J. J. McDowall was a small, red-faced man whose rich, imposing voice and impressive moustache bestowed a military air upon him. His florid complexion owed much to a regular consumption of alcohol and he never missed an opportunity of a good night out provided it was liberally laced with drink. Mac was only one of countless veterinary surgeons in Alf Wight’s day who jousted on the frontiers of alcoholism. There is no doubt that, at the end of a hard day, the world becomes far more attractive after one or two drinks, but many of his colleagues turned this pleasant antidote to the day’s labours into a crusade. Tales of the hard-drinking vets of that time are legion and Alf was to spend many hours with them, both at work and at play.
In a letter in which he describes a night out with Mr and Mrs McDowall, he refers to Mac’s weakness for the bottle: ‘The “do” was held at the Rink which, as you know, is an unlicensed premises, so I wondered how Mrs McD had persuaded Mac to go. However, I had reason to repair to the gent’s lavatory and there found Mac with the inevitable bottle of whisky dishing out measures to his pals – various notable solicitors, Rotarians etc, all in their tails.’
Alf was to appreciate the fragility of his position only too soon. In mid January, less than two weeks after he had arrived in Sunderland, he received the news he had been dreading. Mac had been informed that the greyhound stadium was faced with closure and he had no alternative but to advise his young colleague to look elsewhere for a job as he could no longer afford to employ him.
This news marked a grim period in Alf’s life. He heard there was a job in Guisborough, a town on the edge of the North York Moors about twenty-five miles south of Sunderland; he applied at once but was turned down. With no money and little prospect of a job, he began to wonder seriously whether he had made the right decision in becoming a veterinary surgeon. He felt pitched into the same hapless situation facing so many of his college friends – no job, no prospects and no money. A letter to his parents dated 14 January 1940 gives an insight into the parlous situation facing the young veterinary surgeons of the day.
My dear Mother and Dad,
I’m afraid I have some bad news and I may as well get it over with. I don’t get the job at Guisborough. McDonald, the vet there, received an application from a man from Skye and as he is from Skye himself that was that. Don’t be too despondent about this; it’s a big disappointment but remember that fellows like me are being turned down all over the country. Mac’s ill and won’t be up for another few days so I’ll be OK for another week’s pay, but after that, what?
If it’s all the same to you folks I think it would be better if I stayed on here even though I get no more pay. You see, I get free driving practice, I’m in touch with veterinary affairs and, most important of all, I would get no chance to get rusty and stale as I would at home with nowt to do. Here, I’m learning every day and there is just a chance that Mac might slip me something now and again towards my board. Don’t be too upset about the job, something may turn up.
As to recreation, I have had none and haven’t seen any of my friends and relatives. I get home just in time for a game of cards with George and then early to bed. Mac hasn’t given me my pay yet but he slipped me a quid on account at the beginning of the week so I was able to get Auntie Jinny a bottle of lavender water for her birthday.
Love Alf
P.S. Feeling fine!
Alf did not want to worry his parents but he was, in fact, far from fine. The painful effects of the operation on the anal fistula in Glasgow the previous year had shown a stubborn reluctance to abate, with the result that he suffered constant discomfort and at times he endured excruciating agony. The effects of the ‘old fist’, a term he frequently used when referring to his omnipresent affliction, were so severe while he was in Sunderland that there were days when he wanted to ‘just lie down and die’. Those very first days of his professional career – ones that should have been full of excitement and optimism – were actually some of the darkest of his life.
A mere ten days later, however, his fortunes took a sudden turn for the better. Mac, after being drawn into consultation with the National Greyhound Racing Board over the future of the South Shields Stadium, was offered the job of veterinary adviser at the track, part of a team set up to revitalise the stadium. He could now afford to keep Alf on as his assistant with, as the icing on the cake, a salary soaring to £4 4s per week. To add to this upturn in his fortunes, Alf passed his driving test at the end of January. Fate was smiling once again on the young man.
After that turbulent beginning to his first professional job, Alf felt determined to make the best of his time in Sunderland by learning as much as he could. This he certainly did, and it was here that he received a lesson in the ‘art’ of veterinary practice which would remain with him forever.
One morning, after a hard night on the town, Mac was feeling particularly delicate. His blotchy face and bloodshot eyes were evidence that his system had received another searching examination. There was a call to a calving and Mac was in no mood for a trial of strength in an icy cow byre. He looked blearily at his young colleague. ‘Fred,’ he said, ‘there’s a cow calving over at Horden. They’ve been trying to calve her for over two hours and they’re beat. Just slip over and do it, will you?’
Alf, eager to impress, set off in his rattly old car. He arrived at the farm to find a pair of dejected-looking farmers standing beside a cow. There was no sign that she was calving save for a few inches of a small tail hanging from her vulva. Alf removed his shirt, soaped his arms thoroughly, and gently inserted a hand into the cow’s vagina. He soon discovered that the calf was abnormally presented. It was coming backwards with the legs folded underneath, its rump blocking the birth canal. This presentation – known as a ‘breech’ – can be tricky, but the young vet had done one or two as a student. He was going to enjoy this; here was a chance to create a really good impression.
Working quickly and smoothly, he produced a live calf within fifteen minutes, followed by another five minutes later. It was a job well done but there were no words of gratitude from the farmers, no pats on the back with a cry of ‘Well done, young man!’ He received only a stony silence and a terse wave of farewell.
When he got back to the practice, he went to find Mac. ‘They’re a miserable lot out there, Mac,’ he said, recounting the morning’s work. ‘What do I have to do to please them? If I’d conjured up a few more calves they still wouldn’t have been happy.’
Mac had had a while to recover from the previous evening’s festivities and was feeling chirpier. He thought for a while and stroked his moustache. Then he looked at his unhappy young colleague. ‘Well done, Fred!’ he barked. ‘Don’t worry, you’ve done a good job – but tell me, how long did you take to produce those two calves? About fifteen to twenty minutes, you say?’
‘Yes,’ Alf replied. ‘It was a good fast job although I say it myself.’
Mac thought for a moment. ‘Do you know what I think, Fred? You got ’em out a bit too quick!’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You just think about this. Those two farmers have been struggling on for two hours or more and you come along and the whole show is over in a few minutes! It makes them look a bit stupid! And another thing. They’re paying us good money to calve that cow and you have made it all look a bit too simple! If I had been there, I would have made the job appear very difficult. I would have shown them that they were getting their money’s worth. Never make a job look too easy, Fred.’