The Price of Butcher's Meat (2 page)

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R E G I N A L D H I L L

George jumped up on the side of the vehicle—hooked his hands under the womans armpits—& swung her clear of the muddy sump into dads arms. At 18—G makes Arnie Schwarzenegger look like a hobbit! On our skiing trip last December (yeah that one—when I hooked up with lousy Liam)—I could have rented G out to my mates by the hour. In fact—if you count free rounds of glühwein as rental—thats exactly what I did!

The injured man came next & the HB passed the woman on to me—

looking relieved to be rid of her. Thought of making some crack about him preferring men—he still thinks gays should be treated surgically—but decided not time or place.

—youre so kind—many thanks—Ill be fine in a minute—Mary my dear are you all right?—burbled the man.

She said—Oh yes. But your nose dear—its bleeding—

—its nothing—must have banged the wheel when we stopped—he said—

rubbing at a mark across his bridge.

Looked very like a footprint to me. I gave him a plus for diplomacy. Made a change from dads Old Testament determination to track all bad shit back to females.

The DB now decided to introduce himself. Unfortunately this involved twisting out of the HBs grip to offer his hand with the inevitable result to his ankle.

—Tom Parker—he said—my wife Mary—aargh!—

Another plus—in dads eyes anyway. Had to be English—first thing they taught us in psych school was only the English risk pain for the sake of politeness.

—let me have a look—I said—set him down there dad—

Dad obeyed. Must be a first!

—my daughters had St John Ambulance

training—he said proudly.

Touched me for a moment to hear him bragging about me—then he spoilt it by dragging you into it!

—when she wanted to go to college—he went on—I told her she ought to sign up for training as a nurse like her sister Cassie—but of course it was like banging my head against a brick wall—

T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 7

1st time the famous phrase had cropped up in a week. Found Id been missing it!

I said—ignore my father. When he dies were going to build him a head-stone out of cracked bricks. Now lets get that shoe off while we can—

The DB winced as I removed his shoe & sock—then regarded his en-larged ankle with a kind of complacent pride. I was about to offer my not very expert opinion when he forestalled me—addressing his wife—something like this.

—look Mary—some typical subcutaneous

swelling—the beginnings of

what will doubtless be an extensive

ecchymosis—tarsal movement re-

stricted but still possible with moderate to acute pain—a strain I would say—certainly no worse than a sprain. Thank heaven I have always mended quickly. What a laugh they will have at home when they ask how I hurt myself—& we tell them I did it looking for a healer!—

This odd bit of

self-diagnosis—with its odder

conclusion—confirmed

dads suspicion he was dealing with a particularly daft DB—& he burst

out—what the hell were you playing at? This is a country lane not a public racetrack!—

Parker replied—youre right of course. But I didnt anticipate even someone as unworldly as a healer would let his driveway fall into such bad repair—

—its worse than bad—its dangerous!—chimed in his wife—The man should be taken to court for letting it get into that condition. How does he expect people to get anywhere near his house?—

& George put his large foot in it by saying with a grin—aye—theres not many get past dads tank trap—

The woman looked at him suspiciously—while dad gave him one of his shut-your-gob glares—then changed the subject by demanding—house?—

What house?—

—Mr Godleys house. There—said Parker.

He pointed up the hillside toward the ruins. From below—the alders in full leaf—that one bit of wall still standing does look like there might be a whole building behind.

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R E G I N A L D H I L L

—you mean the old mill? Well you could have saved yourself the bother—

declared dad—Nowt to be seen up there—all the machinery were taken out twenty years ago—you can see some of it along at the Dales Museum—if youve got time to waste. As for the building—roofs fallen in & most of the walls. Id have knocked the rest down years back only some daft bugger got a conservation order put on it—

—but that cant be

right—protested the

man—darling pass me the

magazine—

The woman dived into her bag & produced a copy of Mid- Yorkshire Life.

It was folded open at a short peice entitled “Healing Hands”—with a pic of a slightly embarrassed bearded guy holding up what were presumably the hands in question. His name—thisll make you laugh—was Gordon Godley!

