My Mam Shirley

by Julie Shaw

  Young Annie, looking so strange in her beauty-contest finery in this room, stepped in front of her dad and pointed in his face. ‘How could you?’ she wanted to know. ‘That bleeding crash was over two years back! How could you bring that up now, Dad? How could you?’

  ‘You tell me why then!’ Keith’s dad said, leaping up to his feet. ‘Come on! Why’d he die then? Eh? Come on!’ Shirley flinched, watching him, seeing the raw emotion spilling from his words. ‘My lad comes home from the coal, gets his head down on the couch for a bit, and then just dies? Just goes and dies? How the bleeding hell does that happen?’ He sat back heavily into his chair again, tears running freely down his cheeks. ‘He asked me to wash his face, Annie,’ he sobbed, tears running freely down his cheeks. ‘Asked me to wash his bleeding face so he didn’t mucky the cushion. I washed the coal dust off his bleeding face and then he died!’

  Shirley wasn’t sure she could stand any more. She felt dreadful in a way that she’d never before felt dreadful. And also gripped by a sudden claustrophobia. She wanted to be anywhere but where she was right now.

  ‘I have to go,’ she whispered to Vera. ‘I’m sorry, Vee, but I have to go now.’ She looked for Keith, who had both arms round his mother and looked so wretched, but still, seeing her, looked concerned – looked as if he was about to stand up.

  Shirley shook her head. ‘No,’ she mouthed. ‘No, you stay with your mam, Keith. I’m all right walking. You stay. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.’

  She glanced at Keith’s mum and dad – both were oblivious – and then to Charlie. He was still rocking and groaning and the sound tore right through her. She’d never been so close to death before, and the raw horror of it scoured her emotions. When the cold night air hit her, it was as if it was trying to rip her lungs out of her chest.

  She hurried home alone, striding along streets that would once have scared her, but which now held no fear for her at all.

  Chapter 9

  Shirley knew that good things could come out of bad things, and it seemed to her, by the time Ronnie had been laid to rest a couple of months, that perhaps the good thing was the way it had cemented her relationship with both the lad she loved and the family of which she now felt such a part. In truth, she felt more a part of the notorious Hudson family now than perhaps she did with her own kin over in Clayton.

  That was the thing with death, she’d decided, as she stood at Ronnie’s funeral service – it made you realise how few things really mattered. They’d probably never know why he died – ‘just one of those things’, everyone had agreed – but though the unspoken assumption was that it must have been related to the car accident that had killed his brother, since the day of Ronnie’s death, Reggie senior hadn’t mentioned it again. There was simply no point, and Shirley sensed he knew that. And, in a strange way, given his hostility to Charlie, it made her warm to him.

  It had been a horrible day – the first funeral she’d ever been to – and as they assembled in readiness she felt a pang of a real anger at her parents for ‘protecting’ her, as they saw it, from harsh realities of life such as this.

  But as she’d gripped Keith’s hand, she knew she had to be strong for him. It didn’t matter that the tears were rolling unchecked down her own cheeks. Watching the Hudsons trying to be so brave as they buried one of their own – and one so young – she felt the strongest conviction yet that Keith was the one, and that she would always be there for him, no matter what. If he proposed she knew her answer would be yes.

  When that day might come, though, she hadn’t the slightest idea. And, more to the point, what her father might say about it. Though he’d been politely sympathetic to news of Ronnie’s sudden death, it was yet more grist to the mill that he kept pounding away at; that Charlie Hudson was a bad lot – look at the fresh tragedy he’d visited on them! – and that, by extension, Keith Hudson was probably a bad lot as well.

  ‘Does he have to ask my dad, Mam?’ Shirley asked Mary, when they were chatting about the prospect of a future wedding one Saturday morning, Shirley having confessed to her mam how she felt.

  ‘Yes, love, you know he does. That’s the law, I’m afraid. Well, unless you’re 21 – you can do what you like then, whether he likes it or not. But, you know, love, I’m sure he’ll be all right about it now. You’ve been courting nearly a year now, after all.’

  Twenty-one? Shirley’s heart sank at the prospect of having to wait that long for Keith to propose – she’d practically feel like an old lady! And she didn’t share her mother’s confidence, either.

