Samuel Heaton, the village butcher, considered himself to be above sentiment. “If tha’rt gooin’ to get on,” he declared, “tha has to look after thisel’. ” If he went to buy a new suit he first asked the price. “Four guineas,” said the tailor. “Ah’ll gi’ thi three-ten an’ no more,” would promptly counter Samuel. “Well,” would say the tailor, “as tha’rt an owd pal, an’ Ah don’t want to lose thi custom … we’ll say three-fifteen.”
“Ah’ll gi’ thee three-twelve,” was Samuel’s final offer.
“It’s a deal,” the tailor would chip in “When con that come to be measured?”
And Samuel would go on his way with tail wagging. He had, he considered, saved twelve shillings, and twelve bob was twelve bob in these days. He was well satisfied, and the tailor was happy too. That gentleman went into his house behind the shop and said to his wife, “Ah’ve just had Samuel Heaton in again for a new suit.”
“Ah reckon he bantered thee down as usual,” said his wife with a grin.
“Aye,” said the tailor. “He bantered down a three-guinea suit to three-twelve.”
He allus was clever, was Samuel,” said his wife.
“He’s like a ’ell of a lot more,” said the tailor. “Give him a basket o’ eggs an’ a big stick an’ he’ll play the hangmans.”
“He’s none a bad soart at th’ bottom,” said his wife.
“Slow an’ sure,” said the tailor.
“Ah know,” said his wife. “He courted me fower year.”
“Tha’rt none sorry tha had me?” said the tailor.
“Ah liked him,” admitted his wife. “But he wor too weel fortified against temptation. He wor allus preychin’ instead o’ getting’ on wi’ his courting’.”
“Ah con resist owt,” said the tailor. “Nobbut temptation.”
“Ah well,” said his wife, “it does get thee somewhere. Samuel’s none wed yet.”
It was true that Samuel was not married, but he did not put that down against his account. “Ah know a toothri in this village as’d jump at me,” said Samuel, and he added with a wink, “Cop a weasel asleep an’ tha con spit in its ear.” The fact was, his old mother was still well on her feet, and more than able to look after him. “Samuel Heaton darn’n’t turn round bowt axin his mother” was a common saying in the village, and the sign over the shop had on it “Rachel Heaton and Son.”
“Me mother’s as good as any chap in a shop,” said Samuel to those who quizzed him about not being married. “Wheer would Ah get another woman as could handle a cleaver like me mother? An’ cook! Hoo con make a pennorth o’ liver smell like a turkey. This ‘ere love’s o’ reet, but it don’t earn thee a livin’. As long as me mother con shape Ah don’t see th’ need for another.”
Indeed, his mother was the better man of the two. Samuel was no business man, though he thought he was, and his mother it was who repelled all boarders in the shape of grubby looking children who came in the shop and said, “Half a pound o’ steak best undercut, an’ me muvver’ll send th’ money in on Setturday.” His mother would just look at them and say, “Thee go whoam an’ tell thi mother as th’ tick department is closed for repairs.”
“Th’ child looks famished,” Samuel would hazard.
“Aye,” said his mother, “An’ tha’ll soon look famished too if tha sells thi meat for nowt.”
“Ah felt a bit ill-off for it,” said Samuel. “It did look clemmed.”
“Ah don’t know why Ah put thee to butcherin’, said his mother. “Tha owt to ha’ been a parson.”
“Ah’m too short-necked,” said Samuel. “It tak’s me o’ me time to fasten me collar at th’ front.”
Up to a point his mother was right. Samuel was not a bad butcher, and he could kill anything that could legitimately be sold on a butcher’s block without compunction. It never dawned upon him that there could be anything cruel about it.
“Ah couldn’t kill a cow,” said one of his customers to Samuel as he was cunningly slicing a pound of steak to weigh a trifle more.
“Th’art not expected to kill a cow,” said Samuel. “That’s just tuppence o’er a pound.”
“Ah’ll tak’ it,” said the customer. “Does it never seem cruel to thee?”
“Ah didn’t think it wor tuppence o’er,” said Samuel. “Tha connot gauge it to a thousandth part of a inch.”
“Ah worn’t meaning’ that,” said the customer. “Does it never seem cruel to thee killin’ a cow.”
