A Daughter's Disgrace

by Kitty Neale

  Alison nodded. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Happens to lots of people,’ said Fred. ‘You get used to the smell, you know. I’ve just been separating some cuts of meat. So that’s what you smelt when you came in. Can’t tell in here though, can you? So if it gets too much to start with, you come in here. Here’s your tea.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Chapman,’ said Alison, shyly sitting down, wrapping her hands around the mug.

  She helped herself to a biscuit and began to feel better.

  ‘You’d better call me Fred,’ said Fred. ‘Otherwise I shall be getting above myself. We won’t do too much today. You can just watch me and get to meet some of the regulars. You probably know lots of them.’ Alison was dreading having to come face to face with so many people every day, but said nothing. She knew that everyone whispered behind her back as soon as they saw her – somehow she’d have to deal with it as best she could. ‘You might weigh me out some sausages in a bit. That won’t be too bad, will it?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I think I could do that.’

  Fred gave Alison all the easy things to do in the morning, showing her how to use the big scales, the till, where the change was kept and what went where in the giant fridges. He kept her away from where the big carcasses were hung and didn’t ask her to cut anything except sausages. He was quietly surprised at how quickly she seemed to pick things up and assumed her nervousness was down to being new at the job. He had no idea how awkward she always felt around people. She’d much rather stay in the back where no one could see her.

  Alison avoided any of the building beyond the fridges as she had no wish to see the raw, bloody meat any more than she had to. By the time it made it to the front of the shop it was in smaller chunks and just about bearable, not so different from the kitchen at home. She was afraid Fred would ask her to try the big slicer on which he cut the ham and corned beef wafer thin, as it looked like a quick way of losing her fingers, but he didn’t. She also managed to avoid most of the customers to begin with but by mid-morning, trade was hotting up.

  ‘Oh, so this is where you’re working now, is it?’

  Alison had seen a woman come in wearing a large plaid headscarf against the rain but hadn’t realised it was Winnie Jewell. ‘Hello, Mrs Jewell,’ she said, smiling weakly.

  ‘Dress shop didn’t work out then?’ demanded Winnie, pulling off the scarf and sending a shower of raindrops onto the sawdust on the floor.

  ‘No, no, that was no good …’ Alison began, embarrassed at the memory of the horrendous interview.

  ‘Can’t say I’m surprised,’ Winnie said. ‘They’re very posh in there.’ She gave Alison an appraising look.

  ‘Well, their loss is my gain,’ said Fred grandly, passing behind the counter with a tray of something shiny Alison didn’t want to examine too closely. ‘What can I get you today, Mrs Jewell? Your usual kidneys?’

  Alison took the opportunity to escape through the plastic curtain. She was sure that Winnie Jewell had set her up to fail and had come in here to rub it in. She could hear Fred making conversation with the woman – he had her eating out of his hand. Good, let him deal with her.

  The shop door banged shut and Fred came through to find her. ‘So you know Mrs Jewell?’

  ‘Yes.’ Alison wondered what was coming next.

  ‘Maybe you’d like to stop and talk to her next time then,’ suggested Fred.

  ‘Maybe.’

  Fred shook his head. ‘Treat them well and they’ll come back for more. It don’t matter what she might have said or done before, she’s a customer now and that’s different. Remember that. You’re wearing that apron – that deserves respect.’ He looked her in the eye and she felt as if she was shrinking. ‘Come on then. If you can quickly sweep up that wet sawdust and put down new before the lunchtime rush begins, we can think about what we’ll have for our own lunch. Did you bring anything in?’

  Alison hadn’t even thought about that. ‘No, I didn’t know …’

  ‘That’s all right then,’ said Fred. ‘I expect you don’t fancy a steak and kidney pie?’ Alison nearly gagged. ‘How about you go up the road for fish and chips for both of us? On me, for your first day.’

  ‘That would be lovely. Thank you very much, Mr Chap … Fred.’ Alison was relieved. She risked a small smile. Her nerves had made her hungry and she had only just noticed, but the thought of meat in any shape or form would have been unbearable.