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ she said, as her mam pulled a batch of scones from the oven. ‘He’s always trying to find reasons why Keith isn’t good enough for me. Spends far too much time down the frigging pub or up at that club listening to gossip.’

  Which was the problem that vexed Shirley the most. Because the truth was that if her dad listened to gossip, he’d surely find it – not least because it was fairly common knowledge around and about that Keith was no different from his feckless older brothers and would regularly blow all his wages on gambling. So it was a knocking bet that her dad knew that too. He’d not said as much – she wasn’t sure if her mam even knew about it – but Shirley knew he was well aware that to say so would annoy her; no, he’d be keeping it in reserve so he could bring it out if and when Keith did propose, and, however much Shirley might wish it not so, he had a perfect right to refuse her hand to a man who couldn’t support her financially.

  Which made it a priority that Shirley work harder to straighten Keith out, and make sure he had all his priorities right before that happy day came dawning.

  Starting right now, she decided, as her mam buttered a hot scone for her, because much as she loved all the members of Keith’s family, she wanted to marry a man who could support her as well. And that wasn’t because she couldn’t earn her own money (half the time, currently, it was her supporting him) but because she wanted a family, which meant extra mouths to feed, which meant him pulling his weight when it came to bringing a wage in. The last thing she wanted was for him to become a bit of a rogue, like half the Hudson men seemed to have turned out to be – not to mention a drinker like his dad and his mam.

  She smiled to herself, recognising that, actually, she wanted it all. She wanted him tamed, well behaved and busy making an honest bob, but at the same time the last thing she wanted to happen was for him to turn into a big softie like John Arnold.

  She grinned at her mam, wondering what Keith would have to say about it if he could hear what she was thinking. ‘Not that he’s shown the slightest hint that he’s even going to ask me,’ she admitted.

  Mary rolled her eyes. ‘And that’s a good thing,’ she rebuked her. ‘You’re doing too much daydreaming, young lady. You’ve got the rest of your life to worry about being married. And trust me, girl, it’s not as bloody rosy as you think it is!’

  Not in her mam’s case, perhaps, Shirley thought privately. But then she wasn’t her mam, was she? And Keith certainly wasn’t her dad. No, her marriage would be one of love and companionship, not nasty drunken rows every Saturday.

  But her mam was probably right, even so. She was still only 18 and before she worried about Keith’s proposal, she should first worry about licking him into shape. And there was no time like the present, she decided, as she finished drying up for her mam and went up to her room to get ready. Not least because they were off to the Tudor that afternoon, a café bar in town that played all the latest music and where everyone hung out, but where, in reality, she would spend most of her time with Annie and June and Joyce, while Keith nipped in and out of the Unicorn pub further up town to have a few pints with his brothers.

  She picked up her hairbrush and studied her reflection in the mirror, conscious of the frown lines furrowing her forehead. She wasn’t sure why – perhaps the knowledge that her dad might have a point? – but as she dragged the brush through her hair, she felt annoyed. Why should she and the girls have to hang ar
ound sipping bloody sarsaparillas while the blokes were living it up in the Unicorn? There might be a law about parents having to sign to let their daughters get married, but since when was there a law that said girls couldn’t go to the pub their lads were going to? It went further than that, actually, as most of the pubs had tap rooms that only allowed men in them. The fellas would congregate in those elusive, smoke-filled rooms, leaving their women twiddling their thumbs in the lounge or concert rooms – it was stupid in Shirley’s opinion. But it was one thing to have separate rooms within the pubs, quite another to leave them out altogether. Why couldn’t they go along with them? It suddenly seemed ridiculous.

  And perhaps the time had come for her to make her feelings known. She grinned at her reflection, imagining Keith’s reaction to her putting her foot down about it, smoothing the lines out along with the tangles.

  As Keith and Shirley lived in opposite directions from the Tudor, she’d planned to hop on the bus and meet him in there. But when she pushed open the door it soon became apparent that he wasn’t there. She scanned the benches that lined the walls, all fronted by their red shiny tables, taking in the familiar groups of young people, all chatting – and probably gossiping – and tapping their feet in time to the music, under walls hung with pictures of the latest pop stars and actors.

