Simon McHardy

The Butcher's Family

 

 

 

'Do you have any veal?' The butcher who was engaged in the less bloody pursuits of swaddling a porcelain doll in butchers' paper and tying a piece of string to a wooden car was surprised when he looked up to see a dour, elderly woman staring expectantly at him. Business had been poor of late; the villagers of Clun, after many years of hardship, were forsaking their ancestral homes and moving to the prosperous city of Birmingham. Customers had, therefore, become increasingly infrequent and new ones uncommon.

 

The children, content with the toys' alterations, grabbed at them and dashed past the older woman, ‘What sweet children you have,’ she beamed managing to brush the girl's cheek affectionately before the child disappeared into the gloom at the back of the shop, ‘so young.’

 

‘Governess and butcher at your service, Madam,‘ the butcher saluted with a smile, his eyes drifting over a wizened face framed by tight, grey curls. ‘You’re new to the village if you don’t mind me saying so.’

 

‘I bought the old school house and moved in yesterday,' the woman explained. Her sensible attire of twin set, pearls and tweed skirt attested to her being quite familiar with the school environment.

 

‘I have a cut that might be suitable,' he answered, slicing a thin strip of flesh from a fatty piece of meat he had been tenderizing all morning and offering it to the old woman to inspect; there was no demand in Clun for anything but the meanest piece of stew- pot meat. The old woman reached out and delicately took the shred of flesh, eyed it sceptically, sniffed it, then nibbled the end.

 

‘In Clun brisket from the toughest old bull passes as veal I see,' she shuddered and dabbed a droplet of blood from her lip with a handkerchief withdrawn from her handbag. ‘It’s a pity, I would have purchased all you have and I pay handsomely,’ she advised, opening her purse to reveal a wad of large bank notes.

 

The butcher was pensive for some time before whispering conspiratorially, ‘I keep a special cut of veal out the back for my more discerning customers.' The old woman smiled, nodding her head in approval.

 

The butcher followed the sound of his children playing and found them in a store room. His daughter was singing softly to the porcelain doll swaddled in butcher’s paper and his son, a whirl of movement, was trailing his wooden car behind him. ‘Come and help me in the chill room, Benjamin,’ the butcher ordered offering his hand to the boy; the child hesitated momentarily, torn between his father's request and the wooden car, before accepting his father’s hand and disappearing into the chill room.

 

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‘It’s still warm,' the old woman crooned hugging the large brown paper package. The butcher, relieved of his burden, turned to the sink and began washing his hands, ‘I’ll be back in week.’ The butcher did not respond he was staring at the water in the basin; it had turned a light shade of pink. When he at last turned to reply the old woman was gone; a bundle of bank notes on the counter fluttered in the breeze from the open shop door.

 

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As she had promised the old woman returned; she came in from the rain and stood in the middle of the shop, a growing puddle of water forming under her feet. ‘Good afternoon,’ she said greeting the butcher.

 

‘Good Afternoon, Madam,’ he replied, 'I trust the meat was to your satisfaction.’

 

‘Among the best I have had, it’s not often I get meat so tender and young. In fact I’ve returned for some more,’ she enthused.

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you but that was all I had, it is not something I’ve had much demand for in these dire times.’

 

‘I see,’ the old woman said slowly, ‘would this help you to procure some more?’ She opened her handbag and retrieved a thick roll of bank notes.

 

The butcher was momentarily taken back by the large sum of money on offer, ‘I’ll see what I can do', he said at last, retreating into the gloom at the back of the shop where he sat beside his young daughter who had made herself comfortable with her doll in a nest of cotton sacks. ‘I need you to help me in the chill room, Ester,’ he whispered.

 

‘Can I bring my doll?’ she pleaded standing up.

 

‘Of course,’ the butcher replied. In the dim light he could see a smile spread across her face, then laughing, she ran ahead of him and with all the strength in her little arms pushed the heavy door open into the chill room. 

 

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The parcel was larger this time and from one of the corners dripped rich, red blood. The old woman dabbed at it with her little finger, her grey tongue licking at the crimson beads in long, thirsty strokes as the butcher carefully placed the package in her shopping cart. ‘You have outdone yourself this time,’ she murmured, pressing the bundle of money into the butcher’s hand, ‘I’ll be back next week.’

 

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‘Isn’t it awful,’ the woman looked very flustered as she sidled up to the old woman outside the butcher's shop and grasped her arm firmly, ‘we have never had anything like this happen in the village before, whatever must you think of us,' she stammered.

There was a growing sense of commotion; several villagers were standing around talking to one another in hushed tones and one man who was retching violently in a bush was being consoled by another.

 

‘What’s happened, dear?’ the old woman queried.

 

'Don’t you know?’ The woman took a deep breath and blurted out, 'It’s the butcher, he was seen dragging Lucy Mook’s son back to his shop and when the constable arrived to confront him he found that the poor boy had already been strung up and bled, and what's more they found the bones of other children, he's been feeding us with meat from children.’  

 

'What a pity,' the old woman sighed. 'His meat tasted just like that which my father brought home every night.’ She turned to walk away but reconsidered. ‘Is the butcher's shop still open, do you know? He may have made up my order before the constable arrived.'

 

 

 

Simon McHardy is an archivist and historian from Queensland, Australia. His fiction has appeared in Cyclopean ezine, 9 Tales Told in the Dark, Devolution Z, Five of the Fifth, Jitter and Burial Day Books. When he isn’t ‘thighbone- deep in sumptuous dust’ Simon writes under the watchful eyes of his cats.