“Mind your backs please. Mind your backs” was the cry I used to shout in Leeds market to part the busy crowds as I was struggling through, carrying 2 x 40lb cheeses. Health and Safety regulations would not allow a 14 year old boy to do that today but in the early 70′s we didn’t bother about that sort of thing. Besides I was desperate to earn the cash to supplement my meagre pocket money. My parents were of the view that if you wanted something in life you had to work for it. My Auntie managed to get me a Saturday job in Leeds market and that’s how I had the rare privilege to meet Elvis.
Now, it’s not the Elvis you’re thinking of but a Yorkshire one. His name was something like Tony Wesley (name changed to protect the innocent, although he was so accident prone I guess he’s long expired under the wheels of a bus). The owner of the market stall and the store that supplied it, nicknamed him Elvis on account of his looks. Nature had not been kind to the lad – he was buck-teethed, acne scarred and wore NHS glasses that were as thick as jam jar bottoms, invariably held together with the customary elastoplast. He was more akin to someone working on the bottling line of Pledge’s Pickle Factory than the swivel-hipped King of Rock n’ Roll.
In those days the school leaving age was 15 and Elvis was the sort who did not want any further education, unlike the rest of us, so he opted for a full time job at the cheese and bacon store to earn big bucks. I think he earned the princely sum of £7 a week.
I still remember that fateful Saturday when I arrived for work, donned my apron and my boss Michael, a champion bacon butcher for 7 consecutive years introduced me to Elvis Wesley.
“I know him” I said in that dour way that Yorkshiremen do “he was at my school.”
“You’re to show Elvis the ropes” my boss commanded “start him off with something easy then next Saturday when you come, we’ll show him how to use a knife.”
I was not impressed. Why, in life, do I always get the lame ducks? I must have MUG tattooed on my forehead. Elvis was not a big lad and you needed a lot of strength for what we did, there was a lot of manual work.
Our preparation room was the cellar. We prepared the bacon on the surface of old Victorian sideboards hewed out of stout oak and mahogany. Most of the bacon sides were hung on hooks in a darkened recess and I asked Elvis to help me lift some in preparation for the bacon boners, four cheery lads full of banter. Poor Elvis would be in for some stick from them, that’s for sure.
“Elvis, it’s really easy. Get yourself in position, bend your knees, hold the pig by the waist and then stand upright to unhook it. You put the pig on Floyd’s bench and I’ll put mine on Gary’s. Got that?”
My bespectacled friend nodded his assent and I expertly hoisted my pig and handed it to Gary. When I looked over my shoulder to see how Elvis was doing, he had disappeared. I blinked, looked some more and found him in a heap on the floor trying his best to wrestle the pig carcasse off his prostrate body. His spectacles were covered in grease and salt.
The bacon boner boys were in hysterics. I wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t going to be much use to me if he couldn’t lift heavy weights. The bulk of my work was hauling heavy loads of bacon and cheese up and down the cellar stairs.
Whilst I was on my coffee break the bacon boys had got Elvis to go into the far corner of the walk-in freezer, ostensibly to get a ham, and then locked him in there for 15 minutes. When he came out, he was covered in rime frost, his glasses were frozen over and he stood there, teeth chattering for a full 5 minutes before he could get any movement back into his limbs.
At the end of the working day, all surfaces had to be washed down, floors swept and everything tidied away. The boss did not think it was safe to leave Elvis down in the cellar so he brought him upstairs into the backroom where we kept the bacon slicers.
“Now Elvis” he said “these machines are dangerous so you have to listen and watch carefully.” He took a square piece of formica, dipped it into the bucket of hot, soapy water, took the safety guard off the blade and turned the machine on. The machine roared into life, the menacing circular blade whirring away. If you looked at it long enough it would mesmerise you.
“Now, place the formica, near the bottom of the blade, gently touch it and see how the fat gathers? Simply wash the formica in the bucket and repeat the process and keep on going until there is no more fat to gather on the blade. There are three machines. Have you got that? Can I leave you to it?”
Elvis nodded and seemed keen to get on with it. I dived back down into the cellar. I did not want to witness this.
When I came back up into daylight, Elvis was sat on a stool, with my bosses arm around him. “Keep it covered up lad, and that way, you will prevent any infection.” Elvis was sporting a big, bulbous bandage on his thumb, the centre of which was radiating blood. Apparently, he had decided he could do the job quicker without the formica and used his thumb instead. Now he had sliced the top off and it was me that had to finish his work off on the bacon slicers.
The next Saturday, he was wearing a leather protector on his left thumb and the boss said he could try his hand at boning a middle of bacon. He must either be very patient or barking mad I thought. The middle was the most expensive cut and removing the ribs was a skilled job.
“Ok, Elvis” I said grimly “This is what you do. Watch me. Score the ribs carefully down each side, make an incision at the bottom here, then gently slide the knife under, removing the rib with as little flesh on it as possible. This is a really expensive meat. When your remove the ribs, throw them into that sack and then come and see me. And always, ALWAYS, cut away from you, never towards your body. You got that?” The inevitable nod and my chum set to work.
Less than five minutes later he was bandaged round the forehead, a dark circle of blood in the centre and coupled with his thick glasses and buck teeth it made him look like a Japanese Kamikazee pilot.
My myopic friend had ignored my advice about cutting away from him, pulled the razor sharp boning knife towards him as he cut the rib and promptly sliced through his forehead. “Banzai” shouted the bacon boners when they saw his new apparel.
“We can’t give him anything else sharp” said the boss “I’ll get locked up by the Health and Safety bods. One more mistake and I’ll have to let him go. Get him working on the cheese. Surely he can’t hurt himself on that.”
We had a chute in the main store that we used to transport the big 40lb cheeses into the cellar. The cheeses were wrapped in cardboard and slipped down the chute a treat. We had just had our weekly delivery of 40 cheeses.
Standing at the bottom of the chute I gave Elvis his instruction. “Now I’m going to stand upstairs at the top of the chute. When I shout ready, you shout back yes and every 40 seconds I will send a cheese down. You MUST watch for the cheese coming down and place your hand at the base to slow it down on the chute before gathering it up at the bottom. The acceleration is quite fast you see and there’s no way you can stop it if you don’t try and slow it down. Put the cheese over there in the corner and wait for the next one. You got that?”
Elvis gave me the customary nod.
“Be careful, ok? Michael gets annoyed if even the corners get squashed so you have to handle them carefully. Ok?”
I leapt up the stairs, two at a time and shouted down to Elvis “You ready, you ready to rumble?” On receipt of a muffled yes I sent the first one down and then another, then another every 40 seconds. When the last one went down, I went down the cellar with my boss to see how Elvis was doing.
There was no sign of Elvis, only a lot of damaged cheese. All the colour went out of Michael’s cheeks. On closer inspection we saw a protruding limb and manhandled the cheeses out of the way to rescue a mangled Elvis. He was concussed. He had yet again ignored all sensible advice and stood at the bottom of the chute in the wicket-keepers position. The first cheese had gathered pace down the chute, smacked him square in the family jewels and propelled him backwards into the cellar wall and knocked him out cold. The remaining 39 cheeses had done their bit to make sure that their man stayed down.
As the ambulance came for him the bacon boys chorused “Elvis has left the building.”
That’s the last time I saw him.
I wonder where he is now.