The Real James Herriot (10 page)

Music a few rungs down the ladder of culture was to be heard at the veterinary college dances at Buccleuch Street on most Friday nights, and Alf regularly attended these throbbing sessions. The governing body of the college needed to turn a blind eye to the dances; if they had not done so, those riotous functions might well have been terminated.

Alex Taylor heard about the dances and asked if he could attend one. It turned out to be an evening he was never to forget. When Mrs Taylor learned that her son was going to the next vet college dance, she asked Alf, ‘I've heard that these occasions can be a wee bit rough, Alf, and I've heard that some rather odd women attend them. Now, Alex won't get into any trouble, will he?'

He was quick to reassure her. ‘Oh goodness me, no, Mrs Taylor. It's just a wee bit of a get-together with a few of the lads and then we just stroll up to the college to have a few dances before going off home. Don't you worry yourself. Alex will be fine, just fine.'

He did not think it necessary to tell Mrs Taylor that this was also ‘freshers' night' which added that little extra spice to the evening's activities. It began, as usual, in a public house in Glasgow. The place
was bulging with students and Alex was soon enjoying himself. The noise was stupendous, with everyone laughing, including Alex, who seemed to be surrounded at all times by red, sweating faces. Any semblance of intelligent conversation soon melted away as the rate of consumption of beer and whisky accelerated.

Eventually, closing time was rung, and they were evicted noisily onto the city streets. Alex can vaguely remember Alf carrying aloft a lifesize cardboard figure of ‘Johnny Walker', as the swaying column of students ascended the hill to Buccleuch Street. By this time, Alex's mouth was hanging open and everything was a blur; it seemed that the whole of Glasgow was revolving before his eyes. The students decided to crash past the officials at the gates of the college to avoid paying the modest entrance fee. This was only partially successful as, in the ensuing fracas, Alex received a massive blow on the chin which laid him out.

This posed a dilemma for Alf. Here was his best friend whom he had brought to the vet college dance for the first time. It was meant to be a good night out with the lads but, instead, he was pole-axed. What was he going to do with him? It did not help that Alf was in a high state of intoxication himself and in no real condition to help anyone. The serene expression upon Alex's face led his friend to suspect that the blow he had just received was not entirely responsible for his present condition – but he still had a crisis on his hands.

Suddenly, he had a burst of inspiration. The dance, as always, was taking place on the upper floor of the veterinary college and, in the yard below, he saw several long boxes filled with wood shavings. These seven-foot long containers had carried a supply of new microscopes and other laboratory equipment. ‘The very thing!' thought Alf. ‘Let's put Alex in one of those. He will be comfortable in among the shavings and I can keep an eye on him from up here.'

With the dubious assistance of several inebriated friends, he dragged the limp form of Alex down the steps to the yard below, his heels drumming rhythmically on the steel stairway. When they reached the chosen box there was a snag – Dominic Boyce was already inside, deeply embedded in the shavings. He was wearing a flat cap, his face a ghastly bluish tinge. One of the students, on seeing the staring, sunken eyeballs, said that Dom must be dead. ‘Don't worry,' replied another, ‘he always goes that colour.'

The second box was also occupied; another student was comfortably
in residence, a peaceful half-smile on his sleeping face. Alf began to wonder whether every box would contain a moribund student, but he was in luck. An empty one was eventually found and Alex was lowered gently inside. Having made sure that his old friend was comfortably tucked up amongst the shavings, Alf gave a final glance at the rows of boxes, each containing its silent occupant, before heading to the pulsating noise above on the dance floor.

Alf remembered little about the rest of the evening, save that he thought the police were involved at some point. Somehow, he and Alex, who had spent the remainder of the evening at peace with the world, found their way home. Alex was relieved that his mother was away at the time but, when she returned a day or two later, she said to him, ‘I believe that you had a good night at the vet dance, Alex.'

‘Yes, I had an excellent evening, thank you,' he replied.

‘I know,' she went on, ‘I read all about it!'

Not for the first time, the Glasgow veterinary students had made the pages of the press.

Alf took a number of young ladies to dances in Glasgow but one thing he spoke very little about was his experiences with members of the fairer sex, and consequently there is precious little information about his youthful romances. He definitely had several girlfriends but he had no steady relationships until his final couple of years at college, and these were soon forgotten after he left Glasgow.

