Alf learned a great deal in that time, much of which he was never to forget. J. J. McDowall was an experienced and clever man, well-versed in the ‘art’ as well as the ‘science’ of veterinary medicine, and Alf soon realised that the ‘art’ was every bit as, if not more important than, the ‘science’.
As he travelled south to work in his first position as a qualified veterinary surgeon on that day in January 1940, he knew for certain that he was an extremely fortunate young man. He was walking straight into a job while many of his friends had either failed their exams or, having qualified, had little prospect of employment for the foreseeable future. These were awful days for newly-qualified veterinary surgeons. The depression had meant that jobs were scarce, and working conditions primitive. Those applying for what jobs existed were regarded as lower forms of life to whom prospective employers could dictate their own terms. For those managing to obtain employment, poor pay with long hours was all they could expect; indeed, in many cases, time off work was unheard of.
The situation was so dire that some young men advertised in the Veterinary Record, the official journal of the British Veterinary Association, offering their services free of charge. ‘Fit, strong, able young man. Will work for keep’ became a common sight in the advertising pages of the journal, and many of Alf’s friends ‘worked for their keep’ in those hard days. For an employer, it was an attractive proposition: feed a man, put a roof over his head and he’ll work for you for nothing.
The prospective assistant today faces a vastly different picture. With plenty of jobs available, the new graduate can afford to be selective. Good pay, civilised working conditions with ample leisure time – in some cases with no night duties to be undertaken at all – go towards presenting the young veterinary surgeon with an enviable choice. What a stark contrast to those bleak conditions years ago.
Alf wrote in a letter to his parents while in Sunderland: ‘I had a very funny letter from Bob Smith. He is still working on the land, poor lad, and is fed up but still maintains his dry humour. He says that when he puts his height in when applying for the jobs advertised in the Record, he adds an inch every time, but though he is now 6 ft 8 ins it doesn’t weigh the scales!’
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.