My Mam Shirley

by Julie Shaw

  She looked different. She had rollers in her hair, which was covered by a headscarf, but even so, with her painted eyebrows and ruby red lips, she still managed to look stunning. ‘I wondered when he’d bring you home to meet Punch and Judy and the rest of us,’ she said, grinning at Shirley as she set the little boy down on the floor.

  Shirley found herself unexpectedly pleased to see her. And to see her so friendly and welcoming, rather than spiky and sarcastic. In any event, her presence immediately made Shirley feel much less ill at ease. She sat down at the seat Keith was now holding out for her at the table and found herself looking straight at the news. She blinked. Instead of a lacy tablecloth like the one they had at home, the Hudsons’ table was neatly covered in the pages of old newspaper.

  ‘Cheeky mare!’ Keith’s mum was saying, reaching to clip her daughter round the head. ‘I’ll give you Punch and bloody Judy! Here you are, Keith – two pots o’ tea for you and Shirley. Do you want any stew?’

  Annie pulled out another chair and joined them both at the table, while Shirley looked in wonderment at what Keith’s mam seemed to be handing to him. It looked for all the world like a couple of jam jars. ‘So you two finally got round to it, then?’ Annie said, as she lit a cigarette and addressed the children. ‘Go on, you two, back outside for another run round before we go home. Go on, hoppit!’

  Shirley smiled shyly back at Annie. ‘We did,’ she confirmed.

  ‘Pack it in, sis,’ Keith said, taking the tea from his mam. ‘Don’t show poor Shirley up.’

  Shirley looked down at what he’d placed before her. She’d been right. They were actually jam jars full of tea.

  ‘And no thanks,’ Keith told his mam. ‘We’re not staying long. Shirley, do you want some bread and dripping, though?’

  Shirley caught the gazes of the two boys who were still on the floor looking at her, feeling as if every eye in the room was on her now. It was only now that she really took in just how many people were crammed in there, including another older man who she thought she recognised at the far end of the room, on the sofa, also reading a paper. Would that be the famous (or, rather, infamous) Charlie? And the young woman, the spit of Keith, this one, except for her platinum blonde hair, also with a toddler on her hip. Shirley racked her brains, trying to recall all the names Keith had told her. So this must be his sister June. She looked far too young to be either Margaret or – what was the other one’s name? That was it. Eunice.

  She returned all their smiles, then looked helplessly at her jam jar of hot tea. Where did she start? She wasn’t even sure how she’d pick it up without burning herself. Did everyone in the family have asbestos hands? She remembered Keith’s question. ‘No, thanks,’ she said, suddenly struck by the poverty she was seeing. ‘This is just fine,’ she added, gesturing to the jam jar in front of her. ‘My mam will have my tea made when I get home.’

  ‘You sure, love?’ Keith’s mam said. ‘It’s a long walk back to Clayton.’

  ‘I’ll have hers then,’ one of the boys on the floor piped up. ‘If you’re sure, like,’ he added, blushing furiously.

  Which was pleasing. So at least she wasn’t the most scarlet cheeked in the room.

  Shirley’s embarrassment subsided almost immediately, in fact. Keith introduced everyone; the other girl was June and the quiet one on the sofa did turn out to be Charlie. She’d been right; she’d recognised him from back when he’d been in court. Then there was another man who arrived just after they had – he was apparently Ronnie – with the same seemingly trademark slick of thick inky hair. And after the niceties had been observed and she’d finally dared to pick her tea up, the room returned more or less to the way it had been when she’d arrived.

  She’d never heard so many people speaking and joking and laughing all at once, and she soon forgot about feeling sorry for them about all the things they didn’t have – no proper curtains, no carpets and, as Keith had already told her, no electricity – and instead she was soon feeling envious of what they did have and what she definitely didn’t: such a big happy family, such an obvious camaraderie, all those little ones, all that lovely hustle and bustle and noise.

  The noise, in particular, felt so strange, but in a good way. Apart from at the weekends, when her mam and dad got drunk (which was always horrible), Shirley was used to polite chit chat, order, meals eaten in silence. This was a much more exciting way to live – as far as she was concerned, anyway – and helped make sense of the way Keith was always so confident and easy going, so at one with himself. She couldn’t wait to embed herself within it.

