrotum?!’
It was not only Brian, but many other friends, who benefited from the high regard in which Alf was held in America. On trips over there, whenever they mentioned that they were from Yorkshire, the name of James Herriot almost invariably arose. It was one that bonded many friendships across the Atlantic.
Tom McCormack and Alfred Ames – two men who played vital parts in helping Alf to his success – were held in very high esteem by the family. Tom and his wife Sandra met Alf and Joan several times over the years during their frequent visits to Great Britain, while the Alfreds – Ames and Wight – and their wives were to meet in Yorkshire in August 1988. That vital and influential review in the Chicago Tribuneso many years before remained fresh in the minds of both men.
Alf Wight was a man who always appreciated those who had helped him and, in return, Tom McCormack never forgot the Yorkshire vet whose writing helped put his firm back on a safe footing. In October 1995, eight months after Alf’s death, he and Sandra made the special journey from America to pay their respects at the memorial service in York Minster. It was to be his final gesture towards the author to whom he said, all those years ago in 1973, ‘Beyond the money, you do bring Sandra and me a personal pride unmatched by anyone else we publish. You are exactly the kind of man one comes into publishing for.’
Despite fans from all over the world thronging the waiting-room at 23 Kirkgate, Alf never allowed this world-wide adulation to unseat his sense of priorities. He had been twice to America where he had been treated like a hero. He was an international celebrity, with his financial worries now behind him, but he was still exactly the same man that I had always known. Not only did he speak very little about his achievements, but his attitude to his family, friends and local people remained completely unchanged.
Around 1977, I remember approaching him for some advice about a problem in the practice. I apologised and said, ‘I shouldn’t really be bothering you with this, Dad. You are a best-selling author now. You shouldn’t have to worry about the practice any more.’
He replied swiftly, ‘I don’t care how many million books I have sold, the welfare of this practice will always be more important to me!’
The explosion of publicity surrounding his literary success was beyond anything that any of us could have imagined but, during those exciting years of the 1970s, he was still, first and foremost, a family man and a veterinary surgeon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
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.