Chapter 1 - Pipers Savoury Products.

 

Sidney Piper was born on VE Day, 8 May 1945, in Eastbourne, Sussex. He never saw the war, but he did see rationing after it. He was nine before his dad brought home the first steak and kidney pie he’d ever seen. Excited, he grabbed at his father’s shopping to get to the savoury treat. He could hardly wait to taste this new and exciting pie. Previously, he’d had to smile through sheep’s brain, offal, or tongue-and-liver pies.

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However, the butcher’s homemade steak and kidney pie did not live up to his expectations, and he vowed:

“Father, one day I will make pies — lots of pies — and every one will taste better than this!”

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Whilst he meant well, his father gave him a thick ear and sent him off to bed without any supper.

“Cheeky little sod! That pie cost me two shillings and thruppence!”

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Which brings us to today.

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Sixty-seven years later, late on Sunday evening, 9th May 2021, Sidney Piper — the director and sole owner of Pipers Savoury Products — stood stark naked on the factory floor, carrying a large plastic container of Pipers Special Seasoning. A resolute look was etched across his face.

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As is tradition at this point in stories, films and series streaming on Netflix, his life began flashing before his eyes as he plodded towards the meat hopper.

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Years passed. Sidney left school at sixteen with no qualifications other than two years cleaning up slops and offcuts from the floor of Henry Leeson’s Butchers. But that was enough. His single-minded mission had already taken hold: he would make the best pies in the world.

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At first he baked his pies in his mum’s kitchen and travelled around Eastbourne on his old Raleigh dairyman’s butcher’s bike, selling his homemade pies door to door.

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As word spread, business grew. Sidney got a beat-up Commer Cob van for £150, painted it yellow and green, and Pipers Savoury Pies — Purveyors of Fine Pies was born.

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By the time he was thirty, the swinging sixties had passed him by, but he had built a savoury-product empire — well, at least in Eastbourne. He’d opened a small factory with an auger-fed grinder, a steam-jacketed kettle, and a depositor, and started selling his pies to distinguished outlets across the country. Rumours even suggested Harrods was taking an interest.

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Better still, he married his childhood sweetheart, Matilda Brown. They couldn’t have children, but a succession of terriers and boxers kept the house lively. They stayed happily married until tragedy struck.

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“Those bastards in government… Boris — that blonde buffoon — couldn’t manage a piss-up in a brewery. He cocked up the pandemic and killed her!” Sidney would say to anyone who’d listen.

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Matilda died in 2020, aged seventy-two, in Eastbourne General Hospital from complications of COVID-19 — her lungs weakened and failed after the infection. Sidney held her hand as she passed. Floored by grief, he became a shadow of his former self. He never really recovered from the loss.

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Back in the moment, Sidney thought of the email he had sent Greg yesterday, tying up loose ends at work.

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To: Greg Pritchard, Deputy Director, Pipers Savoury Products
From: Sidney Piper
Subject: URGENT

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Your new idea, Greg… The M&M — Marmite & Meatball Pie. Great idea. Very creative. Let’s run with it. Good show.

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Further to last week’s team meeting, where I presented my idea for a limited-edition line of 200 Director’s Cut meat pies, I would like you to PERSONALLY begin this line using the current batch in the kettle.

I won’t be in work on Monday, so I set the machinery and it’s been running over the weekend; as a priority, when you get in first thing Monday it should all be cooked through and ready for the depositor and production. Make sure it’s that filling that’s used in the Director’s Cut pies, as I flavoured the meat mix myself.

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All the best, Greg, and keep doing what you do best… pies and pasties.

Regards,
Sid Piper

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P.S. Please tell Rihanna that a beanie is not health-and-safety compliant and that on the factory floor she MUST wear a hair net, or we will have to give her a second written warning.

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He closed his laptop.

“So that’s settled then,” he whispered.

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The next day, late that Sunday afternoon — a beautiful, crisp day at around 4 p.m. — he drove his silver vintage 1979 Jaguar Daimler Double-Six up to Beachy Head. He parked, waited for the footpaths to empty, and when the last family had wandered off and the Chaplaincy Team had finished their final sweep for jumpers, Sidney slipped out.

