When it was over, Walsh went down for a cup of tea. He felt as though somebody had drained a few pints of blood from him and realised that, for the first time in his life, he had had contact with an overwhelming personality.
One of Alf’s clearest memories of Professor Emslie was that of his picking on certain students he thought (or should one say, knew) were shirking. There were few of his lectures that were not enlivened by a human sacrifice with one of his choice victims, a student called George Pettigrew. On one occasion, while discussing the family of bacteria known as the Clostridia, the Professor decided to have a little sport. He began benignly. ‘We now come to rather an abstruse point, gentlemen, so perhaps we had better consult one of our more advanced and enlightened students. Now, who shall it be?’ The black eyes darted among the silent students, finally coming to rest on the quivering figure of Pettigrew. ‘Ah yes, of course, Pettigrew!’ The student responded by sitting bolt upright and staring straight at his tormentor.
Professor Emslie’s attack began quietly. ‘Mr Pettigrew, perhaps you would be so kind as to tell us the sequence of events following upon the invasion of a tissue by Clostridium Septique.’
‘A gas is formed, sir,’ answered the student swiftly, a thin film of sweat upon his brow.
An agonised silence followed. Everyone had feared that Pettigrew’s reply would be an inadequate one. The silence deepened. The professor slowly shook his head from side to side before quietly beginning to speak. ‘A gas is formed … A gas is formed? A GAS IS FORMED?’ he suddenly shouted, rounding on the cowering Pettigrew, jabbing his finger almost into his face. ‘Yes, damn you, you useless clown! Every time you open your mouth, that is what happens, A GAS IS FORMED!’
Pettigrew was not the only one to feel the lashing tongue of Professor Emslie. The inadequacy of the entire class was ruthlessly exposed until finally, as abruptly as it had exploded, the voice returned to ominous normality. Alf could never help feeling that somewhere along the line the stage had lost a great tragedian, Emslie’s ability to switch from berserk rage to glacial calm particularly impressing him.
Professor Emslie was not just a frightening character. He was also a man of mystery which added to the sense of awe in which he was held by the students. Not one of them ever saw him either arrive at or leave the college; how did he get in and out of the building? Various interesting theories arose. One student claimed to have seen him flash through the wall of the Pathology lab leaving a strong smell of brimstone behind him. Another was positive he had seen him with a briefcase and a bowler hat emerging from a hole at the bottom of Buccleuch Street. Yet another was convinced that he flew into the college down one of the chimney pots.
This extraordinary man was certainly feared by the students but, above all, he was respected – and he was a good teacher. Always having considered the professor to be a fair man, Alf actually grew to like him. Those who worked diligently were treated accordingly.
In July 1938, Alf scraped through his professional Parasitology exam but he failed Pathology, achieving only a mark of 40%. He re-sat Pathology in December 1938, passing with 49%. He certainly had not distinguished himself in the subject and, upon graduating one year later, he did not expect a glowing report from Professor Emslie. All the teachers had a dossier on their pupils which could be read by them on graduation day and Alf Wight was not looking forward to Emslie’s considered opinion of him. He received a pleasant surprise.
‘Wight, James Alfred. Lacking in brilliance but showed a perception of the subject which I personally found rewarding. A pleasant-mannered, likeable boy of transparent integrity.’
Alf did mention that he occasionally considered writing about his days at the Glasgow Veterinary College and, had he done so, I suspect that Professor Muldoon – a man about whom he spoke more than any other when recalling his student days – would have become another character to stand alongside Siegfried, Tristan and all those other famous creatures great and small.
CHAPTER FIVE
During Alf’s time at the Glasgow Veterinary College, the classes were in a continual state of flux, with students failing their exams with monotonous regularity and sliding backwards, while other more dedicated students forged ahead. There is little wonder that the faces of his colleagues in his final few years bore little resemblance to his first year at the college. Some had given up altogether while others were lodged down the ladder, either desperately trying to make some progress or just happily playing cards in the college common-room.
During his school years at Hillhead, Alf had made friends but none with whom he would keep in close touch after he left. His years at the Glasgow Veterinary College, however, provided him with friendships that he would never forget. Unlike school, where the pupils had been helped along their way with excellent teaching and strong discipline, the students at the college held their destiny very much in their own hands. This generated an intense feeling of comradeship within the bleak old building in Buccleuch Street.
Alf’s closest friend at the college was a good-looking, open-faced young man called Aubrey Melville, an ebullient character who rarely missed a good night out and was frequently accompanied by a pretty girl and a laughing crowd. He epitomised the sort of flamboyant, extrovert character Alf was pitched amongst at the start of his veterinary career.
Two of Alf’s friends had to raise the funds for their beer money in rather different ways. Andy Flynn bolstered his financial state by playing in an orchestra – although it was to no avail since he failed his veterinary exams time and again before giving up altogether – while Pat O’Reilly relied on gambling at the dog tracks in the city; he too failed a huge number of exams but eventually qualified. There was Dominic Boyce who, when drunk, invariably resorted to solitary singing, just like the renowned ‘back court singers’, Jimmy Steele, a born entertainer and storyteller, and Bob ‘Ginger’ Smith who played alongside Alf in the college football team.
There was one college friend, however, who would come in and out of Alf Wight’s life more than any other. His name was Eddie Straiton – a small, compact, dark-haired man who came from Clydebank, a district very close to Alf’s home in Yoker. Eddie was a fitness fanatic and possessed incredible energy. He was a dedicated and very able student who achieved high academic results at the veterinary college through sheer hard work. Although neither a smoker nor a drinker, he participated fully in the many wild nights that the students enjoyed. Large quantities of alcohol were consumed on these occasions and Alex Taylor, who sometimes joined Alf among his veterinary friends, remembers Eddie standing beside the sinks in the toilets as the swaying students lined up to be sick, methodically twirling his fingers around the plug-hole to disperse the stomach contents of the last ‘customer’. After cleaning the sink to his satisfaction, he would shout, ‘Next please!’ Business was always brisk.
Eddie played in the college football team alongside Alf, and his energy on the field was legendary; he just ran and ran. At the end of the game, in contrast to his hard-drinking, heavy-smoking team mates, he appeared to be totally unaffected by the exercise. He was to carry this incredible vitality with him throughout his entire life. Alf and Eddie were good friends at veterinary college and this friendship continued long after they both bade farewell to Glasgow. In the years to come, Eddie would, many times, cross the path of both Alfred Wight, the veterinary surgeon, and James Herriot, the world-famous author.