Hannah Wight was as musical as Pop. She and her husband were members of the Glasgow Society of Musicians, performing regularly at concerts in the city. He was the accompanist on the piano while she sang in the choir as a contralto under her maiden name, calling herself ‘Miss Anna Bell’. The extra money they earned while performing with this professional organisation must have been a welcome addition to the family budget.

The mid 1920s was a particularly worrying period and parts of Glasgow were grim places to be at the time of the General Strike in 1926. Soldiers were on the streets to maintain law and order, and the windows of the buses and trams were covered in steel netting to protect them from flying missiles hurled by desperate and rebellious mobs. Pop, along with thousands of workers, was made redundant from the shipyards. As with so many others, he had to sway in the winds of depression sweeping the city as work became almost impossible to get. However, he managed to survive through sheer determination and adaptability by turning his hand to other means of earning a living – working first as a joiner and later, when Alf was a teenager, by opening a fish and chip shop. He also had the advantage of having a very resolute and resourceful wife.

Around 1928, Pop’s income from playing in the cinemas was ruthlessly cut with the advent of sound tracks which accompanied the films, but Hannah was already earning a living in her own right. Musical ability was not the only talent she possessed; she was adept at making clothes. In the mid 1920s, she set aside one of the rooms of the family home to establish a thriving dressmaking business that she would keep going for almost thirty years. She became so busy that, in the early 1930s, she employed not only several seamstresses but a maid by the name of Sadie. Hannah developed a clientele of many wealthy and influential ladies – something that would be a vital contribution to the family finances.

With two parents who ensured that there was always some money coming into the home, young Alf Wight never knew real hardship. His parents, admittedly, were under financial pressure at times, especially when Alf’s education had to be financed, but they survived the years of depression in the city far better than most. Indeed, at that time, there would be few houses in the streets of Yoker that could number a maid and a grand piano among its occupants. Although there were to be times when the spectre of poverty stared Alf in the face, it was not during his childhood days on the streets of Glasgow.

Shortly before he was five years old, Alf Wight began his education at Yoker Primary School. It was a good school and the teachers were well qualified, putting great emphasis on learning the three ‘Rs’. The headmaster was a man called Mr Malcolm – ‘Beery’ Malcolm to the children as he had a florid face that looked as though it was partial to a pint of beer. He was a Master of Arts and a fine headmaster but young Alf’s favourite teacher was Mr Paterson who taught History.

Alf loved History and all through his adult years he enjoyed reading books on historical subjects, saying they gave him a stab of excitement to know that he was reading about events that actually happened. Mr Paterson was the man who stimulated this interest through his sparkling and enthusiastic teaching methods. When describing battles, he charged up and down the rows of children, waving a huge cane and spearing his imaginary foes: Robert the Bruce cutting the English to pieces at the Battle of Bannockburn was brought vividly to life, and the laughing children loved every minute of it. Little did the young lad realise that one day many years later he, too, would bring the past alive with his account of the veterinary profession as it used to be. He was to be every bit as graphic with the pen as had been his animated teacher with his cane, leaping around the classroom all those years ago in Yoker.

Alf excelled at English but Arithmetic was a subject he could never fathom and he would stare vacantly at his classmate, Willie Crawford, who could come up with the answer to a problem within seconds. Fortunately, it was not a subject that was essential to his further education, and was one that would forever remain a deep, insoluble mystery.

Yoker School gave Alf Wight an excellent start to his education and he took away many happy memories after leaving. The greatest legacy bestowed upon Alf by his first school, however, was the meeting there of a boy who was to become his lifelong friend. Alex Taylor lived a short distance away in Kelso Street and the two boys struck up a friendship that was to last more than seventy years. Alf would have many good friendships in the course of his life, but none would stand the test of time more steadfastly than that with Alex Taylor.

One amazing character remained forever engraved on Alf’s memories of his days at Yoker School – a redoubtable individual by the name of ‘Pimple’ Wilson. This boy made a name for himself by declaring his intention to leap out of a second-storey tenement window with the sole assistance of an old umbrella. This caused immense excitement among the children and the forthcoming event was awaited with eager anticipation. The great day came, with large crowds of children, Alf and Alex among them, gathering to watch the spectacle. They were not to be disappointed. After a period of tense expectation, the hero of the hour appeared on the window ledge, his ‘parachute’ in hand, ready for action. There were a few taut moments as the boy fidgeted around on the window ledge, then suddenly, to the sound of gasps from his young audience, he sprang out of the high window, umbrella held aloft. For about one second, all went well, but his plans were to go badly wrong. The old umbrella suddenly turned inside out and, accompanied by the screaming boy, zoomed to the ground. ‘Pimple’ was taken to hospital and was soon on the mend. It had been a short but dramatic show, and was to remain Alf’s most vivid memory of his days at Yoker School.

It was, of course, long before the days of television, and Alf, Alex and the other children made their own amusements. Games played outside in the playground, going by such sophisticated names as ‘moshie’, ‘spin the pirie’ and ‘cuddie hunch’, required no expensive equipment. When not at school, they spent hours kicking a football about, while ‘Wee Alfie Wight’ often hurtled around the streets on his fairy cycle – the possession of which made him the envy of his classmates. They were happy and carefree days. Despite the poverty and desperation that stalked the streets of Glasgow during the Depression, parents had no fear for the safety of their children. How different it is today.

One of the great entertainments for the children in those days was the cinema. The whole area abounded with picture houses, with the ‘penny matinée’ one of the most popular occasions. For the princely sum of one penny, or twopence if the upstairs balcony was preferred, the youngsters could see a whole show and many a Saturday afternoon was spent watching comedy or western films. Cowboy films in those days were very popular and the children loved them despite the absence of sound tracks. A favourite hero of the Old West was a wisecracking cowboy by the name of Drag Harlin. This gunfighter did not appear on film, but was a character in some of the popular books of the day. Years later, Alf and Alex would roar with laughter as they recalled their boyhood days reading these ‘scholarly’ descriptions of life in the Old West. Alex recently recalled an example of the author’s peerless style of writing: ‘A blue-black hole appeared in the middle of his forehead. An amazed expression crossed his face as he slumped slowly to the floor!’ Such passages as these deserved, Alf once said, ‘recognition as literary classics!’

Sundays were days for going to church. During his adult life, Alf was not a regular church-goer, but in his primary school days he attended Sunday School each week. His memories of going to church in Yoker were not as vivid as those when he occasionally attended in Sunderland with his uncles and aunts. The Methodist services in those days were conducted with fiery enthusiasm. The minister would frequently be interrupted from the floor with cries of ‘Hallelujah!’ or ‘Praise the Lord!’, followed by splinter groups chanting hymns with rhythmic and deafening abandon. It was pure ‘fire and brimstone’ which young Alf found quite daunting. The services in Yoker Church were not quite so dramatic but one story he told about his Sunday School was rather more intriguing. The small children who were taken out regularly for short walks were taught to spit whenever they passed the Catholic church.