While he still lived in Yoker, he had a soft spot for a young lady called Jean Wilson and went out quite regularly with her during his time at Hillhead, but he was very young and it was never really serious. Charlotte Clarke was a girl he met while on a Boys' Brigade weekend, and he kept in touch with her for about a year. He appeared really keen on her, describing her in his diary as ‘The sweetest thing I have ever known.' This friendship, however, was terminated when Charlotte decided to give him the elbow during his second year at veterinary college. Young Alf was quite upset; he was always a sensitive person and capable of becoming extremely emotionally involved.

While on one of his camping weekends at Rosneath, he met a girl called Marion Grant. He went out regularly with her throughout his college years, and kept up a correspondence with her after he left Glasgow; in fact, he was still writing to her during his first few months as a qualified veterinary surgeon in Yorkshire. He did not regard this relationship as a particularly serious one, however, as he was seeing
someone else at the same time. She was called Nan Elliot and came from Knightswood, not far from where Alf lived in Scotstounhill. This young lady also continued to correspond with Alf long after he left Glasgow.

He certainly enjoyed female company during his time at the veterinary college but there would be only one deep and lasting relationship in his life, and it was not during his years as a young man in Glasgow.

In July 1939, Alf Wight sat his final qualifying examinations in Veterinary Medicine and Surgery. He was longing to finish being a student and begin his chosen career but it was not to be; he passed Medicine but failed his Surgery exam. He would have to wait a while longer before leaving the veterinary college.

This came as a severe blow but it was not that surprising. His anal fistula had struck again and he was very ill in the months preceding the exams. The condition became so painful that he underwent a second operation in the Western Infirmary in Glasgow and, in his words, ‘Had my backside rearranged again!' He did well to pass in Medicine while carrying such a debilitating condition.

His friend Jock McDowall, the vet in Sunderland, was full of admiration for him, and wrote to Alf in August 1939: ‘I fully expect you will have had your operation by this time and you're possibly not feeling too good. I expect the surgeon would make what is commonly called a few heroic gashes in your tender spot. You were unfortunate in getting asked all those questions about the Corpus luteum and Graafian follicles in your oral. I couldn't have said much myself about the subject. However, it says a whole lot when you sailed through Medicine. By Jove, you must have put in some graft despite not feeling too well; you deserve a medal.'

His father was very upset when Alf failed his final exam in Surgery. Pop, the eternal pessimist, had never encouraged his son to enter the veterinary profession. He had always believed that Alf was taking a big chance entering a profession where one of its main sources of revenue, the heavy draught horse, was rapidly being replaced by mechanisation, but he still shared his son's deep disappointment when he failed to qualify.

For Pop himself, the outlook was better. Although his fish and chip shop business had failed around 1936, he soon found alternative employment, working as a shipyard clerk for Yarrow's down by the
Clyde. Unlike his son, Pop had a good head for figures, with a neat hand and an organised mind; an ideal man for such a job. With the threat of possible war with Germany, the fortunes of the Glasgow shipyards were beginning to pick up as the demand for ships grew, and Pop was enjoying a more secure financial position than he had for many years.

As Alf began to study for his re-taking of the Surgery exam in December, Pop had even more reason to hope that his son would pass. When Britain and France declared war on Germany in September 1939, Pop knew this could mean his son having to serve his country in the armed forces. The veterinary profession was regarded as a ‘reserved occupation' – one whose services would be needed at home – and Pop had no desire to see Alf risk his life on foreign fields.

Alf had few qualms about serving his country if needs be. The recent involvement of the International Brigade in the desperately fought Spanish Civil War, where thousands of young men from Britain and other countries had voluntarily given their lives in the fight against Fascism, had stirred the patriotism of many, and Alf was no exception.

However, to achieve his full qualification as a veterinary surgeon was his number one priority. Apart from wanting to start work properly, his perpetual dependence upon his parents also worried him. Although their financial position was by no means parlous, he wished to be a burden upon them no longer.

