Til Death Do Us Part by Sara Fraser Page A

swarthy-featured itinerant pedlar.
    â€˜You’m trying to make a cunt out o’ me, Yakob Weiss. Half a dozen prime cat furs, and a dozen rabbit, all fresh and washed with never a scrap o’ meat on ’um and you’m offering me a measly two shillings. I knows full well that I could get double that if I took ’um up to Brummagem.’
    â€˜You take ’um up there then, and just see what price you’ll get,’ the pedlar challenged. ‘Because the most I’ll give you is three shillings, and that’s me final offer.’
    â€˜Oh, alright then, you bloody Shylock,’ Rimmer accepted. ‘I’ll have ’um ready for you in the Cow’s back room when you’re done with the mart. But you giving me such a rotten price means that I’ll be taking me prime goods up to Brummagem to sell.’
    The pedlar stared questioningly at the other man. ‘Come on, Rimmer! Spit it out! What other stuff have you got?’
    â€˜The best you can get,’ Rimmer announced triumphantly. ‘The sort o’ fur that’s fuckin’ wind and weatherproof. The rain just jumps off it, so the skin don’t need oiling, tarring or lining. The sort o’ pelts that any other cap-maker’d bite me hands off to get hold of ’um. That’s guaranteed, that is!’
    The pedlar frowned and tugged on his long straggly beard. ‘What pelts are they?’
    â€˜Massive big dog pelts. A Newfoundland and three Bernese Mountain dogs.’
    â€˜Where did you get hold o’ them? Because I know for a fact that Bernese Mountain dogs are bound to be few and far between in these parts.’
    â€˜That’s very true, my friend,’ Rimmer agreed equably. ‘You don’t come across many o’ the buggers round these parts. But that’s the very reason that any cap-maker ’ull be mad keen to get hold o’ them, because all the flash lads ’ull be mad keen to be flashing off such a kicksy-upsy titfer and be ready to pay through their noses to get one.’
    â€˜Well, just supposing I did take a look at them, and just supposing I might be persuaded to take them off your hands, what sort of price are we looking at? Because I’m thinking that these Berneses weren’t dumped on a rubbish tip and left to die there by a cruel master.’ The pedlar winked meaningfully. ‘Not that I mind how they come to stray and get lost.’
    Rimmer grinned and winked back. ‘I’ll have them with me tonight, Yakob. I’m double sure we’ll agree a fair price after you’ve seen them.’
    Sitting in the cooking alcove of the lock-up, toying with his breakfast of onion porridge, Tom Potts was also thinking about a price. But in his case it was the mental price he was paying for having his wife and his mother living under the same roof. The mutually reluctant truce between the two women had endured for only a few days, and for the past week Tom had been the hapless recipient of blame from both of them for this unhappy domestic arrangement.
    What was lowering his present depressed spirits still further was his failure to find any trace whatsoever of the missing dogs, despite searching almost the entire length and breadth of the Needle District for news of them.
    â€˜I’ll have to tell Blackwell that I think my time could be better spent here at the mart today,’ he decided. ‘There’s been no dealer’s licenses checked yet this month, and there was a robbery and at least three bad fights last week because nobody was here to keep order with Ritchie and me away looking for those bloody dogs.’
    He pushed the plate of half-eaten porridge away and rose to his feet, just as Amy came down to the ground floor complaining pettishly, ‘Your Mam’s snoring is driving me mad! Kept me awake half the night it did! That’s why I’ve overslept again this morning! I can’t get a decent night’s rest