The Real James Herriot

by Jim Wight

  Muldoon. The name was like a knell, like the tolling of a great bell in an empty tower and the students heard its warning echoes from their first days…. Quentin Muldoon, professor of Pathology, was a dedicated and, in many ways, brilliant scientist in the prime of life and though he may have questioned the justice of divine providence in selecting him to disclose the breathless secrets and supreme wonders of his subject to the shaggy creatures who shambled before him through the years, he did his duty as he saw it. That duty was to teach Pathology and anything or anybody getting in the way of his teaching was mercilessly crushed. Pathos Logos, the science of disease, the answer to all the questions, the brilliant light bursting suddenly on total darkness, the steady pointing finger of truth and hope. That was how Muldoon saw Pathology and he made some of his students see it too. The others just learned the facts of it or he crucified them.

  Walsh learned about Muldoon in whispers from the older students. He hadn’t been at the college for a week before the mutterings started. ‘Aye, it’s all very well just now but wait till your fourth year, wait till you get Muldoon. Don’t worry, he’ll know all about you before you get into his class. Mark my words, every single thing you do, good or bad, from the day you enter this college, Muldoon knows. He’s got you taped, laddie, right from the word go. Every mark in every exam in every subject. Every time you skipped out of the anatomy lab to go to the pictures, every time you got drunk at the dances, it’s all there in that big black head!’

  When the first three years went by and Walsh’s class finally filed into the Pathology classroom, the tension was almost unbearable. Muldoon was late and the minutes ticked by as the class sat looking up at the empty platform, the desk and blackboard, the rows of specimens in glass jars. Then the door at the back clicked. Nobody looked round but a slow, heavy tread was coming down the central aisle. Walsh was half way down the class at the end of the row and a dark presence almost brushed him as it passed. He had a back view of a bulky figure in a creased, tight fitting, slightly shiny navy blue suit. The head, massive and crowned with abundant black hair, was sunk broodingly between the shoulders. The feet, splayed and flat, were put down unhurriedly at each step and under one arm was a thick wad of notes. Muldoon mounted the platform and moved without haste to his desk where he began to lay out his notes methodically. He took a long time over this and still he hadn’t even glanced up. Still looking down at the desk he straightened his tie, adjusted the handkerchief in his breast pocket then he raised his head slowly and gazed at the class.

  It was a broad, fleshy, pale-jowled face and the eyes, black and brilliant, swept the students with a mixture of hatred and disbelief. After a trial run, the eyes started at the beginning and began to work their way slowly along the packed rows in an agonising silence. Muldoon, having finally finished his scrutiny, thrust his tongue into his cheek – a characteristic gesture with a ‘God help us, this is the end’ touch about it – sighed deeply and began to address the class.

  He began suddenly, with an abruptness which made some of his charges jump nervously, by throwing out one arm and shouting, ‘You can put those away for a start!’ The students who had been fumbling with notebooks and pens dropped them hurriedly and Muldoon spoke again. ‘I’m not going to lecture to you today, I’m just going to talk to you.’ And he did talk for over an hour in a menacing, husky monotone. He told them what he expected them to do during the coming year and what would happen to them if they didn’t do it. The end of the lecture came and went but nobody moved a muscle.

  When it was over, Walsh went down for a cup of tea. He felt as though somebody had drained a few pints of blood from him and realised that, for the first time in his life, he had had contact with an overwhelming personality.

  One of Alf’s clearest memories of Professor Emslie was that of his picking on certain students he thought (or should one say, knew) were shirking. There were few of his lectures that were not enlivened by a human sacrifice with one of his choice victims, a student called George Pettigrew. On one occasion, while discussing the family of bacteria known as the Clostridia, the Professor decided to have a little sport. He began benignly. ‘We now come to rather an abstruse point, gentlemen, so perhaps we had better consult one of our more advanced and enlightened students. Now, who shall it be?’ The black eyes darted among the silent students, finally coming to rest on the quivering figure of Pettigrew. ‘Ah yes, of course, Pettigrew!’ The student responded by sitting bolt upright and staring straight at his tormentor.

