A BUTCHER BOY IN THE LATE FORTIES

As my father was the local butcher it naturally followed that I would become a "Saturday Boy" to earn my pocket money. It would probably break all present age limit and safety regulation of today.

The old trade bike had a dreadful leather saddle which was mishaped, uncomfortable and could not be adjusted. Brookes Saddle Co. have a lot to answer for, but fortunately I had no "hang-ups"

I had several rounds, out in all weather and delivered the joints, (a different meaning these days ! ! ) in an oval basket.

As a young lad with a sensitive nose I was soon aware how many customers' kitchens smelt different (long before the days of air fresheners and extractor fans) The smell of cabbage, fish and "lites" (for the cat) often pervaded the
atmosphere. I was occasionally offered a slice of cake and a drink . . . but politely refused depending on the location.

I soon got to know lots of village people; the trip up Stable Lane was a difficult one if the load was heavy so it meant pushing the bike up. Customers at the top were a lady who kept Dachshunds and another who had a boxer dog
called Pedro. She kept tropical fish in tanks, (heated by little home-made oil lamps) in a large shed.

The ride downhill was always exciting but a quick check on the brakes was always advisable!

Another delivery took me to Mrs. Harris at the Bakery and to Mrs. Francis at the Post office -- up Cross Lane, turn left at the coalyard for deliveries to the Bennets, the Carters, the Coopers and the Fell famiy.

Further up Cross Lane to the Misses Sheaf, to "Rosroe" the home of Mr. Cuckney (the local taxi man with the large Austin car) and then also next door to "Colwall"

Up to Steep Lane and with caution down to "The Shieling" and then to Mrs. Booth at "Ben Avon". Opposite was "The Retreat" where the artist, C. W. Taylor lived. He mostly collected his own meat taking Tammy his constant canine
companion with him.

I remember returning to the shop one day and was carrying a basket. The lady from Nepcote House had tied her spaniel outside when the dog went for me and nipped the top of my leg . . . luckily I was wearing wellington boots and
only got bruised. Dad was rather upset about it, but a few days later compensation in the form of sutable books arrived.   Being an avid reader they were most acceptable.

Another chore I had was to open up the broadsheet newspapers for wrapping paper, whilst father cut up a ream of greaseproof paper into smaller sizes. Polythene bags did not exist in those days.

Saturday afternoons were spent cleaning up -- the butchers block was scraped with a metal -bladed brush and then thoroughly scrubbed.

Spent sawdust from the floor was collected up and burnt in the big stove in the yard which supplied the hot water. Everything was burnt up; scraps of fat, chicken and rabbit legs etc. Bullocks' and sheeps' eyes went off with a pop, which at that Time caused me some amusement!

Christmas was always a busy time and my father always dressed and trussed the turkey that came from the Holy Rood convent for free. Rewarded by a iced fruit cake that was usually saved until January for my birthday.

I can also recall being taken by the butcher's van to a farm cottage at Long Furlong where Mrs. Bailey lived. She was a real character with her hair pulled back in a bun, hardly a tooth in her head and wore an old sack as an apron.  In a little outhouse were hung many dead rabbits -- all neatly gutted and wooden pegs stretched across their backbones to display their kidneys. This was Long before the days of myxomatosis and so they were transported back to the shop.

Our sausages were very popular and the bus drivers use to come in to buy them --but Dad was never too happy if a reversing bus clipped and damaged the fascia board on the shop corner. I never made sausages as my brother Bob was the expert. He could measure them out across the palm of his hand, make the links and get eight "bangers" to the pound.

I had no wish to pursue a career in the butchery trade . . . Dad always said that I held a knife like a pencil so my chosen career took an entirely different direction! Nevertheless it provided an interesting experience.

. . . from Roger B