  She quickly swept up the old sawdust, now soggy and lumpy, and put down fresh before any new customers could come in. Then she grabbed Fred’s money and her mac. She stopped outside the neighbouring shop’s awning to fasten it against the rain, which was still falling hard.

  Someone stepped out from the doorway. It was a young man in the brown overalls of the ironmonger’s. Alison immediately noticed he was good-looking – not as good-looking as Neville, but his hair was very dark and so were his eyes. He was shorter than her, but so were most people. He took a second glance at her and grinned.

  ‘You working next door?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s right.’ Alison didn’t want to appear shy so kept her answer short. She was taken aback that he had bothered to speak to her at all.

  ‘We’re going to be neighbours, then. I work in here. I’m Paul, by the way.’

  ‘Hello, Paul, I’m Alison.’

  ‘Going out in this weather?’ he teased. ‘I wouldn’t send a dog out in that.’

  Alison moved a little closer to him to avoid the rain that was being driven sideways under the awning, almost afraid of her own daring. ‘Going to get Mr Chapman’s lunch,’ she said.

  ‘Got you at his beck and call, has he? You want to watch that. It’ll be unpaid overtime next,’ said Paul, with an air of authority.

  Alison could feel herself blushing. ‘No, it’s not like that. He’s a very good boss. I’d better be off.’ She straightened her shoulders and forced herself out into the downpour.

  Paul watched her go. He’d noticed how she blushed when she came closer to him and then was in a hurry to get away. He’d only been in the job two weeks himself and had been bored witless for most of that but now it looked as if there might be some fun to be had. If she was that shy after such a brief conversation then she couldn’t be very experienced with men. With looks like that he bet most lads of his age avoided her. Well, for him at least, things had just got much more interesting on Falcon Road.

  Alison was impressed. Fred had installed a Baby Belling oven in the cosy side room and so his fish and chips could keep warm while she ate hers; they couldn’t eat together during the busy lunch period. She sat in the armchair next to the fire, finishing her chips. This might not be so bad after all. Fred had been as kind to her as Betty Shawcross at the factory, and slowly she began to feel that she might not fail at this new job. As long as she could stay away from the carcasses she’d be all right.

  Fred came through from the shop and put on the kettle. ‘I’m starving,’ he said. ‘Are you all right to go out the front for a bit on your own? If there’s anything you need then shout.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ said Alison, getting to her feet.

  While the next half an hour was busy, it was mostly people she didn’t know or who were vaguely familiar faces – none of those who’d taunted her so regularly. They usually wanted something quick for this evening’s tea. Now she understood why she’d spent much of the morning weighing sausages: nearly all of them wanted a pound or half a pound, and all she had to do was reach for a bundle she’d separated earlier and put them in greaseproof paper. This was easy. Now and again she even talked to customers beyond ‘can I help you?’ Maybe this would all work out. And there was that nice-looking man next door who hadn’t been rude to her. Slowly she began to relax a little.

  Fred finished his fish and chips and came through the door just as Marian Dalby came in. Alison knew who she was – Neville had talked about her, saying his foreman was married to the best baker in Battersea, and didn’t have a bad word t
o say about her. She looked as if she enjoyed plenty of her own cakes, as she was plump and round-faced, smiling even though her coat was wet. ‘Mr Chapman!’ she exclaimed. ‘I see you’ve found yourself a new assistant. Let me see … you’re Hazel Butler’s sister, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Alison said. ‘She just got engaged to Neville Parrot, who works at the paint factory.’

  ‘That explains why my Frank came in so late from the pub recently,’ said the woman, shaking the raindrops from her curly hair. ‘He said they’d been toasting the young couple. Well, he seems like a nice lad. Now, Mr Chapman, I’m laying on some food for my brother’s birthday and I’ll be needing some pork chops. What can you do for me?’

  ‘I have the very thing for you,’ said Fred instantly, ‘but I don’t have many out front. Alison, could you fetch the rest? Out the back, the room on the right past the fridges, you’ll see a big box with a red lid. It’s not heavy.’

