but only one.
‘We do all right, Charlie?’ William asked.
‘All right,’ Charlie agreed as he handed William his half a crown wages. They’d taken nearly ten pounds, six pounds of which was earmarked to buy the next stock of meat. His boss, the Cardiff butcher who owned the stall, paid him on a commission basis on trading days. Today’s share would amount to twelve shillings, a good average for a Saturday. It made up for the weekdays when the stall was closed and he cut meat in the slaughterhouse on Broadway, for which he only got paid two and six a day, the same as William. Most weeks he cleared one pound ten shillings after he’d paid his lodge and expenses.
He had a lot to be grateful for. There were plenty worse off than him, and because he had no wife or children to keep, he’d managed to save over a hundred pounds. Enough to rent a shop and employ someone to run it for a couple of months until the profits started coming in.
He poured the day’s takings into a cloth bag and tucked it inside his shirt, tightening his belt so it nestled against his chest. Then he bent over his notebook, concentrating hard as he jotted down a set of figures. William watched him as he wrote, wondering just when he was going to lend a hand with the clearing up. Eventually Charlie straightened up, tore a page out of his notebook, and folded it carefully into his shirt pocket.
‘Lock up for me.’ He tossed his keys at William.
‘You trust me?’ William asked facetiously.
‘Not entirely, but then once the knives are locked into the meat safe, there’s not a lot worth stealing. You will clean the knives properly before you put them away?’
‘Don’t I always?’
‘When I watch.’ Charlie smiled one of his rare wry smiles.
‘Thanks a lot. May I ask where you’re off to that’s so important?’
‘The New Inn.’ Charlie took off his blue-striped apron and white overalls. Straightening his tie, he slipped on his jacket and coat.
‘Drinking with the crache. The rest of us not good enough for you now?’
‘Something like that,’ Charlie murmured as he left.
William bent his head and attacked the wooden chopping block with a wire brush. Experience had taught him that if Charlie didn’t want to talk about his business, there was no power on God’s earth that would make him.
Charlie found the undertaker, Fred Jones, known in the town as ‘Fred the Dead’ standing at the bar of the "Gentleman’s Only" in the New Inn. People who knew insisted Fred was over forty, but it was difficult to tell his exact age as, unlike most men in Pontypridd, he’d worn well and was always immaculately groomed. His fair hair was styled matinee-idol fashion and creamed with expensive preparations. The suits he sported on his thickset, bull-necked frame were well cut, spotless, crisp and new.
Mostyn Goldman’s wares were not for Fred. He patronised a Cardiff tailor and set aside a day every spring and autumn just to travel there to be measured.
Fred had left Pontypridd as a young man to join the Indian army, and in ten years had worked his way up to the rank of Drill Sergeant. He’d left only when his father, still known in the town as ‘Big Fred the Dead’, had died. ‘Little Fred’, as no-one now dared call him to his face, had kept his healthy-looking tan and his military bearing. No one ever tangled willingly with him.
He employed three men and had sons of working age who helped him in the business of undertaking and property rental that he’d inherited from his father, but he still ‘walked out’ ahead of the hearse at all of the funerals ‘F. Jones and Son’ arranged. And it was nearly always Fred himself who made the first personal call, and laid out the bodies of the crache who had money enough to purchase the best that his firm had to offer.
Charlie ordered a pint of beer. Sipping it, he moved along the bar until he stood alongside Fred, who, foot on brass rail, arm extended, was holding forth on the
‘We do all right, Charlie?’ William asked.
‘All right,’ Charlie agreed as he handed William his half a crown wages. They’d taken nearly ten pounds, six pounds of which was earmarked to buy the next stock of meat. His boss, the Cardiff butcher who owned the stall, paid him on a commission basis on trading days. Today’s share would amount to twelve shillings, a good average for a Saturday. It made up for the weekdays when the stall was closed and he cut meat in the slaughterhouse on Broadway, for which he only got paid two and six a day, the same as William. Most weeks he cleared one pound ten shillings after he’d paid his lodge and expenses.
He had a lot to be grateful for. There were plenty worse off than him, and because he had no wife or children to keep, he’d managed to save over a hundred pounds. Enough to rent a shop and employ someone to run it for a couple of months until the profits started coming in.
He poured the day’s takings into a cloth bag and tucked it inside his shirt, tightening his belt so it nestled against his chest. Then he bent over his notebook, concentrating hard as he jotted down a set of figures. William watched him as he wrote, wondering just when he was going to lend a hand with the clearing up. Eventually Charlie straightened up, tore a page out of his notebook, and folded it carefully into his shirt pocket.
‘Lock up for me.’ He tossed his keys at William.
‘You trust me?’ William asked facetiously.
‘Not entirely, but then once the knives are locked into the meat safe, there’s not a lot worth stealing. You will clean the knives properly before you put them away?’
‘Don’t I always?’
‘When I watch.’ Charlie smiled one of his rare wry smiles.
‘Thanks a lot. May I ask where you’re off to that’s so important?’
‘The New Inn.’ Charlie took off his blue-striped apron and white overalls. Straightening his tie, he slipped on his jacket and coat.
‘Drinking with the crache. The rest of us not good enough for you now?’
‘Something like that,’ Charlie murmured as he left.
William bent his head and attacked the wooden chopping block with a wire brush. Experience had taught him that if Charlie didn’t want to talk about his business, there was no power on God’s earth that would make him.
Charlie found the undertaker, Fred Jones, known in the town as ‘Fred the Dead’ standing at the bar of the "Gentleman’s Only" in the New Inn. People who knew insisted Fred was over forty, but it was difficult to tell his exact age as, unlike most men in Pontypridd, he’d worn well and was always immaculately groomed. His fair hair was styled matinee-idol fashion and creamed with expensive preparations. The suits he sported on his thickset, bull-necked frame were well cut, spotless, crisp and new.
Mostyn Goldman’s wares were not for Fred. He patronised a Cardiff tailor and set aside a day every spring and autumn just to travel there to be measured.
Fred had left Pontypridd as a young man to join the Indian army, and in ten years had worked his way up to the rank of Drill Sergeant. He’d left only when his father, still known in the town as ‘Big Fred the Dead’, had died. ‘Little Fred’, as no-one now dared call him to his face, had kept his healthy-looking tan and his military bearing. No one ever tangled willingly with him.
He employed three men and had sons of working age who helped him in the business of undertaking and property rental that he’d inherited from his father, but he still ‘walked out’ ahead of the hearse at all of the funerals ‘F. Jones and Son’ arranged. And it was nearly always Fred himself who made the first personal call, and laid out the bodies of the crache who had money enough to purchase the best that his firm had to offer.
Charlie ordered a pint of beer. Sipping it, he moved along the bar until he stood alongside Fred, who, foot on brass rail, arm extended, was holding forth on the
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