Chapter 3
Chapter Three
EVERYTHING IMPROVES WITH SAUSAGES . . .
On a chilly day in the middle of November, Bully’s Butchers in Clitheroe buzzed with customers bustling in to stock up for the weekend, many placing large Christmas orders that would soon be bagged, labelled and tucked away deep in freezers until the festivities began.
A charming Lancashire market town, surrounded by the rolling beauty of the Ribble Valley, Clitheroe was known for its welcoming community, traditional market and independent shops, such as Bully’s Butchers.
The shop, nestling under the shadows of the castle, midway along Steep Hill Street, had been a butcher’s specialising in a considerable selection of sausages for more than a century. Handed down over four generations, it maintained a reputation for producing the finest sausages in Lancashire.
The present custodians of Bully’s Butchers were twin brothers, Bob and Peter, and, like chalk and cheese, few would guess that they were related.
Rotund and jolly, indefatigable Bob Bully was a workaholic with a happy marriage, five children, and eight grandchildren.
He enjoyed an easy repartee with his customers, who travelled far and wide for his banter, and he knew their tastes as well as their names.
When the bell above the shop door tinkled, Bob would glance up from the counter and call out, ‘Wild boar for Malcolm Crabtree!’ or ‘Hot and spicy for Doreen from Castle Close.’
Delighted, customers would chuckle and wonder at Bob’s sausage telepathy, because without fail, his choice was always right.
Brother Peter, meanwhile, was as lean as a lamppost, and while at work, spoke in quieter, measured tones.
Labouring in the back room, Peter created new recipes and oversaw the production line that churned out many thousands of sausages each week.
His efficiency ensured that profits were maintained and rose steadily, year on year.
But in his spare time, Peter lived in a fantasy world and was an avid reader of authors that included John le Carré and Len Deighton, whose Cold War thrillers were a highlight.
But top of his reading list was Ian Fleming and the fictional spy James Bond, his hero, and Peter lost himself in novels featuring high-stakes missions, espionage, and exotic locations.
Married to Mary and childless, Peter had been distraught when, a year ago, disaster struck.
Mary, his wife of three decades, disappeared while supposedly taking a walk by the River Ribble.
When she didn’t return, Peter found to his dismay that two suitcases had gone from the loft and clothes in Mary’s wardrobe were unaccounted for.
After months of investigation and searching, the local police concluded that Mary was a missing person.
With no evidence of foul play, they declared that as her passport couldn’t be found, and – more telling still – she’d withdrawn a large sum of cash from their joint bank account on the day that she disappeared, she probably chose to vanish of her own free will.
Peter’s world had been turned upside down, and he was confused and sad that his marriage had ended without explanation. He might not have been the most attentive husband, but he thought that as a couple, they’d rubbed along well together.
Working on the shop counter alongside Bob during the day, Mary seemed happy, and Peter was sure he’d done his best. But with the pain of no Mary at their kitchen table in the morning, nor sitting comfortably of an evening in her favourite armchair, buried in the pages of a book, or writing in her journal, days blurred into nights for Peter.
He moved in a fog, immersing himself in work as though creating new recipes for the sausages would make sense of the senseless.
Peter was adrift, lost in his world of ground meat, seasonings, binders and fillings.
Had he missed the signs, not noticing Mary’s moods?
Was he too wrapped up in his own fictional fantasies, spun while watching the industrial mixer, blending fat and spices into perfectly plump bangers?
Peter’s mind was muddled, and in recent weeks, his new recipes began to trouble customers.
When Gone Girl Grillers, and, For Better or Wurst Saveloys appeared among the wide selection of sausages on display, brother Bob was filled with concern.
Peter had always enjoyed his imaginative fantasy world.
Growing up, spy culture was everywhere, and Bob could still remember how Peter insisted that they never miss an episode of The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
or The Avengers. Birthday gifts meant cap guns, walkie-talkies and whatever gadget aided their latest spy game.
Bob would bet that Peter still owned his prized Corgi Aston Martin DB5, complete with ejector seat, pristine in its box.
The trouble was that Peter hadn’t entirely left that childhood world behind, and since Mary disappeared, it had escalated.
Bob noticed that to overcome his sorrow, Peter delved deeper into the fictional world of the novels he read, imagining himself parachuting beyond enemy lines or foiling assassination plots.
