The Real James Herriot (9 page)

Sometimes, however, their enjoyment could be rudely punctured. It was not uncommon for the team to be short of players at the start of a game, leaving only one course of action open to the manager – that of making up the numbers by procuring the assistance of one or two of the supporters.

‘Are we all here, Hughie?' Alf asked one day before the start of a game.

‘One man short,' replied the manager. He was a small, dark man with sleek black hair, who looked like a friend of Al Capone – and the club was his life. He was not only the manager, he was the secretary, the treasurer, the physio; in fact, he ran the club almost single-handed. He looked towards the line of shambling characters eagerly awaiting the start of an afternoon of shouting. ‘We'll ha' tae strip the support!' He cupped his hands and bawled in the direction of the assembled supporters. ‘We're a man doon! One o' ye, get yer kit on. Come on noo!'

‘Strip the support' became a regular cry at Yoker Fernlea. The man
who drew the short straw usually had an uncomfortable afternoon. These men were not prepared for the rough and tumble of the games and Alf had vivid memories of white, skinny legs and baggy shirts flapping on scrawny torsos as the ‘support' was thrust unmercifully into battle. They soon discovered that watching was considerably less exacting than playing, as heaving, sweating forms bludgeoned into their pale bodies.

In the mid 1960s when Alf was starting to write, he produced several short stories which failed to reach publication. One of these was about a timorous, downtrodden little man whose only escape from his aimless life was on a Saturday afternoon when he gave vent to his feelings by screaming at the players on the football pitch from the sideline. It was the only time he felt powerful. His world collapsed around him one day when he himself had to turn out and perform on the field – his frail body almost destroyed by the conflict. This story was based on Alf's own observations of the uncomfortable afternoons experienced by the ‘support' on the raw football parks of Glasgow. It was another of the many vivid memories he committed to paper, but one that was never published.

Alf played his last game for Yoker Fernlea on an ash pitch one afternoon at Govan, a hard and uncompromising part of the city. His team committed one serious error that afternoon. They won. The referee for the game, intimidated by the crowd, did his utmost to sway the game their opponent's way, but Yoker Fernlea still won. The local supporters vented their displeasure by attacking the players who barricaded themselves in a shed while hooligans tried to break down the door. It was a frightening experience and one which made Alf think twice about continuing to play. He was going to enter a rough and sometimes dangerous profession but there was no point in getting himself maimed before he started. He would play for Yoker Fernlea no more.

That unnerving experience in Govan, however, was not his last game of football in Glasgow. He played several games for Old Kilpatrick Amateurs in the West of Scotland Amateur League, as well as turning out regularly for the veterinary college team. There was not so much pressure playing in this team. Games often took place on a Saturday following the Friday night dances at the college, with many of the participants in no condition to start charging around a football field. The exercise was good, however, and helped to dispel the hangovers induced by the previous night's revelry.

He played alongside many of his friends, including Bob Smith, Eddie Straiton, Donald McIntyre, Adam Farrell, Johnny Ogg, George Mcleod and V. J. (Pat) O'Reilly. During one weekend spent visiting Dublin to play the veterinary college there, they all had such a rubustuous weekend that Alf wrote an essay about their experiences. Although having by now abandoned the conscientious keeping of his diary, the urge to preserve his memories to print had not been lost.

In 1936, the Wight family had moved from their home in 2172 Dumbarton Road to take up residence, about two miles away, in a semi-detached house at 724 Anniesland Road, Scotstounhill.

One of the reasons the family were able to move to a more salubrious area was that they had inherited some money. Alf's grandfather, James Wight, died in Sunderland in November 1934, and he had left a tidy sum. The estate was valued at £7,366 which, in those days, was quite a fortune. He had been a frame-turner in the shipyards but also a bit of a property speculator. He had owned no less than six houses which, after his death, were distributed among his offspring – bequeathing to Pop his house in 65 Fulwell Road, Sunderland, together with a share in the residue of the estate.