During that Autumn term of 1939, he felt a little better and worked feverishly to pass this last obstacle. After the exam, he thought he had done well enough, but he still awaited the day of the results with rising tension. That day duly arrived, with Alf one of a large crowd of students jostling for position in front of the notice board, eyes desperately scanning the list for the names of those who had passed. The name of James Alfred Wight was not there. At that moment, he felt only one emotion – despair. Deep, deep despair. He had done his best but he had failed again, and he wondered for how many more years he would have to remain anchored to Buccleuch Street.

He was about to return home to give his parents the shattering news when a door opened and an official of the college walked out to stick another piece of paper onto the notice board. ‘My apologies, gentlemen!' he said. ‘There has been a clerical error. Another name is to be added to the list.'

That name was J. A. Wight.

As the shaken but immensely relieved young man walked through
the streets of Glasgow that day, he felt as if the old college, reluctant to lose another student to the outside world, had made a last despairing snatch at him.

On 14 December 1939, Alfred Wight officially qualified from Glasgow Veterinary College as a fully-fledged Member of the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons. He had taken six and a quarter years to complete a five-year course but, compared to some of the other semi-permanent students, he had attained his goal with admirable speed. He did not leave the college without a twinge of regret. In his introduction to
James Herriot's Dog Stories,
he expressed his feelings for his old seat of learning:

When I qualified and walked out of the door of the college for the last time I felt an acute sense of loss, an awareness of something good gone forever. Some of my happiest years were spent in that seedy old building and though my veterinary course was out of date and inefficient in many ways, there was a carefree, easy-going charm about that whole time which has held it in my mind in a golden glow.

The young Alf Wight emerged from Glasgow Veterinary College a much wiser man. He had absorbed a huge amount of information but his learning curve had only just begun. It was one that would never end.

During that final term, Alf had had an incentive to work extra hard. For many of his friends who had qualified with him, their troubles were only just beginning as the daunting prospect of trying to find a job loomed before them. For James Alfred Wight MRCVS, however, things were a little different. He had a job waiting for him. The town of his birth had beckoned him back; he was to be assistant to J. J. McDowall MRCVS of 1 Thornhill Terrace, Sunderland.

It is a widely-held belief that the real James Herriot launched out on his professional career as assistant to ‘Siegfried Farnon' in the Yorkshire Dales. Indeed, the author himself leads us to believe this; nowhere in his books is there any reference to his being employed anywhere other than in that magical part of Yorkshire that he would make so famous.

His first job, in fact, was in Sunderland and, although he spent barely six months in the employment of McDowall, it was an eventful period in his life, so much so that several chapters in the early Herriot books are based upon people and incidents from that seminal stage of the young man's career.

Alf learned a great deal in that time, much of which he was never to forget. J. J. McDowall was an experienced and clever man, well-versed in the ‘art' as well as the ‘science' of veterinary medicine, and Alf soon realised that the ‘art' was every bit as, if not more important than, the ‘science'.

As he travelled south to work in his first position as a qualified veterinary surgeon on that day in January 1940, he knew for certain that he was an extremely fortunate young man. He was walking straight into a job while many of his friends had either failed their exams or, having qualified, had little prospect of employment for the foreseeable future. These were awful days for newly-qualified veterinary surgeons. The depression had meant that jobs were scarce, and working conditions primitive. Those applying for what jobs existed were regarded as lower forms of life to whom prospective employers could dictate their own terms. For those managing to obtain employment, poor pay with long
hours was all they could expect; indeed, in many cases, time off work was unheard of.

The situation was so dire that some young men advertised in the
Veterinary Record,
the official journal of the British Veterinary Association, offering their services free of charge. ‘Fit, strong, able young man. Will work for keep' became a common sight in the advertising pages of the journal, and many of Alf's friends ‘worked for their keep' in those hard days. For an employer, it was an attractive proposition: feed a man, put a roof over his head and he'll work for you for nothing.

The prospective assistant today faces a vastly different picture. With plenty of jobs available, the new graduate can afford to be selective. Good pay, civilised working conditions with ample leisure time – in some cases with no night duties to be undertaken at all – go towards presenting the young veterinary surgeon with an enviable choice. What a stark contrast to those bleak conditions years ago.

