My Mam Shirley

by Julie Shaw

  ‘No work this morning,’ Annie grinned. ‘Got that straight from the horse’s mouth. Though we’d better make the most of it – business as usual soon as it’s over.’ She looked Shirley up and down then, ‘Shirl, you look gorgeous!’

  ‘Not as gorgeous as you do,’ Shirley said, blushing at the sincerity in her friend’s voice. ‘And you, too,’ she added, as Joyce came to join them. ‘Come on, let’s go for a cig in the toilets, shall we? I need to check my hair’s still holding up.’

  Annie patted Shirley’s bun. ‘Thought so,’ she said. ‘You could hold up the bleeding Empire State Building with the amount of spray you’ve got on that.’

  There was a full-length mirror on the toilet wall and it had never been in such demand. There were at least 15 other girls jostling for space.

  ‘Budge up, ladies!’ Annie shouted as she carved a path to it. ‘The ugly sisters have had long enough now. Time for Cinderella to get a look in. Go on, shift it.’

  The crowd soon dispersed and Shirley was, as ever, slightly in awe at how this tiny little woman seemed to command so much respect.

  ‘Annie, you’re awful,’ she said, as she touched up her lipstick.

  ‘And you’re bleeding simple, Shirl!’ Annie replied ‘We’d have been standing there all frigging day if it was left up to you. You need to stand up for yourself a bit more,’ she said, ‘she does, doesn’t she, Joyce?’ She then inspected her teeth and, finally satisfied she was looking her usual sparkling best, clapped her hands together as if in prayer. ‘Shirley Read, you still have much to learn, my child.’

  Shirley thought she’d learned a great deal already about this exciting new world she was now inhabiting. She’d taken up proper smoking, which had given her access to the gossip in the toilets, had defied her father by continuing to go out with Keith Hudson, and she’d learned the rules about biscuits and scraps and how things at work worked. And now she’d learned something else – that when you were actually known as one of the Hudsons, even by association, then the world was a very rosy place indeed.

  Having a radio show coming to visit was a new thing for Sutcliffe’s, and over the weekend the warehouse staff had been in to rearrange the factory floor for the occasion. The usual pile of pallets, bins of fabric and the sewing machines themselves had all been moved towards the back so that the women could parade in a line to be inspected by the judges. The show had obviously arrived early that morning to prepare for the live show at ten o’clock. Wilfred Pickles himself wasn’t there – he stayed at the studios, apparently, but what was there, and which took all the women by surprise, was an enormous black piano.

  ‘Blimey,’ Annie observed as they entered the sewing room, ‘that must have taken some bleeding carting in!’

  Shirley’s eyes, however, were immediately drawn to the three men who were currently fiddling with a load of wires and leads, and the big muffled microphones that she knew radio people used. One of them was Joe ‘Mr Piano’ Henderson himself.

  Joyce had been right, Shirley decided. He was different in the flesh. She guessed he was in his early forties and although he had good hair and a strong jaw, he was definitely not as good looking as she’d imagined. But there was something about him that still oozed celebrity, and though he wasn’t really her type any more than he was Annie’s, having someone so famous mere feet away from her set her nerves, already twitched, jangling anew. It was hard to keep your eyes off him – and no one bothered trying; there was something magnetic about the way he spoke and the way he looked, and when he got the girls to sing along to his ‘Have a go’ tune with him, Shirley decided he had the biggest, whitest teeth she’d ever seen in her life.

  Time was of the essence, though, so there was no opportunity for swooning; within minutes, the girls were lined up and the contest began, with Annie, since she’d been the one to write in to the BBC in the first place, having the honour of leading the girls on their walk round the factory floor, a picture of elegance in her scarlet pencil skirt and vertiginous heels.

  Shirley was struggling a little to walk in her own high-heeled slingbacks, but Annie, that much older and that much more experienced at the art, strutted effortlessly past the judges, hips wiggling seductively, throwing in a cheeky wink for good measure. She was without a doubt the most glamorous, even if not quite a vision of natural beauty, and Shirley felt sure she’d be the one whose name was called.

  And so did Annie – you could tell by the grin on her face as the 24 girls who’d entered gathered at the back of the factory, while the judges went into a huddle to make their decision. Joyce thought so too, and so did several of the girls – a couple even said so – and Shirley, whose nerves had settled now it was over, felt it was only now a question of having confirmed what the majority of the girls already knew.