Their new house was on a relatively quiet road, commanding fine views of the hills surrounding the city. Although close to their previous home, it was very different – more like a leafy suburb, in contrast to the tenement-lined streets of industrial Yoker with their whining tram-cars and noisy public houses. Here Hannah had more room in which to carry on her thriving dress-making business, while Pop was still within easy reach of the fish and chip shop that was now providing him with an income. Not only did the move to the new house mean that Alf had the advantage of a quieter environment in which to study but, as he worked, he could pause occasionally to gaze happily from his bedroom window at the sweet places that had given him such pleasure, the Campsie Fells and the Kilpatrick Hills.

In September 1938, he was beginning, what he fervently hoped would be his final year, and he needed plenty of encouragement. Having failed his Pathology exam just two months previously, he realised that, although he was enjoying some great times with his friends, he must never lose sight of the most important objective of his life – to qualify as a veterinary surgeon. In that month, he got his head down; he knew that there was still a lot of work to be done.

For the Glasgow Veterinary College students, their studies took on some real meaning when they began to study Medicine and Surgery – the diagnosis and treatment of disease. They had the thrill of trying their hand at surgical procedures, getting a feel for their future lives as veterinary surgeons.

In their study of Pathology, they had been introduced to diseases like tuberculosis, liver-fluke, anthrax and ‘wooden tongue' as well as micro-organisms with imposing names such as
Fasciola hepatica, Corynebacterium pyogenes, Dictyocaulus viviparus, Fusiformis necro-phorus
and many others. Now they were learning how to combat these adversaries and it was a hard but fascinating challenge. When studying Medicine and Surgery, the students had to master text books on these subjects – assimilating the knowledge from such revered tomes as Udall's
Practice of Veterinary Medicine,
Dollar's
Veterinary Surgery,
and Caulton Reeke's
Colics in the Horse –
but the practical side of their education had to be learned outside the college. The students were assigned to various veterinary practitioners in the Glasgow district, in order for them to acquire some hands-on experience.

A number of these outside vets also lectured at the college. Professor Willie Robb, who taught Medicine and Surgery in the final year, ran a thriving practice in Glasgow, assisted by his son Harry, and was one of the most respected practitioners in the country at the time. Willie Robb, a highly-skilled surgeon, gained a great reputation as a horse specialist, having lived through the great days of the heavy draught horses when the City of Glasgow was full of them. His experience with horses was second to none, and Alf learned a great deal from him.

Another whom he held in great esteem was Bill Weipers, a veterinary surgeon who ran a small animal surgery in the West End of Glasgow. The animal receiving most attention from the teaching institutions in those days was the horse, followed by the cow, pig and sheep, with the smaller animals, dogs and cats, receiving far less consideration. Bill Weipers could see, even during those years of the depression, that the small animal could become a very important part of the future veterinary
surgeon's life. X-Ray machines, microscopes and all the best up-to-date equipment littered the premises of this skilful surgeon, who was performing operations that others only dreamed about. He was a man years ahead of his time and the Glasgow students were incredibly fortunate to operate under his guidance. Bill Weipers later became the principal of the Glasgow Veterinary College, integrating it into the city's university system in 1949. This industrious and dedicated man, who was to receive a knighthood in recognition of his services to the profession, was one whom Alfred Wight held in the highest regard, not only in his student years but throughout his life as a veterinary surgeon.

Donald Campbell of Rutherglen was another distinguished veterinary surgeon with whom Alf spent some time. He learned much from this go-ahead practitioner, but his fondest memory of him – one that he would never be able to recall without tears of laughter – was at the end of evening surgery when Donald Campbell would telephone his wife, informing her that he was on his way home. An unvarying ritual was performed so often that Alf became almost hysterical in trying not to laugh every time he listened to it.

Donald Campbell had an ancient telephone system by means of which, when the day's work was over, he would contact his wife by cranking vigorously on a black handle attached to the phone. Having completed several energetic twirls on the handle, he would shout loudly into the mouthpiece, with a piercing and distinctive drawl, ‘Calling the ha-ouse, calling the ha-ouse!' There would then be a tense pause while Donald waited for a response, followed by a faint ping from the other end and a low chattering noise while he listened intently. Having received the necessary information that he was through to the ha-ouse, he would then inform his wife that he was on his way home. ‘I'll be na-ow, I'll be na-ow!'