  That had only been three days ago, but as she listened to her dad ranting on now, saying such shocking and worrying things, Shirley felt at first angry – who was he to pass judgement on such nice people? – but then, as he’d kept on, confused and concerned. What was he talking about? Was Keith’s brother Charlie really a murderer? Yes, she knew he’d been in a horrible accident and had lost his brother, wife and baby daughter. Everyone she’d ever spoke to knew all about that. But a murderer? Did her dad know something she didn’t? Something she should know? Try as she might, she couldn’t believe it could be true.

  Chapter 6

  Shirley stayed at the top of the stairs until she was sure that her father was back in his regular ‘after-ale’ position in the front room on the couch. She’d heard little more that she didn’t know already; just that her father thought the whole Hudson family were a bunch of malingerers and ne’er-do-wells and that with ‘the kind of man that bleeding Charlie Hudson’ was, he wanted his own family to have nothing to do with them for fear of being ‘tarred with the same bloody brush’.

  Pleasingly, Shirley’s mam had at least sprung to her defence, pointing out that Charlie was nearer their age than their daughter’s and that she couldn’t give a fig what brush she got tarred with, and just dare anyone try to say anything to her face. But it was still depressing, not to say distressing, to hear what her dad had said – had he so little faith in his own daughter that he really believed she wasn’t capable of knowing right from wrong? Or of being able to know the difference between a good lad and a bad one? She might not have known Keith very long, but she trusted her instincts even if he didn’t; he was a good lad. He was a fine lad, in fact.

  And as for his eldest brother, she’d see for herself. She’d seen or heard nothing to make her wary of him and she wasn’t about to make judgements about him based on what anyone else had to say – certainly not based on her father’s drunken ranting. Yes, he’d looked a little unkempt, but he’d been perfectly polite and friendly. She certainly hadn’t got the impression she’d been sitting in the same room as a violent, dangerous killer. No, she’d simply ask Keith when she met up with him later, and in the meantime, now her dad was sleeping it off and the coast was clear, go back downstairs and finish off what she’d been helping her mam with; not least because she had a plan for one of the Victoria sponge cakes that had been cooling on the rack when her dad had rolled in drunk. Hmm, she thought, going back to grab her bag from her bedroom, talk about pots and flipping kettles.

  ‘You all right, Mum?’ Shirley asked as she went back into the kitchen. ‘Only I could hear you and my dad arguing from upstairs.’

  Mary was at the sink, washing up the cake tins and mixing bowls. She turned around, grabbed a tea towel from the hook and shook her head. ‘Take no notice, love,’ she said. ‘He’s just drunk, that’s all.’

  ‘Yes, and saying things about Keith and his family again. I wish he’d stop it, Mam. It’s not fair.’

  ‘I know, love. But you’ll just have to ignore him. You know what he’s like. He’s just looking for an excuse to start something up before me, same as always. Just to put me off the scent. He thinks I’m bloody stupid, he does,’ she said, getting into her stride now. ‘He’ll have been chatting some slut up at the club and will have had a guilty conscience.’

  Shirley sighed. Was that really what her mam thought? Things never changed. She knew her mam was
all wrong about her dad, as well. Her Granny Wiggins had told her once that he hardly dared speak to anyone when he was out, for fear of the wrath that would rain down on his head. He didn’t even dare speak to his friends if they had their wives with them, her mam was that jealous. But Shirley knew better than to try to make her see reason; she’d only be accused of siding with him and being disloyal. And what her dad was or wasn’t up to wasn’t the point in any case. This wasn’t about him. She was much more concerned at his opposition to her seeing Keith Hudson, at how much it upset and embarrassed her to think he wasn’t welcome in her home.

  That fact, in particular, made her crosser than ever, especially considering just how very welcome she’d been made in his. ‘Mam, I’m sure that’s not the case,’ she said, just the same as she always did. To which her mam replied – just as she always did as well – that she’d bloody swing for him if it turned out it was.

  So there was no point it talking about it any further. ‘I’ll do the drying up, shall I?’ Shirley asked her mam instead, holding her hand out for the tea-towel. ‘And Mam, you know I’m going back round Keith’s again this evening? Well, I was wondering if it would be all right if I took them one of the sponge cakes.’