—look—said Mr Parker triumphantly—its got the address quite clearly here. The Old Mill—Willingdene. Seeing the village signposted as we drove back from Harrogate—a sadly unproductive visit—once it may have been a serious spa town but now it has given itself over almost completely to commerce & frivolity—I naturally diverted & inquired of a young lad the way to the Old Mill. He gave me most precise directions which brought me here. Are you now telling me that is not the Old Mill?—

Im giving you Tom Parker verbatim—else youd miss the flavor. Its like listening to an old- fashioned book come to life!

Dad smiled. You know how much he enjoys putting daft buggers right.

—it were once a mill right enough—& its certainly old. But theres not been anybody living there for half a century or more & Ill tell you why. This here is Willingden—just the one e. Willingdene is way up at the northern end of the dale—

If hed been a footie

player—hed have set off running round the meadow—whirling his shirt over his head! He just loves winning—no matter who gets beaten. Remember those games of snap we used to play?

Mr Parker seemed more cast down by this news than by his sprained ankle.

—Im sorry my dear—he said to his wife—I should have taken more notice—

T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 9

Taking all the blame on himself again—even though she was the one with the mag article. Nice—I thought. His reward was her continued terrierlike support.

—it makes no difference—she said—this is marked on the map as a public right of way & someone ought to keep it in a proper condition—

—Charley—said dad quickly—whats the verdict on that ankle?—

I couldnt see any point in disagreeing with the patient.

—I think Mr Parkers right & its just a sprain—I said—a cold compress will help & he certainly shouldnt put any wieght on it—

How was that Nurse Heywood?

—right—said dad—Charley bring the

quad—lets get Mr & Mrs Parker

down to the house—make them a bit more comfortable. George—you stop here & get the car pulled out of that mud. Clean it up & check for damage.

Ill get on my mobile—tell your mother to put the kettle on—Im sure these good people are ready for a nice cup of tea—

I caught his eye & let my jaw drop in mock astonishment at this transfor-mation from dedicated xenophobe to Good Samaritan.

He actually blushed! Then he gave me a sheepish grin that invited my complicity.

I grinned back & headed off toward the quad.

Hes not such a bad old sod really—is he? As long as he gets his own way. Bit like you! All right—& like me too. The fruit doesnt fall far from the tree. But you led the way. If you hadnt stood up to him & gone off to nurse—I doubt Id have had the nerve to hold out to go to uni & do psychology—& now after 3 years—whenever he gets close to driving me mad—I try to think of him as a case study!

But Ive still not told you how the Parkers came to be house guests.

Thing was—when G pulled their car out of the tank trap—he found it wouldnt steer properly. Winstons garage said they could fix it—but theyd have to send away for a part. Tomorrow—they said—but knowing Winstons Im not holding my breath.

When Parker heard this he said—thats fine. No problem whatsoever.

Perhaps—Mr. Heywood—you could give me the number of the inn I saw in 1 0

R E G I N A L D H I L L

the village?—It looked a comfortable sort of place for us to rest in till the cars ready—

I could see the thoughts running through dads head like hed got a display screen on his brow. Being the most litigious man in the county—in Parkers place hed have been thinking compensation soon as his car hit the tank trap. Locally his views on daft buggers are well known—& he even boasts about his various stratagems for discouraging them. But these days—with tourism rated higher than farming in the rural economy—not everyone approves of him—& the enthusiastic gossips of the Nags Head bar would leave the Parkers in no doubt who to blame for their “accident”!

So I wasnt too surprised when I heard him say—Nags Head?—aye—its well enough. But the floors are uneven—stairs narrow—not at all what a man in your state needs. No—youd best stay here. Ill get George to bring your bags up from the car—

The Parkers

were overcome by dads generosity. So was

mum—with

amazement!—but she quickly recovered—& I gave dad a big wink—& got one back!

So there you are. We have houseguests—& its time to go down & have supper with them. Ill keep you posted on how the HB bears up under the strain.

Take care—dont catch anything I wouldnt catch—& if you fall in love with a big handsome black man—e me a pic of you & him—& Ill stick it in dads prayer book so hell see it for the first time at church on Sunday morning!

