Girl on the Block

by Jessica Wragg

  DEXTER Dexter cattle, originating in Ireland, are a tiny, hardy breed that is best left to roam in pastures to graze. To put their size into perspective, while a Hereford cattle reaches maturity at around 1,500 to 1,800 pounds, Dexters mature at a third of that. What they lack in size, though, they make up for in beef quality. Dexter beef is notoriously rich, with a nutty, creamy fat.

  HEREFORD A large brown and white breed of cattle that now exists in more than 120 countries, the Hereford are known for their hardiness and reliability in producing good beef. First established as a breed in the US in 1817, the cattle are famous for farming top-quality beef and are sought after not only to develop breed herds but to cross with others—so much so that a breeding bull in 2013 set the world record for cattle sale at six hundred thousand dollars.

  WHITE PARK Not to be confused with the American White Park or the British White, the White Park is considered critically endangered in the US, with fewer than fifty breeding females. In the UK, this number is a little more, around five hundred. White Park beef is therefore sought after and produces lean meat that’s well suited for dry-aging.

  TEXAS LONGHORN The Texas longhorn, with its outrageously sizable horns that measure on average six feet across, produces beef that has been proven to be lower in cholesterol than most other commercial breeds. They resemble a buffalo more than a livestock cow. The cattle are notably ancient and grazed America’s pastures before settlers, but they are now considered endangered, numbering around one thousand in the US in 2018.

  HIGHLAND Highland cattle are one of the most sought-after breeds of beef on the planet, with origins in the peaks of northern Scotland. The cattle are notoriously robust and resilient, dealing with the most extreme weathers in the Scottish Highlands and Lowlands for the past 1,500 years. They’re natural foragers, supplementing their grass diet to produce a unique strength in flavor and beautifully deep marbling.

  Epilogue

  On Monday mornings now, I walk down the long road from my house near Brixton in south London to Clapham North tube station. It is still dark when I leave, and cold, but I love it. It gives me a sense of comfort, somehow. The clocks have changed recently, and the sun barely peeks out at us now from behind the tall tower blocks and white stone buildings. My winter coat is thick and fluffy, with the woolen hat perched on top of my head sliding backward with every step. The lines to board can be long, but the 7:14 train is generally quiet. Some passengers are sleeping, dozing off between announcements from the well-spoken robotic voice booming out the arrival of the next station. I listen to the Beatles or to some kind of Cuban trumpet band on my headphones, which always starts my day positively. The train rumbles through Stockwell, then Oval, Kennington, and then to London Bridge, where most of us get off and even more people get on. I’m up the stairs two at a time, then onto the escalator, ascending into the morning light that beams in through the windows lining the pathway.

  Out on the high street, I turn left, dip into Rabot 1745 for a coffee, and continue down the narrow pavement, stepping over crates and splintered wooden pallets. Workmen stand outside of the Bedales winery. They are smoking, and I gladly inhale, as right now I’m trying without much success to quit. No matter the weather, a puddle from rain or the drain always forms where the main road crosses into the pedestrian access. I hop over and duck around the electric bicycles used by the vegetable supplier next to us to deliver all over London. Southwark Cathedral looks austere, dwarfed by the glistening Shard building. Traders of East Asian, British, German, and American foods are busy setting up their stalls, lined up in a row that stretches from underneath London Bridge all the way down the main road. Each month they rotate so that every stall gets a turn at the best trading spot—the one on the corner that the lunchtime buyers will see first. The sounds of pallets being unloaded, of cart wheels rolling over the pavement, the familiar click and slam of the doors of cars driven from the outermost parts of the country fill the air. This is Borough Market at its finest. This is my office.

  The Ginger Pig sits at the corner of Winchester Walk and beautiful Cathedral Street, which leads to the riverfront. My desk inside by the back wall, next to the wholesale workroom, is messy, but it’s mine. A corkboard is pinned above my computer with the butchery orders from the shops, a Polaroid of Ben and me, and a vintage drawing of a body of beef with the cuts labeled. Although it’s all in my head, this is what I use to break down beef orders coming in from the shops, weighing up how many bodies of cattle we’ll need to buy to make sure that everyone has enough. Average weights of each cut are scribbled in my lazy handwriting beneath.

  Today, when I am asked for an opinion at work, I often think back to the farm shop. I was rarely asked for my opinion there, because it didn’t matter. But things have changed. Traditionally women in this game didn’t get a chance, but in our borough office this morning I am surrounded by them. There is darling Amelia, our head of comms, who is the quintessential English rose with a bit of a bark. On my right is Sam, mouthy yet gorgeous, who runs accounts for our wholesale department. Tina, our head of HR and newest recruit, is at the head of the table. Sophie, ops assistant with a level head and a mysterious international accent, the result of having lived in a lot of different countries growing up, is next to her. Erika, from all those years ago—the first female butcher I ever met—is in attendance, too, and next to her is Lynsey. All of us are there together, discussing the running of perhaps the biggest butchery brand in the UK. We outnumber the men. Well, almost.

