The Saint Valentine's Day Brassica

I come from a long line of butchers. The foliage on my dad's side of the family tree is spattered with blood from the slaughter and dismemberment of enough animals to fill a dozen arks. There have been butchers in our family for so long it may be that one of my forebears was earwigging in the vicinity of Noah on the announcement that every moving thing that liveth shall be meat for you. And, with that green light, the slaughter commenced.

I have to carry the burden that my ancestors have been responsible for the deaths of loads of lambs, piles of pigs, and, forgive me, a fuckload of fowl. With such a bloody family line behind me, it might surprise you that I opted not to don the gory apron and grip the sharpening steel, but I took up a different type of blade, the barber's scissors. That career choice makes me the square peg, the black sheep, and the fly in the ointment all at once, although I didn't flip-flop completely; I never entertained the idea of joining those pesky vegans and their abstemious ways. Ruck rat, as Scooby Doo might have put it.

And yet, in an act that epitomises the saying love conquers all, I started dating a vegan.

The cataclysmic shift happened one Saturday morning when half a dozen vegan activists were outside my uncle Len's butcher shop in the town centre, giving away meat-free sausage sandwiches. Len was standing outside, red-faced and barking crudities that questioned the parentage of the misguided plant munchers. All the while, his young apprentice, Willy, hopped about, mooing like a cow.

I decided to join the fun. I had a warm sausage roll in the inside pocket of my jacket, and I thought it would be a proper wheeze to cram it into my mouth right in front of the activists. That would show them.

I stood face-to-face with the most animated of the group and pulled the paper bag containing the meat product from my pocket.

And then I slid it back.

"Could I tempt you with a meat-free sausage sandwich, Sir?" a voice said.

The face that uttered those words was prettiness itself. Emerald eyes that would be the envy of any cat gazed at me above a perfect smile, and the whole was framed by ringlets of jet-black hair. She walked over to a table from where she procured a sandwich containing the aforementioned filling, which she held out for me to take. Although it went against every instinct I possess, I accepted the offering.

As I bit into the sandwich, I envisioned pens on seismometers the world over twitching in response to movement in the earth's crust caused by my many forebears simultaneously turning in their graves.

Cherry Stone—her real name, she assured me— looked about the same age as me - twenty-five. She wore a green army-style jacket over a Smiths' Meat is Murder t-shirt, black jeans, and non-leather Doc Marten boots, so the attraction wasn't down to glamour. It was those eyes, that voice, her comportment, that je ne sais quoi, as the French say, or what Kelis called milkshake if vegans can possess that dairy-based quality.

"Are you a vegan, or just hungry?" she said, her smile demolishing what remained of my resistance.

"Vegan," I lied.

"Cool. How long?"

"I'm still pretty new to it," I said. My answer was deliberately vague because if I'd given her the more precise—and truthful—reply of about thirty seconds, she may have gone off me. Then I had a brainwave.

It was the first day of February, so I said I had just participated in Veganuary, the annual month-long event during which many people give veganism a whirl.

"How did you find it?" she said. I took the opportunity to convey my enthusiasm for the lifestyle and my willingness to learn more about it. Five minutes later, my new mentor and I sat in a coffee shop, where, aside from being relieved Uncle Len hadn't seen me fraternising with the enemy, I sampled my first oat latte. By the following weekend, we were an item.

There was a bonus for me when Cherry revealed that she'd given up eating meat aged twelve as a kickback against her father, who drove a lorry that took livestock to slaughter. So, she had blood on her family tree as well. Not nearly as much as me, but it was there.

Inevitably, my relationship with a vegan was seen as an act of treachery that caused anger and perplexity among the gore-drenched members of my family. Uncle Eli, a butcher for over thirty years, told me that he would have cut me out of his will had he included me in the first place, and Uncle Len, whom I mentioned earlier, said I was no longer welcome in his shop.

I could live with all of that, but there was a more worrying issue bubbling under the surface.

Another uncle, Ken, put it about that I had betrayed the family and turned my back on generations of tradition. He also said I'd better hope the hospital kitchen had vegan options.

The news disturbed me. Ken is a vegetarian-hating madman who once did time in jail for assaulting an animal rights activist who was handing out leaflets outside his shop. He was also fined for throwing meatballs at a Hare Krishna group in the local shopping mall. On that occasion, he was spared a return to jail because his brief successfully argued that he had at least taken the meatballs out of the tin before throwing them.

And now he was gunning for me.