“Does it never seem cruel to thee when tha’rt eatin’ it?” asked Samuel.
“It’s not cow then,” said the customer, “it’s steak.”
“It’s none cow when Ah’m killin’ it,” said Samuel. “It’s me job.”
“If Ah had to kill a cow,” said the customer, “Ah should be a vegetarian.”
“Ah reckons to be a vegetarian,” said Samuel, “but Ah lets th’ cow do th’ preliminary process … it eats grass an Ah eat it.”
Yet … if Samuel had not been bludgeoned by habit he could not have killed a cow. There was not a softer-hearted man in the village. Once he began to breed Airedale dogs, but when it came to docking the puppies’ tails he couldn’t face the job. He did one and then was violently sick.
“Let me do it,” said his dog fancier friend. “Tha’rt a warm un for a butcher.”
“It’s no good,” said Samuel. “Ah’ll try canaries.”
“Tha’rt a w’ary butcher an’ cannot dock pup’s tails,” said his friend. “Ah knew one mon as could chew ‘em off.”
“Shut up,” said Samuel. “Tha’rt makin’ me sick again.”
Samuel considered himself to be a lucky man. He always said that if he tumbled off th’ Co-op he’d fall in th’ divi. He bought a batch of pigs to feed up on his field, and he found that one of them was a sow in an interesting condition. Soon there were nine little piglets beside the old un out of that deal.
“Ah reckon that’s good gooin’,” he said to his mother.
“It’s all in,” said his mother.
“Ah’m wonderin’ if Ah’ve chetted th’ dealer,” said Samuel.
“Chetted a dealer!” said his mother in astonishment.
“He sowd me a pig,” said Samuel, “not ten.”
“There wor only one when he sowd it thee,” said his mother.
“He couldn’t have me up for it or nowt?” said Samuel, anxiously.
“What arta worritin’ about? said his mother impatiently, “it’s what they call a act of God.”
“Ah don’t want no trouble,” said Samuel.
“If there’s any trouble,” said his mother, “it’ll be thee as makes it. If tha says nowt nobody’ll know nowt.”
They were nine lovely little piglets, all great pals except Sebastian. He was a shade less than the others, and was a real one lot. He followed Samuel about the field like a fox terrier and was seldom with his brothers and sisters. It was Samuel’s mother who christened him.
“Dosta known, Samuel,” she said, “when it cocks its snout up like that Ah con see thi uncle Sebastian in it.”
“Me uncle Sebastian worn’t bowlegged,” said Samuel.
“Naw,” said his mother, “but he screwed his e’en like that.”
“Now you come to mention it,” said Samuel, “there is a look on him.”
Samuel took his billycock from his head and placed it on the piglet.
“Theighur,” he said, “it’s th’ very spit o’ me uncle Sebastian. Th’ wet nose an’ o’.”
Samuel’s mother wiped her left eye. “We’ll call it Sebastian.”
“Don’t forget, mother,” said Samuel, “as its ultimate fate is sausage an’ sich like.”
“Well,” said his mother, rather huffed, “Ah know me business.”
“It winnot do to mak’ a pet on it,” said Samuel, “just because it looks like me uncle Sebastian.”
“If thi uncle Sebastian had been a pig,” said his mother, “he’d ha’ been stuck like any other pig. Ah never was one for favouritism.”
It was Samuel who spoiled Sebastian. It was obviously so fond of him that he felt impelled to save little titbits for the animal. As it grew older it grew more and more like uncle Sebastian. Even his uncle William, who was a great scholar, could see the likeness.
“It’s marvellous,” he said, “even to th’ snifting.”
“Sometimes Ah thinks it’s him,” said Samuel. “He grunted like that when he wor moved.”
“Happen it’s transmogrification,” said Uncle William.
“Ah couldn’t tell thee th’ breed,” said Samuel. “When tha buys a pig for slaughter it’s weight tha’rt after. Tha doesn’t bother about its pedigree.”
“Tha doesn’t know what Ah’m talkin’ about,” said Uncle William.
“Does tha?” said Samuel.
“There’s some folks as believes as we comes on this earth again,” said Uncle William, “but in another form.”
“Ah know,” said Samuel, “there’s folks a’d believe owt.”