He was dressed in a black velour tracksuit and a Von Dutch baseball cap borrowed from Becky in Sales. Under his arm was a folded pile of his favourite clothes.

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It was chilly — his plan required going “without me smalls,” meaning no underwear beneath the tracksuit.

“Catch me death in this outfit,” he muttered, trying not to attract attention.

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He walked methodically to the cliff edge, placed the folded clothes neatly on the grass, and set a handwritten note on Pipers Pies A4 stationery on top:

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I love you Matilda, I always have and I always will.

See you soon, your Sidney.

PS: To anyone reading this letter — please contact Gill Andersen in Accounts at Pipers Savoury Products. She will arrange full reimbursement for any costs incurred finding and cleaning up any of my body parts.

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Particularly proud of the PS, he muttered, “That’ll throw ’em off the scent.”

Chapter 2 - The Meat Mangler.

 

He walked back to his car, leaned in, and ran his hand over the tan Connolly leather upholstery. His fingertips grazed the walnut-veneer dash, polished to a soft glow from decades of care. He paused, breathing in the scent.

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The car smelled of his life: Saint-Tropez; their silver jubilee in 1992 when he surprised Matilda dressed as a chauffeur; the dog hairs on the back seat.

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He kissed the car’s roof. “Goodbye, old girl.”

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Then he removed the folded Brompton bike from the boot. After a brief wrestling match that resembled a one-armed man fighting a deck chair, the Brompton surrendered, and Sidney cycled the six miles, unobserved, down quiet lanes back toward his factory.

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As Sidney pedalled through the chill evening air, he thought back to the conversation — the one he’d never told anyone else about.

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It was late one night, Matilda in her chair knitting, their boxer pup Tyson snoring by the fire.

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“When I die, I don’t want to be buried or bloody burnt. I’ve never liked being underground, and ashes — what’s the point of that? No, Tilda dear, this is going to sound queer, but it’s pies that’s made me the man I am, and I want the man I am to be made into pies,” he’d said, swirling an Armagnac liqueur.

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“Don’t be stupid, love, it’s the drink talking,” she’d replied.

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“No, luv, I mean it. What better way to go than being turned into a delicious pie and savoured by those slurping on my gravy?”

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“Not this again! I won’t hear any more about it,” she’d huffed, patting Tyson as he snorted happily on his rug.

But Sidney had meant every word.

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And now, pedalling toward the factory under the fading light of a cold May evening, the plan was looking as good as a perfectly measured and trimmed sausage roll.

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For it to work, he’d asked Greg to make sure the alarm wasn’t set over the weekend, so there would be no timestamp on any entry code. He slipped through the side door undetected and headed toward his office.

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It felt strange being in the factory when it was this quiet. He was used to it bustling: people running around, bursting into his office with questions about puff vs shortcrust, asking him to quality-check a suspiciously clumpy, damp-looking sack of flour, or asking, “How many crimps should a Cornish pasty have — 21 or 22?”

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He pushed open the frosted-glass door reading The Director in gold sans serif script. He folded the Brompton back up and placed it neatly in its usual spot.

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Then he stripped naked and hung the tracksuit and cap behind Becky’s chair.

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With a deep breath and a profound sense of purpose, he stepped onto the factory floor for the last time. His bare feet stuck slightly to the cold, flour-dusted tiles. The grinder hummed — the auger turning, blades churning.

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Sidney found the large clear container marked Secret Seasoning, took it in one hand, and walked to the meat hopper. He gripped the metal railing with the other as he climbed the steps to the top.

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The sign read DANGER, with a handwritten note beneath it:
“The Meat Mangler bites.”

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He stood on the edge, looking down at the sharp interlocking grinder arms spinning like the jaws of three furious sharks.

He tipped the seasoning over his head and tossed the container behind him, where it bounced off a table and clattered to the floor.

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“See you soon, Matilda, pies away” he whispered.

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As he stepped into the grinder.