  Alison set off into the back of the building and found the right door, just after the opening to the yard. It was much colder out here. She sniffed as her nose threatened to drip, then opened the door.

  The smell hit her at once: the smell of blood but far stronger than she’d ever come across it. Hanging from the ceiling were the dead animals, with their shiny red flesh and yellow fat all exposed. The lifeless head of a pig almost brushed against her as she gasped in horror. Choking, she slammed the door and ran towards the yard. She threw open the big wooden door and made it outside just in time before her guts heaved in terror and she was violently sick.

  Chapter Seven

  Alison felt she had ruined everything. She was sure that she’d get the sack again and things would be worse at home than ever. But Fred assured her they hadn’t heard a thing in the shop and when he’d eventually fetched Mrs Dalby’s pork chops himself, she’d been happy and gone on her way. Apparently lots of people were sick at their first sight of a whole carcass, close up. But, he’d reminded her, they had the luxury of an indoor toilet at the back of the building so next time she had better use that. ‘Good job it was raining hard,’ he said.

  Alison wasn’t going to let herself down again and resolved to get used to what was in the back room. The next day she forced herself to go inside and look at the pigs and sides of beef, and managed to stay there for thirty seconds before running out again. Hanging over the toilet, she closed her eyes and swore she would become accustomed to it. She’d have to.

  Over the next week Fred patiently explained about the different cuts of meat and what they could be used for. ‘People don’t just want to buy the beef or whatever, they want to know what they can do with it,’ he told her. ‘Have you done much cooking?’

  ‘No,’ said Alison. ‘Mum and Hazel always say I waste good food when I try. Besides, we never had much meat at home. Up till now, that is.’ Her mother and sister had always made it clear that her lack of cooking skills was just one more way that she was a failure around the house. But Fred had been slipping her odds and ends to take back – the remains of a tray of mince, the last two sausages that wouldn’t make a half-pound, pigs’ trotters that looked far pinker than the ones her mother sometimes bought from the market. Cora had been delighted and Hazel was triumphant – every penny saved on food meant more for her wedding fund. However Alison still didn’t like handling the stuff. The cool feel of the trotters had turned her stomach. As for liver and kidneys, she didn’t think she’d ever manage to eat them again.

  ‘I reckon you should try a spot of cooking, then,’ suggested Fred. ‘I’ve got the Baby Belling. You could do us something for lunch. If the shop smells of home cooking I reckon that will make the punters buy even more.’ He was pleased with the idea. The girl looked as if she could do with fattening up and this way he’d get a good meal at lunchtime as well as the one he always made sure to cook himself in the evening. He’d be doing her a favour too; she’d need to be able to cook when she got married, when the time came.

  He had abandoned all thoughts of marrying himself. He’d been in no position to do so when he first took over the family business, as it had been in a bad state and it took him all his time and energy to turn it around. Then came the war, when his flat feet had kept him out of the armed services but he’d spent every spare hour as an ARP warden. Some of the sights he saw in those days made him wonder if he could ever bring himself to care for another human being – there were so many dreadful ways to lose a loved one. The pain of families when he told them their nearest and dearest had been killed by buzz bombs, or crushed when a shelter collapsed stayed with him still. There had been a few grateful widows during those years, but it was no time to think of anything more than a brief affair to hold the everyday horrors at bay.

  After that his mother, always bullying and difficult, had got worse and worse till it became clear that she wasn’t only rude and brutal but terminally ill as well. Fred had done his duty, shutting his ears to her comments as he looked after her in the flat above the shop, and secretly, he’d been heartily relieved when she died. So here he was, a bachelor in his early forties, with a quietly thriving business and premises in a prime location. But he was under no illusions about his looks. He’d been called pig face and worse, thanks to his round, stubby nose and face that went red with the slightest exertion, and he knew his prospects of romance were poor. So he concentrated on enjoying his food, getting along with his customers, and making a success of the shop. He tried not to think about what he might be missing out on. He told himself that if he was lonely then it was a price worth paying, and most days he almost believed it.