  But as Joe Henderson stood up and smiled before clearing his throat, it seemed it wasn’t going to be Annie’s day. Mr Mitchell had by now joined him up at the front as well, holding an envelope and a huge bouquet of flowers. ‘Well done, all of you,’ Joe began. ‘What a wonderful effort, and I hope you’ve all had fun today. And I want you to know that you are all very beautiful. So, as you can imagine, it was extremely hard to pick a winner. But we have now done so, and without further ado I can announce that the winner is …’

  Every eye was on him as he strung out the announcement, and Shirley glanced around to see crossed fingers, Annie’s included, and some eyes even squeezed shut as they waited in hope. ‘The winner is …’ he said again, before putting them out of their misery. ‘Eileen Harris!’ he finished, to a round of woops and applause.

  ‘Did he just say Eileen Harris?’ Shirley whispered to Annie, who was staring, open mouthed, at the judges.

  ‘Bleeding Eileen Harris?’ Annie repeated, a little too loudly for Shirley’s comfort. ‘Eileen Harris? But she’s got bleeding alopecia! What the frig are they? Blind?’

  The look of shock and disgust on her face was such a picture that Shirley and Joyce couldn’t help but burst out laughing, and it was lucky that the cheering drowned the pair of them out, as they were soon both doubled up with mirth.

  Not so Annie. ‘Look at her!’ she huffed, as the girl strutted up to collect her prize and flowers. ‘Look at her! She’s got a bald patch as big as a tennis ball on her frigging head! Sneaky cow. Must have hid it from the judges!’

  ‘Hardly, Annie,’ Shirley said. ‘Look – if we can see it, they could.’

  ‘So why’d they pick her, then?’ Annie railed. ‘How can you win a beauty contest when you’ve got a frigging hole in your hair? What’s the point of calling it a “beauty” contest if it’s not?’

  ‘Come on, Annie,’ Joyce reasoned. ‘She’s got a very pretty face.’

  ‘So that makes it okay? So if I had an enormous saggy arse, covered in warts, I could still win, because it’s behind me?’ she said. ‘It’s a travesty, that’s what it is!’

  Shirley thought differently. To her mind, the alopecia was exactly why they chose Eileen Harris. To make a point, and perhaps to give the poor girl a bit of badly needed confidence. But she knew better than to mention that to Annie. Not till the dust settled, at least.

  True to his word, Mr Mitchell had the girls back at their machines within an hour of the visitors, and their enormous piano, leaving. And fun though it had been getting dolled up for work on a Monday, Shirley rather regretted not having brought in a complete change of clothes, as sitting sewing in her sexy sheath-like skirt and tight top was a very long way from ideal.

  There was just the one plus point when, at around three, there was the unexpected pleasure of seeing Keith arrive on the factory floor. Shirley had no idea why – she wasn’t due to knock off till five – but even as she wondered what he was doing there at that time, the thought was accompanied by the pleasure of knowing he’d get to see her looking so glamorous.

  But it was no more than a couple of seconds before another thought took precedence – exactly why was he here? And, more to the point, why were h
e and Mandy, the supervisor, heading towards Annie rather than her? And why did he look so grey and distressed?

  She stopped what she was doing, feeling anxiety grip her stomach, and rose automatically from her machine. Keith was talking to Annie now, and Annie’s face had begun to crumple; by the time Shirley had walked around her machine and crossed the space between them, tears were beginning to spill down Annie’s cheeks.

  ‘What?’ she said to Keith, looking from him to Mandy. ‘What on earth’s happened?’

  Keith put an arm around Annie’s shoulder and pulled her towards him. ‘It’s our Ronnie, Shirl,’ he said quietly. ‘He’s dead.’

  Chapter 8

  Shirley didn’t know what to say. All three were now heading up Little Horton Lane and she couldn’t think of a single thing she could utter that would make it better. Ronnie had died and there were no words that would help. She felt her age; that was it. She felt too young, too inadequate, too shocked by the notion that a fit not-quite-30-year-old could just lie down and die. But apparently he had. Just closed his eyes and that was that.

