On 18 August, while we were still in the Dales, my A-level examination results were due. My father had worried for weeks about these, knowing that, should I fail, I would not gain admission to Glasgow University. The tension was high as I telephoned from the Moorcock Inn at Garsdale Head for my results.

The headmaster, Steve King, gave me the news. I had done better than I could ever have expected and I recall the joy on my father’s face as we celebrated over a pint or two at the inn. Never again would he worry about his children’s education. Later, Rosie went on to do even better and was offered a place at both Oxford and Cambridge Universities. Thirsk School had done us proud.

After that walking holiday in the Dales, Alf’s recovery gained momentum. He would remain a private man for the rest of his life but rarely would he allow his emotions to get the better of him. He had been in a very dark place and had emerged from it a wiser man. When he looked back on those bad days, he realised that there had been little to really worry about. His family’s health and his financial status had been sound, while the practice had been thriving without any dark clouds to obscure the future. Realising that he should have confided in us more, he became a Samaritan in the mid 1960s, spending many hours just listening to other people, allowing them to unload their worries onto him. It was something he, himself, should have done many years earlier.

People had helped him through his illness. My mother with her unflinching support, Eddie Straiton with his wonderful gesture of friendship and, in our own way, my sister and I in doing well at school and alleviating his fears; but one man deserves most of the credit – Alfred Wight himself.

It would have been easy to give up work but he refused to do so. He had hardly a single day off, labouring valiantly throughout what must have been a terrible time. I have always felt great admiration for the way that he fought his illness and beat it. There were days, towards the end of 1960, when we feared that he would never recover, but he did.

In the years ahead, there would be periods which were to provide him with real cause for concern, but he had learned a lesson. Never again would he allow his inner feelings to tear him apart.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

It was fortunate that Alf had emerged from his illness a stronger man. In the years following his recovery, there was plenty to occupy his mind, with many demands upon his financial status. Not only was the gradual replacement of grass fields by arable land continuing, but the remaining stock farmers were becoming more knowledgeable, with an increasing number of them treating their own animals. Alf accepted this as part of the inevitable march of progress within the farming industry but, with small animal work still very much regarded as a sideline, it spelt a reduced cash flow coming in to the business.

The practice continued to be busy, and his income remained one worthy of his professional standing, but there was still plenty for him to worry about.

One stress-factor in running the practice was the job of keeping a ‘weather eye’ on the performance of the young assistants. Donald and Alf always liked to employ new graduates; they emerged from the veterinary schools full of up-to-date information which they could impart to the two partners who, in return, could mould the young men into the ways of the practice, giving them the invaluable practical experience of working with two men who had learned a great deal over the years.

The acquisition of knowledge is not in itself enough to equip a person for a life in practice; a willingness to learn, and a liberal dash of common sense are vital qualities for a successful veterinary surgeon. Most of the young graduates adapted very quickly to their new life but there were a few who found it difficult.

There was always a good-humoured atmosphere at 23 Kirkgate which, most importantly, provided a happy environment for the young vets starting out on their new careers. The two partners had a list of ‘rules’ which they imparted to every assistant; although given very much with the tongue in the cheek, each one contained a grain of common sense.

In my student days of the early 1960s, I remember Donald taking me round the farms, expounding his Golden Rules. I can hear his voice as though he were sitting beside me.

‘Always attend! I don’t care if a farmer rings in the middle of the night for a visit to an animal that has been ill for six weeks, you will attend!’ Donald, of course, was very rarely the one who was asked to do so.

‘Be pleasant! When asking for a bucket of warm water, say ‘please’. It’s no good trying to talk down to a Yorkshire farmer. They appreciate common courtesy like anyone else.’

‘Paint a black picture! If you say a case is going to recover, you could be in trouble if it doesn’t!’ No one was a finer exponent of this than Donald Sinclair.

‘Always do something! Never leave a farm without injecting something! Give a shot of vitamins … anything!’

‘Be positive in your approach, and give everything a name. Never say you don’t know what’s wrong!’ This may seem a little ridiculous today, but there was some logic in the rule – especially years ago when dealing with some of the older clients. ‘Don’t send that apprentice onter my farm again! ’E didn’t know what were wrong wi’t cow!’ was a cry heard more than once by Alf and Donald.

Donald finished his recitation with his final rule – one that he had, quite clearly, learned the hard way. ‘Always park with the nose of the car pointing out of the farm!’

One day, he gave some advice to an assistant who had the unenviable task of judging at a horse show. This is one of the most thankless jobs that a vet has to perform – should there be twenty contestants aspiring to win one prize, unequalled potential exists for making nineteen enemies. Donald had some sound advice for him.

‘Be positive!’ he said. ‘Be friendly but firm. Thoroughly examine every animal, and do not let anyone sway your decision. And keep the car engine running!’

Donald, quite rightly, always insisted on the adoption of a professional approach to the customer at all times. He stressed that smart attire, even though the job was a rough and dirty one, was essential. He was particularly upset when any of his employees failed to wear a tie.

I remember, one extremely hot afternoon, walking into the surgery wearing an open-necked shirt.

‘Where’s your tie, Jim?’ he snapped.

I’m sorry, Donald,’ I replied. ‘I’ve left it in the car.’

‘I want you to wear a tie!’ Donald said. He began to walk towards the door before suddenly stopping and pointing at me. ‘You’re a disgrace to the profession!’

These ‘rules’, light-hearted examples of the ‘art’ of veterinary practice, were something Alf had learned from the earliest stages of his career, but there was another art that he developed after his recovery from depression, that of learning how to relax.

Having always regarded lunch as the most important meal of the day, no matter how hard he was working, he usually found the time to enjoy it. It was during this daily break from work that he developed the art of ‘cat napping’. In my working years of living with my parents, in the late 1960s and early 1970s, I watched him sit down after his lunch, close his eyes and fall, almost instantaneously, into a deep sleep that rarely lasted for more than ten minutes. He assured me that he awoke refreshed for the afternoon’s activities, adding that some of the great men of history – among them, Winston Churchill – had shared this ability to snatch refreshing sleep in the middle of the day.

Above all, at that time of his life, he was a man more at ease with himself. Realising that, only a few years previously, he had been close to suffering a total, irreversible collapse, he could now see everything in perspective. His life in veterinary practice was by no means an easy one, but he was now able, more than ever before, to count his blessings.