London Central Butchery, 1930

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There was Andrew, whom folks called “Black Bull,” and Charles, or “Red Bone”, and the day ahead would be long for both. Before this job, Andrew had been a boxer, and the London crowds took to calling him “Black Bull” on account of the way he moved around the ring, head down like a bull, never showing his face to the opponent. He seemed instead to smell the moment when his enemy would attack, dodging the punches blindly, in the dark. He’d been a beast in the bullring, but boxing had never been Andrew’s calling and so he’d become a slaughterman instead. His strength and hardiness served him well in the butchering of dead animals, and Andrew had taken to the work; he liked using his hands, carrying heavy loads and exhausting his body. Perhaps surprisingly for a former boxer, the sight of blood did sometimes turn his stomach. Charles had started early in life, and was used to cutting up the cattle and pigs. His colleagues called him “Red Bone,” for the sight of blood did not offend him – quite the contrary. Slicing the beasts was child’s play for the big lad with his wide shoulders. This morning, outside the abattoir, the two cockneys stood around in the foggy breeze, lighting smoke after smoke. The weather was foul, but the smell was worse. The two strong men covered their noses with handkerchiefs. The place stank; the abattoir was only fifty yards from the slaughterhouse. Last night the cattle had been decapitated, the chickens necks’ wrung, the pigs gutted. They’d been struck down with bolt guns, claw hooks and pig mallets. The smell wafting toward the men this morning was particularly fetid. Still, nothing would stop Andrew and Charles from doing their job. While the men who worked in the abattoir were paid a pittance to lead beasts to their death, Andrew and Charles made a respectable wage. Each task had its cost here at the London Central Butchery. The two strapping lads were paid to hoist the sides of beef, hogs and lambs up into the lorries, which would carry them far and wide to the markets of London. But before they could be taken anywhere, the carcasses had to be cut up. Sometimes the beef sides would spurt blood onto their aprons, and sometimes the hogs were heavy. It was a relentless task, but this was how the two men earned their crust.

An expensive car rolled up the road. It was the manager, coming to open the slaughterhouse. The sleek automobile stopped in front of the entrance, and a black brogue stepped out onto the tarmac.  Andrew and Charles nodded their heads in a sign of respect. The boss took out his ring of keys and opened the door. “Alright lads, let’s get to it!” Andrew and Charles did not need to be told twice. There was bleeding to be done before the meat wagons arrived. Andrew lifted the cattle down from their hooks and laid them on the floor. “Heavy bastard,” he grunted. He squeezed it with all the strength his arms could muster, emptying the animal of its blood. Claret poured over the floor, spurting and sputtering in all directions. Andrew took a shot in the face, and grimaced with disgust. Charles was skinning the beasts. Once the animals were dead, their hides were separated to be sold. The feet were sawn off, and the hooves ground down into fertilizer. The bones would be used to make bath products. Now it was Andrew’s turn to cut the heads off. This needed one strong, clean cut. He took up his butcher’s knife and sliced through the neck. “Look at that, lads, sharpest knife in all of Britain,” he announced triumphantly, to no-one in particular. They pulled out the guts and offal, and then came the sound of loud engines. It was loading time. The hardest part of the slaughtering was done; now they just had to fill the meat wagons. Andrew and Charles went about their work, lining up the hides of beef, pork and mutton in rows, with each piece and part of the animal waiting to be lifted.

Charles struggled to carry the last hog, while Andrew enjoyed hoisting up the sides of beef. The hardest part was getting it on your shoulder. After that it was light as a lamb’s ear. It softened, and took the shape of your shoulder. Over time, Andrew had learned to love his work. Every day was a victory in here. He loaded up the last side of beef. “That’s it!” cried the boss. The lorry engines rumbled, and they moved off toward the London markets. Andrew wiped his hands on his blood-stained apron. Charles collected his pay, with a ten-pound bonus. That night he’d head home proud, with a week’s worth of groceries for his Mum. Andrew, meanwhile, would buy himself a ticket for the boxing final, where he could watch as others toiled.

Alan Alfredo Geday