  There was never an old person in sight and that was exactly why she liked it; no one to tut disapprovingly, or tell them to turn the music down or make some disparaging comment about a song in the hit parade, or the haircut of whoever was her latest crush.

  Unfortunately there was no sign of Annie or June either – just Joyce, who was standing by the Wurlitzer, sipping a milkshake through a straw, and who now raised an arm in greeting. It seemed her Jock was nowhere to be seen either.

  ‘Over here, Shirl,’ Joyce called above the din of the chatter and the sound of Bill Haley coming from the juke-box. ‘Keith’s already got you a drink.’

  Shirley joined Joyce at the side of the machine. ‘Oh, he has, has he?’ she said, taking it from the table where June indicated. ‘Where is he then? Pub with your Jock?’

  Joyce grinned as she nodded then leaned closer in, putting her lips almost against Shirley’s ear. ‘I wouldn’t be too mad, Shirl,’ she whispered, obviously sensing her irritation. ‘Jock told me they’ve got a right little scam going on. I think we could be in for a few treats later on.’

  Shirley sighed as she reached into her handbag for her cigarettes. ‘What do you mean, “scam”?’ she asked Joyce as she rummaged around to find them. ‘Keith had better not be up to no good. What are they doing?’

  Joyce placed a hand over hers just as she was about to pull out her packet of ciggies. ‘You won’t be needing those,’ she said, her voice filled with an air of authority. She moved closer still. ‘Technically, it’s called “selling fresh air”, I think, but look …’

  She unclipped her own handbag and opened it just enough that she could show Shirley what was inside. Shirley gawped. It was filled with cigarettes – it looked like there were hundreds of them in there. Not in packets, but loose at the bottom. No wonder she was carrying such a ridiculously big bag, Shirley mused, while trying to work out the significance of what she’d just seen. If Jock and Keith had some dodgy money-making thing going on, why the hell was Joyce spending it all on ciggies?

  Joyce laughed as she plunged a hand into the jaws of her bag. ‘Your face, Shirl! Don’t look so worried, it’s fine. Here, look.’ She scooped a large handful of cigarettes out and opened Shirley’s bag so she could stuff them inside. ‘You take these. There’ll be plenty more where they came from.’

  Shirley quickly tried to hide what she was sure were the ill-gotten gains she now had in her bag. She hated anything to do with breaking the law, and having accepted the cigarettes filled her with the usual anxiety. What if someone had seen? She made a point of lighting one of her own cigarettes. ‘Look, Joyce,’ she said sternly, ‘just tell me what the bloody hell is going on. Not to mention where the bloody hell they are!’

  ‘All right! Keep your hair on, Shirl,’ Joyce replied, then proceeded to explain precisely what the ‘right little scam’ was, in suitably hushed tones.

  And a ‘right little scam’ was what it turned out to be. Keith and Jock had apparently clubbed together to buy two sleeves of ten packs of 200 Park Drive cigarettes. They’d then carefully opened eight of the ten packs in each sleeve and removed the cigarettes. They had then filled the empty packets with sawdust, apparently, leaving a real, unopened pack at either end, so that the sleeve not only looked like any other, but felt the correct weight as well.

  ‘And now they’ve sold them?’ Shirley wanted to know, feeling a rising exasperation.

  Joyce nodded. ‘At five shillings a pack – which is less than half price. So the punters think they’re getting a right bargain, and Keith and Jock are on a right little earner,’ Joyce continued. ‘All that money and all these ciggies, too! Can’t go wrong really, can you?’

  Shirley wondered about Joyce sometimes. How could she be so naïve? There were so many ways in which it – they – could go wrong. Getting nicked being one of them. And having your face filled in by angry punters once they found out they’d been duped being another. ‘Anyway, they’ve been and bought another six sleeves now they’ve shifted the first two,’ Joyce was saying, causing Shirley to roll her eyes in frustration.

  ‘Can’t go wrong?’ she hissed. ‘Joyce, it’s bloody criminal! You can’t do things like that. They’ll end up in the clink if someone puts the police onto them!’

