The Butchers

Winner of the 2021 RSL Ondaatje Prize

Ruth Gilligan

• Publisher: Atlantic Books
• Year: 2020
• Print ISBN:
  9781786499462
• eBook ISBN:
  9781786499455
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

***WINNER of the 2021 RSL Ondaatje Prize*** 'I binged it like a Netflix show... It's stunning ' Luke Kennard, author of The Transition
______________________________ A photograph is hung on a gallery wall for the very first time since it was taken two decades before. It shows a slaughter house in rural Ireland, a painting of the Virgin Mary on the wall, a meat hook suspended from the ceiling - and, from its sharp point, the lifeless body of a man hanging by his feet. The story of who he is and how he got there casts back into Irish folklore, of widows cursing the land and of the men who slaughter its cattle by hand. But modern Ireland is distrustful of ancient traditions, and as the BSE crisis in England presents get-rich opportunities in Ireland, few care about The Butchers, the eight men who roam the country, slaughtering the cows of those who still have faith in the old ways. Few care, that is, except for Fionn, the husband of a dying woman who still believes; their son Davey, who has fallen in love with the youngest of the Butchers; Gra, the lonely wife of one of the eight; and her 12-year-old daughter, Una, a girl who will grow up to carry a knife like her father, and who will be the one finally to avenge the man in the photograph.

Grá

County Cavan, August 1996

For the entire journey, she kept returning to that same awful phrase.

Death rattle.

She wondered if there was an equivalent for birth. And if so, which one of them hurt the most.

The bus shuddered something violent, the suspension and the chassis barely clinging on, the windows threatening to shatter and let the silage stench come suffocating in. The fact that the service only ran twice a day suddenly didn’t seem such a farce – it was all the vehicle could do to hold its bones together.

Grá held her daughter’s hand so tightly. She thought of it again.

Birth rattle.

She tried very hard not to shut her eyes.

The driver did the best he could, shunting the gears and swerving the potholes; braking just in time to avoid the downy thump of death-wish hares darting across the road. More than once, they passed a victim who hadn’t quite timed its escape. A tongue flopped out pink. An intestine spilled purple like a rope.

Grá glanced at Úna, the scrags of hair lopped unevenly round her face. She had almost offered to tidy it up; almost suggested a hat. Instead, she had assured her daughter she was as beautiful as ever.

She had overheard her husband doing the very same.

And she had told her daughter that the trip to town was on account of her imminent birthday. Unlucky thirteen – a teenager at last! But of course, the journey was so much more than that – an apology and a peace offering and a desperate attempt to compensate for the heartache of last week.

I am putting myself forward as a replacement Butcher.

I have decided I don’t need to be a girl any more.

Grá clutched the fingers tighter than ever.

As it happened, in the last few days, Úna seemed almost back to her unusual self – all smiles and games and questions plucked out of thick air. But Grá knew better than to believe in what the outside showed. Hadn’t she spent an entire lifetime appearing happy? Appearing, all things considered, content?

Eventually the potholes began to shrink. They passed some traffic lights and a couple of petrol stations. In the distance, a row of taller buildings rose up, off-white; a grey-black cross atop a Gothic spire. But tallest of all were the yellow cranes from the various building sites that rimmed the edge of the town – construction was under way, modernity overspilling one concrete block at a time. Grá wondered about living right on the frontline where Man and Nature met. She wondered if all borders led, eventually, to war. She thanked the driver as they alighted and wondered, if that was the case, who would win this one in the end.

___________

It was only a Tuesday morning, so she knew that Main Street could have been a whole lot busier, but for them the bustle was more than enough. A busker strummed some acoustic Boyzone. A group of Americans boarded a pleather coach. Something slicked to her ankle. Grá flinched. The plastic bag flew away in a single kick.

When they reached the charity shop she told Úna that she could choose anything she liked. It was mustier here and quieter – a muffled home away from home. Grá noticed there were only women in the place, so she imagined a world where men got to use and read things first and women could only use and read them after. She fingered the spine-break of an ancient paperback, trying to imagine things any other way.

She stared at the shelves of chipped knick-knacks, the rows of natty jackets, the faded posters in their frames. There was the Virgin Mary and an old map of Ulster. There was Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Immediately Grá thought of Lena’s love of the old classics, then tried to push her out of her mind. Instead she thought how strange it was to imagine Hepburn, the beautiful idol, now lying six feet under.

‘I’ve found it, I’ve found it!’ It wasn’t long until Úna came sprinting back. ‘The lady at the till promises it still works. She said it just needs a new roll of film.’

