My First Job- Copyright Robert Fullarton 2015

My First Job

Copyright Robert Fullarton 2015


I rose at dawn in the heart of winter's blackness at age fifteen to go and work in Wendell's butchers
as a kitchen assistant. It was my first job and one of my first experiences of the adult world of labour and menial toil.

I remember the sight of sawdust lining the floors behind the main counters. The smell of the nauseating disinfectant, is still vivid in my mind, as I cleaned regular flow of trays and dishes, that were recycled for the main shop floor. The bleach burned through the gloves and stained my finger tips, the squeaky screech of steel, kitchen equipment rubbed together and a cold wind drafted through the back door and nearly froze the legs, limbs and orifices of my body

 I remember the faces of men,  these grey haired, hardened "veterans of the world" who in age had worked for generations and had known what hard work was really about! I compare myself with my mere "pocket money" with my naive conceptions on life, on work, protected by my family, sensitive and delicate in nature, this business was a show of hard work and even manly toughness for the hours these men worked, for the physical labour they delivered to the systematic running of the business -and it is usually manic during the Christmas period with people queuing up for hours outside the premises and within the building it can be hard to move in the cramped moving conditions. These men never got to enjoy the privilege of an education. Most left school early..one young teen left school at 14 and was to be a butcher's apprentice for the next three years.

Stacks and stacks of large containers had to be disinfected out in the back alley, placed on a forklift, passed on to another employee who then handed me more trays to be washed and prepared for the kitchen- and the dreaded disinfectant burned through my fingers all the while!- but before all this the trays had to be emptied in cold room, where all the various cuts and legs of meat had to be hung on meat cleavers. All the icy, refrigerated spaces had to be thoroughly cleaned and rubbed down, as orders were made, bundles removed and replaced.

Tea brakes and lunches were had in the little poky kitchen where I had been stationed for most of each mornings work. Groups of old men huddled and smoked, drank tea and smoked some more with one man bearing a deathly pale complexion -the beginning of rigor mortis perhaps? This particular individual even handed me a cigarette and i just looked bewildered at him...I didn't drink then nor did I smoke! I was rather sheepish in comparison with the others..who swore and spoke in a language of slang and confidence. They would ask me "what's your name" and "how are you getting on?"
I would just nod politely, smile and say "fine, good, great" and other affirming comments to the faces of supervisors and peers alike.

I remember, I was asked to mince the burgers on my first day and in the process I nearly, lost my fingers when the mincer was jammed, the apparatus was clogged with old bits of meat and in the process it plummeted and nearly took my fingers off in one death blow- it certainly pierced my skin and left a distinct cut through the kitchen gloves!

At the final hours the crowds would swell and the employees worked through a frenzy of constant orders, shouts and movements made.

 At closing time I gathered my pay check in a little brown envelope -fifty pounds for a days' labour and toil- and I departed through the evening din, past the shadows of the shopping centre, where not a sole could be seen on these cold and harsh winter evenings. One could feel that these days were swallowed up by darkness and that the light had been extinguished like a mere candle in a church.

I would moan my childlike moans to my parents when I returned home. I would sleep off the aches of physical labour and I quickly made up my mind that I did not want to be a butcher at any stage in my existence...and i made up my mind at an early age!