  Professor Emslie’s attack began quietly. ‘Mr Pettigrew, perhaps you would be so kind as to tell us the sequence of events following upon the invasion of a tissue by Clostridium Septique.’

  ‘A gas is formed, sir,’ answered the student swiftly, a thin film of sweat upon his brow.

  An agonised silence followed. Everyone had feared that Pettigrew’s reply would be an inadequate one. The silence deepened. The professor slowly shook his head from side to side before quietly beginning to speak. ‘A gas is formed… A gas is formed? A GAS IS FORMED?’ he suddenly shouted, rounding on the cowering Pettigrew, jabbing his finger almost into his face. ‘Yes, damn you, you useless clown! Every time you open your mouth, that is what happens, A GAS IS FORMED!’

  Pettigrew was not the only one to feel the lashing tongue of Professor Emslie. The inadequacy of the entire class was ruthlessly exposed until finally, as abruptly as it had exploded, the voice returned to ominous normality. Alf could never help feeling that somewhere along the line the stage had lost a great tragedian, Emslie’s ability to switch from berserk rage to glacial calm particularly impressing him.

  Professor Emslie was not just a frightening character. He was also a man of mystery which added to the sense of awe in which he was held by the students. Not one of them ever saw him either arrive at or leave the college; how did he get in and out of the building? Various interesting theories arose. One student claimed to have seen him flash through the wall of the Pathology lab leaving a strong smell of brimstone behind him. Another was positive he had seen him with a briefcase and a bowler hat emerging from a hole at the bottom of Buccleuch Street. Yet another was convinced that he flew into the college down one of the chimney pots.

  This extraordinary man was certainly feared by the students but, above all, he was respected – and he was a good teacher. Always having considered the professor to be a fair man, Alf actually grew to like him. Those who worked diligently were treated accordingly.

  In July 1938, Alf scraped through his professional Parasitology exam but he failed Pathology, achieving only a mark of 40%. He re-sat Pathology in December 1938, passing with 49%. He certainly had not distinguished himself in the subject and, upon graduating one year later, he did not expect a glowing report from Professor Emslie. All the teachers had a dossier on their pupils which could be read by them on graduation day and Alf Wight was not looking forward to Emslie’s considered opinion of him. He received a pleasant surprise.

  ‘Wight, James Alfred. Lacking in brilliance but showed a perception of the subject which I personally found rewarding. A pleasant-mannered, likeable boy of transparent integrity.’

  Alf did mention that he occasionally considered writing about his days at the Glasgow Veterinary College and, had he done so, I suspect that Professor Muldoon – a man about whom he spoke more than any other when recalling his student days – would have become another character to stand alongside Siegfried, Tristan and all those other famous creatures great and small.

  Chapter Five

  During Alf’s time at the Glasgow Veterinary College, the classes were in a continual state of flux, with students failing their exams with monotonous regularity and sliding backwards, while other more dedicated students forged ahead. There is little wonder that the faces of his colleagues in his final few years bore little resemblance to his first year at the college. Some had given up altogether while others were lodged down the ladder, either desperately trying to make some progress or just happily playing cards in the
college common-room.

  During his school years at Hillhead, Alf had made friends but none with whom he would keep in close touch after he left. His years at the Glasgow Veterinary College, however, provided him with friendships that he would never forget. Unlike school, where the pupils had been helped along their way with excellent teaching and strong discipline, the students at the college held their destiny very much in their own hands. This generated an intense feeling of comradeship within the bleak old building in Buccleuch Street.

  Alf’s closest friend at the college was a good-looking, open-faced young man called Aubrey Melville, an ebullient character who rarely missed a good night out and was frequently accompanied by a pretty girl and a laughing crowd. He epitomised the sort of flamboyant, extrovert character Alf was pitched amongst at the start of his veterinary career.

  Two of Alf’s friends had to raise the funds for their beer money in rather different ways. Andy Flynn bolstered his financial state by playing in an orchestra – although it was to no avail since he failed his veterinary exams time and again before giving up altogether – while Pat O’Reilly relied on gambling at the dog tracks in the city; he too failed a huge number of exams but eventually qualified. There was Dominic Boyce who, when drunk, invariably resorted to solitary singing, just like the renowned ‘back court singers’, Jimmy Steele, a born entertainer and storyteller, and Bob ‘Ginger’ Smith who played alongside Alf in the college football team.

