Shortly after the birth of her son, Joan returned to live with her parents in Sowerby, a village adjoining Thirsk. Alf visited her whenever he could, reminiscing in his later years about the delectable meals she prepared for him. His favourite was egg and chips.

One of the privations of the war years was, of course, rationing. Such staples as eggs and butter were in short supply but Joan had connections with some local farmers while Donald would sometimes slip a little butter and a few eggs her way. Alf was always a man who loved his food – and, in the far-distant future, would eat in some of the finest restaurants in the land – but he would experience nothing that could beat the memory of savouring those plates of fresh eggs and home-made chips.

There were some enterprising individuals in the Thirsk area who made the most of this war-time rationing, with thriving businesses springing up, especially in the farming community. Eggs, butter, bacon and ham were there in plenty, if you knew where to look – and were prepared to pay. As Alf remarked later, ‘Aye, it was a black day on some of the farms round here when peace was declared in 1945!’

Following the birth of his son, Alf felt much happier, but he was soon to be posted further away from Joan to begin his flying instruction. On 20 May, with a swollen face – the RAF dentists having raided his mouth again, hauling out two wisdom teeth and filling several others – he arrived at Winkfield aerodrome near Windsor. By now, he had graduated to the rank of Leading Aircraftsman, second class (LAC ₂) and his pay had shot up to seven shillings per day. Not only was he looking forward to flying, but his financial status was healthier; he had the sum of £9 in the bank and, even better, Joan had £14. Although Alf did not like heights and invariably experienced severe vertigo when perched on the top of a cliff, his days in the air at Windsor held no fear for him. He learned to fly in small single-engined planes, Tiger Moths, and he loved it. Out of fifty men, he was one of only four who were allowed to fly solo after less than two weeks. His first solo flight was on 7 June, and he managed to land successfully first time, while the others made repeated attempts, watched with rising tension by the instructors on the ground.

Alf was making a real success of his RAF career, the only blot being his constant state of homesickness and worry about his wife who, he knew, was still missing him desperately. In addition, Joan’s only brother, Joe, of whom she was extremely fond, was serving in Gibraltar and she worried about him, too. Alf tried continually to raise her spirits, exhorting her to think of the happy times that they would have when he returned to civilian life. A letter written from Windsor, just prior to a day or two of leave, illustrates very eloquently his memories of life at home.

Joan my darling,

Tomorrow will be the first of June and it brings back memories of the last two Junes. Two years ago this time, I had just realised I had met the only girl and was walking on air and living in a land of beautiful dreams. Country dances and long nights under the moon, a little print dress and a yellow Laburnum tree. Days of sunshine and longings and jealous frettings, the most wonderful ecstasies and the most dreadful glooms. What a summer that was! And the next year, quiet happy days in our little room, tomato growing, little fights and ‘not speakings’, trips to York, broccoli on Sundays and over everything a wonderful sense of peace and happiness.

I must away to bed now. I wish my wife was here to cuddle but it won’t be long now! Goodnight sweetheart.

If Alf’s time at Windsor represented the high spot of his Air Force career, his days of success and achievement were numbered. Henceforward, they would be ones of frustration and disappointment.

From Windsor, he was posted to Salford, near Manchester, where he was due to be classified as a pilot and it was there that his Achilles heel struck. The anal fistula began to give him such pain that, reluctantly, he had to seek medical advice. Despite the doctors showing considerable concern about the condition, he managed to persuade the authorities that he still felt fit to progress to the next stage of his training. He remained keen to do well but his optimism was misplaced; with the RAF adamant that anyone going on to fly combat aircraft had to be one hundred per cent fit, he was now a marked man.

He was posted to Ludlow in Shropshire where the men were subjected to a ‘toughening up’ course – digging ditches, erecting fences, constructing a reservoir, and helping the local farmers with their harvest. The exercise instilled a sense of fitness and well-being once again, and he soon began to feel as fit as he had been in Scarborough. His hopes of continuing his flying career were dashed, however, when he was summoned to see a specialist in Hereford in July. Three days later, he underwent an operation on the anal fistula in the RAF hospital at Creden Hill, Hereford.

Alf, who remembered the pain of those operations all too well, often used to wonder whether he could have progressed further in the RAF had the Air Force surgeons just left him alone. The operation in Hereford was a disaster; far from curing his condition, it merely added to the pain and he very soon realised that a fulfilling career in the forces was never going to be possible. As he watched his trainee comrades depart without him for Canada to continue their instruction, he felt deep disappointment and failure.

He was sent to a convalescent home, Pudlestone Court Auxiliary Hospital near Leominster, where he had a pleasant but rather aimless existence. Pudlestone Court was a fine old country house, and he was told by the old matron in charge that he should relax as much as possible, taking a little exercise by walking in the beautiful parkland, playing clock golf, tennis or croquet, or just lounging in the deck chairs on the lawn. The food was excellent, he reported to Joan, and he was able to have a hot bath each night.

During his two weeks there, he occupied his time teaching some of the other men to play the piano and spending many hours tending the garden. The hours of working the soil behind 23 Kirkgate had turned him into a very capable gardener and the matron was extremely impressed with his work.

His gentle existence at Pudlestone Court was in marked contrast to the exacting regime in Scarborough but his spirits were sinking lower with every passing day. Still in a great deal of discomfort, he was examined at the hospital at Creden Hill where, to his despair, he was operated upon yet again. The operation was another pain-racked failure. To further compound his feelings of misery, it was discovered that the tooth that had been pulled out eight months before still had some of the root left embedded in his jaw. Realising that, in the eyes of the RAF, he was an invalid, he knew that he would never progress further in the quest to serve his country. He had had enough – he wanted to go home.

On 23 August he was sent to Heaton Park, Manchester, where he was assigned to ‘stores’. Here he was put in charge of the stocks and distribution of mountains of clothing and footwear. It was a mercifully brief assignment. In Vet in a Spin, he sums up his feelings perfectly, writing: ‘Somewhere in the back of my mind a little voice kept enquiring how James Herriot, member of the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons and trainee pilot, had ever got into this.’

While he was at Heaton Park, he went before the Medical Board again, and this time it was decided that he was to be ‘grounded’. He was declared, officially, as ‘unfit for aircrew’, and on 28 October he was sent to Eastchurch in Kent. This was a discharge camp, a great ‘filter tank’ of the RAF, from where, in a letter to Joan, he described his feelings about it: ‘All the odds and sods of the RAF are here and there are plenty of scroungers and hard cases but plenty of laughs going on too, I must say.’