The Real James Herriot (5 page)

His feelings are exposed on many of the pages, where he wrote quite eloquently of the old team, as on 28 September 1933: ‘Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy! What a day! Why weren't these spaces made bigger? Sunderland have defeated Aston Villa by three goals to nothing at Villa Park. Sunderland have never won the cup, despite their magnificent league performances but is this their year? You bet it is! Much as I am tempted to wax poetic about this great event, I'm afraid that, in accordance with the requirements of this volume, I must recount my own doings.' On a more sombre note, he wrote: ‘Eheu! I am plunged into the very depths of despondency. Life, to me, is dark and gloomy and the future looms up forbidding and hopeless. Sunderland have been defeated by Derby County at Roker Park.' How passionately he followed the fortunes of the team that was to provide him with a lifetime of both joy and despair.

The diary of 1933 is notable for Alf's positive approach towards looking after his health. He repeatedly commented on how well he was feeling,
the reason for this being that the previous year had been a very bad one for him. He had almost died of diphtheria. This disease, caused by a virulent germ, is rarely seen today. It was virtually eliminated in 1946 as a result of the discovery of a vaccine but at the beginning of his final year at Hillhead, Alf contracted the disease – and it very nearly finished him off. In those days, prior to the discovery of antibiotics, he had to fight the disease simply through sheer determination coupled with good nursing from his parents. The standard symptoms were a sore throat and searing headaches, the throat becoming coated in an unpleasant ‘cheesy' exudate which made breathing very difficult. In addition, he developed a series of painful abscesses all over his body, and these continued to be a problem for two years after his recovery from the disease. He recalled one particularly gruesome boil at the top of his leg that eventually became as hard as a rock. One evening, having decided that he had had enough of it, he squeezed it with all his might. In his own words, ‘A thing like a small cricket ball shot out of my leg and bounced its way across the floor!' It sounds more like something out of a 1990s science-fiction horror story than pre-war Glasgow, but he recovered where many others had died.

This debilitating experience was responsible for a severe dip in his academic results at school, together with a complete cessation of his sporting activities. No wonder he was so glad to be alive. In August 1933, while on holiday in Sunderland, after a particularly exhilarating day playing tennis and bathing in the sea, he wrote: ‘When I look at all the fun I've had today and think that, last year, I was a wreck with diphtheria, I thank God for my health. It is the most precious possession anyone can have.'

He emerged from the darkness of diphtheria a new person, brimming with fresh ideas and enthusiasms. He was determined to keep himself fit. One day he was given a book called
My System
by Lieut. J. P. Muller. On the front of the book was a picture of a Greek God and, inside, photographs of a lean, wiry man twisting his body in a multitude of directions. Alf thought this person was the fittest human being he had ever seen and decided that he himself was going to become even fitter. He aimed to transform himself into the second J. P. Muller.

The ‘System' is based upon a regime of cold baths followed by exercises – one which my father followed religiously in his youth, and his diary is liberally sprinkled with references to it.

On 20 April 1933, he wrote: ‘I'm feeling as fit as the proverbial fiddle.
I put it all down to the exercises and cold baths. I am much brighter and healthier than I was last year before my illness and I seem to be on the upgrade. I'm going to enter everything at this sports – that is the 100 yards, 220 yards, broad jump, discus, javelin, hurdles, cricket ball, and place and drop kick.' He had certainly set himself an optimistic target, his idea being to run off with medals in each one of them. Unfortunately, he got a little carried away with his training, pulled a muscle in his groin, and took no part when Sports Day arrived.

So keen was he on
My System
that he bought me a copy and, during my years in Glasgow as a student, I followed in his footsteps in trying to emulate the indomitable Mr Muller. The cold bath is the worst part. Survival time in the water can be measured in minutes, during which time breathing accelerates alarmingly, while genitalia disappear completely from view. Upon leaping out of the bath, a testing regime of physical jerks is followed by the ‘rubbing exercises'; with the help of an abrasive glove, the body is vigorously massaged until it is glowing like a beacon. Loud shouting helps towards the overall feeling of well-being. I did not stick this routine for very long but the young Alf Wight followed it rigorously for years and was taking cold baths right up until the time he was living in Yorkshire.

Alf also subscribed to
Superman
magazine and bought a succession of chest expanders. Not only was he going to be as fit as J. P. Muller, he intended to be twice the size. His best mate Alex Taylor, too, was determined to build a mighty body and the two boys exercised furiously to attain their goal. They measured their bodies regularly but, after several weeks of intense activity, they were no nearer to being supermen than the day they started, and the craze ground to a halt. All that was left as a reminder was a rusty old set of springs that I discovered in my grandmother's home many years later.

