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