I hardly remember Frank Bingham, since I was only eight years old at the time of his death in 1951, but I do have a recollection of a visit to a café in the Dales shortly after he died. The waitress was none other than Emmy Bingham who was working there to earn a little extra money. My father, deeply upset to learn of her financial misfortune, could not finish his food. He was unable to come to terms with the situation of being waited on by the lady who had been so kind to him during those first years in the Yorkshire Dales.
It was not unusual in those days for veterinary surgeons to die leaving their wives in penury. They worked so hard that survival was a priority, with thoughts of pensions and insurance policies hardly crossing their minds. In due course, the profession became aware of the number of veterinarians’ families who were struggling financially, and a fund known as the Veterinary Benevolent Fund was established, its aim being to provide such families with assistance. Alf Wight contributed generously to this fund during the years when he was making money as a writer, but he was in no situation to help Emmy Bingham all those years ago, at a time when he, himself, had to account for every penny.
During those first four months in Thirsk, the practice was fully stretched. He wrote to his parents about the kind of life he was leading.
Dear Folks,
I’ve been trying to find time to write for ages but just recently I have been working harder than I’ve ever done in my life. There is far too much for one man to do and, frankly, I don’t know how I ever get through all the work. I’ve been rising at 6.30 am and working till dark for ages and then there’s all the writing to be done on top of that. And bills! Oh boy, I never realised how things could pile up and how much it would cost to live. I can’t believe I’ve been here for four months. Time slips past when you’re working and, apart from my weekend in Sunderland at the beginning, I’ve never had a day off, never been out with a girl, never played a game. It’s enough to age anybody!
Today, the young veterinary surgeon leads a far more civilised life, with better working facilities, an arsenal of modern drugs to combat disease, and comfortable cars to ride around in – but whether they are happier than those slaves of yesterday is debatable. The modern veterinary surgeon is beset by rules and regulations while the demands of his clients become ever more exacting. The stress associated with the job is high, both financially and emotionally, with threats of litigation lurking around every corner. Young Alf Wight worked hard, but it is likely that his unbridled, outdoor way of life, set in one of the most beautiful parts of the country, is one that is now looked on by many with more than a touch of envy.
*
Following Donald’s and Eric Parker’s departure for the Royal Air Force, a deep sense of isolation began to descend on Alf. He was not only trying to establish himself in a new job in an unfamiliar environment but, apart from Frank Bingham in Leyburn, he had no one to turn to for advice, nobody with whom to share his hopes and fears as he drove the long and lonely miles. The Yorkshire farmers did little to bolster his confidence; many had developed a great deal of faith in Donald and Eric, and few could conceal their disappointment upon beholding the unknown and inexperienced vet driving on to their farms. Never had Alf felt the need of moral support as fervently as he did during those first few weeks in Yorkshire.
It was not long before he did something about it. He suspected that his friend Eddie Straiton, having recently qualified, may not have got a job. He was right; Eddie was desperate to find some work and when Alf offered him the chance to join him in Thirsk, the young man leapt at the opportunity. Alf could not pay him but he would put a roof over his head and feed him, in return for which Eddie would be able to gain some practical experience while helping Alf in his everyday work. Eddie was doubly grateful, as he knew, when applying for jobs elsewhere, that to be able to say that he had had some weeks working in practice, would stand him in good stead.
Eddie was a great help to Alf in more ways than one. Not only was he good company during the long drives up into the wildest reaches of the Dales, but he was an able assistant. He was put to work early almost every morning as the old Ford car often needed a good push before it could be persuaded to start, but it was up on the bleak hill farms, helping to catch the animals, that Eddie came into his own. The TB Testing was tough work as the two young vets were thrown about by rough, hairy cattle who had no intention of making the job any easier. Eddie was not a big man but he was strong and fearless, and Alf had abiding memories of the small figure with the jet black hair bobbing around in a throng of angry, steaming cows and being hurled around like a cork on the ocean. Once Eddie had his fingers in a beast’s nose, he hung on like a terrier.
Many years later, Eddie Straiton would reminisce about the time he spent working with his old college friend in the hills and dales of Yorkshire. He went so far as to say that they were among the happiest weeks of his life – hard and penniless, but carefree and full of fine memories.
As well as the TB Testing in the Dales, the practice at Thirsk was always busy and it was here one evening that Alf and Eddie received a lesson in the up-and-down fortunes of the veterinary surgeon’s life that they were never to forget.
They were called to a calving at Knayton, a village near Thirsk, and arrived full of enthusiasm. A calving is a dramatic event, with success boosting a new veterinary surgeon’s reputation. On the other hand, should things turn out badly, the vet could have a mountain to climb, re-establishing his image.
Alf stripped to the waist and inserted his arm into the cow. His confidence drained away within seconds. He could feel only a large mass of hair and bone. There were no legs, no feet and no head. Was this a calf? What else could it be? He explored the mysterious depths of the cow, trying desperately to find something that was familiar, but there was only the huge hairy ball of tissue lodged firmly within the pelvis of the cow. He grappled with the nameless lump for a while longer before turning to his friend. ‘Edward, would you care to feel this for me?’
‘Certainly, Alf,’ replied Eddie, stepping forward confidently.
Alf’s expectations of a successful calving began to sink even lower as he watched the wriggling figure behind the cow, the face set in grim determination. Eddie, too, was obviously finding this a challenge. He eventually withdrew his arm and spoke.
‘I think you had better have another feel, Alf,’ he said. ‘It is a rather strange case.’
Alf resumed the struggle, his mind in a turmoil. Whatever this thing was, it was not going to come out. These were the days before Caesarean section was an option; the ‘calf’ – or whatever else it might be – had to be extracted out of the passage that nature intended. There was no other route. What was he to do? An important quality of a good veterinary surgeon is the ability to make a firm decision; it is of little use procrastinating in periods of crisis. He had to do something, and he did.
He turned to the farmer and said in as steady a voice as he could muster, ‘I am afraid that what we have here is the uncalvable cow. It could kill her to take this huge calf out of her but if you slaughter her as quickly as possible, she will dress out well and you should receive a reasonable price for her carcass.’ Such confidently spoken words belied his inwardly seething emotions.
The farmer was staring blankly at Alf when suddenly a voice broke the oppressive silence in the gloomy cow byre. ‘Ah’ll ’ave a go!’ Another man had silently drifted in to observe the proceedings, a heavy-set, lugubrious individual who had been observing the contortions of the two young men with apparent indifference. The farmer seemed agreeable, and Eddie and Alf were in no position to argue. The man rolled up his sleeves, took out an old knife and, with it carefully covered by his hand, inserted his arm in the cow’s vagina and set to work.