But I think, But what's the big secret, and what's the big shame? That he's going to quit when he's sixty-eight, which is not before time by most people's reckoning. That he said he'd go on till he dropped, but he hasn't dropped, though he's gone on. That he's going to do what even Vincey said he ought to do years ago: cut his losses before they cut him. Maybe that's the nub of it, that Vincey told him. And there's Amy who nigh on gave up on him. Though he hasn't even guessed that, or how.
I think, Pride's a queer thing. It puffs a small man up but that's nothing to a big man who's afraid of looking small.
He says, 'What's a butcher's shop, anyway?'
And I think, You tell me. Jack, since your whole face is saying it's everything, and it hurts to be admitting otherwise. You wouldn't think it was such a tragedy, taking your nose from the grindstone. I think, Cheer up, Jack. In my book butchers used to be jolly bastards, big fellers with big arms and big grins, like you once used to be. I'm supposed to be Mister Sad. It's retirement, not defeat. And it's only the nature of the trade that keeps me hanging on here, same age as you, lingering in the office, when I could be handing over to the boys. Because it's the age when most people start to have need of an undertaker, the age of widows in the making, and I know Mrs Connolly will appreciate it.
He says, 'There's more to life than bacon, aint there?' as if he's not sure what that is. 'And it's only fair to Amy.'
I say, 'You told her?'
He lifts up his eyes, taken aback. He says, 'Hold on, Vie, I only made me mind up five minutes ago, swabbing down the trays.'
I thought, Well that's more like the Jack Dodds I know. So I was witness, without knowing it, to the great Decision. There must be something that makes you look where you look when you look.
He says, 'So I thought I better tell someone fast, I better tell Vie fast, otherwise I'll go back on myself before I can tell Amy.'
That's more like the Jack I know.
I say, 'That puts me on the spot though, doesn't it? If you don't tell her.'
He says, 'I'll tell her,' indignant, but his face drops again, as though he hasn't worked out how he's going to cross that bridge, as if there's nothing harder in the world than telling good news.
There's an old dock in my office that ticks steady. It's a comfort.
He says, 'Boys okay, Vie?'
I think, Boys, they're both over forty. But it's what I call them: boys.
I say, 'I'm keeping them busy.'
He looks round at the deserted office and then at me, as though to say, 'Looks like they're keeping you busy, Vie.' But I know what that glint in his eye means, I've seen it before. It means, It's easy for you, Vie, isn't it, to give up, let go. With Dick and Trev. So it's still there anyway. It would be easy for me.
It means Vince.
Well you've scuppered your chances there, Jack. Not even help-me-outs there.
He says, 'You know what today is? First of June.'
I shake my head.
He says, 'June's birthday. June's fiftieth birthday. First of June 1939. You know where Amy is right now?'
I say, 'Seeing June.'
He nods, then looks at his hands. 'She didn't say nothing but I knew what she was thinking. That I could make an exception. Fifty years is either special or it aint. A chance to do what I aint ever done before. She said, "I'm going to see June. It's my normal day but today's special, isn't it?" She said, "I've bought her a present, a bracelet," She didn't have to say nothing else, just look. She don't give up. So I said, "I'll see, I'll see." Cost me a load, Vie, just to say that.'
I think, A load of what?
'I said I could shut the shop early, maybe, and see you there. She said, "You sure you know where it is?" I didn't say nothing definite, but it was like a promise. But when the time came - half an hour ago - I knew I couldn't do it, I couldn't change, not like that. Fifty years. June don't know how old she is, does she? June don't know what a bracelet's for. So then I thought, But I can change another way. She won't see me turning up at that hospital but I can have something to tell her. Something to compensate.'
I think, You might have done both.
He says, 'Amy don't give up.'
I think, Who's talking?
He says, 'June aint ever going to change, is she? Still a baby, aint she, a fifty-year-old baby? But maybe I can.'
I don't think anything.
He looks at me and at the thought I'm not thinking. He looks round the office again, cagily, as if he's half forgotten where he is and that I'm Vie Tucker, undertaker, and not the parish priest.
He cocks his head towards the door at the back of the office. He says, 'Any lodgers?' Usual question.
I say, 'Just the one.'
And I can almost see him remembering it, that time when it was me who went running across to him. All on my own then too, short-staffed, and as luck would have it I had two in storage and one of them needed seeing to badly. It can be a two-man job. A hot day then too. So I thought of Jack across the road. I thought, Maybe a butcher. I said, 'Jack, can you do me a favour?' I had to steer him round to the back of the shop, out of earshot of a customer, to explain. He looked at me then he said, 'No problem, Vie,' as if I'd asked him if he could help me shift a piece of furniture. He said, 'Will I need this?' wiping his hands on his apron. We crossed back over, and I said before we went in, 'You sure about this?' and he says, looking at me sharply.
'I've seen bodies.' I thought, I saw them too, yours wasn't the only war. Heads bobbing in the oil. I said, 'Yes, but not women.' But he didn't turn a hair, didn't bat an eyelid, as if a seventy-four-year-old woman who'd died crossing the road wasn't any different from a joint of beef. I said, 'Thank you, Jack. It's not everyone' He said, 'Any time, Vie. I aint everyone.'
And when the eldest son came to view I thought, You'll never know your mum was tidied up by the butcher across the road.
I suppose you'd expect a butcher not to be squeamish, you'd expect a man like Jack not to hold back. Jack Dodds was only ever squeamish about going to see his daughter. His own flesh and blood.
I say, 'Just the one. I've got someone coming to view.'
He says, 'Then I better hop it.' But he doesn't move. 'I suppose a man can change at the last minute.'
He looks at me and I look at him, as though I'm measuring him up. I think of Amy going to see June. Like Mrs Connolly.
I say, 'You sure you're going to tell Amy? I'm your witness now, Jack.'
I think, I'm a witness, all right. Shall I tell him?
Til tell her,' he says, like he's still got a trick up his sleeve. 'Or you can keep this.' And he dredges in his pocket and brings out a handful of crumpled notes. It can't have been much more than fifty quid.
'Day's takings,' he says. 'Double pledge. My word and my money. Now you can see how I can't afford to keep on the shop.'
He shoves the bunch of notes towards me. I don't refuse to take it.
Then he says, 'Do you know, Vie, what I once wanted to be?'
I look at him. 'A doctor.'
It's a good trade.
Ray
I said, 'I fancy seeing the Pyramids.'
He said, 'I fancy seeing the inside of the nearest knocking shop.'
It was Jack who first called me Lucky. It didn't have to do with the nags, that was later.
He said, 'Small fellers have the advantage, small fellers have the luck, hope you understand that. Less of a target for the enemy, less weight to carry in this fucking frying-pan. Mind you, doesn't take away my advantage. I could knock your block off any time I like. Hope you understand that.'
Then he smiled, held out his hand, clenched it for a moment, grinning, then opened it again.