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.
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.