Alf loved to hear funny anecdotes from his colleagues, and Oliver, despite his serious attitude to life, was not without a sense of humour. He returned from a farm one day, plastered in mud after a torrid session trying to catch some wild bullocks. He had met with little success chasing his patients around a fold yard, finally hanging by his legs from a beam with a lasso in an attempt to snare an animal as it thundered past! The huge beasts were all fired up and, had Oliver succeeded in catching one, he would probably never have been seen again. After a few futile minutes hanging upside down, he got a taste of some dry Yorkshire humour.

The farmer appeared beneath him and looked up into his face. ‘Mr Wight doesn’t do it like this!’ he remarked, calmly lighting his pipe.

Oliver was only a transient assistant but he was in Thirsk long enough to leave a strong imprint in the mind of the future James Herriot.

Late in 1956, some dark clouds began to gather. Jim Chadwick wanted to remain in Thirsk but, as a married man with responsibilities, he needed some security. Alf liked him so much that he fervently wished he could make him a partner but, as Donald would not agree, Jim had no alternative but to leave, which he did in January 1957. I was only fourteen years old at the time but I remember how depressed my father was at losing his colleague – someone he felt he could have worked with happily for the rest of his life. He was in low spirits for many days but soon realised that life goes on, and he prepared himself for a fresh face, a new man to instruct in the ways of Sinclair and Wight.

Only days after Jim’s departure, Alf stood on the platform of Thirsk railway station where he beheld Jim’s successor alighting from the train. He stared disbelievingly at the tall figure with the black moustache and the dark, flashing eyes – a badger draped over his shoulder and a huge dog striding by his side. He had always known the veterinary profession to be wonderfully varied, as the old principal at the Glasgow Veterinary College, Dr Whitehouse, had promised – and this spectacle certainly confirmed it.

Brian Nettleton had arrived. Alf reckoned that the new assistant was going to be an interesting one if nothing else. He was right. Brian was to provide his employers with rich memories that would be reborn in the guise of ‘Calum Buchanan’, a character who would enthral millions of television viewers many years later.

I doubt that a single one of the older farmers in our practice has ever forgotten Brian Nettleton – ‘t’ vet wi’t badger’. Brian was a unique character but also a very fine veterinary surgeon, one of the finest to walk the corridors of 23 Kirkgate. He was not only a big, strong man who impressed the clients with his no-nonsense, practical approach; he was also a skilled surgeon who could perform delicate operations upon all species. He was meticulously clean and his neat wounds always healed rapidly. He had a wonderful rapport with animals, a great asset for a man in his profession. This impressed the clients, many of whom looked upon him as someone approaching a ‘Dr Doolittle’ character.

He visited a herd of cows at Ampleforth one day, where he treated many of them to bring them into season, Brian, unknown to the herdsman, had erroneously calculated the dose of the drug, administering to each animal ten times the recommended amount.

The herdsman was impressed. A day or two later when speaking to Alf, he said, ‘Ah’ve never seen owt like it! ’E injected all them cows an’ ’t whole bloody lot came on. Ah reckon it were t’ moustache as did it!’

There was a touch of the gypsy about Brian who seemed to be at home in the wild. I used to accompany him on early morning trips into the hills around Thirsk where we would observe a rich variety of wild animals – creatures I hardly knew existed before Brian gave me a peep into their dark and secret world.

He was one of the most popular assistants to grace the practice of Sinclair and Wight but, at times, he was also one of the most difficult. He had a personality which meant that anything approaching a routine lifestyle was alien to him; even such a basic pastime as eating was not followed regularly. On one occasion Alf observed Brian, who had eaten nothing the preceding day, demolish two whole fruit cakes, while I myself saw him consume two and a half roast ducks at one sitting. Brian’s was a free spirit – one that seemed to be forever trying to break loose – and, gifted veterinarian though he was, he always seemed to be looking for something beyond just veterinary practice.

His singular approach to life was certainly not suited to the running of an organised practice. Preferring to get up very early, he asked Alf whether he could start work at six o’clock every morning and finish at three in the afternoon – a request which was not granted. He also had a habit of disappearing from the practice for long periods without anyone knowing where he was. He infuriated Donald by cooking large quantities of foul-smelling tripe for his badgers in the flat above the surgery, while foxes running around the garden and owls flying down the corridor of 23 Kirkgate did little to improve his employer’s mood!

The practice cars had a rough time under Brian’s usage. Not only did he test the engines to their limits as he flew from call to call, but his badgers created havoc in the back seats which virtually ceased to exist after a week or two. He returned one day with one front wing of the car completely missing. When he saw the look of horror on Alf’s face, he broke into a smile and said, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Wight. I was hoping that perhaps you wouldn’t notice it!’ Brian’s abundance of charm meant that he always got away with it.

Despite these local difficulties, Alf was very fond of him and had mixed feelings when he eventually left in November 1958. Alf already had a highly unusual colleague in Donald Sinclair and, much as he admired Brian, the presence of two of them in the same practice had been very demanding. Nevertheless, it was a sad day for Alf when Brian left to take a job in Halifax, Nova Scotia. He had been one of the most interesting and popular veterinary surgeons to grace the practice – another unforgettable character to be imprinted forever in the mind of the future James Herriot.

Brian Nettleton may have upset Donald with his erratic lifestyle but the senior partner, in turn, tested the patience of a whole host of assistants who worked for him.

Donald was a man of unusually limited patience. His being incapable of remaining on the telephone for long, made it nigh on impossible for clients to convey their full message. Veterinary surgeons know all too well the frustration of having to listen to long monologues issuing from the earpiece. Donald had a very simple solution. Upon tiring of the conversation, which he invariably did very quickly, he would simply say, very gently, and in the politest of voices, ‘Goodbye!’ This invariably resulted in the assistant’s arrival at the farm without some essential equipment to do a job that Donald had failed to note during the swiftest of telephone calls. A loud ‘ear bashing’ for the unfortunate young vet invariably followed.

Whilst he was always polite to the clients, he was not so courteous to members of his family. His brother, Brian, once told Alf that he had had the misfortune to telephone Donald when he was watching his favourite television programme.

Donald, as usual, had seized the telephone before it had had the chance to ring fully. The conversation had been brief.

‘206! Who’s there?’

‘Brian.’

‘ Dad’s Army’son!’ The receiver was banged down.

Another of his habits, when in the mood, was that of taking on a huge number of calls. Despite protestations from his colleagues, he assured them that he would complete them all. He, of course, did not and the assistant on call would have to mop up Donald’s remaining visits during the evening.