John stayed in Thirsk for almost three years. He left in May 1954 to set up his own practice in Beverley, eventually achieving the distinction of becoming President of the British Veterinary Association in 1983. From his exalted position within the profession, however, he never forgot his humble beginnings in Thirsk, looking back on those days with Alf and Donald as some of the happiest of his life. His two employers gave him sound advice and tremendous support, so vital to a young person taking the first difficult steps in his chosen career. He felt so strongly about his time in Thirsk that when he left, he took with him a bottle of ‘air’ from 23 Kirkgate, hoping that it would infect his new practice with the refreshing and good-natured atmosphere he had enjoyed there.

John and his wife, Heather, remained great friends with the Wights, Alf becoming godfather to their first-born child, Annette. Many years later, when John became President of the BVA, he asked Alf to speak at the inaugural ceremony, at which Alf recalled his memories of John as t’yoong man’, as he was called by the farmers. That was when Alf Wight, no longer the youngest man in the practice, suddenly realised that he was getting older.

The luxury of having an assistant transformed Alf’s quality of life. Having savoured a taste of a more civilised existence, but still seeing his wife slaving in 23 Kirkgate, he became more determined than ever to get his family out of the big, cold house. On his many visits to the Yorkshire farms, he had been deeply impressed with the farm kitchens. They were not only warm, with fires or big cooking ranges dominating the room, but they seemed to be the nerve centre of the house where everything good seemed to happen. For a long time, he had dreamed of a comfortable house with a big, warm kitchen, he and his family seated cosily around the table. It was a vision so different from the spartan, icy surroundings they had endured for so long.

Although he had earned well for the past five years, Alf had saved very little. Quite apart from the cost of simply feeding and clothing his family, he had taken on additional financial responsibilities; I received private education at Ivy Dene Preparatory School while my mother had enjoyed the help of some busy little women in her uphill task of keeping the house in order. Having begun his professional career with no money behind him, Alf faced the task of looking for a new home with virtually no capital to his name.

Undeterred, he soon had his eye on a house in Stockton Road in Thirsk. Pleasantly situated and just the right size for the family, it was exactly what he was looking for. It was due to be auctioned in the Golden Fleece Hotel and, armed with positive thoughts and very little money, Alf attended the auction with a fierce determination that the house was going to be his. It was an experience he would never forget. The bidding rose to more than £3000, a sum he could only dream about, but with the sweat standing out on his forehead, he doggedly persisted in bidding, so desperate was he to get his family out of the cold, stone-flagged Kirkgate house. Finally, with the tension in the room rising by the second, and with only him and one other contestant left in the bidding, Alf could take no more. His iron resolve suddenly evaporated and he conceded defeat. He left the Golden Fleece a drained and beaten man.

The experience left its mark on him. As he was leaving the hotel, he glanced in a mirror but hardly recognised the ghastly visage framed within it – a gaunt, pale shadow of the man who had strode into the auction with such high hopes. He felt one hundred years old. This incident remained so firmly in his memory that he recalled it in Every Living Thing. How would he have felt had he been able to look more than thirty years into the future, when the sum of £3000 would be small change to him?

The loss of that house, in fact, turned out to be providential. Very soon afterwards, and after many hours of bartering, he bought a plot of land in Topcliffe Road on which he had his own house built. This house, costing £1000 less than the other, was not only a better house, but was one built to his and Joan’s specification. With his stronger standing in the practice having enabled him to obtain a mortgage for £2000, he could now look forward to some comfort for the family in the years ahead. He called his new house, into which we moved in the winter of 1953, Rowardennan, after a favoured and beautiful spot by the side of Loch Lomond. It would be our home for the next twenty-five years.

I remember the day we moved in, my overriding memory being one of draught-free rooms and wall-to-wall carpeting. There was no central heating but, compared to 23 Kirkgate, it was the warmest, cosiest nest imaginable. The kitchen was Alf’s greatest joy and was dominated by an Aga cooker, an impressive, solid bank of warmth that he would worship for the next twenty-five years. Alf, the rumpled figure in his dressing-gown, as he clutched his morning cup of tea and his toast and Marmite, would have reason to bless that Aga for many winters to come.

1953 was a year of happiness and achievement for Alf. He now had his own house, both his children were being educated in an excellent primary school, and the practice was doing well enough to support an assistant. His quality of life had taken a turn for the better.

One sad incident, however, occurred shortly following the move to Rowardennan; our little dog, Danny, was killed on the main road outside the house. He was, by then, fourteen years old, with a hard body and a heart that beat with the regular, strong rhythm of that of a young dog, but his one physical infirmity was deafness. He never heard the car that ended his life but his death was mercifully swift. We had regarded Danny as indestructible but the combination of unfamiliar surroundings and his inability to hear traffic was his undoing.

I remember my father coming into our bedroom to tell Rosie and me that Danny had met his end. We cried unashamedly. He had been regarded as a member of the family and it took us weeks to fully realise that our bushy little friend was no longer trotting by our sides.

Alf quickly realised that to travel to the farms without some canine company in the car was unthinkable, so he did what he always told his customers to do following the loss of a pet – he found another. Donald was running a pack of beagles at the time, in which there was one very small bitch that was regarded as the runt of the pack. As she had difficulty in keeping up with the rest, Donald was only too pleased to present his partner with a replacement for Danny. This appealing little creature, whom we called Dinah, thus became the second dog to travel the long miles at Alf’s side.

Dinah was the opposite of her predecessor; her life revolved around the food bowl. After demolishing her meal within seconds, she was always ready for more and she utilised her greatest asset to get it. This irresistible little hound had a sweet face with liquid brown eyes which, once turned upon us, totally demolished our stern resolve not to overfeed her. She invariably joined us at mealtimes and, with my grandmother, Lal, being the most vulnerable to Dinah’s charms, a steady supply of juicy titbits would drop down to the strategically positioned little dog. This high living resulted in Dinah becoming very fat, despite the regular exercise she received while out with Alf. He repeatedly exhorted his mother-in-law to stop feeding Dinah, but the old lady was completely under her spell, resulting in Alf Wight, the vet, having to live with the ignominy of owning one of the fattest dogs in Thirsk.

Dinah, who walked for miles with us, was regarded, like Danny, as a member of the family and we were terribly upset when she died in 1963 at the age of eleven, through inadvertently consuming some rat poison; her insatiable appetite had contributed to her downfall.