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.