Alf considered enthusiasm to be one of the most important of human qualities – one that is both invigorating and uplifting. Throughout his life he was an enthusiast, and he displayed these qualities as a boy at school, as is revealed by many entries in his diaries. Some of the many pastimes which he enjoyed were quite unusual – and whilst a number were short-lived, his eagerness to improve himself shines out from the pages. On 20 February 1933 he wrote: ‘I've the notion to make myself a good jazz pianist … I think I'll send to Uncle Bob and ask him for a loan of his book on jazz playing.' On 7 March: ‘I have started to do
a bit of juggling. It's supposed to give you quickness of the eye and the house has resounded to the sound of falling balls.' His ambitions seem to have been limitless: ‘Another of my notions. I'm going to read the Bible from beginning to end. Apart from the religious point of view it is a marvellous read!'

He bought books on swimming (he was not good in the water), took up golf, and started woodwork to help fill in the time during the long winter evenings. On a rare visit to a dance, he discovered that he was absolutely hopeless, so he proceeded to have lessons.

Throughout his childhood and school days, the Wight family would frequently return to Sunderland on holiday. Here they would stay with their relatives, all of whom shared the qualities of warmth, humour and generosity.

Warm, however, was not a word to describe the town where they lived. Sunderland has been portrayed as the unhealthiest place to live in the British Isles – a town (although, in fact, Sunderland has recently been accorded the status of a city) of drab, grey buildings and acres of wasteland where, in the winter, freezing easterly winds scream in from the North Sea, while the slightly warmer westerlies carry lung-demolishing pollution from the great industrial areas nearby. In later years, many of Alf's relatives, including Uncles Matt and Bob, and their sister Ella, left the town to live further south, with few of them having regrets about leaving the harsh climate.

It is true that first impressions of Sunderland can be less than appealing, but there are parts of the city that are full of character, especially near the sea front. The Roker and Seaburn areas of Sunderland, and the old fishing village of Whitburn further along the coast, are very attractive places, with their tidy houses and the waves of the North Sea breaking on the beach.

Alf spent many happy days of his childhood in this invigorating playground. During his teenage years, often accompanied by his cousin George Bell – son of Uncle Stan – he would spend hours playing football and tennis in the local parks, walking along the fine beach, and watching cricket at the Ashbrooke Cricket Ground where the local team competed in the Durham Senior League.

One of Alf's fondest memories of Sunderland was the food. The town abounded with ‘pork shops' where succulent sandwiches of hot roast pork, often accompanied by that north-east delicacy ‘pease
pudding' (a tasty concoction made by boiling peas in ham water) could be bought for only a few pence. If he had an extra penny to spare, the sandwich would be dipped in rich, brown gravy to give this culinary masterpiece that final dash of magic. He used to say that the smell issuing from those pork shops would suck him through their doors like a giant magnet.

No matter what else he did when he visited Sunderland, Alf always found time to see his Uncle Bob Wight who lived in nearby Penshaw, a village of grey coal-miners' cottages, from where the two would walk for miles, discussing countless subjects of interest. Robert Wight, an intelligent, well informed and infectiously enthusiastic man, deeply impressed the young Alf who, through his endless quest to better himself, would mirror the qualities of his favourite uncle.

It was a combination of his parents, Uncle Bob and the strong discipline and fine standards Alf experienced at Hillhead that was largely instrumental in developing the young man's optimistic and positive approach to life, and it was during those influential years of his schooling that the first seeds of ambition were sown in his mind. It was one that would, years later, make him famous – the ambition to become a veterinary surgeon.

At the time of Alf Wight's admission to Hillhead School, Britain was in the grip of a fearsome depression. Glasgow was badly hit. The great shipyards on the River Clyde were laying men off regularly, with the average worker earning little more than one pound per week. Conditions within the veterinary profession – certainly no place for any get-rich-quick character – were little better since very few could afford to pay the vet's fees. Alf, however, early in his time at Hillhead, had made a firm decision to become a veterinary surgeon.

There was little in Alfred Wight's childhood to point him in the direction of a future with animals. Not only did he receive no encouragement from his parents, but his home in Yoker – crowded as it was with his mother's dressmaking business as well as his father's grand piano – had little room for animals. It is difficult to imagine a way of life further removed from that of the country veterinary surgeon than his own city upbringing; the smoke and noise of Glasgow seem poles apart from the hills and dales of Yorkshire that he would describe so vividly many years later.

In 1928, however, a character entered his life who had a profound influence upon his choice of a future career. In that year, partly as a reward for his obtaining the grades necessary for admission to Hillhead School, his parents bought an Irish Setter puppy. There had been cats in the house, but he had always yearned for a dog. Now he had one. This puppy, which was called Don, was the first of Alf's many canine companions and he adored him. A large proportion of his time, throughout his school and college days in Glasgow, was devoted to Don as he walked for miles with the big red dog. He not only walked him day and night around the streets and parks surrounding the family home, but at weekends he would think nothing of walking Don up to twenty miles and more into the nearby Kilpatrick Hills, The Allander, Peel Glen and many other beautiful areas that were on the doorstep.