  There was one college friend, however, who would come in and out of Alf Wight’s life more than any other. His name was Eddie Straiton – a small, compact, dark-haired man who came from Clydebank, a district very close to Alf’s home in Yoker. Eddie was a fitness fanatic and possessed incredible energy. He was a dedicated and very able student who achieved high academic results at the veterinary college through sheer hard work. Although neither a smoker nor a drinker, he participated fully in the many wild nights that the students enjoyed. Large quantities of alcohol were consumed on these occasions and Alex Taylor, who sometimes joined Alf among his veterinary friends, remembers Eddie standing beside the sinks in the toilets as the swaying students lined up to be sick, methodically twirling his fingers around the plug-hole to disperse the stomach contents of the last ‘customer’. After cleaning the sink to his satisfaction, he would shout, ‘Next please!’ Business was always brisk.

  Eddie played in the college football team alongside Alf, and his energy on the field was legendary; he just ran and ran. At the end of the game, in contrast to his hard-drinking, heavy-smoking team mates, he appeared to be totally unaffected by the exercise. He was to carry this incredible vitality with him throughout his entire life. Alf and Eddie were good friends at veterinary college and this friendship continued long after they both bade farewell to Glasgow. In the years to come, Eddie would, many times, cross the path of both Alfred Wight, the veterinary surgeon, and James Herriot, the world-famous author.

  Alf’s transition from schoolboy to veterinary student was a vitally important part of his life. The enthusiastic, but studious and well-behaved boy, had discovered a totally new world. The social life of the Glasgow veterinary student was a vibrant one, liberally laced with wild nights of carousing and drinking, and Alf found little difficulty in adapting to it. He was a major participant in the social functions that the students enjoyed; indeed, he was much in demand at parties where his natural ability to thump out tunes on the piano contributed in no small way to the memorable nights they all had. His popularity on the piano extended to Buccleuch Street itself, where he could frequently be seen happily playing his favourite tunes – ‘Stardust’ or the old Duke Ellington classic, ‘Mood Indigo’ – on the battered piano in the common-room. It is no surprise that Alf regarded his veterinary college days as some of the happiest of his life.

  But one thing had not changed – his deep respect for his mother. After an evening of serious drinking with his friends, he would walk for miles through the streets around his home, making sure that he was thoroughly sober before returning to the house. Even in later years when visiting his mother in Glasgow, he would never have a drink in front of her – instead, he kept the odd secret bottle of gin around to fortify himself when the need arose.

  Whether his actions were out of respect for, or fear of his mother, is debatable, but I remember a wry smile flitting across his face one day, after I had recounted an incident during my days at veterinary school in Glasgow when I had endured the wrath of my grandmother who had observed with disgust my unsuccessful attempts at climbing the stairs after a particularly enjoyable night on the town. I certainly saw a stern side to my grandmother on that occasion. She was then in her early seventies but she came at me like a force ten gale. I can only imagine what a strong personality she must have been as a younger woman.

  Alf, however, by adopting a far more subtle approach, never experienced her wrath during his college years. She remained totally unaware of his nights of revelry until the end of her days, believing her son to be a virtual teetotaller. The many James Herriot fans were to hear little of Alfred Wight’s memorable days as a veterinary student, but he would often recall those far-off days in Glasgow – and with good reason. That sudden invasion of his life by so many varied and interesting characters, many of whom were as colourful as any he would make famous through his writing years later, impressed him so deeply that he never forgot them, even down to the smallest detail.

  The making of so many new friends at the veterinary college did not mean that Alf neglected his others. His great friend Alex Taylor, after leaving school, had not pursued his further education. Instead, he got employment at Drysdales, a big engineering firm where he worked in the wages department, but he and Alf still saw a great deal of each other.

