by Jim Wight
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.
When he got back to the practice, he went to find Mac. ‘They’re a miserable lot out there, Mac,’ he said, recounting the morning’s work. ‘What do I have to do to please them? If I’d conjured up a few more calves they still wouldn’t have been happy.’
Mac had had a while to recover from the previous evening’s festivities and was feeling chirpier. He thought for a while and stroked his moustache. Then he looked at his unhappy young colleague. ‘Well done, Fred!’ he barked. ‘Don’t worry, you’ve done a good job – but tell me, how long did you take to produce those two calves? About fifteen to twenty minutes, you say?’
‘Yes,’ Alf replied. ‘It was a good fast job although I say it myself.’
Mac thought for a moment. ‘Do you know what I think, Fred? You got ’em out a bit too quick!’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You just think about this. Those two farmers have been struggling on for two hours or more and you come along and the whole show is over in a few minutes! It makes them look a bit stupid! And another thing. They’re paying us good money to calve that cow and you have made it all look a bit too simple! If I had been there, I would have made the job appear very difficult. I would have shown them that they were getting their money’s worth. Never make a job look too easy, Fred.’
Alf listened in silence. He was receiving one of his first lessons in the art of veterinary practice.
Mac gave his young assistant a pat on the shoulder. ‘Cheer up, you’ve done a really good job!’ He paused and a half-smile played across his face. ‘Do you know, Fred,’ he continued, ‘there have been many occasions in the past where I have been manipulating calves inside cows, with the sweat pouring off me, holding the bloody things in!’ Mac finished his little lecture with a statement that Alfred Wight would never forget; something that he, himself, would repeatedly drill into the many young assistants who would work under his guidance in the years to come. ‘Remember this, Fred! It’s not what you do, it’s the way that you do it!’
Alf was beginning to realise, very quickly, that the acquisition of knowledge was, in itself, not enough to guarantee success in veterinary practice, but he was a willing listener, and he was learning fast. In those few months working in Sunderland, he learned a great deal about human nature, too, observing Mac’s many moods as well as those of a great variety of people who came to the surgery in Thornhill Terrace. He also learned that he could easily be brought down to earth with a jolt, just as he was beginning to think that he was one of the finest vets in the land. With Mac, he learned that the life of a veterinary surgeon was one long, unpredictable succession of triumphs and failures.
One day, while operating on a horse with Mac, and feeling a bit low after a day of little success, he was gratified to learn that even the most respected members of his profession can lose their cloak of dignity at times. They were being helped by a local man who was telling them that, at his last place of employment, the great Professor Mitchell had been called to operate on a couple of young horses. Willie Mitchell was regarded as one of the finest horse surgeons in the land, and Alf was deeply impressed.
‘It must have been a great experience to see him at work,’ he said, wishing that he could have had the opportunity to observe such a revered and dignified figure. ‘He must be a very impressive man.’
‘Aye,’ came the reply, ‘’e’s a clever feller, all right. ’E laid out them ’osses on the ground wi’ chloroform an’ ’e operated on ’em, smooth an’ fast as yer like.’
‘It must have been wonderful to see,’ Alf continued, ‘to watch a real artist at work, someone totally in control of the situation.’ The man thought for a second or two, before leaning forward. His face broke into a grin. ‘Mind yer, one o’ them ’osses stopped breathin’ – an’ yer should ’ave seen ’im dancin’ on the bugger’s ribs!’
Alf may have been lucky to have a job but he had to work for his money. He worked almost every night with only an occasional Sunday afternoon off. He once had to summon up the courage to request a day off at Easter as his mother was coming down from Glasgow to visit her relatives. Mac nearly had a fit. One whole day! He was so taken aback by such an audacious request that the wish was granted.
As well as mediocre pay, the young veterinary surgeons of the day were given cars of very dubious reliability in which to travel to their visits. Alf Wight’s car was no exception. To climb into his first car, a tiny Ford, was an adventure – a journey into the unknown. Each time he sat in its spartan interior, he weighed up the chances of arriving at his destination. On one occasion, he dented the wing of the car in a Sunderland street. Two men, who came to his assistance, lifted the whole car on to the pavement, gave the bodywork a mighty heave, and the damage was straightened out in a matter of seconds. The future James Herriot would have been just another statistic had he ever had a head-on collision in such a vehicle.
He gave a good description of life behind the wheel in one of his letters to his parents: ‘The car, using the word in its broadest sense, makes a colossal din and, in the country, the birds rise from the hedges in fright and the cows and horses in the fields look definitely startled. The vibration is terrific over 35 mph and my liver will be in splendid condition after a month or two at it.’
Alf would go on to spend a large proportion of his life behind the wheel of a motor car. Those very first days on the road ensured that he was always the first to appreciate the comforts of modern motoring, comforts that he would not experience until very many years later.
The thrill of savouring his first job in veterinary practice received some added but not entirely welcome impetus from several visits by the German Air Force. In these early days of the war, the Sunderland area received many such attacks, with the big shipyards on the River Wear being the prime targets. Alf described, in a letter dated 30 January 1940, the frightening experience of treating a cow in the middle of an air raid: ‘The enemy planes are giving our coast a lot of attention. Mac and I had a grandstand view of the whole show as we were at a farm on the water’s edge in South Shields, just opposite the ships over which the enemy planes were diving and swooping. We saw all the firing from the AA batteries and the ships, and the Nazi being chased off by our fighters. The poor old cow didn’t get much attention as we dashed out of the byre after every bang and left her!’
Nazi Germany may have removed a little of the gloss from Alf’s enjoyment of his days in Sunderland, but there was one aspect of his work that he thoroughly hated. Although he realised that it was the dogs’ very existence that had enabled him to keep his job, visits to the greyhound track at South Shields were ones he dreaded. His task of c
hecking the animals before each race was an unenviable one. In those days, the track seemed to be patronised by many strange, furtive people who would stoop to any trick to win a race. Young Alf Wight, who had been brought up in such an honest and upright home, and could not identify with such devious behaviour, faced a barrage of abuse when he, rightly, would not allow dogs to race as the result of illness, or such practices as doping and overfeeding. He did not mind working hard for his money, but this was like threading his way through a minefield, with deceit and dishonesty shadowing his every move.
Many years after he became famous, with his financial status somewhat improved, he would recall those days at the dog track when he was a young vet with hardly a penny in the world. At the end of one of the meetings, he was downing a welcome cup of tea, seated opposite a bookmaker who was counting the takings for the day. Alf had never seen so much money in his life as the bookmaker continued to arrange notes and silver into huge piles on the table. He suddenly paused, taking in Alf’s frayed shirt and raggedy trousers. He raised one eyebrow, grinned, gave a curt nod and casually flicked half a crown across the table before returning to his counting. As Alf would write in Vets Might Fly, in which he transposed his experiences at the dog track from Sunderland to Yorkshire, he felt grateful to the man, not just for the money, but for the rare experience of a gesture of friendship towards him.
Those impecunious days, however, provided the future James Herriot with many rich memories that, years later, he would recall in his books, and Mac would be one of the earliest of his veterinary acquaintances to be portrayed in them – albeit loosely. In the first two books, an unpleasant character called Angus Grier appears, and some of the incidents involving this man were based upon Alf’s experiences in Sunderland. To be fair to Mac, he was in no way the disagreeable character that Angus Grier was. My father liked Mac and the two men developed a close friendship, but he was undoubtedly capable of displaying many different moods. He was not a man to be crossed and, when in a temper, it was wise to adopt a low profile.