The Cutting Edge

THE CUTTING EDGE

I find it rather sad to think that I appear to have reached the end of what has been an intermittently useful life. Thankfully though, I can look back with some satisfaction on those good but occasionally uncomfortable episodes which I have encountered during my period on this earth. Like most inanimate objects that have witnessed the passing years and which have been well utilised by a succession of owners, my functions are no longer what they were and my shabby appearance is testimony to my industry. I suppose that tells you I have tales to recount and perhaps if I explain my personal history, you may find this to be of interest.

I was manufactured in Sheffield by a well-known master cutler who regarded his trade as an art form. In consequence the articles he produced were not only made from the finest steel, but were visually attractive and designed to be functional. He was a contemplative pipe smoker and knew what fellow aficionados of this pleasurable pastime wanted from a penknife. A sturdy main blade, a thinner one to winkle out burnt residue from the pipe bowl together with a device to gently tamp down the fresh tobacco to produce an even burn. He incorporated these features in my design then encased the metal elements in horn taken from a deceased ram, riveted this with silver studs on to the frame then smoothed the rough surface and incorporated a solid silver shield on which my first owner had his initials engraved in florid script. With all due modesty I was an exceptional example of the English cutlery industry and inevitably I was destined to be purchased by a person of good taste.

John Shilcock was a legal gentleman who had recently been made a partner in a Manchester solicitors practice, so to celebrate the occasion he bought me from a prestigious jeweller with the initials ‘JS’ being hand engraved on the shield, an experience I found to be somewhat painful. He had a precise nature did Mr Shilcock, very regular in his ways. He travelled into town each day on the train from Altrincham placing his briefcase and bowler hat on the netted luggage rack then shunning other regular passengers, he read The Manchester Guardian until the train drew into Oxford Road Station. Meanwhile, I nestled in a waistcoat pocket of his three-piece pin-striped suit as he strolled to the offices of Charlton Benford and Shilcock on Cooper Street. Pausing to glance at the new highly polished brass plate depicting his name, he took the rattly lift to the second floor, greeted the receptionist, then entered his private office. Mr S then sat at his desk, reached into his waistcoat pocket to fumble me out of the tight space when he extracted a length of tobacco from his rubber lined leather pouch using my gleaming blade to cut off a plug of tarry leaves. These would be rubbed gently between the palms of his hands before being lightly compressed into his pipe, the rasp of a Swan Vesta match head on the box side and the subsequent lighting of the aromatic flakes signalled that the working day could begin. Sighing contentedly, he drew on the mouthpiece and paused for a moment or two before turning to the files on his desk. Mr Shilcock was a dedicated pipe smoker who was very particular about the tobacco he tamped into his Meerschaum pipe. He had a regular order for a dark aromatic Kavala tobacco imported from Greece which came in the form of a short, compressed rope of leaves. He bought this from a specialist shop on Cross Street, one of those fascinating retailers you don’t see nowadays. The shop window was packed with exotic brands of cigars, cigarettes, and tins of tobacco alongside badger haired shaving brushes and old-fashioned safety razors hanging on stands – oooh the aroma of smoking products that greeted you as you entered the premises was divine. Mr S and the shop owner Mr Pendergast usually had a pleasant conversation to pass the time of day, the only occasion I remember them having a disagreement was when King Edward VIII wanted to marry Mrs Simpson and had to abdicate from the throne. But I digress . . .

For a long time, I was happy with my life, the patina on my casing slowly matured, the etched initials lost their sharpness and I was content with the rhythm of my existence. However, many years later and shortly after Mr S retired from business, he suddenly passed away having suffered a massive heart attack and consequently my life radically changed. I became, as his daughter said to her brother whilst they were clearing out his effects:

‘One of Father’s bits and pieces’ and I was tossed into a drawer.

The next time I saw the light of day was when the 11-year-old son of Mr S’s daughter found me whilst rummaging in the drawer on a rainy afternoon.

‘Muuum, see what I’ve found, Grandpa’s old penknife, can I have it for Scouts because I need a knife for one of my badges.’

‘Ok then, but be careful with it, the blade is very sharp and I don’t want to rush you off to A&E.’

Of course, the first thing he did was test the sharpness of my blade with his finger and I was covered in his blood. A typical lad! Well, I then started a very interesting period whilst he was in the Scouts. He would take me camping where he used me for all sorts of things: trimming guy ropes on tents, shaving wood to start camp fires and peeling spuds for his patrol; not that he was very keen on that job. I would listen to the singing of traditional Scout songs whilst they gathered around a camp fire before they retired for the night. I was taken on hiking expeditions in the Derbyshire hills being helpful in all sorts of ways, but eventually he carelessly dropped me whilst crossing a farmer’s field and there I remained buried after the autumn ploughing.

I was reconciled to the fact that my working days and life itself were over for me, but one winters morning I felt a strange tingling in my body, then heard a pinging noise followed by a shout:

‘Hey Tom, over here and bring the spade, I’ve got a hit.’

I was greeted by a large man holding a metal detector dressed in a Barbour jacket and muddied wellington boots his breath visible in the cold air, his eyebrows raised in an expectant expression.

‘Nah, sorry to disappoint you Fred, not worth a penny I’m afraid’ said the man with the spade as he rubbed off the mud from my body (I was a bit hurt about that comment, I can tell you), we’ll stick it in the finds box though. I later gathered that this was an event run by a metal detectorists club and someone with time on their hands cleaned me up when I was passed on to a very eccentric man. And do I mean eccentric – he could have been a scribe in medieval times.

Mr Gregory Augustus Jenkinson-Blyth earned a precarious living as a calligraphist writing personal wedding invitations and table name cards for society people who wanted the absolute best for their Charles and Henriettas. He shunned the use of the array of modern writing implements and used the century’s old method of the quill pen made from the wing feathers of geese. When he could get hold of them, he also used swan feathers for larger work and crow feathers for fine lines. Of course, my job was to trim the shaft of each feather to form a nib and I was kept on his desktop along with his inks and other paraphernalia. He treated me well because he used the finest of carborundum stones to sharpen my blades and kept me properly oiled so that my action was smooth and sleek. Unfortunately, this work of mine didn’t last too long because sadly, Mr J-B became very depressed at the demands made by his customers who were too quick to criticise his immaculate work and the time and cost he took fulfilling their requirements. After one particularly harrowing day, he took me in his hands, slit his wrists and bled to death slumped over his desk ruining the marriage stationery meant for Lady Amanda Fitz-Blunkett. That experience was so traumatic, it took me some time to get over the whole drama I can tell you.

Following this awful incident, I became a prime exhibit at the coroner’s inquest after which I’ve lain in idleness in his desk drawer. It’s a funny old world really, I started off my working days in a lawyer’s office and it looks like I’ll end my days in one!