I had to put that issue on the back burner for now, though, because it was Saint Valentine's Day, and I had invited Cherry over to sample my first effort at cooking sans meat, fish, and dairy.

After an online search, I decided on stuffed cabbage leaves with mashed potato and steamed broccoli and carrot, served with red wine and tomato gravy. For afters, I chose a peach Melba-type concoction.

Being new to the vegan game, I had to ensure there would be no foodie faux pas, so I called in my sister Helen's friend Janet, a long-time vegan, to guide me through the shopping. And it's a good job I did, as she opened my eyes to the many animal products that lurk in our food and drink. I would never have guessed that some wines aren't suitable for vegans, and it goes way beyond Bull's Blood.

After filling a trolley and getting an education, I thanked Janet and headed homeward with my ingredients, every one of which, from the wine down to the sprinkles for the dessert, had passed the right-on test.

On the night, Cherry arrived, and we chatted over pre-dinner drinks. I noticed immediately that she wasn't the same bubbly girl I'd been going out with. She seemed distracted as though carrying a weighty burden. I hoped she would loosen up after a few drinks.

I was happy with my efforts in the kitchen, and I brought in two plates of steaming food. "Voila!" I said, laying her plate on the table, "The Saint Valentine's Day brassica." It was a line that came to me on the bus. She smiled, but there was still a lack of effervescence in her demeanour. Going by past form, I thought she would have laughed at my pun. I asked what was troubling her. She took a deep breath.

"You know I told you I'd applied for a post at an animal sanctuary in Dorset?" I nodded, knowing what was coming next. "Well, I've been offered the job."

The news hit me hard. It was a different kind of pain to being dumped or cheated on, as we were still on the very best of terms. But it was pain all the same. I knew how much the job meant to her.

"You'll be taking it then?" I said. She nodded, and a tear ran down her cheek.

That nod instigated a subdued atmosphere for the rest of the night. Her compliments about the food fell on stony ground, and we were both way outside our comfort zones. After the meal, and with the alcohol loosening tongues, she threw me a lifeline.

"I'll be moving into a small bungalow, you know," she said, "room enough for two."

I couldn't. It had been a whirlwind two weeks with Cherry, but the cold facts were that I barely knew her. Also, I wasn't a hundred percent committed to her lifestyle (I had an emergency packet of beef jerky hidden in a bedroom drawer, in case I felt giddy through a lack of protein). Then, there was my job to consider. It was simply too big a step, too soon. Just as she had nodded moments earlier, I shook my head, and I dare say a tear ran down my cheek as well.

We did the stay in touch and be friends routine, but we knew we'd both meet new people and forget about each other. I wanted to show my delight that Cherry had landed her dream job, but I just couldn't. She told me she'd be on the four o'clock train tomorrow if I wanted to see her off. That would only add to my pain, so I said no.

And that was that. My brief dalliance with Cherry had ended, and I told myself I should soon get over someone I'd only known for a fortnight. But it was hard.

The next day, I tried to leave my misery outside the shop as I went to work. I chatted with customers, but I kept glancing at the clock on the wall. At one o'clock, Fred, the barber from whom I hire a chair, went out for his lunch. There were no customers in the shop, and as the radio played Life is a Minestrone, I stared from the window, thinking about Cherry.

The door pinged as someone entered, and I turned to see a hulking figure filling almost the whole door frame and clearly in a state of rage. "Uncle Ken," I said as he stepped into the shop.

"You! You treacherous bastard," he said, coming toward me, "bringing disgrace on the family."

"Now, Ken," I said, "calm down." He didn't, though. He tried to grab me, but I sidestepped him. He blocked the door, my only exit route.

"Come here, you wretch, you bloody... bloody March Violet!" he said, advancing. He backed me into a corner, and I prepared for the assault. Then, he stopped.

He made a choking sound and grabbed the lapels of his jacket. His eyes opened wide, and, with salival dribbling from his mouth, he fell to the floor, where he continued to make gargling noises. I called for an ambulance.

Paramedics were on the scene quickly, and with the aid of a defibrillator, they got Ken into a stable enough condition that they could stretcher him away through the curious throng that had gathered outside the shop. As the ambulance sped off, siren wailing, I said, "He who liveth by the lard..."

When Fred returned, I told him what had happened, and he sent me home. He even closed the shop while he took me there himself, and he made me a cup of tea.