  Joyce lit one of the cigarettes from her handbag and shrugged. ‘Oh, stop worrying,’ she soothed. No one’ll get onto them. They’ll be fine. Anyway, you got any change on you?’ she asked, turning to the juke-box. ‘I fancy a bit of Ritchie Valens. How about you?’

  Shirley felt gloom settle on her shoulders. How ironic that she should have been thinking about straightening Keith out today of all days. If her dad found out about this little number he’d have a bloody field day. She fished in her bag again for her purse – better than Joyce bloody opening hers – and as she pulled it out saw the partners in crime themselves strolling in.

  Rather than the flutter of attraction she usually felt on seeing Keith, now she responded to his cheery grin with a scowl of anger. Look at him! She thought, as if butter wouldn’t melt in his bloody mouth!

  ‘Fancy a drink, girls?’ Jock asked in his drawling Scottish accent as Ritchie Valens started burbling away behind them. Jock was a lovely bloke, actually – always had a bright beaming smile, and was kind with it. He’d do anything for anyone. But today all Shirley could think of was how important it was that she make a stand, which, unfortunately for Jock, meant his charms wouldn’t wash.

  ‘What?’ she snapped. ‘You mean out of the money you’ve just conned in the pubs? No, thank you, I’ll buy my own bleeding drink.’ She turned and glared at Keith then, grimly pleased to see the look of surprise on his face. ‘In fact, I’ve just changed my mind,’ she said. ‘Yes, I will have a drink, and so will Joyce. Not in here, though. I think we’ll nip into the Unicorn for a glass of bitter.’ She turned to Joyce, hoping she could rely on her. ‘You ready?’

  Keith and Jock stared at each other, both looking decidedly uncomfortable at this unexpected turn of events. ‘Er, well, me and Jock were just going to nip to the Boy and Barrel for a swift one,’ Keith said. ‘But we won’t be long.’

  Shirley grabbed the cardigan she’d only just taken off. ‘That’s fine. The Boy and Barrel will do equally well,’ she said firmly. ‘Come on then, Joyce. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, isn’t it?’

  ‘But we’re only going to be gone ten minutes,’ Keith persisted. ‘Why don’t you two wait here for us, and then we’ll all go up Manchester Road for one instead.’

  ‘Why?’ Shirley demanded, already making her way to the door, Keith trotting along in her wake. ‘In case one of the punters you’ve scammed has realised he bought sawdust and
comes looking for you? Well, if that’s what you’re bothered about, you deserve a bleeding crack. What is wrong with you?’

  The penny finally dropping, Keith glared at Joyce as they all walked out onto the cobbled street. ‘Big mouth!’ he huffed. ‘You couldn’t keep it shut, could you?’

  Shirley jabbed a finger at Keith, secretly pleased that at least he knew full well how much she disapproved. ‘And don’t you dare bleeding blame her, Keith Hudson!’ she shouted. ‘Why can’t you be happy just earning a wage like everybody else, Keith? Instead of always being on the bloody look-out for the next con? What’s the matter? Have you blown your wages in the frigging betting office again?’

  Did she see a flash of remorse on his face at that point? She certainly hoped so. Though she was genuinely cross with him, she was also well aware that she was overplaying her anger just a little. But then she needed to, didn’t she? To press her point home. Because no matter how much she loved Keith, this was a turning point, she realised. The point where Keith would hopefully realise that she wouldn’t sit on the sidelines all the time, looking pretty and waiting – always waiting and waiting – while he strutted about Bradford, thinking he could do what he liked.

  No, today was going to be different. Taking his continued silence as an admission of guilt, she looked back towards Joyce and Jock, who both still looked stunned.

  ‘Come on then, you two,’ she said, ‘the Boy and Barrel won’t come to us, will it?’

  She then gripped Keith’s arm and led the procession of four up Ivegate to have the drink she felt she very much deserved. Despite what she’d said to Joyce, she wasn’t really worried about any unlucky punters coming after them. Jock was a giant of a man, and Keith was – well, Keith was Keith, wasn’t he? One of the Hudsons. Untouchable.