Brian, who could imitate a wide range of different voices, frequently brought beads of perspiration to Alf’s brow as he mimicked farmers calling him out to horrendous cases – always, of course, on a dark and filthy night. Alf never forgot the classic call from a farmer with the rough Yorkshire voice growling down the phone. ‘Is that t’vitinry? This is Keel, Hesketh Grange. I ’ave a big ’oss as wants stitchin’ up. Cut ’isself right bad on’t back leg. ’E’s a nasty devil an’ all!’ Brian allowed Alf to sweat a while before laughingly revealing his true identity.
Many times, Alf would attempt to turn the tables on Brian. He would go to great lengths to disguise his voice, ringing him at all hours of the day or night, but the young joker was almost invariably too clever for him. One night, having just returned home from a late call, Alf received one of the worst frights of his life. There was a bright moon shining into his bedroom and, as he started to undress he saw, to his horror, the naked figure of a man silhouetted against the window. The moonlight shining behind the apparition added to the terrifying effect.
‘Who, in God’s name, is that?’ he croaked, his heart thumping wildly.
The figure took an eternity to reply. Eventually, there was a sinister and sepulchral response, ‘B-r-i-a-n!’
It is surprising that the young Alf Wight managed to carry out his daily work with such a prankster at large, but he was not the only one to feel the sharp sting of Brian’s many jokes. Although renowned for his ability to exist happily doing nothing, Brian could throw his heart and soul into anything that interested him, and he certainly put everything into developing the reputation of the ‘Pannal Ghost’.
This eerie figure, clothed in white sheets, was famous at the time and on moonlit nights could be seen gliding across the road at the top of Pannal Bank near Harrogate. Terrified motorists would perform lightning U-turns in the road before speeding away in the opposite direction – to the glee of the laughing ghost, none other than Brian himself.
One night, however, two motorcyclists, rather than fleeing, decided to give chase. This unexpected turn of events, which took the ghost completely by surprise, resulted in his taking off at high speed over a succession of ploughed fields with the motorcyclists in hot pursuit. Unused as he was to hard physical exercise, this desperate chase – in which he was encumbered by yards of flapping white material – was a most disagreeable experience. He made his escape by hiding in a huge drainage pipe that stank of tom cats, and it was while he was lying trembling in his refuge, with an icy wind screaming down the pipe, that he came to a firm decision: the ‘Pannal Ghost’ would be seen no more.
One of the chapters in Let Sleeping Vets Lieis about the ‘Raynes Ghost’, and is based on this incident.
Brian had a repertoire of party tricks which, when in the mood, he would perform with wild abandon. His favourite was the ‘Mad Conductor’ – also well described in one of the Herriot books – but another, that was not so well known but equally dramatic, was his imitation of ‘Donald drinking the Universal Cattle Medicine’. Alf would often recall this incident as a prime example of the erratic behaviour of his senior partner.
When returning late from a call one evening, Alf was walking down the long garden behind 23 Kirkgate. It was very dark, the rain was pouring down, and he was just about to enter the house when he heard a soft rustling from the bed of nasturtiums at the side of the path. On closer inspection, he saw in the dim light what appeared to be a pile of sacking. As he tentatively poked it with his shoe, the shadowy mass twitched and groaned. Something, or someone, was deep in the flower bed.
‘Who on earth is that?’ he asked, peering down at the shapeless heap. There was a moment of silence save for the drumming of the rain. There then followed another groan as the mysterious form began to writhe in the darkness.
At this point, the door burst open and Brian appeared. ‘Thank goodness you’re back, Alf,’ he said. ‘Give me a hand and let’s get him inside!’
‘Who?’
‘Donald!’
‘Donald?’The mysterious heap was none other than his senior partner. ‘What the devil is wrong with him?’ he asked. ‘He sounds as though he is dying!’
‘He deserves to!’ went on Brian. ‘He has just swigged about half a bottle of Universal Cattle Medicine.’
Brian was laughing but Alf was more than a little alarmed. He could hardly believe his ears. Universal Cattle Medicine (U.C.M.) was a savage concoction that was used to combat a wide range of bovine diseases and supposedly had stimulant properties. It consisted, among other things, of arsenic and ammonia, with the dose for a large cow, about two dessertspoonfuls. It was a brave man who sniffed the top of the bottle, let alone sampled its contents. Cows, on being drenched with this mixture, coughed and spluttered for several minutes, but it seemed to work in many cases. This venerable liquid was indicated to be for the treatment of ‘coughs, chills, scours, pneumonia, milk fever, garget, and all forms of indigestion’. Whenever the veterinary surgeon was mystified by a case, there was always good old U.C.M. to fall back on. The early practice ledgers are full of references to it; Sinclair and Wight sold gallons of the stuff.
It was a stimulant, without doubt, and it had certainly stimulated Donald Sinclair. The two men carted him inside and laid him on the sofa in the living-room. Brian then gave Alf an account of what had happened.
Donald, on returning from a night out and in an inebriated condition, had decided that some ‘medication’ might make him feel a little better. He had swaggered into the little dispensary, seized a bottle of U.C.M, and bitten off the cork. He had turned to his brother with a devilish smile and, before Brian could stop him, had gulped several mouthfuls of the powerful liquid. There had been a brief, still moment as the dark mixture scorched its way down his gullet. Donald then leapt convulsively into the air with his hands clasped tightly round his throat. Staggering out into the garden, he had collapsed with a hoarse cry into the huge bed of rambling nasturtiums, his legs twitching rhythmically. It was after the jerking body had become still that Brian had decided to run inside to call the doctor.
Donald, happily, recovered but Brian made the most of this incident, with his graphic imitation of his brother drinking the U.C.M. becoming an integral part of his repertoire. Many customers in the drinking establishments of Thirsk were to observe the spasmodically twitching figure with the goggling eyes. Needless to say, these dramatic performances were never to be seen by his elder brother.
One old farmer said to Alf many years later, ‘Aye, Ah’ve seen “Young Sinclair” doin’ one of ’is turns. He ended up lyin’ on’t floor o’t Golden Fleece, fickin!’ This was an old Yorkshire term for ‘twitching’ and, indeed, most of Brian’s party pieces resulted in a prostrate figure convulsing its way around the floor.
Another demonstration – one which Alf found most unnerving – was Brian’s ‘maniac laugh’. It began with a low, sinister chuckle which gradually increased in intensity before finally ending in wild shrieks of laughter. To Alf’s embarrassment, he would frequently launch into this maniacal howling at a moment’s notice, often following a session at the local pub; the dark streets of Thirsk reverberated many times with Brian’s demented cries.
From the moment that Brian Sinclair came into his life, Alf Wight realised that he was in the company of a unique personality. Never before had he encountered someone with such an insatiable appetite for humour; at times he wondered whether Brian could ever be serious.
It was not only Alf who found Brian Sinclair such a stimulating personality. An official of the Ministry of Agriculture was talking to Alf one day, after spending the previous evening with Brian in the Golden Fleece Hotel in Thirsk. ‘What a delightful man that young Sinclair is,’ he said. He paused a while as though reflecting upon that evening’s activities. ‘Don’t you think, however, that his sense of humour is a little overdeveloped?!’