When the history of the city of Glasgow is considered, the spectacle of small children spitting at a church should come as no surprise. Glasgow has had a strong Irish-Catholic population since the middle of the nineteenth century when thousands poured into the city to find work during the boom years. This resulted in Glasgow becoming a city split by religious beliefs, and feelings could run high. In Alf’s day (and still now) you were either a ‘Proddy’ or a ‘Papist’ in parts of Glasgow and, along with his friends, young Alfie Wight, the little Protestant, was instructed by his teacher to vent his feelings against the Catholic enemy. Fortunately, this sectarian dogma failed to establish a hold over young Alf, and he grew up to be a most fair-minded and tolerant man who could never understand the hatred engendered by these strong beliefs.

Life at Yoker School prepared Alf well for the next step in his education. Most of his schoolmates went on to government-maintained secondary schools – including Alex Taylor who went to Victoria Drive School – but Alf’s mother had other ideas. She wanted the very best for her son and decreed that he would go to one of the foremost fee-paying schools in Glasgow. Alf obtained the grades necessary for his secondary education and on 3 September 1928, he travelled three miles into the city to the leafy suburb of Hillhead where he walked, for the first time, through the doors of Hillhead High School.

CHAPTER TWO

At the time of Alf’s admission, Hillhead High School had an excellent reputation, and there was strong competition for places. Alf found himself mixing with many pupils who came from more affluent homes than his own in Yoker. This did not worry him. For the next five years he played his part in applying himself diligently to his work, as his parents played theirs in meeting the school fees and providing a stable family background.

These were difficult times for Pop. Having been made redundant from the shipyards, he was still playing in cinemas and theatres in the city, as well as working as a joiner but his income was certainly not enough to support his family and meet the school fees of around £2–10s per term. Alf, who loved his father dearly, would later reminisce about those days in Glasgow. ‘It was a great struggle at that time for poor old Pop,’ he said. ‘He was bouncing in and out of jobs, with absolutely no guarantee of security in any one of them, but he always held down a job of some sort.’

Although Pop was rarely out of work, it was Hannah, through her thriving dressmaking business, complemented by giving some piano and singing lessons, who was largely responsible for keeping the family finances afloat. Alf Wight was never to forget the support he received from his parents throughout his eleven years of education in Glasgow.

The building in Cecil Street in which he began his secondary education was a solid, but dour, four-storey building within which was a maze of small, overcrowded classrooms. The problems presented by this lack of space, in a school with more than 600 pupils, resulted in its moving, in September 1931, to another building a short distance away in Oakfield Avenue. Here Alf spent the final two years of his time at Hillhead. In the summer of 1997, I visited my father’s old school. No longer a fee-paying school, it is now run by the Education Department of Glasgow City Council, but this austere red brick building has hardly changed in appearance from Alf’s days there. Inside, the classrooms are still arranged exactly as they were, alongside the once-icy corridors he strode as a boy. The present headmaster, Ken Cunningham, told me that the school was very aware of its connection with James Herriot but, although he enjoyed his time there, Alf rarely referred to his days at Hillhead. Perhaps those days of intense study, combined with iron discipline, did not leave such lasting memories as other more flamboyant periods of his life.

It was during his years at Hillhead, however, that the young Alf Wight was to develop qualities he would carry with him throughout his life – diligence and ambition, together with a love of literature, sport and music. Above all, he acquired attributes that would be the hall-mark of the father I knew – a keen interest in a wide variety of subjects, enthusiasm for everything he did, and a great appreciation of any good fortune that would come his way.

He always assured us that he was a poor pupil, but his school reports tell a different story. His final leaving report is marked ‘excellent’ for progress, diligence and conduct. His three best subjects were English, French and Latin, with the dreaded Maths trailing far behind. He was well taught. Hillhead, under the headmaster Frank Beaumont, had a reputation for academic excellence backed up by strong discipline. Corporal punishment, so frowned upon today, was a very effective means of maintaining law and order; the school motto was Je maintiendrai, ‘I will maintain’. The trusted ally of the teachers in upholding discipline was the belt, and Alf was on the receiving end of it many times. This is one part of his life at school that Alf remembered well. One of his teachers, ‘Big Bill’ Barclay, one whom he remembered better than any, commanded great respect through his physical presence as well as his teaching ability. He did not need to use the belt too often but when he did it was an occasion to be remembered. Some of the teachers would use the belt without hesitation – the slightest misdemeanour being punished with up to six lashes across the hands and wrists. Three thongs at the end of the thick leather strap ensured that there was a thorough distribution of pain.

Alf received a nasty surprise one day when Mr Filshie, his Maths master, expressed displeasure at his pupil’s performance. Alf had achieved the remarkable total of 5% in a trigonometry exam and was about to be punished. He recalled this painful incident in his contribution to the Hillhead High School Centenary Year Magazine in 1985.

‘Wight,’ said Mr Filshie ominously, ‘I have always thought that you were just an amiable idiot and have treated you accordingly, but now that I see you have come out top of the class in your English paper, I can only conclude that you have not been trying for me. Hold out your hands!’

Although doing nothing to improve Alf’s Maths, this painful means of maintaining control worked and there was a record of excellent discipline within the school. It was this, perhaps, that stimulated the young Alf Wight to keep, for the first time, a diary.

One of the most intriguing aspects of James Herriot’s writing was his ability to reproduce incidents that occurred many years before. His attention to detail is so authentic that one would be forgiven for thinking that they happened only yesterday. Many people, when discussing his work, assumed that he meticulously kept diaries to which he referred when he began writing in earnest. Alf often stated, in his many interviews with the media, that he did not keep a diary and that he could remember the old days clearly, right down to the smallest detail. Despite these assertions, he was widely disbelieved, but, in fact, Alfred Wight was not quite the organised and methodical man that many believed him to be. Apart from two brief periods in his life, he did not keep a diary but he was a great observer, especially of anything that interested him, and had an excellent photographic memory. The fascinating vagaries of human nature and the humorous incidents that unfolded before his eyes remained firmly in his mind; this, combined with his gift as a writer, provided a recipe for success.

The first time he kept a diary was from 1933 until 1935 – during his last year at Hillhead School and his first two years at Glasgow Veterinary College. His mother preserved these old diaries, and they have provided an insight into the enthusiastic approach to life that Alf exhibited as a young man.