  Her mam paused in wringing out the cloth she was now holding, ready to scrub the floor and wipe down the pantry shelves. With her working all week, there was hardly a Saturday went by without her attacking the kitchen with scalding water and her trusty Vim. ‘That’s thoughtful of you, pet,’ she said, shaking out the cloth and picking the tub up. ‘Of course you can. I’m sure it’ll be appreciated, too. I imagine it must be hard for Keith’s mam to find a minute to herself – let alone bake a cake. Not with having to run around after so many children.’

  Looking at the calm and order of her mam’s kitchen and recalling the chaotic back room at Keith’s, Shirley couldn’t either. She said so. ‘Though it’s not that many kids, not now. I think there’s only about five lads living at home now. Though there’s all the grandkids – oh, Mam, the little ones are so sweet. But they’re so poor. And I mean really poor. Not like Anita and my other friends – I mean really, really poor. They have almost nothing; I doubt she’s even got the ingredients to make a cake. They don’t even seem to have any proper cups or plates. I feel so sorry for them, I really do.’

  Mary grinned. ‘You’ve been spoilt, girl. You don’t know you’re born. When I was a kid, there were all of us – your Auntie Edna and Auntie June and Uncle David and Uncle Manny – all of us in one room with only half a bloody floor. We were all poor in those days, love – and them with big families were the worst off of all. You live like a princess in comparison.’

  A princess in a lonely ivory tower, sometimes, Shirley thought. Yes, her mam had had a tough childhood – especially when her own mam left her dad, taking all four children with her – but at least they had each other growing up. But what she’d seen at the Hudsons had really shocked her. ‘Yes, but to not even have cups to drink out of – can you imagine that, Mam? Did you all drink out of jam jars? Besides, it’s 1958 now, not the olden days!’

  ‘Hark at you,’ Shirley’s mam said, getting down onto her knees to start on the pantry floor. ‘Olden days indeed. No, you’ve had your eyes opened, and that’s never a bad thing. So what d’you want me to do? See if I can rustle up a couple of bits of crockery for them? Not that we’ve many spare,’ she added, with a wry smile, ‘not with the way I get through them, eh?’

  Shirley smiled back at her mam – that was certainly true enough – but then she shook her head. She’d certainly thought of asking, but only fleetingly; she couldn’t really imagine doing such a thing – it would seem much too condescending. ‘No, of course not,’ she said, ‘but I thought it would be nice, since I’m visiting again, to bring something at least.’

  Mary smiled up at her. ‘And you’re right to,’ she said. ‘You’re a good girl, you are, Shirley. Tell you what, how about you take a quarter of tea as well? Never met a person who wasn’t grateful for a quarter of tea. And you’d better get some buttercream made then, hadn’t you? And if you’re after some of your dad’s strawberry jam you’d best get your skates on before the old bugger wakes up.’

  ‘Have you come bearing gifts?’ Keith asked hopefully, three-quarters of an hour later, as Shirley turned the corner to their arranged meeting spot and he noticed the cake tin she was carrying. It was an old, metal biscuit tin they’d had for years, with a lovely wintery scene on it, but her mam had told her not to worry about asking for it back.

  Keith was wearing yet another jacket that looked as though it had the cuffs tucked into the sleeves, and his wavy hair had been carefully combed up into a perfect quiff. ‘It’s just a sponge my mam made and a quarter of tea,’ Shirley explained.

  ‘Just?’ Keith said, taking the tin from her and sticking out an elbow for her to thread her arm through. ‘Just? Oh, me mam’s going to love you.’

  She hoped she was right. She still felt anxious that her gesture might backfire. That Keith’s mum would take offence and think she was being presumptuous. She was more anxious, however, about the things her dad had said and, working on the basis that if she didn’t ask she wouldn’t know, she decided to pluck up the courage to ask Keith about Charlie.

  ‘Charlie?’ Keith asked her. ‘What about him?’