When this world crept into reality, Peter openly spoke of daredevilry and covert operations while he was working in the sausage shop, and Bob grew increasingly uneasy about his brother’s state of mind.
Bob knew that Mary had been a prolific mystery reader too, but her tastes were lighter.
She preferred domestic village whodunnits over her husband’s danger-filled dramas.
He listened patiently whenever Peter explained his theory that Mary may have been abducted by foreign agents or that she was being held captive by a secret society in Clitheroe’s underworld.
But the only underworld in the town that Bob knew of was Clitheroe’s network of gossip, which could spread a rumour faster than a contagious disease.
After many worrying months, Bob feared that his brother was losing his senses.
When he overheard Peter tell a customer that it was his solemn duty to become a secret agent himself and track Mary down, Bob knew that enough was enough and was insistent that Peter take a break.
‘You need a holiday, old lad,’ Bob soothed one evening as he locked the door of the shop and hung up his apron. ‘A little break from all this, and a total change of scene to let that mind of yours settle and form some order.’
Peter, who was meticulously scrubbing a wooden block, paused.
‘A holiday will help,’ Bob assured Peter and patted him on the shoulder. ‘It’s our sixtieth birthday at the end of November. Why don’t we all get away somewhere and have a party to celebrate?’
But Peter simply shook his head.
‘I’d sooner go away on my own, to clear my head,’ he said, ‘somewhere that holds no memories.’
And that was how Peter found himself stacking his beloved spy-fiction books to one side and filling his dining room table with winter holiday brochures.
His gaze wandered over package holidays to the Caribbean and sun-filled days on a Mauritian beach.
Should he try a skiing holiday in Austria or ice caving and glacier hiking in Reykjavik?
Anything but the bi- annual trip to Tenerife with Mary, where memories of married life would rear up and cling like the heat of the Spanish sun.
No, Peter thought, if he was going to have a solo holiday, it had to be somewhere different.
He stared at the brochures again and considered taking a cruise, but the thought of so many people on a large ship put him off.
He’d heard about the vast floating palaces that congested island ports, and he had no desire to be lost in a crowd and shepherded like sheep on excursions.
Turning a page, his eyes fell on a glossy advertisement for a sparkling new boat, due to set sail in the last week of November.
The tour company explained that the SS Nefertari was the pride of Horus Line Holidays, recently launched and hosting, at most, a hundred passengers.
She would sail along the Nile, taking in the splendours of ancient Egypt.
Peter thought of Mary and her fondness for cosy mysteries, Agatha Christie’s Poirot being a particular favourite.
Hadn’t there been a novel set on the Nile?
The memory of the worn paperback on the table by Mary’s chair came back: Death on the Nile.
Perhaps a river cruise would be his tribute to his wife?
Drawn to the advertisement, Peter was fascinated and imagined gliding past the temples of Luxor, watching the sunrise over the river.
Many of his heroes had drifted down the Nile, hunting relics and uncovering conspiracies.
This break, filled with history, would be the adventure he craved, to help him overcome Mary’s disappearance.
Realising that the holiday began in less than a week, Peter started to panic. Would there be any places left? He reached for a pen and circled the details of how to book. Crossing his fingers Peter reached for his phone and in moments his call was answered.
‘Horus Line Holidays, Helen speaking, how may I help you?’
‘Hello, yes,’ Peter stuttered. ‘Er, Helen, is it? I . . . rather hoped you might have availability for the Nile cruise, leaving on 25 November?’
‘Just a moment – let me check.’
There was a brief pause, and Peter felt his stomach tighten.
‘You’re in luck,’ Helen said. ‘There is one cabin left for that sailing. Would you like me to book it for you?’
Relief flooded through Peter. ‘Yes, absolutely. Yes please!’
A short while later, with the booking complete, Peter put down his phone.
He’d never been away on his own and felt a sudden rush of excitement.
Hastily, he headed to the back of the shop and began to blend meat and spices.
When he loaded the mixture into a funnel and fed it through its casings, long meaty balloons soon appeared, and Peter laid them neatly on a tray.
Tutankhamun’s Golden Links, with a hint of saffron and turmeric, sold out within an hour and as Peter leaned against his butcher’s block, he had a wide grin on his face.
Perhaps this holiday would be the beginning of a whole new fantasy chapter!