On the relevant page of this manuscript, Brian’s unmistakable scrawl is next to my father’s description of the incident. It reads: ‘He said, “You bloody fool! You’re sacked!” ’
When Brian returned from Glasgow on that day in December 1940 to break the news to his brother that he had failed Pathology and only ‘done all right’ in Parasitology, he received the verbal battering from Donald that he was expecting. Brian’s fun-loving and carefree approach to life continued unabated despite suffering considerable discomfort while under the lash from Donald who treated him at times with complete disdain.
Alf remembered seeing a curt message on the mantelpiece once that simply read, ‘Brian! Go home! Donald.’ On another occasion, Alf and Brian walked into the kitchen one morning where Donald was frying three eggs for breakfast. He turned casually to his brother with the words, ‘ Youregg’s broken!’
Shortly after meeting Brian Sinclair for the first time, Alf began to wonder what his contribution would be towards the running of the practice. Donald, who tried repeatedly and unsuccessfully to instil the work ethic into his young brother, took it out on Brian by giving him all the worst deals that were going. It soon became clear that he was a factotum – somebody who was supposed to dispense and deliver medicines, wash the cars, dig the garden, answer the phone, keep the books and even, in an emergency, go to a case.
At least, this was how Donald saw his function, but Brian had other ideas. He devoted his whole time to enjoying himself, regarding all kinds of physical activity with abhorrence; in fact, his whole life seemed to be geared to the cause of doing as little as possible. This, he largely achieved – spending many long and happy hours sitting in a chair doing crosswords, smoking interminable numbers of Woodbines, or simply snoozing peacefully. He was rousted into activity by his brother on occasion but, by and large, Brian had a pretty easy time in the old house. When not reclining in his favourite chair, he could be found conversing effortlessly in the local public houses or carrying out practical jokes on anyone who was unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity at the time. This frequently happened to be Alf and very few weeks went by without his being the victim of one or two mischievous pranks.
Brian, who could imitate a wide range of different voices, frequently brought beads of perspiration to Alf’s brow as he mimicked farmers calling him out to horrendous cases – always, of course, on a dark and filthy night. Alf never forgot the classic call from a farmer with the rough Yorkshire voice growling down the phone. ‘Is that t’vitinry? This is Keel, Hesketh Grange. I ’ave a big ’oss as wants stitchin’ up. Cut ’isself right bad on’t back leg. ’E’s a nasty devil an’ all!’ Brian allowed Alf to sweat a while before laughingly revealing his true identity.
Many times, Alf would attempt to turn the tables on Brian. He would go to great lengths to disguise his voice, ringing him at all hours of the day or night, but the young joker was almost invariably too clever for him. One night, having just returned home from a late call, Alf received one of the worst frights of his life. There was a bright moon shining into his bedroom and, as he started to undress he saw, to his horror, the naked figure of a man silhouetted against the window. The moonlight shining behind the apparition added to the terrifying effect.
‘Who, in God’s name, is that?’ he croaked, his heart thumping wildly.
The figure took an eternity to reply. Eventually, there was a sinister and sepulchral response, ‘B-r-i-a-n!’
It is surprising that the young Alf Wight managed to carry out his daily work with such a prankster at large, but he was not the only one to feel the sharp sting of Brian’s many jokes. Although renowned for his ability to exist happily doing nothing, Brian could throw his heart and soul into anything that interested him, and he certainly put everything into developing the reputation of the ‘Pannal Ghost’.
This eerie figure, clothed in white sheets, was famous at the time and on moonlit nights could be seen gliding across the road at the top of Pannal Bank near Harrogate. Terrified motorists would perform lightning U-turns in the road before speeding away in the opposite direction – to the glee of the laughing ghost, none other than Brian himself.
One night, however, two motorcyclists, rather than fleeing, decided to give chase. This unexpected turn of events, which took the ghost completely by surprise, resulted in his taking off at high speed over a succession of ploughed fields with the motorcyclists in hot pursuit. Unused as he was to hard physical exercise, this desperate chase – in which he was encumbered by yards of flapping white material – was a most disagreeable experience. He made his escape by hiding in a huge drainage pipe that stank of tom cats, and it was while he was lying trembling in his refuge, with an icy wind screaming down the pipe, that he came to a firm decision: the ‘Pannal Ghost’ would be seen no more.
One of the chapters in Let Sleeping Vets Lieis about the ‘Raynes Ghost’, and is based on this incident.
Brian had a repertoire of party tricks which, when in the mood, he would perform with wild abandon. His favourite was the ‘Mad Conductor’ – also well described in one of the Herriot books – but another, that was not so well known but equally dramatic, was his imitation of ‘Donald drinking the Universal Cattle Medicine’. Alf would often recall this incident as a prime example of the erratic behaviour of his senior partner.
When returning late from a call one evening, Alf was walking down the long garden behind 23 Kirkgate. It was very dark, the rain was pouring down, and he was just about to enter the house when he heard a soft rustling from the bed of nasturtiums at the side of the path. On closer inspection, he saw in the dim light what appeared to be a pile of sacking. As he tentatively poked it with his shoe, the shadowy mass twitched and groaned. Something, or someone, was deep in the flower bed.
‘Who on earth is that?’ he asked, peering down at the shapeless heap. There was a moment of silence save for the drumming of the rain. There then followed another groan as the mysterious form began to writhe in the darkness.
At this point, the door burst open and Brian appeared. ‘Thank goodness you’re back, Alf,’ he said. ‘Give me a hand and let’s get him inside!’
‘Who?’
‘Donald!’
‘Donald?’The mysterious heap was none other than his senior partner. ‘What the devil is wrong with him?’ he asked. ‘He sounds as though he is dying!’
‘He deserves to!’ went on Brian. ‘He has just swigged about half a bottle of Universal Cattle Medicine.’
Brian was laughing but Alf was more than a little alarmed. He could hardly believe his ears. Universal Cattle Medicine (U.C.M.) was a savage concoction that was used to combat a wide range of bovine diseases and supposedly had stimulant properties. It consisted, among other things, of arsenic and ammonia, with the dose for a large cow, about two dessertspoonfuls. It was a brave man who sniffed the top of the bottle, let alone sampled its contents. Cows, on being drenched with this mixture, coughed and spluttered for several minutes, but it seemed to work in many cases. This venerable liquid was indicated to be for the treatment of ‘coughs, chills, scours, pneumonia, milk fever, garget, and all forms of indigestion’. Whenever the veterinary surgeon was mystified by a case, there was always good old U.C.M. to fall back on. The early practice ledgers are full of references to it; Sinclair and Wight sold gallons of the stuff.
It was a stimulant, without doubt, and it had certainly stimulated Donald Sinclair. The two men carted him inside and laid him on the sofa in the living-room. Brian then gave Alf an account of what had happened.