  Neither Keith nor Annie had spoken in a while now. They just trudged onwards in the bitterly cold wind, both looking down at the pavement, and though Keith held Shirley’s hand she felt strangely disconnected from him; it was as if he was in a place where she couldn’t yet go.

  She wasn’t sure she should have come with them, but some instinct had made her, and she was grateful she had her mam’s big fur coat pulled around her and for the slippers she’d thought to slip into her bag at the last minute that morning. It suddenly felt like a lifetime ago.

  There’d been no discussion about waiting for the next bus. Keith had insisted that waiting was not going to be an option; be it quicker or not (and that would depend if the next bus was on time), Shirley realised that he couldn’t stand still. Though, paradoxically, a part of Keith wanted to tarry. He’d already admitted that. ‘I’m hoping they’ll have taken him away before we get there,’ he’d confessed as they set off. ‘It was horrible, Shirl, honest. You don’t want to see him.’

  ‘I don’t know, Keith,’ she suggested softly. ‘Just to see him one last time?’

  His response was just to grip her hand all the tighter.

  ‘But how did it happen?’ Annie said, breaking the renewed silence that had fallen as they passed St Luke’s Hospital, the place where, presumably, Ronnie’s body would have been taken or be on its way to. Or would it? Shirley realised there was so much she didn’t know. She’d never seen a dead person in her life before. Never even encountered death – not properly, not really. Her Granddad Price had died when she was six but the memory of that was just a blur, and as he’d already left her Granny Wiggins by then, his passing had never really even registered.

  ‘How can you just fall asleep and die, Keith?’ Annie was saying now, her breath clouding in front of her. ‘People just don’t die for no reason. He’s not even bleeding 30!’

  Keith shrugged his shoulders and hunched his head further into his chest. ‘Shut up, Annie,’ he said, with surprising sharpness. ‘I’ve told you what I know, haven’t I? Just walk.’

  Shirley didn’t say anything. Just dared to squeeze his hand a little. And was gratified when the action was reciprocated. She felt so sorry for him. Sorry for both of them. Sorry for the whole family. How did you deal with something so wretched? So completely against the natural order of things? She had no idea.

  She felt particularly sorry for Annie, and wondered how she might be feeling. It was tragic for everyone, of course, but she felt Annie in particular might be suffering, feeling guilty about having spent half the morning carping on about injustice in the frigging beauty contest; how hollow that felt now. No, this was injustice. Not that.

  It took a further 15 minutes for them to reach Tamar Street and as they approached the house, Keith slowed and turned to her. ‘Me and our Annie will go in first, if you prefer not to, Shirl. You know. See the lie of the land, make sure …’ he paused. His face was as grey as the January sky. ‘Well, you know. It’s not going to be very nice in there, is it?’

  Keith nodded towards the house, but Shirley, resolute now, shook her head. No, it wouldn’t be very nice; she didn’t have the first idea what to do around what would undoubtedly be a shocked and grieving family, but why else had she come? Why else but to comfort Keith, try to be helpful, see what she could do. ‘It’s okay, Keith,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ll come in with you. I want to.’ She felt Annie grip her arm even as the words left her mouth. So she obviously wanted her there anyway. ‘I’ll stay as long as you want me to, then I’ll walk myself home,’ she finished. ‘Come on,’ she added, taking the lead and turning up the path.

  The scene as they walked in was like something from the movies, Shirley thought, a glance around her taking in all the elements. Keith’s dad was sitting rigid in his chair, his face as grey as Keith’s, and looking suddenly, rather scarily, so much older. Their mam was on the couch, her body turned inwards, as if she was trying to disappear into herself, sobbing into a handkerchief while being comforted by their June. Reggie, Keith’s second oldest brother, and his wife Vera were there as well. They were sat at the table, talking quietly with Joe and David. There was another lad there as well, standing in the corner of the front room, gazing out of the window, who, from the look of him, seemed part of the family, but Shirley hadn’t seen him before. A nephew, perhaps? She tried to work out whose he might conceivably be, before remembering – there was another brother who hadn’t been around, wasn’t there? Younger than Keith, too, so this lad might just conceivably be him.

  ‘Our Malcolm,’ Keith supplied, having obviously noticed her staring. ‘Been locked up for a bit. Just got out yesterday,’ he added, before going over to sit beside his distraught mam.

