*

The book was written as a novel. On the first page of the manuscript, which the family still has, are written the words: ‘The Art and the Science: A novel by J. A. Wight’. His hero is called James Walsh, and is loosely based on himself and his experiences in practice.

It is fascinating to compare this book with his earlier and later works. He included, as he had in his first attempt years earlier, flashbacks to his veterinary college days, introducing two other fictional veterinary characters, Hugh Mills, and the quiet and apprehensive Bernie Hill. Both these men qualified with Walsh and had little adventures of their own. Donald and Brian Sinclair were there and, for the first time, appear as Siegfried and Tristan, although still retaining the surname of Vernon from the original effort. A love story between Walsh and a farmer’s daughter ran through the script.

It was a fine effort, revealing touches of descriptive flair that were to be the hallmark of the future James Herriot, and some of the funny scenes were well done. There were, however, too many leading veterinary characters for a not-very-long novel, while the story, which seemed to jump from one character to another, lacked continuity.

Alf waited hopefully for news from London. He waited a long time. Nothing happened. Rather than being downcast, he felt a twinge of hope. As his other efforts had boomeranged back to the house by return of post, he thought that perhaps the deafening silence meant that his book was receiving serious consideration.

At last, after six long months, he received a letter from John Morrison. In it, he learned that the manuscript had been passed to one of Collins’ most highly-regarded readers, Juliana Wadham. She had given it a favourable report and had passed it back to the Collins editorial department where it had received ‘serious consideration’. This explained the long wait, but the end result was another grim disappointment: Collins did not want to publish it. He had been rejected yet again.

John’s letter of 11 September 1967, however, contained much to encourage Alf:

On my return from holiday, I found your typescript and the enclosed letters awaiting me. These, as I hope you will recognise, are immensely encouraging and explain the long delay in their writing on the matter. I hope you will now give full consideration to the suggestions made by Juliana Wadham and lose no time in putting these to effect!

Anyway, I hope you’ll be happy to know that, in the opinion of several of the leading authorities in one of the biggest publishers in the world, you are well over half way to success as an author.

Enclosed with John’s letter was one from the Collins reader in which she stated that, although she had enjoyed the book, the publishers, while considering it to have ‘so much good material’, had decided that ‘it was not satisfactory as a novel’. But there was something else in that letter – some advice from Juliana Wadham that would be some of the finest that Alfred Wight would ever receive.

She asked him: ‘Why have you written this as a novel? These stories are, quite obviously, based upon real incidents so why turn them into fiction? Why don’t you re-write it in the first person as an autobiographical work? The stories will be all the more appealing to your readers if they realise they are ones that are based upon fact!’

My father read her letter again and again. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made, and he set about re-structuring his book with supercharged enthusiasm. It was a twist of irony that his very first effort, years previously, had been written in the first person, as Juliana Wadham now suggested!

In September 1967, when I was still working with Eddie Straiton, I received a telephone call from my father. He wanted me to join him in the Thirsk practice.

I did not really want to. I was having a great time in Staffordshire, and wanted to get some more experience before returning home at such an early stage in my career. I replied that I would give it serious consideration but that I was happy where I was, and my father – selfless as ever – did not pursue the matter.

Another call from my mother, however, changed my mind. The practice, at that time, was going through a difficult period and was reduced to a three-man outfit. This meant that my father, at the age of over fifty, was having to do regular night work, alternating on a one-in-two rota with the remaining assistant, Tony Kelly. My mother added that, with the financial position within the practice not as good as it might have been, my return would be a great help, especially as I could live at home, alleviating the problem of finding accommodation for a new veterinary surgeon. I returned to Thirsk in October 1967 which, as well as providing extra help for my father by taking on his night work, gave him more time to rewrite his book.

I have always found it intriguing that my father not only wrote his novel while working full time in the practice but, from August 1966, he had been on call every alternate night. He must have had amazing dedication to sit down and begin writing after a full day’s work, a time when most people would have just wanted to put their feet up.

During my first few months working in Thirsk, I remember him restructuring his book. He did not have a study, but simply tapped away on his typewriter among the rest of us in the sitting-room. He wrote that book in front of the television, having the ability to shut off his mind and concentrate on the words in front of him, but if something interested him on the television, he would stop and enjoy it before effortlessly switching himself back into writing mode. Truly remarkable.

By the summer of 1968, Alf had re-written his book, this time a semi-autobiographical account of his first year in veterinary practice in Yorkshire. Although it was now written in the first person, many of the stories were ones that had appeared in his previous book. As before, the main characters were based on the Sinclair brothers. He changed the title from The Art and the Scienceto If Only They Could Talk.

This title was suggested to him in November 1967 by a client called Arthur Dand, a dairy farmer who lived on an uncompromising little farm at the foot of the White Horse near Kilburn. He was a farmer with a difference. He, too, was a keen writer and sent off parcels of his work to various publishing houses. Like Alf, he was meeting with little success. Whenever Alf visited Arthur Dand’s farm, the visit was a long one as the two men compared notes and discussed their aspiring ambitions to become well-known authors. Alf always thought that Arthur was one of, perhaps, thousands of writers whose work, sadly, will never be enjoyed by the rest of the world. It was he, however, who provided the title for Alf’s first book.

In July of that year, Alf re-submitted his much improved book to Collins. The book was sent on to Mrs Wadham, but little happened for a while as she not only had other reading commitments but was due to go on holiday to Ireland. She wrote to Alf in early September, assuring him that she had started the manuscript with the same amount of enthusiasm as she did the previous time and that she hoped to let him hear about it very soon. There was then a period of silence for three months. As before, Alf retained a ray of hope. Could they, again, be thinking seriously about publishing it? With the practice becoming busier again, he had plenty to occupy his mind but, in late November, his curiosity got the better of him and he posted off a letter of enquiry.

He received a prompt and courteous reply in which the publishers stated that they were sorry but their ‘lists were full’. This was a polite way of saying that they did not want his manuscript. He had been rejected again which, after the initial disappointment, did not really surprise him. The length of time required for the reply, plus the fact that he had had to remind them about the manuscript, led him to ponder whether anyone had even bothered to read it.