Don figures prominently in Alf's diaries. He refers to him as the ‘old hound' and it appears that almost everywhere that young Alf went, the
‘hound' was by his side. One of his great boyhood friends was a lad called ‘Curly' Marron, who lived in the same tenement block in Yoker, and walks with Curly and the ‘hound' seem to have been a daily routine. Walking remained one of Alf's lifelong passions and that sleek, handsome Irish Setter was the first of many dogs with whom he would share it.

Don was not the easiest of dogs. When in the mood on one of his innumerable walks, he had a disconcerting habit of suddenly bursting away over the horizon. No one worried too much about stray dogs in those days and he usually turned up hours later, tail curled between his legs, worming his way along the floor in abject apology. Nobody in the family had the heart to reprimand the cringing form and he got away with it time and again. He knew how to grovel but he also knew how to growl. Should anyone approach him too closely when in possession of a bone, the ominous rumbling and the quivering lips were a clear warning that Don required no assistance. He was a dog who demanded respect. Despite this, he was a great companion, and a faithful friend who served not only to confirm Alf Wight's inherent love of animals, but to strengthen his awareness of the unique bond that exists between a man and his dog.

However, it was not only the acquisition of a pet that was to influence Alf's decision to become an animal doctor. At the age of thirteen, he read an article in the
Meccano Magazine.
It was one of a series entitled ‘What shall I be?', and this particular article was all about veterinary science as a career. As a regular subscriber to the magazine, he had seen several of these articles but it was this one that held a particular appeal for him. As a dedicated dog owner himself, the thought of earning his living through caring for animals gave him a thrill of excitement.

Looking out from the photograph in the centre of the page was the president of the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons, Mr G. P. Male, MRCVS. He was a distinguished-looking man with neat, well-manicured hair and around his neck hung the glittering chain of office. Young Alf was impressed.

The first paragraph made interesting reading: ‘Veterinary Surgery is one of the few professions in which the number of entries has shown a considerable decline in recent years.' How different it is today with thousands of prospective students competing fiercely for the few allotted university places. The article, however, went on to say: ‘This decline is probably due to the belief that the expansion in motor traffic has
reduced the prospects of success in the profession. The belief is a mistaken one, however, for the decline in importance of the horse is being partially counteracted by the growing demand for the services of the veterinary surgeon in other directions.' This sentence (and how very true it would turn out to be) gave the young schoolboy some encouragement. The first inklings of an idea to become a veterinary surgeon had taken root in his mind.

While the article in the
Meccano Magazine
had stimulated his interest, it was at Hillhead School, a few weeks later, that he became hooked on the idea. The principal of Glasgow Veterinary College, Dr A. W. Whitehouse, was invited to give a talk at the school about a career within his profession. Looking back, it must surely have been a stroke of immense good fortune that these two quite unrelated events occurred so close to each other; they were destined to have a profound influence on Alf Wight's future.

Dr Whitehouse was a kindly and very approachable man with an infectious love for his subject. At the end of his talk, he extended an invitation to any of the boys who were interested to visit him at the college, where they could see for themselves the life of the veterinary student.

Enthused by both the article in the
Meccano Magazine
and the talk, Alf took up this offer and visited the college. Here, Dr Whitehouse, who himself saw the young boy, explained the job in greater detail. He told Alf that he would be unlikely to grow rich as a veterinary surgeon but that he would have a varied, active and rewarding life.

One thing worried Alf – Mathematics. ‘Is it terribly important that I pass in Maths to gain admission to the college?' he asked.

‘Oh, Maths are very important to a veterinary surgeon,' replied the principal solemnly. There were a tense few moments before his face broke into a smile. ‘But only to add up the day's takings!'

Those few reassuring words were enough. Alfred Wight, the schoolboy, now had a goal. He knew what he was going to do with his life and he set about his schoolwork with a fiercer determination than ever. His later years as a veterinary surgeon would prove Dr Whitehouse correct in that he would, indeed, have a varied, active and rewarding life within his chosen profession, but the old Glasgow principal was wrong about one thing: the wide-eyed boy seated in front of him that day would also become rich.

Throughout his remaining years at school, Alf was a studious and diligent schoolboy, and the excellent marks he attained in his best subjects reflected those happy days. Despite a high work-rate and the time spent playing his favoured sports, he had numerous interests outside the walls of Hillhead School, many of which he would carry with him into his adult years.

He had many friends but his closest was still Alex Taylor. Although after leaving Yoker School they went to different schools, they still saw a great deal of each other during their teenage years. On Saturday afternoons, they stood and shouted support for the football teams, whether in the big stadiums in the city or at the ground of the local junior team, Yoker Athletic. When there was no football to watch, there was the draw of the cinema, and this continued to be a favourite pastime.