  ‘I heard my mam and dad talking,’ she said, ‘and they mentioned about the car crash. You know – the one when his wife and baby died … and his – um, your brother …’

  ‘And his friend,’ Keith added. He fell silent for a moment. ‘Her name was Betty,’ he said eventually. She was lovely.’ He fell silent again, scuffing the toes of his shoes into the dust as they crossed the dirt road up Arctic Parade. ‘My sister Annie was hurt, too. Her hips and leg. Badly. She was stuck in Pinderfields for ages.’

  ‘I didn’t know about that.’

  ‘Months, it was. She wouldn’t come to any of the funerals. Anyway,’ he said, looking at Shirley curiously, ‘what about it?’

  There seemed no polite way of asking him what she wanted to ask him. ‘Just, well, just that I was wondering what it must be like, you know?’ she said. ‘You know, feeling you’re responsible for such a tragedy. I can’t imagine how that must feel. It must have an effect on a person. It must have been … I don’t know. I mean, him going to prison and everything … I still remember that day when I saw you in court, you know.’

  Keith smiled at her. ‘Me an’ all. I remember seeing you sitting there with John bloody Arnold. And thinking how he’d done bloody well. Except not quite so much as he thought he had, you making those eyes at me and everything.’ He laughed. ‘But, yeah, you’re right. Course it affected him. It affected all of us. It affected everything. Me mam still goes to Brian’s grave, you know, once a month, regular as clockwork. And every Christmas, of course, what with when it happened. And Charlie … well, you’ve seen him now, haven’t you? Ruined him that accident did. Did for him in lots of ways. He’s never been the same since it happened. Probably never will be. How could you be? And the worst of it was that it could have happened to anyone, couldn’t it? Well, a lot of people, anyway – it was a terrible, filthy night. But there’s no telling him that. There’s no trying to make him feel better about it. Anyway, like I say, why the interest in our Charlie? Your mam and dad been listening to gossip?’ He turned to face her as they walked. ‘If so, it’s pretty old gossip, Shirl.’

  ‘Sort of,’ Shirley admitted. ‘It was just something I heard my dad say. I was wondering … is that why he’s been in and out of prison all this time?’

  ‘Your dad?’ Keith wanted to know now. ‘What did your dad say, Shirl?’

  Shirley felt a warmth spreading upwards from her neck to her face. But there was no avoiding repeating what her dad had said. Not now. ‘It was just – did he kill someone, Keith?’

  Keith stopped dead on the track. ‘Kill someone? Who told him that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Shirley admitted. ‘I just heard him say
Charlie had killed someone, and I wondered if, um, well, what with the tragedy and everything …’

  ‘Killed someone?’ Keith said again. ‘Our Charlie? Don’t get me wrong – he’s no angel. He’s a fighter. And a bloody good one, too. But kill someone? Never. That’s not Charlie. He might fall foul of the law, but he’s a decent man, Shirl. Besides, you’ve seen him,’ he said, ‘and if you’ve heard the gossip you’ll know anyway. He’s much too busy trying to kill himself!’

  He smiled as he said this, but Shirley saw it differently. Poor Keith. Poor Charlie. Poor all of them, really. She couldn’t begin to imagine having something like that happen in your family, and in that moment, for a split second, she hated her dad. Hated him for listening to gossip and calling Charlie a murderer when it was just a tragic accident. Hated him for saying such horrible things. Things she’d no business even thinking might be true.

  The house on Tamar Street was quieter today, the grandchildren absent, though there was another brother, Reggie, to be introduced to. He was older, the next one down from Charlie, Keith explained, and was sitting with Reggie senior in the front room.

  The two boys, Joe and David, were once again at the table, busy tucking into a pile of chips that sat in their wrapper still between them.

  ‘Hello, love,’ Keith’s mam said, looking up from where she was stationed at her range. ‘How are you, then? Fancy a pot o’ tea?’

  Shirley felt another rush of annoyance that Keith had been extended no such welcome in her home and vowed that, whatever her dad thought about anything to do with the Hudsons, she’d be doing what she liked from here on in. ‘Yes, please,’ she said shyly, taking the tin back from Keith and crossing the room so she could hand it to Annie. ‘And I brought you this,’ she said, holding out the cake tin. ‘It’s just a quarter of tea and a Victoria sandwich my mam made. Just to, well, thank you for having me the other day.’