Alf wrote in a letter to his parents while in Sunderland: ‘I had a very funny letter from Bob Smith. He is still working on the land, poor lad, and is fed up but still maintains his dry humour. He says that when he puts his height in when applying for the jobs advertised in the Record, he adds an inch every time, but though he is now 6 ft 8 ins it doesn't weigh the scales!'

At least Bob Smith had qualified. It was worse for some of Alf's other friends, still trying to pass their exams at the veterinary college. The failure rate was to remain high, as Alf revealed in a letter written some months later: ‘Poor Aubrey is down in both subjects and so is Tom Black. Sickening, isn't it? But they hadn't a fair break because Eddie Straiton wrote and told me there was nearly a 70% plough; they won't let them through when there is a shortage of jobs. Poor Andy Flynn is down in both Pathology and parasites for the fifth time. Thank the Lord I'm out of that business.'

There is little wonder that Alf was counting his blessings as he began his employment with Jock McDowall. He received a salary of £3 3s per week which was roughly the going rate at the time. This sum won't even buy a gallon of fuel today but he was thankful that he was, at least, receiving a salary. He had the additional advantage that he could stay at his Auntie Jinny's house in Beechwood Terrace. He paid £1 per week for his board and lodgings – good value considering his aunt's reputation as an excellent cook. Malnutrition would not be one of his worries in the weeks ahead.

Alf's position at McDowall's was, however, a tenuous one. The reason that J. J. McDowall was able to offer Alf a job was that he had a contract at the nearby South Shields Greyhound Racing Stadium where he was the ‘veterinary surgeon in attendance'. However, the track at the time was in a questionable financial state and Jock had warned Alf that should it become insolvent, his position at McDowall's could be terminated. McDowall had, in fact, offered the job to Alf at the end of 1938, and the young man had seized the opportunity with both hands. Plans had been thrown into confusion in July 1939 when he failed his final examination in Surgery, but the Sunderland vet held him in such high regard that he was prepared to wait until the following year, keeping the position on hold for him.

Alf, despite being fully aware that his employment could be terminated at a moment's notice, embarked upon his job full of enthusiasm. This was fortuitous as he had a stern baptism. Only a day or two after his arrival, his employer took to his bed with a severe attack of influenza, and remained there for two full weeks. Alf had to run the practice single-handed – great experience but emotionally and physically exhausting. A further problem was that, since he still had not passed his driving test, not only had he to fit driving lessons into his already crowded schedule, but a qualified driver – an elderly friend of the McDowalls – had to accompany him on his rounds.

Alf always referred to McDowall as ‘Mac' who, in return and for some unknown reason, addressed my father as ‘Fred'. I suspect that he did not like the name Alfred and decided to use the back half instead. This was no hardship for Alf as he never liked his name anyway; even as a young child, I was aware that he regarded the name Alfred as a cross he had to bear.

He never forgot Mac's opening words to him as he began his first day's work. ‘Welcome to Sunderland, Fred! You'll see a bit of everything here, but I like my dog and cat work best of all. These small animals are the things that pay. The folk around here will rush their pet to me at the drop of a hat. They're in through that door if it coughs, sneezes or farts!'

J. J. McDowall was a small, red-faced man whose rich, imposing voice and impressive moustache bestowed a military air upon him. His florid complexion owed much to a regular consumption of alcohol and he never missed an opportunity of a good night out provided it was liberally laced with drink. Mac was only one of countless veterinary
surgeons in Alf Wight's day who jousted on the frontiers of alcoholism. There is no doubt that, at the end of a hard day, the world becomes far more attractive after one or two drinks, but many of his colleagues turned this pleasant antidote to the day's labours into a crusade. Tales of the hard-drinking vets of that time are legion and Alf was to spend many hours with them, both at work and at play.

In a letter in which he describes a night out with Mr and Mrs McDowall, he refers to Mac's weakness for the bottle: ‘The “do” was held at the Rink which, as you know, is an unlicensed premises, so I wondered how Mrs McD had persuaded Mac to go. However, I had reason to repair to the gent's lavatory and there found Mac with the inevitable bottle of whisky dishing out measures to his pals – various notable solicitors, Rotarians etc, all in their tails.'