As I sat alone, brooding over the tumultuous events of the past day, I said, "Life is indeed a minestrone," to the spider plant in the bay window. I was jolted from my musings by the ringtone of my phone. It was Auntie Beth, wife and recently almost widow, of Ken. I expected her to be agitated, but she wasn't angry with me. Instead, she issued a warning.

She told me that her twin sons, James and John, were coming for me as soon as they had picked up older brother Charlie from the factory where he works. They intended to inflict serious damage on me for causing the stress that almost killed their father, and they were on their way right now.

This news was three times worse than when Ken was on the warpath. His sons are like the attack dogs in Animal Farm: fiercely loyal and brutally violent, so taking immediate flight was my only option. I put on my coat and hurried to the front door. Then I thought of Cherry.

I rang for a taxi and quickly crammed some clothes and personal effects into a holdall. After gazing terrified from the window for an eternity, the cab arrived, and I hurried out of the flat. I purposely left the jerky and unwittingly left my phone.

I placed the holdall on the back seat and climbed into the front. "Station, yeah?" the driver said.

"As quick as you can," I said, and we moved off.

We had barely gone fifty yards when I saw cousin John's Mini, with three occupants, speeding the other way, heading toward my house. There was a rolled-up tabloid newspaper on the dashboard, which I grabbed and used to hide my face as the cars passed.

"'Ere, what's your bleedin' game?" the driver said.

"Give me two seconds," I said, looking back at the car. I told the driver of my escape as I rolled up the newspaper and he laughed heartily, but that's how close a call it was.

At the station, I was held up by the combined tasks of finding out which platform Cherry's train would be leaving from, and then locating that platform. I got there just as the train was about to leave.

I dropped the holdall and ran along the platform, yelling Cherry Stone, and scanning the carriage windows. A sudden movement caught my eye. I stopped and was delighted to see Cherry banging on the carriage window with the flat of her hand. I hurried to her.

"I want to come with you," I said, not giving a damn what earwigging bystanders thought. "I want to be with you."

She made a call-me gesture with her hand, which I responded to with a shrug. The train began pulling away, and I hurried along the platform, keeping Cherry in sight. She pulled a leaflet from a pocket in her rucksack, which she pressed against the window. It held details of the animal sanctuary she was going to. "Follow me," she mouthed, pointing at the document.

As the train gained momentum, I ran alongside, memorising the name and postcode of the sanctuary. At the end of the platform, I watched the final carriage take Cherry to a new life; one I dearly wanted to be a part of.

Still panting from the scramble, but elated that I had made it, I borrowed a pen from a stranger and wrote the postcode on the back of my hand. There were no more trains to follow Cherry that day, so I went for a celebratory beer, and I booked a room for the night.

It was almost eight o'clock the following evening when I stepped from a taxi at the sanctuary gate. I walked up a drive towards a bungalow with a pale light at the window. When Cherry answered my knock, she held out her arms, and we embraced.

Inside, there was a roaring fire in a wood-burning stove, and the smell of home-cooked food hung in the air. Cherry ushered me to an armchair by the stove, and I warmed my hands as Cherry made a pot of tea. "Something smells nice," I said.

"I made soup," Cherry said, "minestrone."

I laughed.

After a week, during which time I had settled into my new life nicely, notwithstanding a bite on the leg from a Shetland pony, Cherry and I agreed I would have to return to my flat. I had been incommunicado for over a week, and I knew that people would be worried. I also needed to collect my phone and other personal items, and I'd do things by the book and tell Fred I'd be leaving, and give my landlord the required notice that I was moving out. On a Wednesday morning, I headed north.

As soon as the battery on my phone had enough power, I rang sister Helen. She was mightily relieved to learn that I was all right, and she told me there'd been an almighty kerfuffle over my sudden disappearance. The consensus was that Ken's odious offspring had bumped me off, and even the police had looked into it. I was officially down as a missing person.

She added that Ken had made a full recovery, although the trauma had shaken him badly, and his vegan-bashing days are now probably behind him. As for his progenies, their anger had been assuaged by their father's recovery too, so it would be safe for me to return home.

But, that wasn't home to me anymore.

As spring turned into summer, I was as content as a well-fed cat dozing in a sunny bay window. I had secured a chair at a barber shop in the town, and I enjoyed helping Cherry and the volunteers at the sanctuary. The bungalow is cosy, the food terrific, and the love between the two occupants—soon to be three—is deep and unshakable.

Given the subject matter, what follows may seem a perverse line on which to close this tale, but it is entirely appropriate.

I'm lovin' it.