Budapest » [Clintasha]

Chapter Thirty-Four: Barton's Butchers

TRIGGER WARNING: DOMESTIC ABUSE & ALCOHOLISM

I can guarantee that most kids in America love the summer holidays; about a hundred days stretching out ahead of you to do whatever you please, humidity and heat that makes the sunlight feel like an embrace and long days to fill with mischief and adventures. I don't love the summer holidays.

I'm tethered to a family farm, which means backbreaking manual labour, hours spent standing behind a desk in our stuffy butcher's shop and being trapped on the ranch with my family. Being trapped with my family is about the worst possible scenario I can imagine; it's probably one of the seven levels of hell. 

Ploughing the fields shirtless with the sun beating down on your back the whole day leaves you with a stiff neck, peeling red skin and dizziness from dehydration. And once I survive that painful ordeal, it's just counting down the seconds until my father staggers home from the pub and reminds us that we're all shifting our weight to support him. 

At least in the butcher's shop I was out of direct sunlight and had the company of the locals. If I was lucky, I could cram myself into the corner of the shop by the hanging meats and stand in front of the fan. The glare of sunlight through a shop window feels like being a bug beneath a magnifying glass. 

But my father wouldn't even remain sober for running the butcher's shop. There would always be a bottle of whiskey with a popped cork or an uncapped beer that he'd nurse during hours. He said it took the edge off working. It drowned his sorrows. 

From the looks customers sometimes gave him - gave me - I was sure that they could smell the alcohol on his breath, or could detect the slurring of his words, or see the haziness in his eyes. Perhaps all of the above. For him, it was a knowing look. For me, it was a sympathetic look. But no one said a word. 

Who would say a word? My father was a broad man, wide, towering - anyone crossed him whilst his mind was clouded with alcohol he'd have no hesitation in swinging his fist. I think they knew that. He was unstable after his time in Vietnam. But he refused to accept that.

It was when my father was in the back, hacking up a slab of meat into smaller chunks that people would finally ask me about the beast. 

But another monster entered the butchers, in the form of a serpent. I didn't need to hear more than the clack of high class heels on the tile flooring to know that trouble was slinking towards me. I was met by the pointy nose of Eleanor Bishop.

Trying not to seem intimidated by the sharp scent of her Christian Dior perfume and how her clothes were completely unmarked unlike my bloodied apron, I put on a smile and chimed; "Afternoon, ma'am, how may I help you?" 

She surveyed the interior; grotty walls, the smell of rancid maturing meat and the rag-tag customers that bought from our cheap shop.

Her nose wrinkled "Possibly..." She replied. "Do you sell pork here?" She observed the glass counter where many meats were displayed on shelves within. 

My eyes flicked down to the cabinet and I tried not to give a facetious answer. "Yes, what cut are you after?" 

Her eyes scanned the unappetising bulks of meat on display. "Anything with the least fat content, a bulky cut, lots of meat, not so much bone..." She said non-descriptly. 

I seethed, that description did nothing to help me recommend a cut. "May I ask what the meat is for, it might help me recommend what kind of cut it is you require..." I scratched the back of my neck with my gloved hands, and watched her grit her teeth in disgust. 

"Soup," she said curtly, checking my hands for any traces of hair on my palms. Needless to say I peeled off the gloves and replaced them whilst she stared on.