Alf was to appreciate the fragility of his position only too soon. In mid January, less than two weeks after he had arrived in Sunderland, he received the news he had been dreading. Mac had been informed that the greyhound stadium was faced with closure and he had no alternative but to advise his young colleague to look elsewhere for a job as he could no longer afford to employ him.

This news marked a grim period in Alf's life. He heard there was a job in Guisborough, a town on the edge of the North York Moors about twenty-five miles south of Sunderland; he applied at once but was turned down. With no money and little prospect of a job, he began to wonder seriously whether he had made the right decision in becoming a veterinary surgeon. He felt pitched into the same hapless situation facing so many of his college friends – no job, no prospects and no money. A letter to his parents dated 14 January 1940 gives an insight into the parlous situation facing the young veterinary surgeons of the day.

My dear Mother and Dad,

I'm afraid I have some bad news and I may as well get it over with. I don't get the job at Guisborough. McDonald, the vet there, received an application from a man from Skye and as he is from Skye himself that was that. Don't be too despondent about this; it's a big disappointment but remember that fellows like me are being turned down all over the country. Mac's ill and won't be up for another few days so I'll be OK for another week's pay, but after that, what?

If it's all the same to you folks I think it would be better if I stayed on here
even though I get no more pay. You see, I get free driving practice, I'm in touch with veterinary affairs and, most important of all, I would get no chance to get rusty and stale as I would at home with nowt to do. Here, I'm learning every day and there is just a chance that Mac might slip me something now and again towards my board. Don't be too upset about the job, something may turn up.

As to recreation, I have had none and haven't seen any of my friends and relatives. I get home just in time for a game of cards with George and then early to bed. Mac hasn't given me my pay yet but he slipped me a quid on account at the beginning of the week so I was able to get Auntie Jinny a bottle of lavender water for her birthday.

Love Alf

P.S. Feeling fine!

Alf did not want to worry his parents but he was, in fact, far from fine. The painful effects of the operation on the anal fistula in Glasgow the previous year had shown a stubborn reluctance to abate, with the result that he suffered constant discomfort and at times he endured excruciating agony. The effects of the ‘old fist', a term he frequently used when referring to his omnipresent affliction, were so severe while he was in Sunderland that there were days when he wanted to ‘just lie down and die'. Those very first days of his professional career – ones that should have been full of excitement and optimism – were actually some of the darkest of his life.

A mere ten days later, however, his fortunes took a sudden turn for the better. Mac, after being drawn into consultation with the National Greyhound Racing Board over the future of the South Shields Stadium, was offered the job of veterinary adviser at the track, part of a team set up to revitalise the stadium. He could now afford to keep Alf on as his assistant with, as the icing on the cake, a salary soaring to £4 4s per week. To add to this upturn in his fortunes, Alf passed his driving test at the end of January. Fate was smiling once again on the young man.

After that turbulent beginning to his first professional job, Alf felt determined to make the best of his time in Sunderland by learning as much as he could. This he certainly did, and it was here that he received a lesson in the ‘art' of veterinary practice which would remain with him forever.

One morning, after a hard night on the town, Mac was feeling particularly delicate. His blotchy face and bloodshot eyes were evidence
that his system had received another searching examination. There was a call to a calving and Mac was in no mood for a trial of strength in an icy cow byre. He looked blearily at his young colleague. ‘Fred,' he said, ‘there's a cow calving over at Horden. They've been trying to calve her for over two hours and they're beat. Just slip over and do it, will you?'

Alf, eager to impress, set off in his rattly old car. He arrived at the farm to find a pair of dejected-looking farmers standing beside a cow. There was no sign that she was calving save for a few inches of a small tail hanging from her vulva. Alf removed his shirt, soaped his arms thoroughly, and gently inserted a hand into the cow's vagina. He soon discovered that the calf was abnormally presented. It was coming backwards with the legs folded underneath, its rump blocking the birth canal. This presentation – known as a ‘breech' – can be tricky, but the young vet had done one or two as a student. He was going to enjoy this; here was a chance to create a really good impression.

Working quickly and smoothly, he produced a live calf within fifteen minutes, followed by another five minutes later. It was a job well done but there were no words of gratitude from the farmers, no pats on the back with a cry of ‘Well done, young man!' He received only a stony silence and a terse wave of farewell.