This set piece, which never varied, put enormous strain upon Alf's powers of self-control. He enacted the ritual for his friends at the college, which so intrigued Aubrey Melville that he requested a day seeing practice at Donald Campbell's surgery. At the end of that particular day, Alf and Aubrey were in a state of high tension waiting for the famous telephone ritual. Aubrey was so charged up that the slightest nudge would have been enough to send him over the edge. When Campbell moved over to the black handle, the pressure was really on, and once the cranking began, Aubrey was at breaking point. True to
form, Donald's voice pierced the silence with, ‘Calling the ha-ouse, calling the ha-ouse!' Aubrey Melville was nowhere to be seen. He had disappeared into a nearby cupboard, his head buried deeply into an old curtain. By the time, ‘I'll be na-ow, I'll be na-ow!' came over the airwaves, he was writhing on the floor.

Despite being such an unconscious source of amusement to the students, Donald Campbell was held in high regard. He was a first-class veterinary surgeon and the students gained tremendous experience while under his care.

Alf saw plenty of small animal work with Bill Weipers, while Donald Campbell gave him a taste of life with the large animals as well as the small, but he wanted next to spend some time with a specialist country veterinary surgeon. At this point in his life, he thought that he would probably become purely a small animal veterinary surgeon. Nevertheless, he wanted to get among cows to observe the life of the large animal veterinarian for himself. He had already worked with some cows. Not far from his home in Scotstounhill was a dairy farm run by a man called Mr Stirling, and Alf was a regular visitor there in his final two years at the college. He had the opportunity to observe the cows, milk them by hand, assist during calving and examine any that were ill.

During the vacations in his final two years at the college, he went further afield to gain this experience, first seeing practice at Dumfries in the south-west of Scotland with a veterinary surgeon called Tom Fleming. He soon discovered that life among the large animals was very different from that among the clean and orderly small animal surgeries in Glasgow. This part of Scotland is the home of the Galloway cattle and, although they can be very docile animals if left to get on with their lives, they respond spectacularly to any hint of interference. The veterinary surgeon is often an unwilling participant on these occasions.

Alf and Tom Fleming visited a farm one day to remove an afterbirth from a Galloway cow of uncertain temperament which, miraculously, the farmer had managed to tie up in an old hen-house of dubious construction. On entering the dark little shed, the men received a hostile glare from their patient who further showed her displeasure by savagely switching her tail from side to side, propelling liquid faeces in every direction. The prospect of making any sort of contact with this animal was not an appetising one.

Alf, following Tom Fleming's generous gesture in allowing him the privilege of removing the afterbirth, soaped his arms in a bucket of
water, advanced towards the cow and gave a gentle pull at the mass hanging from her rear end. The following few seconds were lively ones. The cow burst forward with a deafening bellow, and as the chain around her neck sprang open she saw her line of escape. There was a small window in front of her and she charged straight for it. Her head smashed through the opening as she plunged forward, taking one end of the old hen-house with her. The remainder of the ‘building' collapsed on top of the men as she catapulted away over a large field, her rate of progress seemingly unhampered by the splintered remnants of the shed still around her neck.

As the three men watched the ruined hen-house thunder over the horizon, the farmer displayed the qualities of a man who could make an instant decision in a crisis. ‘Let the bugger go!' he yelled.

‘What
sort of a cow was that?' thought Alf. It bore little resemblance to the docile creatures he milked on Mr Stirling's farm in Glasgow. At that moment, he had no inkling that unplanned rodeos among the bovine race were to figure prominently in his future life.

Some more surprises were in store. One of the more unpleasant aspects of a veterinary surgeon's life is the wide range of amazing smells that assails the nostrils – smells taken for granted by the experienced veterinary surgeon but which can come as a considerable shock to those who are unused to them. Alf had experienced plenty of challenging smells in the small animal clinics in Glasgow, but he was unprepared for the fresh olfactory experience that awaited him as he and Tom Fleming walked into a large knacker's yard near Dumfries.