There were numerous picture houses in the area around Yoker, so there were not many films that Alf missed. The Tivoli, the Commodore, the Rosevale, the Empire, the Regal, the Bank and many others were all within easy reach. Even after the introduction of sound to accompany the films, Alf's father still found some work in the cinemas, many of which staged singing evenings and variety shows as well. A small orchestra was employed, in which Pop was the pianist. He played regularly at the Commodore and received complimentary tickets which he passed on to Alf; having to pay nothing to see a film added greatly to its appeal. He often wrote opinions in his diaries on the films that he had seen. One such entry is dated 11 March 1933: ‘In the evening, I went to see the much boomed film
Grand Hotel.
It was terrible and I was bored stiff. That woman Greta Garbo should be put in a lunatic asylum and kept under close observation!' He had no complaints with the comedies. The films of Laurel and Hardy, who were to remain one of his all-time favourites, appeared regularly and he never tired of watching them.

Young Alf spent a large proportion of his time tramping in the hills around his home. He often camped with Alex Taylor and other friends – notably Jock Davey, Pete Shaw and Eddie Hutchinson – and frequently went off for whole days, sometimes walking over twenty miles. Another great walking friend was Jimmy Turnbull, a deaf boy who was the son of a great friend of his mother. Alf loved to visit Mrs Turnbull's house since her expertise as a cook was unsurpassed. Not only could she elevate a simple meal of porridge into a gourmet experience, but her
plates of ‘mince and tatties' and succulent cakes were without equal. Those were certainly carefree times – walking for miles in the open air, with the mouthwatering prospect of Mrs Turnbull's cooking to round off the day.

Despite being a city boy, his appreciation of the fine countryside around his home shows on many of the pages of his diaries. ‘Spent the whole day in a tramp to the “Whangie” and over the O. K. Hills with Jimmy T. and Jock Davey. It was simply wonderful. I can't find words to describe it.' These expeditions imbued Alf with a love of the great outdoors that was to shine through in the James Herriot books many years later.

Apart from tennis, Alf did not play any serious sport away from Hillhead School but, like many other boys of his age, he spent many hours playing football in the fields and parks, referring to this pastime as ‘kicking the wee white ba' aroond'. As well as his friends from Yoker, he often played with the ‘gentry of the corner'. The ‘gentry of the corner' or the ‘corner boys', as they were often called, were terms used to describe a section of the unemployed of Glasgow. During the depression, gangs of men would loiter on street corners, with nothing to do. Spitting, swearing and, when they could afford it, drinking were their main pursuits. With the dole amounting to less than ten shillings per week, these men sometimes resorted to crime as a means of bolstering their meagre allowance. There seemed, however, to be some code of honour among them; although robbery with violence was commonplace, molestation of women and children was almost unheard of. When Alf was growing up – in contrast to the serious, often drug-related crime of today – the acquisition of money in any way to get a few decent meals or a drink was the prime motivation for breaking the law.

Many of the ‘gentry of the corner' employed other means of earning a little supplementary cash, one way of which was by singing. The term is used in its loosest sense for there was little in the way of melody, there were seldom any words, and the singers were usually well under the influence of alcohol. These characters, however, gave their all, howling and droning away on the bare ground below the tenements. They were known as ‘back court singers' and the occupants of the houses would throw down money to them. This was either in appreciation of the quality of music they were hearing or, more commonly, to gain some relief from the long, dreary wails issuing from below. They also
‘performed' in the public houses in the city, staring unsteadily into a glass or two of whisky – groaning away interminably with no one taking the slightest bit of notice. It was just part of the scene in a typical Glasgow bar.

One of the corner boys had a unique sideline; he bit off puppies' tails. He was a long, lean character with a patch over one eye, who hung around the Elderslie Bar, a public house in Yoker. One day, Alf enquired after his services as he had heard that this particular gentleman was a master of his craft. The charge was sixpence per pup but young Alf thought that it was half a crown – five times the actual sum. Having spotted him in the centre of a crowd of men on the street corner, he went up and asked nervously, ‘Please, sir, my friend has a pup that needs its tail off. Will you do it for him for half a crown?'

The man's eye widened as he gazed down on the young boy. Then he looked around delightedly at his friends before stating his terms. ‘Hauf a croon? Tell 'im fer hauf a croon Ah'll bite its fuckin' heid aff!' A chorus of laughing and spitting followed. The future veterinary surgeon did not seek further assistance from the one-eyed man.

During his future years in veterinary practice, Alf developed a gentle, sympathetic approach to his customers and to his patients – a quality, one suspects, that owed little to his experiences on the street corners of Glasgow.