you for it?’
‘Two an’ nine.’
‘How much? My God, it was dearer than bloody gold. He ought to be ashamed, that Jack bloody ’Ardwick.’
So the Collins family ate what they could and, afterwards, Percy fell asleep in his chair. He awoke some two hours later, still troubled by the irreconcilable difference between what Nora had paid for their joint and its quality. Then an idea started to take shape and Percy smiled to himself. Yes, he would do it. He would show up that Jack Hardwick for what he was – a robbing charlatan. Tomorrow dinnertime would be the perfect time, just as the workers from the brass foundries were turning out. In the scullery, he found the meat, cool now, hidden under a muslin cloth to keep the flies off, and set about carving two thick slices.
Monday dinnertime seemed a long time coming. But just before the ‘bull’ whistle was due to blow at the brass foundry at the top end of Cromwell Street, he donned his working boots, tied the laces and strutted down the steps of his shop, carrying the remains of the offending joint wrapped in newspaper under his arm. A black and white mongrel, which had been rooting round the allotments opposite, instantly caught a whiff of meat and trotted over to investigate, sniffing eagerly at the footpath.
At that moment, the hooter blew and, in just a few seconds, a throng of people were released from the three brass foundries and sundry other establishments into Cromwell Street. Some headed towards The Junction, some in the other direction towards The Dog and Partridge and The Sailor’s Return.
Another dog, a cross between a Jack Russell and a Scots terrier, picked up the same scent and joined the first animal sniffing at Percy’s feet. Yet another emerged, panting, from Granny Wassall’s entry in Cromwell Street. Soon there was a whole pack of dogs yapping at Percy’s heels, and his own labrador bitch escaped by jumping up onto the ledge of the lower half of the stable door and over the back wall, to join the hunt.
Most of the workers bid Percy good day, and some asked why he was accompanied by so many excited dogs. Percy was happy to tell them, so it was with great anticipation that those walking in his direction lingered at Jack Hardwick’s little butcher’s shop to watch the sport, gathering more dogs as they went, all crazed at the scent of the beef.
As Percy mounted the steps to the shop, the dogs tried to gain entrance with him. He kicked out to fend them off, but they interpreted it as a sort of game and were greatly encouraged to try harder. Jack Hardwick rushed round his counter to shut the door, but two of them got in and were up at the sides of bacon and the sheets of lights hanging from the walls.
Jack hated dogs. Relishing the sudden opportunity to inflict some harm on the first, the Jack Russell cross, he seized it by the scruff of its neck and hurled it outside with a kick between its back legs to help it on its way. Percy tackled a bigger animal that bore a faint resemblance to a sheep dog, but was bitten for his trouble. While this commotion was going on, Jack’s mother, Amy, alerted by the barking, whining and shouting, came in from the brewhouse where she was rinsing out her bloomers, wielding a wooden maiding dolly. She had the presence of mind to grab a couple of bones, which she threw out to the dogs in the street to create a diversion.
By now, a sizeable crowd had gathered outside Jack’s shop, watching with amusement as the dogs fought and snarled over the bones. Jack Hardwick, still unsettled, and fearful that they would invade his shop again, bounced out with his mother’s maiding dolly and began flailing at the dogs, but it had no effect.
‘This is all your bloody fault, Percy Collins,’ Jack yelled angrily. ‘Fancy bringin’ a pack o’ dogs into a butcher’s shop. Yo’ must want your head lookin’.’
Percy laughed. ‘It ai’ me what’s attracted ’em, it’s the mate yo’ sell, Jack.’
‘Well, it’s good mate. It’s the best.’
‘It’s the bloody dearest. Though these dogs mightn’t know the difference.’ The animal that had some sheep dog ancestry decided that squabbling over a couple of bones was a lost cause and headed again for Percy’s boots. ‘See what I mean?’ he said, kicking out at it.
‘I doh know what yo’m on about, Percy Collins, but I wish to God as yo’ and the bleedin’ dogs would sling your ’ooks.’
‘Listen, you. I’m on about the mate yo’ sold my missus.’
‘What about it?’
‘What about it? I should’ve thought it bloody obvious.’ He raised his boot, showing the sole to Jack. ‘That’s it, there, on the sole o’ me shoe. It was that damned ’ard it was good for nothin’ else.’ He handed Jack the parcel he carried under his arm. ‘And if yo’ doh believe me, here’s the rest of it. Yo’ try it, and if yo’ can eat it, I’ll gi’ yer a sack o’ taters for your trouble. But yo’ll need a wairter-cooled jaw.’
‘There’s nothin’ wrong with my meat. It’s the way it’s roasted.’
‘Then you’d best tell Walter Wilson, Jack, ’cause he roasted it in his bread oven, same as he does for a lot of folk.’
Suddenly, there was a loud collective guffaw from the workmen gathered round, but the butcher and the greengrocer, engrossed in their impassioned dispute, ignored it.
‘Fancy askin’ a baker to roast a joint o’ beef. What the ’ell’s he know about roasting beef?’
‘Whether or no, I want me money back,’ Percy countered. ‘Yo’ ought a be ashamed chargin’ what yo’ charged for this rubbish.’
Another cheer went up and hoots of encouragement, inciting Percy to greater things. He was evidently doing well in this argument; better than he’d anticipated.
Then someone called out from the crowd. ‘Is this your dog here, Percy?’
Percy turned. The man who called him pointed to the group of baying and panting animals. The sheep dog derivative had mounted another animal and was thrusting into her wholeheartedly, his eyes glazed with determination, hell-bent on relief of some sort, if not his hunger. Percy’s labrador bitch was on the receiving end of all this canine passion, and it suddenly dawned on Percy that this was why they were all cheering.
‘Oh, Jesus Christ. That’s all I need. Jack, lend me the dolly to part ’em, afore it’s too late.’
‘You must be joking,’ Jack replied vindictively. ‘Mother’s gorra do the washin’ with that.’
‘Fetch us a bucket o’ water, then, so’s I can chuck it over ’em.’
Jack shook his head, walked back into his shop, smiling, and closed the door behind him.
Next morning, workers noticed that the sign over Jack’s shop, which the day before bore the legend ‘J. F. Hardwick, High Class Butcher’, had been whitened out, and altered to: ‘J. F. Hardmeat, Purveyor of Shoe Leather’.
Old customs prevailed. Eve’s abiding routine of looking after a family continued unaltered. Nothing changed, even though there was no longer a house full to worry about. Saturday night remained the start of the week, when she mixed the Sunday fruit cake after tea and put it in the oven at the side of the grate, so there was something to offer any visitor who might drop by. That in its turn meant a roaring fire, which would get the room nice and warm for bath time. They would fill the tin bath with hot water carried from the boiler in the brewhouse and top it up as required. The back door bolted, Lizzie would be first to bathe, but her thick hair seemed to take ages to dry after Eve washed it for her.
On Sunday, it was best clothes, and friends or family often invited round for tea; then church in the evening. Years ago, for convenience, Eve would fry up vegetables left from Sunday dinner for when the children came home from school on a Monday, which was washing day. Nowadays she was satisfied with a cheese sandwich, by herself, and there was no need to hurry because what little there was to launder