With Gordon, like Alf, a slave to general practice in those days, he had many amusing tales to tell. It was an especial comfort to Alf, as he laughed at Gordon’s stories of triumph and catastrophy, that his exacting life as a veterinary surgeon was one that was shared by so many of his colleagues. Alf Wight would never tire of the company of Gordon Rae.

In 1949, with the veterinary practice in Thirsk becoming impossibly busy for the two vets, Donald and Alf acquired their first employee, a retired railway clerk called Harold Wilson. Up until this time, Joan, as well as being on almost permanent telephone duty, had helped in keeping the practice books but, with her growing family and house to attend to, the work load had become too much for her. Some neat and tidy organisation was badly needed. Bits of paper covered with Donald’s spidery writing littered the office, and spare cash bulged out of drawers and over the top of the old pint pot on the mantelpiece that James Herriot was to describe in his first book.

Harold Wilson who, unlike both of his employers, possessed a remarkable head for figures, soon had things in better shape but he had an uphill task in receiving full cooperation from Donald. In If Only They Could Talk, James Herriot describes the first secretary in the practice as a ‘Miss Harbottle’ who had a running battle with Siegfried in trying to balance the practice books. This character was, in fact, based very loosely upon Harold Wilson, and is one example of Alf disguising the true origins of his characters by altering their sex.

The uneasy exchanges between Harold and Donald were many. Harold, who found his employer’s shambolic approach to any semblance of organisation almost impossible to bear, in return irritated Donald by loudly clearing his throat to capture his attention, nearly always at a most inconvenient time. Donald was never noted for his patience and there were occasions when he responded vociferously, but despite these eruptions, Harold remained a valued and loyal employee of the practice for more than ten years.

Despite Harold Wilson’s help with the office side of the practice, the veterinary workload became ever more demanding and it soon became apparent that it was too much for two men. An added burden for Alf was that Donald was branching out into other ways of earning money, spending increasing hours away from the practice.

Throughout his life, Donald Sinclair was a man with a multitude of interests. As well as shooting, fishing and hunting, he ran a pack of beagles, and later harriers, throughout the 1950s and into the 1960s.

One of his most enduring interests, in his later years, was pigeon racing. He maintained a very good loft of pigeons at Southwoods Hall, being acknowledged as an expert, with pigeon fanciers from all over the north of England asking him for advice. One day I asked him how he enjoyed his transition from horse specialist to a doctor of pigeons. ‘Very much,’ he replied, ‘pigeons don’t kick!’

As well as following these pastimes, he embarked on many different money-making schemes – some successful, some disastrous. His most successful was the growing of Christmas trees in the hilly land around Southwoods Hall which began more than thirty-five years ago and is still thriving today, years after his death.

His earlier business ventures, at the time when only he and Alf were in the practice, were less rewarding. In the late 1940s, with Audrey’s help, he bought two farms, Bumper Castle and Low Cleaves near Thirlby, thus becoming a part-time farmer as well as a veterinary surgeon. His running of these farms was, characteristically, erratic and they both made losses. He would return to farming again in the 1970s, keeping a herd of suckler cows and calves at Southwoods, this time with a little more success.

In the late 1940s, as well as the running of the farms, he branched out with other more exotic ideas. One of these was the invention of an elaborate wire-mesh construction, designed to allow free-range hens access to a protected run where they would be secure from foxes. Donald’s ingenious device, as well as barring the entrance of a predator, also prevented the hens from returning to the free-range areas outside. He dubbed his invention, of which he had high hopes, ‘Sinclair’s Patent Pop Hole’.

To his delight, he received an order for a large number of these devices. Having obtained the help of a local engineering works in manufacturing them, he transported them all down to Thirsk market place one Monday morning to clinch the deal with the purchaser. Donald paced impatiently around his towering stack of ironwork but, despite waiting several hours, his ‘customer’ failed to arrive.

Alf remembered that day very well. It was late in the day when Donald, having reloaded his merchandise, drew up outside the door of 23 Kirkgate on his tractor with a mountainous pile of metalwork in the trailer.

‘My God, Alfred!’ he shouted. ‘I’ve just about ruptured myself carting these bloody pop holes down here and the bugger hasn’t even turned up for them! What am I supposed to do with all this lot now?’

The pop holes returned to Southwoods Hall where they rusted away gently over the course of many years. Undeterred, Donald was soon to try out some other ideas. One of these was the establishment of a mobile fish and chip shop, hopefully christened ‘Enterprise Fisheries’. This potentially lucrative business travelled around the villages in the Thirsk area but, unfortunately, it did not live up to its name. Donald made heavy losses while his employees running the business did far better; they realised the potential, pocketed the proceeds and disappeared. ‘Enterprise Fisheries’, as with the quietly decomposing ‘pop holes’, would soon be forgotten.

Many have said that the partnership of Donald Sinclair and Alf Wight was a well-balanced one. Donald was always full of ideas – some good, some crazy – with Alf always there to hone them down to sensible proportions. Alf, throughout his working life with Donald, derived enormous amusement from his partner’s escapades, but it was not always so funny at the time, especially during the busy period in the late 1940s, when Donald was often absent from the practice, pursuing his various activities.

Help was needed and, in July 1951, it arrived. A young man called John Crooks was the first of a long line of veterinary assistants to walk through the doors of 23 Kirkgate.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

‘It was rather wonderful to have an assistant, especially a good one like him. I had always liked him, but when I got a call to a calving heifer at three o’clock in the morning and was able to pass it on to him and turn over and go back to sleep, I could feel the liking deepening into a warm affection.’

These words, written by James Herriot in his final book, Every Living Thing, will have a special significance for many veterinary surgeons who have experienced the dubious privilege of leaving a warm bed to drive out to a cold farm in the early hours.

The arrival of John Crooks heralded a whole new meaning to Alf Wight’s life. During his first ten years as a practising vet, he had had to be on call almost every night, and to be able to send someone else was a delightful and unbelievable experience. ‘For the first time in my life, I had someone working for me!’

John was not only a competent veterinary surgeon; he was a likeable man and was popular with the customers. For Alf, those years of the early 1950s were happy ones. He and John became great friends and an atmosphere of laughter and good humour pervaded the practice. It was a period of prosperity, with their profession undergoing massive change as agriculture prospered and farmers became more educated. From the veterinary surgeons’ side, high standards were expected – an ideal situation for a young, keen man like John Crooks.