  Alison was dubious about the whole cooking idea but she was beginning to realise that when Fred set his mind to something, he wasn’t easily put off. So she gave in. Sometimes she would fry something quickly during the lunch hour – bacon and eggs, sausage and beans. Other times she would chop up the meat and vegetables for a casserole in the morning and put it on to stew so that it was ready when they needed it. She got a sweet feeling of satisfaction the day that Winnie Jewell came in and commented that something smelt good. As Fred had guessed, she bought more than her usual that day.

  The only downside to cooking lunch was that she had fewer excuses to go outside and catch a glimpse of the young man who worked next door. She saw him now and again, if she had to go on an errand to the post box or bank – Fred had decided she was trustworthy and would sometimes send her to fetch the change. But there had been no more conversations under the awning.

  A few weeks after she’d started working at the butcher’s, Fred was sorting through the drawers underneath the counter, pulling out odds and ends, but not finding what he was after. ‘Drat. There’s no string left,’ he said. ‘That won’t do. You go next door and get us some more. Take it out of the petty cash.’

  Alison hurried off at once.

  The hardware shop seemed dim compared to the bright white tiles of the butcher’s. At first she could hardly make out if there was anyone else there, as the shelves seemed to extend forever into a dark back area and the counter was lit only by a weak bulb. Not a very good advert for their lighting department, she thought.

  Then someone cleared his throat. ‘Yes, young lady?’ An elderly man was behind the counter, stooping over it. ‘Is there something you wanted?’

  Before she could answer, the door opened once more and in came a middle-aged woman, dressed as if she worked in an office. ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘I’ve come for the Denman and Sons order.’ Alison recognised the name of one of the oldest solicitors’ firms and of course the old man turned his attention to the new customer. ‘Mr Lanning!’ he called. ‘You’re needed at the front counter.’

  Paul emerged from the gloom, wiping his hands on his brown overall. He grinned wickedly. ‘Good morning, miss,’ he said. ‘And how may I help you?’

  Bravely Alison made herself smile back. ‘I’d like some string please.’

  ‘What sort of string? Garden twine? Parcel string? We’ve lots of string. If it
’s string you’re after, you’ve come to the right place.’ Even in the semi-darkness she could see his eyes were twinkling.

  ‘Oh, not garden twine,’ she said. ‘Definitely not that. String suitable for tying around cuts of beef. And parcels of greaseproof paper.’

  ‘Ah, that sort of string. Well now, you’re in luck. Seeing as we are so close to a butcher’s we make sure to keep that kind in stock.’ He made his way to a set of drawers and pulled open one of them. ‘Here you are. Do you need a paper bag?’

  ‘No,’ said Alison, feeling a blush creep up her face. ‘I’ll put it in my pocket.’

  ‘If you’d care to come over to the till, miss,’ he said, grinning even more wickedly. As he took her money and gave her back the change his fingertips brushed her palm. She was sure he did it deliberately, and right under the eyes of his boss and the formidable office lady. It was all she could do to get out of the shop in one piece.

  Well now, thought Paul. I’ve made her run away again. Even in the half-light of the hardware store he could tell she’d gone bright red. Maybe it was time to step things up a little and not to wait for events to take their course. He was tired of not having a woman. He didn’t want one permanently – or not one who looked as odd as this one did. But he needed the practice. She couldn’t get many offers with those looks. She’d be grateful. He liked the idea of taking advantage of that.

  ‘We’ve picked the date for the wedding, Mum,’ said Hazel. She was so excited she couldn’t even wait to get her coat off. ‘Second Saturday in September. So that’s seven months to get everything ready.’

  ‘And where’s the money to come from?’ asked Cora. She still hadn’t got through to her daughter that a big wedding was a waste.

  ‘You know Neville’s been working all hours,’ said Hazel. ‘He ain’t taken me to the cinema for weeks cos he’s been on extra shifts every weekend. He’s so tired he can hardly stand. And I’m only taking Sundays off from now on. So that’ll all add up.’