  Shirley felt marooned then. An island in a sea of distress, and so was very grateful when Vera patted an empty chair beside her at the table and signalled for her to sit. ‘The ambulance has just left with Ronnie in it,’ she whispered, leaning closer. ‘Poor bleeder.’ She made the sign of the cross and then reached across to squeeze her husband’s hand.

  Malcolm crossed the room then, perhaps noticing there was someone different in the midst. He looked to be in his late teens and Shirley quickly recalled all the snippets she’d heard about him from the others; a bright lad, very funny, but if there was trouble around, you could almost guarantee that Malcolm would be in the thick of it.

  He was certainly in the thick of it now. ‘You must be Shirley,’ he said, reaching the table and holding out a scrawny hand. ‘I’m Malcolm,’ he added. ‘The good-looking brother. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

  As introductions went, it was a surprise, given the circumstances, but Shirley could see past the half-smile stuck on his lips to the bewildered teenager underneath. One who didn’t know what to do or say any more than she did. Sensing that made her feel a little more like a grown-up. But before she could do more than return such a smile as seemed appropriate, his brother Reggie tutted sharply and tore him off a strip.

  ‘You’ve heard bugger all,’ young Reggie growled as he glared at his brother. ‘You’ve been in the nick for the last six months, you little toe rag. Now go sit down somewhere and show a bit of respect.’

  Malcolm walked over to the fireplace and put the pan on to boil, and she wished she could pluck up the courage to go and join him; jump up and bustle about, being useful, making that traditional pot of tea. But she couldn’t seem to find the gumption to actually get up and do it. Instead she felt paralysed by self-consciousness, strange and out of place. The grief was palpable; it seemed to hang in the air like a curtain, and the house, usually so loud and raucous, suddenly looked as dismal as the steadily darkening afternoon. The sound of Keith’s mum’s sobbing was quiet but at the same time deafening, as if it knew it had the right to drown out every other sound.

  Shirley looked across at Keith, at his pained, drum-tight face, and noticed how precisely it echoed the whitened knuc
kles he held clenched around the top edge of the sofa. He was hurting so much and she didn’t know what to do or say. She really wished she could take him away somewhere, hold him tight, encourage him to cry.

  But the clamouring silence was about to be broken anyway. Just as Shirley was trying to decide whether to just have a quiet word with Keith and slip away, or to go and help Malcolm by the range, the front-room door was flung open and Charlie burst in. He was clearly drunk and he looked dirty and unkempt.

  ‘Where is he?’ he yelled. ‘What’ve you done with him? Where’s our Ronnie?’ He staggered into the room and made a beeline for his mother. ‘Mam! Tell me! It’s not true, is it? Please tell me it’s not true!’

  Everyone’s head had snapped up at Charlie’s entrance and one by one they all seemed to swivel in the same direction – towards their dad, who seemed to be coming out of his trance-like stare. He too looked at Charlie, and Shirley held her breath: she knew enough about enough to know that they didn’t get on. She breathed out as quietly as she could, feeling herself shrinking back into her seat, knowing that things might be about to get nasty.

  ‘Sit down, Charlie,’ Reggie said, quietly. ‘Our Ronnie’s died.’ Charlie did so, taking up space on the sofa beside his mother, who extended a hand to take hold of his as he did so. Reggie waited a moment before speaking, easing his body forward in the battered armchair. ‘The doctor said it was probably something on his brain,’ he said slowly. ‘From the car crash.’

  Charlie stared at his dad for a long time before putting his head in his hands. Then he began to move, rocking slowly back and forth, groaning softly. And, watching him, Shirley felt tears begin to slide down her cheeks. How did you get over something so terrible, she thought. Could you?

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ Annie yelled at Reggie, making Shirley jump. ‘Don’t you bloody dare!’ She jabbed a finger towards her husband. ‘The doctor said no such thing! He didn’t, son,’ she said, grabbing one of Charlie’s hands and cradling it in her own. ‘He asked him and the doctor told him nobody could ever know that. So don’t you bloody dare!’ she shouted again at Reggie senior. ‘It was just one of those things,’ she said brokenly, putting her arm around Charlie’s shoulder. ‘He’d been working on the coal all morning, fit as a fiddle. It’s no one’s fault, Charlie, you hear me, son? No one’s.’