Grá heard the joy in her daughter’s voice and saw the glow in her daughter’s face. Eventually, she really would be back to herself. But for now, Grá was distracted by something else, so she placed her hand on the rail. The wheels skidded, threatening to go flying; to send her collapsing to the floor. And she would lie amidst the moth-eaten jumpers for a very long time, wondering how on earth she could have been such a fool. Because for all she knew, her sister could have passed away. For all her idolising, Lena could have already been dead for years, lying six feet under the blackened earth.

___________

Two hours and a sticky bun later, it was time to be heading home. Úna had chosen a Polaroid camera. The irony was almost enough to make Grá smile. They were around the corner from the bus stop with twenty minutes to spare, when Úna pointed out House of Blooms. A sign in the window announced, ‘JUST OPENED’.

‘Let’s go.’

‘Úna, wait.’

But already the bells above the door were tinkling.

Inside, the air was moist and sweet. There were freesias and gerbera, purple irises streaked with a yellow so bright they must have nicked it from the sunflowers in the next bucket along. There were things Grá had seen and grown before – great clutches of stock with their heady, synthetic scent – and then there were other things, the magnolia petals thick like expensive paper meant only for fountain-pen ink.

‘Can I help you?’ The woman appeared from the back, a bundle of foliage swaddled in her arms. She wore red glasses looped on a chain.

‘Just browsing, thanks.’

‘Take your time. You’ll see I over-ordered – I wanted to start with a bang, but I’ll be out of business by the end of the week if I let all this go to wilt.’

Grá felt the ghost of a sales pitch lurking, and yet she was curious. ‘You’re the owner?’

‘That’s me.’ The woman placed the leaves on the counter and started ripping off the brown bits. ‘I moved home from Dublin last month. I wanted—’

‘I think Mrs P would like these.’ Over on the side, Úna was staring at a swathe of blue nigellas.

‘Miss Jekyll,’ both women said at once.

Grá looked at the stranger.

‘I’m Helen,’ she said.

‘I’m Grá. And this is my … this is Úna.’

The bells above the door were tinkling again.

___________

On the journey back they sat right up the front, which meant the rattle was a little better. It also meant they were a little closer to the driver’s radio. The afternoon chat show was a panel of experts, all of them men, all in possession of Dublin accents. Grá held the flowers across her lap, while Úna dozed against the glass.

Grá felt exhausted herself – it was the reason she rarely made the journey into town. Long walks through borderland fields were one thing, but this required a different breed of energy. When she was just nodding off, though, she heard the announcement and she was wide awake again. She leaned forward from her seat to catch each ominous letter in turn.

M-B-M.

It had just been confirmed – the source of BSE in Ireland had been the Meat-and-Bone-Meal all along. Grá’s rattle came back now worse than ever, the death and birth variety both. Because she was seething – hadn’t they outlawed that stuff years ago? Hadn’t they realised it was unnatural, feeding cattle on bits of other cattle? Turning the poor things into cannibals?

But the men on the radio tried to explain that ‘natural’ hadn’t really come into it – MBM was just a lot cheaper to produce. So somebody (the authorities were launching an investigation into who) had obviously decided to ignore the law and start making it again on the sly – it was just money, the ‘modern’ priority. Grá looked down to her lap where the flowers lay and her empty purse sat nestled beneath. One of the men made a witty remark and the others laughed. Then they finished up – it was time for a bit of music, some American crowd called the Fugees. She recognised it: ‘Killing Me Softly’.

___________

When they got home there was no sign of Cúch and there was no denying Grá’s sense of relief. She knew it was an unnatural thing to feel. Her mouth was dry. She should have ordered a drink in the café – a glass of water wouldn’t have hurt.

‘Thanks for today.’

She felt the wet kiss on her cheek, but by the time she had turned Úna was already halfway up the stairs.

‘You sure you’re all right, pet?’

Úna rolled her eyes. ‘Mam, I’m fine.’ Grá supposed it was a good sign. ‘I’m going to study the instructions.’ She held up the bag with the Polaroid.

Grá watched her go then looked down. It took a couple of moments to realise the pool of water was from the stems. She knew they were meant to be a gift, but she decided she would put them in a vase for now. It seemed a shame to leave them wrapped in their paper shroud. She ran the tap and fetched the scissors from the drawer, and it was only at the last minute she noticed it. The drop of blood had hardened to black. Her daughter must have cut herself too close.

I am putting myself forward as a replacement Butcher.

I have decided I don’t need to be a girl any more.

Quickly Grá ran the blade under the water, desperate to wash away any trace of that awful evening. She remembered the hairs she had found in the upstairs sink and her hurry to wash them dow...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Copyright
• Prologue
• Úna
• Grá
• Fionn
• Davey
• Interlude
• Úna
• Grá
• Fionn
• Davey
• Fionn
• Interlude
• Grá
• Davey
• Úna
• Interlude
• Grá
• Davey
• Úna
• Fionn
• Epilogue
• Acknowledgements
• Note on the Author