The lady was overjoyed. ‘Oh thank you so much!’ she said. ‘That is exactly what I hoped you would say. If you will excuse me for a moment, I’ll just pop out to my car. I have a cloth to put his ashes in.’

She walked out of the door to a profound silence from the two veterinary surgeons. Alf felt a sudden tightening in the pit of his stomach.

‘She shall have them!’ Donald cried suddenly, springing out of the room.

There were a few tense moments as Alf tried to guess his partner’s next move. He steeled himself for his return. He did not have to wait long. Donald swept back through the door within two minutes, brandishing a dustpan in which was a heap of grey ashes and bones. Down in the old back-yard, Wardman kept an outside boiler, used for heating swill for the pigs, underneath which piles of ash and old bones collected; it was to here that Donald had just executed a speedy visit. The owner, who had returned, held out the cloth and Donald poured the ashes onto it. Alf stared at his partner. He could not believe this was happening, but the charade was not yet over. Suddenly the lady gave a loud shriek and threw the cloth high into the air; within seconds, the room was thick with smoke. The little dog may have died weeks ago, but his ‘ashes’ were still hot.

Alf might have had a fairly quiet life during the first years of his marriage but, with a partner like Donald Sinclair, there was never a dull moment. One evening the two of them were having a drink in the Golden Fleece. After a hard day’s work, it was a pleasant place in which to unwind – the good beer, pleasant chatter and the roaring fire all helping to make the world seem a better place. (This pub is called the ‘Drovers Arms’ in the Herriot books.)

With them on this particular evening was a man called Scott Ingles. He was working for an organisation known as the W.A.R.A.G. This was established during the war to give advice to farmers, helping them produce food for the nation as efficiently as possible. Scott Ingles was a mild, gentlemanly person who later became a professor of Animal Husbandry at Glasgow Veterinary School – and who taught me in the early 1960s. I remember him, during one lecture, saying, ‘Nine times seven. Let me see now, that’s approximately sixty-three.’ He could be a little vague at times and was a most charming and inoffensive man.

He was carrying a round steel helmet in his hand on that occasion and Donald was extremely interested in it. ‘What’s that, Scott?’ he asked abruptly.

‘It’s my safety helmet,’ he replied.

‘What’s it for?’ continued Donald.

‘It protects me from such things as falling bricks when I am, for example, going round damaged buildings.’

‘Is it any good?’

‘Oh yes, it’s very strong.’

‘How strong?’

‘Well, let me see. If you hit me with that poker there, by the fire, it would protect me from injury very effectively.’

‘Can I test it out?’

‘By all means, Donald. You can hit me over the head with the poker and you will see that it protects me very well,’ continued Scott confidently. He placed the helmet firmly onto his head.

Donald moved over to the fire, grasped the poker and swished the air with it a couple of times. Alf felt a stab of tension. He was aware of his senior partner’s unusual behaviour but was unprepared for the next move. Suddenly, Donald raised the heavy poker and, with every ounce of his strength, brought it down on to Scott Ingles’ head with a terrifying crash. A huge dent appeared in the helmet and the little man sank silently to the floor.

Alf stared with horror at the motionless figure. ‘My God!’ he thought, ‘he’s killed him!’

After an agonising few moments, Scott delicately regained his feet, but it took more than one restorative draught to effect his complete recovery. His helmet had just passed its most severe examination.

I remember Professor Ingles, many years later in Glasgow, asking me how everyone was in Thirsk. ‘How is your father?’ he asked.

‘Very well, thank you,’ I replied.

‘Good! Do please give him my regards.’ Professor Ingles paused for a moment before speaking again. ‘And Mr Sinclair?’

‘He’s well too.’

He paused again. ‘An interesting man,’ he said, a distant look in his eyes.

Alf was not alone in finding Donald Sinclair a source of amusement. Many others, farm clients included, were unable to mention his name without introducing a humorous slant into the conversation.

Many years later, my father was highly amused to hear of a visit that I had made to Sir Hugh Bell’s farm at the village of Ingleby Cross. Sir Hugh appeared in the Herriot book, Vets Might Fly, as a character called Lord Hulton, and was a most open and likeable man. I had been to see some pigs and Sir Hugh, who was friendly with Donald, was asking after him.

‘How is Donald these days?’ he said, with a mischievous grin.

‘Very well, Sir Hugh,’ I replied.

‘Pleased to hear it,’ he continued. His boyish face then broke into a wide smile and his sharp eyes danced before me. ‘An entertaining man,’ he chuckled, ‘and only slightlyinsane!’

Alf may have had an extraordinary employer for whom he had to work very hard, but his good fortune in having a job at all was never far from his mind. Some of his friends from Glasgow Veterinary College were not so fortunate. In a letter to his parents in July 1942, he wrote:

I heard some remarkable things about some of the lads I knew. You remember McIntyre who was in my year? Well, he’s still there, poor devil, sitting surgery for the umpteenth time. And Andy Flynn is still sitting pathology. Isn’t it amazing! Aubrey couldn’t stick it any longer at Cornwall, describing his employer as a miserable old ‘get’, and is now in Sussex, while Eddie Straiton seems to be the only one who is doing well. Jimmy Steele says Eddie works from 6 am to 9 pm every day and will have a nervous breakdown if he isn’t careful. The wages, I hear, are awful, too, and though I sometimes grouse at my lot, I feel I am a great deal better off in most respects. There are too many miserable devils and slave drivers in this profession. Jimmy has to do most of his jobs on a bicycle.

I laughed till I cried at Jimmy’s description of his last billet with one Benjamin P. Boyle in Staffs. He had to cut the lawn and hedges, chop wood, collect coal, but when they told him to clean the chimney, he left!

Jimmy Steele had, in fact, been receiving the princely salary of £100 per year. Although the availability of jobs in the veterinary profession was gradually improving, primitive working conditions for recently qualified assistants were still commonplace. Alf, considering himself to be a lucky man, was determined to make the most of his position in Thirsk. He had soon realised that treating farm animals, especially cows, was what interested him most. In some of the letters to his parents, he expressed his feelings for his job:

It’s funny how one gets a reputation in certain branches of the work. Nowadays Donald is the horsey man and I the cow doctor. I am also firmly established as the small animal surgeon of Thirsk. All the ladies now ask for Mr Wight to see to their dogs and cats. Donald can’t be bothered much with them and my Sunderland training stands me in good stead – but in my heart I am a cow man. When I started this game, I thought I’d never get to like those seemingly dull and uninteresting creatures, but I really have a great interest and affection for them now.

My dream of the future is a practice of my own in a nice country town, bigger than Thirsk, with enough to provide a decent small animal practice and, outside the town, a good dairying district with cows for ever. Of course, it seems impossible ever to save enough dough to buy a practice.