“Happen,” said Uncle William impressively, “That theer pig is Sebastian.”
Samuel looked at the pig and shook his head.
“What about its curly tail?” he said.
“That’s where it’s transmogrified,” said Uncle William. “That theer curly tail may be a mark o’ thi Uncle Sebastian’s wayward disposition.”
“There’d be a ‘ell of a seet mor on it if it wor,” said Samuel
“The mor Ah look at that pig,” said Uncle William, “the more Ah see Sebastian.”
“It’ll be one o’ the’ family in a bit,” said Samuel. “If it’s me Uncle Sebastian as tha says it’ll be a sin to kill it.”
“Ah don’t know,” said Uncle William. “He supped himsel’ gawmless.”
“He wor allus good to me,” said Samuel, stoutly. “He never got drunk but what he bought me summat.”
“Anyhow,” said Uncle William, “if it’s him he’s in another form. Though Ah connot fancy Sebastian as good pork.”
“It’s feedin’ as counts,” said Samuel. “Not breed.”
“Ah don’t think Ah could fancy him” said Uncle William.
“We’re not axin’ thee to have any of him” said Samuel. “Ah don’t see why tha should run thi own brother down. If tha wor to ax me Ah should say Sebastian’ll turn out th’ best pig o’ th’ lot.”
“If Ah wor to tackle a morsel it’d choke me,” said Uncle William. “Ah allus wor sensitive. It’d be like bein’ a cannibal.”
“Ah could eat a peg leg,” said Samuel, “if Ah wor hungry.”
“If tha wor eatin’ a peg leg,” said Uncle William “tha wouldn’t have thi uncle on thi conscience between every bite.”
“Ah’ve no patience wi’ yo,” said Samuel. “It’s nobbut a co-incidence.”
As the pig grew it took on more of Sebastian’s characteristics. When Samuel brought Sebastian’s relic, Aunt Sophia, to gaze on the phenomenon, she broke down completely.
“Th’ last few years,” she whimpered, “he looked just like that. Proper boosey.”
"It’s been rootin’ in th’ muck,” said Samuel, apologetically.
“It brings it all back to me,” said Aunt Sophia. “He wor wayward, but we wor very happy together.”
“If it wor a Pomeraneum,” said Samuel, “Yo could have it for a pet.”
“Ah’d ha’ loved it", said Aunt Sophia. “But it’s no good puttin’ salt into th’ raw wounds.”
“Not at th’ price salt is,” said Samuel.
“Ah’ll be getting’ back,” said Aunt Sophia. “Ah left a pie in th’ o’on.”
“Will yo want a bit when we cut it up?” said Samuel. “Ah couldn’t touch it,” said Aunt Sophia. “Ah should want to keep it under a globe.”
“If you did that,” said Samuel, “it soon would remind yo’ o’ Uncle Sebastian.”
There came the day when Sebastian and his family were to be pushed in the cart on their last journey. Sebastian must have known, because he had to be found when the others were already in the cart. He turned his reproachful eyes on Samuel as he lifted him into the cart.
“Ah know, Sebastian,” said Samuel, “But it’s me job.”
It was when he had sharpened his knife and was quite ready for the massacre that he felt somehow this was not quite the usual kind of job. For the first time in his life he saw butchering from the outside. To the pork butcher who shared the slaughter-house he said, “Every time that theer pig looks at me Ah feel like Crippen.”
“Tha’rt not gooin’ funny,” said his pal.
“Ah con do ‘em all in but that,” said Samuel. “An’ think no more about it.”
“What’s th’ difference?” asked the other.
“That theer pig,” said Samuel, “is th’ dead spit o’ me Uncle Sebastian.”
“He borrowed ten quid fro’ me,” said the other, “an he deed th’ week after. Ah never geet it back.”
“He wor allus good to me,” said Samuel.
“Thi Uncle Sebastian,” said the other deliberately, “wor a squirt.”
“Thar’t not bein’ offensive?” said Samuel.
“Ah’m prepared to prove it,” said the other.
“Tha sees how Ah feel,” said Samuel. “Ah don’t think Ah con kill it.”
“Thee gi’ me th’ knife,” said the other. “If Ah could kill it twice it’d be a pleasure.”