Lots & lots of love

Charley X

2

FROM:

[email protected]

TO:

[email protected]

SUBJECT:

sex—Sandytown—&

psychology

Omigod Cass! I must be psychic! OK—you say hes not black—but teaky bronze. Same difference—& is that all over? I mean all all over? & hes a doc too—just like in mums Mills & Boon stories! Means youll probably have trouble with some slinkily gorgeous lady medic—wholl manage to get you blamed when she accidentally offs a patient—but dont worry—itll all come right in the end!

I definitely want a pic. Cross my heart I wont stick it in dads prayer book—not till you give the word! But can I tell mum? Shes desperate for grandkids. Adam & Kylie show no sign of producing—even if they did Oz is a hell of a long way off—can you imagine getting the HB on a plane to fly twelve thousand miles? Rod spends most of his time at sea—& we know what sailors are! She was desolate when I got back early from my camp-ing trip with Liam & Sam & Dot—& told her it was all off—irreconcilable differences—which is what us psychs say to our mums when we catch ex-partner Liam banging ex- best- mate Dot up against a pine tree. So—unless you settle down & start calving—I think she may strap me to my bed—& get to work with an AI straw!

Your news makes my stuff about the Parkers seem v dull—but you say youre interested so here goes with the next installment.

As house guests go—they havent! Winstons—as forecast—got let down by their suppliers—again! So 1 nights turned into 3. But its been OK. I like Mary Parker a lot. Doesnt say much around her husband—except in agreement with him—or defense of him! But—get her to herself & shes great.

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Tom Parkers v different—thinks silence is for the grave & the living have a duty to resist!

His favorite topic—unless checked his only topic—is Sandytown—as advertised on the side of his car!

Remember Sandytown? I think that was the last Heywood family outing.

Me 9 or 10—you 13—sea cold & gray—sand gritty—wind so strong it blew our windbreaks away—& Sandytown itself seemed to be shut! To cap it all—on the way back—George was sick—& that set me off—& soon we were all at it! Dad sang all the way home! After 3 years doing psychology I reckon I know why. He clearly saw the whole trip as a successful experiment in aversion therapy!

So when Tom Parker started rattling on about Sandytown at supper that first night—I didnt dare catch Georges eye.

Ill give it you verbatim again—really—this is how he talks!

—Sandytown!—he said—Beautiful Sandytown—the most lustrous pearl in the long necklace of the Yorkshire coast! You see Charlotte (fixing his eye on me—I think hes decided Im the intellectual epicenter of the Heywood family—or maybe he just likes my boobs!)—a new age of the English holiday is dawning. Compared with it—the old age—which died with the onset of cheap Mediterranean packages—will seem but a trial run. Two practical reasons for the change—global warming & global terrorism! We travel in fear & we travel in discomfort. We have our personal belongings—& indeed our persons—searched by hard-faced—& hard-fingered—strangers. We are prodded into line by armed police. We are forced to eat with implements which—

lacking the rigidity necessary to be a threat to soft human fl esh—cannot begin to cope with airline food. Nor can we feel safe on arrival. Tourists are everywhere regarded as a soft terrorist target—while global warming—

exacerbated by the soaring emission levels of flight—has led to a dramatic increase in the incidence of natural disasters—floods—droughts—hurricanes—

earthquakes—tsunamis—etc—

By now dad was regarding him with gobsmacked amazement—mum with polite

interest—his wife with fond

admiration—& the twins

were choking

back their giggles.

T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 1 3

To me it was clear that Parker was reciting some kind of sales pitch—one made so often the record would run to its end unless interrupted.

So when he paused for breath I got in quick with—Why were you looking for a healer Tom?—

—a very perceptive question Charlotte—he replied smiling at me—to which my answer is—health! Let me explain. We live in a sick world—a world suffering from some

deep- rooted wasting disease—of which terrorism & warming are but symptoms. To cure the whole we must start with the small-est part—the individual! The English seaside holiday originated in a search for re- creation in the strictest sense. Pure ozone-enriched air to cleanse the lungs—surging salty water to refresh the skin & stimulate the circulation—