These establishments, now no longer in existence, disposed of fallen stock and unfit meat; being full of dead and decomposing animals, they were not the most edifying of places. Young Alf Wight had not been inside this one for more than a few seconds before he, quite spontaneously, vomited his breakfast straight out onto the floor. The smell that had hit him was quite unlike anything he had experienced, a mixture of decaying organs and the sickly sweet smell of fresh blood. Mountains of skins, bowels and bones loomed over him while a bright green piglet lying at his feet did little to ease the situation. His reaction was watched with mild interest by a slaughterman who was sitting on a carcass, happily munching at a large sandwich, a fat-smeared, blood-stained teacup in his hand. This man, wallowing amongst, possibly, every pathogenic organism known to mankind, was the picture of health.

His pink, shining face broke into a smile. ‘Dae ye no like the smell?' he laughed. ‘Ah widnae worry, they all dae that when they first walk in here!'

Many years later, as a qualified veterinary surgeon, Alf would watch, with equal amusement, other young students struggling to come to terms with the bombardment of smells from a knacker's yard that he himself by then regularly entered with nonchalance.

There was another veterinary surgeon with whom Alf saw practice during his final two years at the veterinary college. J. J. McDowall, a vet in Sunderland, was someone who played a very influential part in Alf's life, both before and after his qualification from Glasgow Veterinary College.

During his regular visits to his relatives in Sunderland, he would stay in Beechwood Terrace with his Auntie Jinny Wilkins. Not only was her home very close to J. J. McDowall's practice, but she used to attend his surgery with her dog, Bonzo. Alf, at her suggestion, enquired whether it might be possible to obtain some practical experience with him. This request, which was readily agreed to, began a friendship between the two men which would last for many years.

These were the days before the Veterinary Surgeons Act of 1948 which prohibited the practising of veterinary medicine and surgery by non-qualified people. Prior to this, students could work unsupervised among animals, and McDowall often left Alf to run surgeries single-handed. He wrote a letter to his parents in 1938 from Sunderland:

‘Down at the clinic (where Wight is in charge) I had to remove a tumour from a dog aged 12 years and after hacking away for a bit found it was attached to a testicle – so I had to remove the testicle too … a bigger job than I had ever tackled. I can tell you, I wished Mac had been by my side. I sent the dog away with a horrible wound and never expected to see it alive again. But, strange to say, it turned up for dressing two days later, bright and frisky and the wound beautifully clean. I felt immensely bucked up about it.'

At this stage of his life, while still only a student, he was experiencing the pressures and emotions that typify the veterinary surgeon's day: the anxious waiting to know whether your patient is going to survive; the joy and satisfaction of a job well done. There can be no doubt that the Veterinary Surgeons Act is a necessary one. It is wrong that inexperienced people should work on animals without adequate supervision, and the Act was passed to protect the interests of the patient. Nevertheless,
students in those earlier years certainly gained wonderful experience from being thrown in at the deep end.

Back in Glasgow, Alf spent most of his time studying. He was now in the ‘home straight', with only the passing of Medicine and Surgery standing between him and a career as a veterinary surgeon. But it was not all work; some recreation was essential to break the long sessions of swotting he put in, secreted up in his little bedroom in Anniesland Road. He went walking and played tennis as much as he dared, but it was on Saturday nights that he and his friends would go to the cinema or go dancing in the big Glasgow ballrooms.

On a more cultural note, he frequently went to the theatre with his mother. Glasgow boasted a huge number, and the Regal, La Scala, the Playhouse and the Alhambra were theatres that Alf got to know well. It was here that he acquired not only an appreciation of classical music but, also, considerable knowledge of the subject. One of his greatest memories as a young man was hearing Rachmaninov play his Second Piano Concerto in a Glasgow concert hall. He and his mother who were seated very close to the stage, watched, spellbound, as the great man, crouching like a bear over the keys, played some of the most wonderful music they had ever heard.