Their courtship was not an extravagant one. As Joan, too, had little money, visits to the cinema (romantically seated at the back in the ‘one and nines’), trips to village dances and walking in the hills were enough to stretch their budget to its limits.

Joan, when time off from her job allowed, often accompanied Alf on his TB Testing trips up into the Dales, helping him by writing the numbers of the cows in the book. Although he loved the Dales, the TB work was boring and repetitive, but to have a young lady, to whom he felt so attracted, accompany him on his long and usually solitary journeys, put a completely different complexion on the working day.

The village dances were a prominent feature of country life. They have largely disappeared today but, fifty or more years ago, there was a dance every Saturday night in one of the local village halls with throngs of people, young and old, attending them. A few drinks in a nearby pub, followed by an energetic fling on the dance floor and a good feed from the vast tables groaning with good Yorkshire fare, made for a great night out.

These events, at which he had a chance to observe the huge appetites of the Yorkshire country folk, were a revelation to Alf. The food, usually prepared by local housewives, was of the highest calibre, even during the austerity of the war years. Pork pies, brawn, piles of sandwiches, apple pies, trifles, cakes and pastries were all consumed with effortless ease. He was a willing participant in the duty of demolishing the delicious mountains of food – and, in Joan, he had an able assistant. Over his many years working among the farming community, Alf never ceased to be astonished by the farmers’ ability to put away staggering quantities of food. He was always a good eater himself, but these people were in a league of their own; they worked hard and they had appetites to match.

I remember, many years ago, attending the silver wedding celebrations of one of our farming clients in a small village hall. The place was teeming with laughing faces, there were vast amounts of food, and very soon a buzz of satisfaction pervaded the atmosphere, dominated by the noise of the scraping of plates and happy chatter. People filed up to the serving tables for second and third helpings, and I was taking my turn when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was an old client of my father called Herbert Megginson who was a regular at the village dances in the days when he used to visit them. He especially used to enjoy dancing with my mother – on one evening, when heavily under the influence of drink, whispering unsteadily into her ear, Ooh! You ’ave such a supple form!’

‘Supple form’, as he was always known from that day onwards, was enjoying himself on this occasion, surrounded as he was by food, drink and women. ‘Hey, vitin’ry!’ he said, with a knowing smile.

‘Hello, Mr Megginson,’ I replied. ‘This is a good “do”. Plenty to eat!’

‘Aye, ye’re right there!’ He plucked at my sleeve. He was obviously impressed by the speed with which the food was being shovelled out of sight. He nodded in the direction of a group of busy, sweating faces. ‘’Ave yer got yer instruments with yer in case someone gets blown?’

It was at these village functions, which formed such an enjoyable part of their courtship, that Alf and Joan met many people who would become lasting friends, but there was a serious side to Alf’s courtship, too. He was a great letter writer and pursued Joan with the written as well as the spoken word. Some early letters in the summer of 1941 reveal his fluency as a writer, together with more than a dash of the romantic to his nature:

Joan my dear,

Why on earth should I be writing this when, if the Gods are kind, I’ll be seeing you tonight? I believe it is because something, a very trivial something, has been fermenting in this funny, analytical mind of mine and now demands an outlet. It is just that a succession of little thoughts have resolved themselves into a brooding sense of injustice that so many fellows seem to be writing love letters to young Danbury while Wight, with all his music within him, as it were, never puts pen to paper.

Anyway, Joan, now that I am sitting down to the job, I find myself rather up against it because I realise now that I have never written a love letter before. But how difficult it is when it should be so easy. Somehow, the feeling I have for you is not one that bubbles up and froths over in a mass of endearing terms and neatly turned compliments. It is such a very quiet thing like a wide, deep running river and so completely sincere that I, who have always shunned sincerity with its way of laying one open to all the hurts and disappointments that are going, am rather scared. It is only when I sit down to write that I realise the hopeless inadequacy of words to come near to expressing my thoughts; or maybe I am just tired.

Yes, that’s it. How can I make a go of this very important letter when my head is nodding and my arms are aching? But I am going to stagger out with this unfinished fragment so that tomorrow you’ll know that I did make an effort anyway. I’ll be thinking of you till Tuesday – all the time. Goodnight, Joan.

Just yours,

Alf.

His sincerity and quiet determination were to pay dividends. In July 1941, he proposed to Joan and she accepted. Overjoyed, he felt that this was the happiest moment of his entire life as he looked forward in anticipation to spending the rest of his life with the girl he knew was the right one for him. There was, however, a blot on the landscape; it was a large one and it was two hundred miles away in Glasgow.

Alf’s mother, a most strong-minded and formidable lady, was not pleased that her son was considering getting married before he had achieved any lasting security. Shortly after he had mentioned the subject to her, she made her feelings known during a tense and bitter telephone conversation. She considered that no one was good enough for her only son, stating, very emphatically, that Joan was taking her place in his affections. His father, too, did not approve, but his objections were of a more practical nature. Pop, the eternal pessimist, worried that his son would be unable to support a young wife at such an impecunious stage of his life and he expressed his feelings strongly, though not quite so forcefully as his wife.

Alf’s feelings are best illustrated by reproducing excerpts from letters written to his parents during this difficult time. The first was dated 21 July.

Dear Mother and Dad,

I’d like to tell you how I am feeling just in case you think I am airily dismissing your side of everything. No son ever had more wonderful parents than I have and I have lain awake at nights marvelling at the things you have done for me and worrying about how I could ever repay you. I often thought that there was nothing that I could do for you that would ever make up for your wonderful kindness and self sacrifice.…

You asked for some particulars, Mother, about Joan and said you would be a severe critic. You frighten me a bit there because if you are out to criticise you’ll find plenty of faults because she’s just an ordinary girl and no paragon of all the virtues.… But just one thing, Mother; never talk again about anyone ‘taking your place’. Nobody will ever do that. You have a compartment all to yourself in my mind.

Alf, although deeply hurt and disappointed by his parents’ reaction, would not be put off marrying the girl he loved. In August, he took his somewhat apprehensive fiancée to Glasgow to introduce her to his parents. His mother, although civil to Joan, reiterated her objections to Alf who, in turn, reaffirmed his intention to marry. Pop, who liked Joan immediately, was far more welcoming, but he was overshadowed by the considerably more determined figure of his wife. The visit heralded an especially difficult period in the relationship between Alf and his mother.