Alf and Joan had every justification for such a small and secretive occasion. A larger wedding, to which they would have felt compelled to invite many people, was, quite simply, beyond their financial horizons. Joan Danbury was in no better financial state than her husband: the sum total of her wedding dowry was a half-share in a pig which she owned in partnership with a man called Bob Barton. This big strong man, who drove the delivery lorry for Rymer’s Mill, could throw eight-stone sacks around as though they were tennis balls, but there was a soft streak to his nature. When the time came for the pig to be killed, Alf remembered the big man leaning on his shoulder, his eyes full of tears. In the course of many months looking after her, he had become deeply attached to this appealing creature.

‘Mr Wight,’ he said, his voice cracking with emotion, ‘that pig – Ah’m tellin’ yer, she were a Christian!’

There was some consolation, however. Not only was the meat from that pig, when roasted, some of the finest Alf had ever tasted, but Joan made some magnificent pork pies from some of the choicest cuts. Alf’s Uncle George Wilkins, who considered himself an expert in the art of pork-pie tasting, came down from Sunderland one day and asserted that he had never eaten anything finer. That wonderful pig had not died in vain; Joan’s dowry may have been a modest one but it provided an unforgettable gastronomic experience.

After the wedding ceremony, Alf and Joan had a champagne breakfast with Donald at 23 Kirkgate before setting off on their honeymoon in the Yorkshire Dales. They stayed in the Wheatsheaf Inn, in the village of Carperby in Wensleydale. This small village inn is so proud of the fact that the future James Herriot spent two nights of his honeymoon there, a plaque on the wall describes it as ‘James Herriot’s honeymoon hotel’. The inn was famed for its good food all those years ago and the young couple, who were both tremendous eaters, made the most of it – wading into kippers, as well as bacon and eggs, for breakfast, with plenty of locally-made Wensleydale cheese and butter always available.

For the first two days of their honeymoon, Alf spent his time T.B. Testing cows in the hill farms of Wensleydale. This seems a rather unusual activity for such an important holiday but, with the practice becoming busier, he had insisted to Donald that he would combine work with pleasure.

In the event, those few days turned out to be very enjoyable. The farmers and their wives, amazed that the young couple were spending a working honeymoon, treated them to real Dales hospitality in the form of delicious farmhouse meals followed by gifts of ham, eggs and cheese – a real bonus in wartime when such delicacies were severely rationed.

One farmer’s wife, Mrs Allen of Gayle, situated at the head of Wensleydale, had repeatedly teased Alf about his marriage prospects. To her astonishment, he said to her just one day before his wedding, ‘I’ve taken your advice, Mrs Allen. I’m going to get married!’

‘Eeeh,’ she replied, ‘Ah’m right pleased! When?’

‘Tomorrow!’

‘Termorrer? But ye’re comin’ ’ere to read’t TB Test in a couple o’ days’ time.’

‘That’s right!’

What a surprise she received when she duly met his brand new bride, dressed in old trousers and scribbling down the numbers of the cows in the book.

The weather was kind and the sight of the Yorkshire Dales in their best autumnal colours enhanced their enjoyment of that unconventional holiday.

On the Saturday morning, Mr and Mrs Alfred Wight left the Wheatsheaf to spend a short time with Alf’s relatives in Sunderland – although the entire staff of the hotel was needed to push Alf’s old car before it could be persuaded to start. Once in Sunderland, they were treated to some wonderful north-east hospitality, with Alf’s happiness tempered only by the deafening silence from his parents in Glasgow. He wrote to them, on the last day of his honeymoon in Sunderland.

My dear Mother and Dad,

This is really the first chance I have had to write since the big event as the first part of our little holiday has consisted of work. I have tried in vain to phone you. But I am worried that you have sent no word – not even a wire on the day. I really am upset about it as I hurried back to Thirsk on Saturday expecting to find some word from you. I only hope nothing is wrong and I’ll be relieved when I hear from you.…

It is lovely here among the Wilkins and I only wish you folks were sitting in the room with us all. One thing I hope is that there will be a letter from you waiting for me at Thirsk.

Despite his happiness at such an important period of his life, Alf worried continually about the parents to whom he felt so attached. He was, however, convinced that he had made the right decision in standing up to his mother, and hoped that the passage of time would ease her strong feelings about his marriage to Joan. One thing was certain; he was not going to allow this to come between himself and his wife.

There were other important matters to be addressed, not least his future as a veterinary surgeon that stretched before him. After only three days in Sunderland, he was back at work in Thirsk, jumping once again on the treadmill that was veterinary practice. His honeymoon had lasted exactly six days, two of them working ones. His holidays away from the practice would be few and far between for the next ten years of his life.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Alf and Joan Wight’s first home in Thirsk was the upper reaches of 23 Kirkgate, from where they looked out over the old high-walled garden down to the outbuildings, behind which soared the huge elm trees with their permanent residents, hundreds of noisy rooks. Donald had readily agreed to Alf’s request to let himself and Joan live in part of the big house. This caused no disruption to Donald as the top floor of the house up until that time was unused, while there was still plenty of space on the lower levels.

Alf and Joan’s ‘kitchen’ at the top of the house differed from the modern equivalent in one notable respect; it had a sink but no water. Every drop had to be brought up in jugs from the ground floor, an excellent form of exercise that did wonders for Alf’s circulation. All the cooking was done on two gas rings, with a square tin perched on top of them serving as an oven. Despite these primitive conditions, Joan produced excellent food, something she would continue to do for the rest of her married life. On the first floor, below the kitchen, was their bed-sitting room. This had a fireplace around which they used to sit on cold winter nights, listening to the radio, reading, or playing their favourite card game, Bezique.

Furnishing these two rooms was not a problem. There were no big decisions to be made, their financial status leaving them little choice but to buy the cheap but durable furniture that was available at the many salerooms and house sales in the surrounding area. Alf bought a table from Leyburn for six shillings, and a pair of chairs for five shillings each from a farm client, while Joan’s mother provided them with a bed. They also received many useful items as wedding presents from friends in Thirsk.

There was one item they bought new. It was an oak coffee table made by a local woodcarver, Robert Thompson of Kilburn, a village close to Thirsk which is overlooked by the famous White Horse carved into the nearby hillside. This great craftsman’s work was, and still is, sold all over the world. When Alf and Joan bought the table, Mr Thompson told them he had some work on display in Westminster Abbey and that he had set his sights on Buckingham Palace next. His trade mark was a little mouse carved on to the wood, and this table is in my mother’s sitting-room to this day. I can picture my father, just three days before he died, his arm resting on the fine old table that he bought with his last few shillings, fifty-three years before.