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.’