  Every now and then I’ll get back behind the block and I’ll be a little rusty. What would have once taken me ten minutes to do takes me twenty, and I have to settle back into the rhythm of the knife work. My legs ache after standing for too long, and the handsaw takes some practice to master again. But I wouldn’t change what I’m doing now for the world. I miss it sometimes, the feeling of breaking down a whole carcass, separating muscles with the tip of a knife, speaking to customers about their needs. I cherish those times more now than I ever did before, my jeans smeared with streaks of white fat, dried claret beneath my fingernails, stray meat sometimes making its way to the strands of my hair.

  A decade in the industry has taught me so much, but inside I’m still that sixteen-year-old girl, almost six feet tall and a little chubby, standing over the carcass of a lamb with nothing but fear and intrigue. She is holding a knife awkwardly, half-afraid that she might be sick, staring down into the cavity where the animal’s organs would be, completely astounded. There is so much that she doesn’t yet know. And I am thrilled at all that is ahead for her to discover.

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a book turned out to be a lot more difficult than my ten-year-old self ever imagined, and it involved the support of a huge number of people to whom I am incredibly grateful.

  First, thank you to Jaime Chu, my agent at Europa Content, for reading my Lenny Letter piece and believing that it could be something bigger. Your guidance and expertise are unparalleled and I couldn’t have navigated this terrifying experience without you.

  To Meredith at United Talent, thank you for pushing this book behind the scenes and for your knowledge when I was lost!

  To my editor, Jessica Sindler at Dey Street, you made this experience easy when at times I felt it was the hardest thing I’d ever done. Your patience, your keen eye, and your belief in this book made it better in every way. Thank you for your constant guidance.

  Thank you to my friends for understanding that a fifty-hour workweek while writing a book at the same time is a lot to deal with, especially to Sammy Reeves for your kind words and expert life advice. Thank you for allowing our friendship to consist of my complaining for at least a year, and for not giving up on it. Thank you to Erika Kaulokaite, the best female butcher I know and wildly underappreciated, for being an inspiration for at least five years of my life.

  Thank you to Laia Garcia for publishing my original piece in the Lenny Letter. Thank you to all of those at Tabasco and Hunter PR, the Independe
nt, BBC London, the Daily Mail, VICE, Weber Grills, and Nespresso who have had a hand in giving this female butcher so many opportunities.

  Thank you to those at the farm shop who inspired me to love this job the way that I do. Thank you especially to the women that I worked with there.

  A huge thank-you to my Mama, for your everlasting love and belief in me. You really are an inspiration to me and you have been my whole life. I hope you know that.

  Thank you to Hattie and Jamie, for a friendship like no other. I’m so very glad that we found each other in Lambeth Halls when we were all in fancy dress, and that we shut out everyone else shortly after realizing that, actually, three isn’t a crowd. I’m even more grateful for the support you show me every day when I need it, for the laughs, and for the shoulders you offer me to cry on. Sometimes friendship transcends all time and distance, and we’re proof of that.

  Thank you to Ben. For the past two years you have taught me how to be happy again, and you were instrumental in making this book happen. Thank you for letting me use your bedroom as an office on weekends, for making me tea, for listening to me cry when this process became too much. Thank you also for letting me play Crash Bandicoot on your PlayStation when I was procrastinating, and for listening to me talk about slaughter when you didn’t really want to hear. I couldn’t have done any of this without you. I love you so much.

  Finally, the biggest thanks I could ever give to Mum and Dad, also known as Ginge and Pops, or even Jill and Steve Wragg, if you like. I can’t even begin to express the gratitude I have for the upbringing you gave me, so filled with happiness and love and fun, and for all of the faith you put in me for almost twenty-seven years. Not only is your love unconditional, but you have always allowed me to be myself. It helps when your mum and dad are two of the very best people in this universe, I suppose. No matter how far apart our little family is, I am always happiest when I am at home, in Clay Cross, with you. Thank you for always believing in me, even when I couldn’t find the belief in myself.

  Finally, thank you to all of the women working in this absolutely mad industry and pushing for change. We’re almost there.

  About the Author

  JESSICA WRAGG is a butcher based in London. She has an MA in creative writing, and her work has appeared in the Lenny Letter, along with various literary journals. She has worked on short films with the BBC and Jamie Oliver, and has taken part in a nationwide media campaign for Tabasco. She has been featured on VICE and BBC Radio 2, and in the Daily Mail and the Independent.

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  Copyright

  The names and identifying characteristics of some individuals discussed in this book were changed to protect their privacy.

  GIRL ON THE BLOCK. Copyright © 2019 by Jessica Wragg. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  FIRST EDITION

  Title page lettering and art © Alice Pattullo

  Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa

  Cover illustrations by Alice Pattullo

  Digital Edition AUGUST 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-286394-2

  Version 06272019

  Print ISBN: 978-0-06-286392-8

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