  At around this time, Alex and Alf met a young man from Yoker called Eddie Hutchinson. Eddie, like Alf and Alex, was a member of the Yoker Tennis Club where the three played for many an hour through the long summer evenings. Eddie was one who introduced a new level of ferocity into the game, venomously thrashing the little white ball around the court. Off the court, he was a different man, with an attractive, slow, easy-going manner. He just went through life at his own pace. This likeable man, whose company Alf found both enjoyable and relaxing, became one of his greatest friends; photographs taken of Alf, Alex and Eddie clearly reflect the happy times the three young men enjoyed during their years together in Glasgow.

  Hiking and camping in the hills around Glasgow was another pastime shared by the three friends, often accompanied by other chums, notably Pete Shaw and Jock Davey. Alf’s love of spending days in the hills was just as strong during his college years as it had been throughout his days at school, but now he had to combine work with pleasure. He would frequently take his books with him and set off for several days at a time to do some studying alone; then, his friends, who were working in Glasgow, joined him at weekends. A great deal of his time attempting to absorb the vast amount of material necessary to pass the veterinary exams was spent under canvas.

  Favourite camping sites were near Fintry, in the Campsie Fells – rolling, heath-covered hills to the east of Glasgow – and the village of Rosneath on the Firth of Clyde. This village is situated on a pretty peninsula of quiet woods and fields, overlooked by the big mountains of Argyll, and it was here that Alf was able to work in total peace. Although only a short distance from Glasgow, once he had pitched his tent in one of the green fields that ran down to the seashore, he felt himself to be in another world. In later years, a large naval base was constructed near to Rosneath and some of its charm was lost, but even now it is still a most attractive village.

  Despite his ambitions to explore further afield, Alf rarely ventured north to the big mountains of Scotland. They beckoned to him from his camp sites at Fintry and Rosneath but he climbed very few mountains, despite his youthful aspirations to do so. He did, however, undertake one major expedition into the Scottish Highlands in July 1938, shortly after having sat and failed his dreaded Patholog
y exam at the veterinary college. With his good friends Eddie Hutchinson and Pete Shaw, he ‘conquered’ the towering mountain called the Streap, near Loch Arkaig. The effort, in boiling hot weather, ensured that this was to be the last mountain Alf would climb for many years, and was an experience he would never forget.

  Alf had been very unfit on that foray into the mountains, having just spent weeks shut away, studying for his exams but, in general, during his college years, he kept himself in pretty good shape. As well as regular games of tennis, he endured his cold baths and exercises most days, and walked miles with his dog, Don.

  From the age of twenty, he began to play tennis more regularly, joining the nearby Scotstounhill Tennis Club. Although tennis acted as a great antidote to his hours of study, he took the game very seriously and won a number of key matches in the West of Scotland Tennis Championships. His partner in these matches, and one with whom he practised for hours, was a young man called Colin Kesson, a fine player who taught Alf a great deal about the game. Alf could never get the better of him and would joke with his college chums that, apart from finally qualifying as a veterinary surgeon, his other great ambition was to be able to say that he had – just once – managed to beat Colin Kesson.

  More relaxing games of tennis were played at the Boys’ Brigade Camps, usually at St Andrew’s or North Berwick. The Boys’ Brigade was a church organisation of which Alex Taylor and Eddie Hutchinson were also members. Together with other friends, the young men had happy, carefree days walking, bathing in the sea and playing tennis.

  Another sport he began to play in his college years was football. While at Hillhead, he had played rugby but, apart from kickabouts in the park with his friends and the ‘gentry of the corner’, he had not played the game seriously, despite being, in common with thousands of other citizens of Glasgow, a fanatical follower of the game. The city pulsated with football and he did not have to venture far to see it. Very close to his home, in Dumbarton Road, was the ground of the local Junior League football team, Yoker Athletic. He was a great supporter of this team and was overjoyed when they won the Scottish Junior Cup Final in the 1932–33 season. Such was the following that this team enjoyed, more fans sang on the terraces of Yoker than on those of the neighbouring Scottish Football League side, Clydebank. Alf and Alex sang and shouted with the rest of the crowd while watching Yoker play teams with singularly Scottish names like Duntocher Hibs and Kirkintilloch Rob Roy.