My Mam Shirley

by Julie Shaw

  Shirley had only met Bob and Margaret twice before, and both occasions had been sad ones – family funerals. But even based on their short acquaintance, Shirley had formed a strong impression of Margaret. She was 42 now; not only older and more affluent as a consequence, but also a lot milder in temperament than either young Annie or June. She was also practical, and clearly now the head of the whole Hudson family. With Reggie gone, and Annie now diminished and drinking heavily, it was clearly Margaret the others called on for help and support. She’d seen it in action herself; how she’d swooped in with Bob when Reggie had died, driven that long four or five hours to Bradford and calmly sorted out all the arrangements, making everyone feel safe and reassured.

  Margaret had her own son, of course, Terry – who was stopping with his gran at his Auntie Eunice’s for a couple of days to free his bed up – but to Shirley’s mind, she also seemed like a second mum to Keith now, and Shirley saw something in her that she saw in her own mother: someone on whom they could rely if they were ever in trouble. Someone who’d be there for them both.

  She also looked delighted to see them. ‘Oh, you poor things,’ she said, pulling Shirley over the step to hurry her inside. ‘You look chilled to the bone. Look at your cheeks, love! They’re scarlet!’

  The interior of the house was warm and toasty and wafting through from the kitchen came the unmistakable smell of a thick, meaty stew. Shirley drew it into her nostrils and felt her mouth water. She wasn’t just cold, she was also hungry. All they’d had to eat on the long drive from Bradford was the packet of ham sandwiches Mary had made and wrapped for them, and that had been hours back, long before she’d fallen asleep. Smelling the stew now had her stomach rumbling in anticipation.

  Fortunately, Margaret wasted no time in sending them off up to their rooms to unpack, with the instruction to hurry as they’d dish up right away.

  ‘Oh, I love your house so much, Margaret,’ Shirley said, once they were sitting down around the dining table with big bowls of stew. She was even more in awe now she’d been up and seen the prettily decorated bedrooms and the upstairs bathroom – which, to Shirley’s wonderment, contained an actual pink bath and toilet! ‘And this is gorgeous, too,’ she added, pointing to her food appreciatively, as tendrils of steam rose deliciously towards her nose.

  ‘Ta, love,’ Margaret said, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t take the credit. Bob made the food. He might have to watch for his fingers now his eyes are going, bless him, but he’s the cook in this house. Always has been. I’m worse than useless, me,’ she said, laughing, ‘Just ask our Terry.’

  Bob had eye problems and Keith had told Shirley he’d probably go blind in a few years, and she marvelled at their ability to laugh about such a horrible prospect. But that was the way the Hudsons did everything, it seemed. Rolled their sleeves up and got on with it, however difficult. It was one of the traits she admired most in them.

  Bob and Keith were laughing too. ‘Our Margaret could burn a pot of tea, Shirl,’ he told her. ‘Bob’s a chef,’ he explained. ‘Used to be a cook in the army.’

  ‘I was indeed,’ Bob confirmed in his strange southern accent – something that had fascinated Shirley since the first time she’d met him. She’d never spoken to anyone who spoke like he did before – only heard those sorts of voices on the telly. It was a whole other world, the way people spoke to each other on the telly, and it felt peculiar to hear it in this dining room in Preston. But nice-peculiar, even so. She could listen to him all day.

  He leaned towards Shirley now, as if reading her mind. ‘And our Keith knows a good stew when he sees one, as well, Shirley. You should ask him sometime about when he came to stay with us down in Kent.’ He looked up at his wife and winked. ‘Don’t you think so, Margaret? What was it again? Coq au vin, wasn’t it, Keith?’

  Shirley looked from one to the other, confused by their conspiratorial looks, but then Margaret burst out laughing, and Keith groaned theatrically.

  ‘Bob, you twat,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Not again …’

  ‘What?’ Shirley wanted to know, now that all three were laughing. ‘Am I missing something?’

  ‘Nothing you’ll want to hear, Shirl,’ Keith assured her. ‘Not over dinner, at any rate.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ she replied.

  ‘Yes, she does,’ Margaret added. ‘Go on, tell her, Keith. Can’t imagine why you haven’t told her already, truth be known.’

  ‘I bleeding can,’ Keith retorted. ‘I still get the shivers thinking about it now.’

  ‘Shivers? What, is it a ghost story or something?’ Shirley asked him, keen to hear for herself what was clearly amusing them all so much.

  ‘Er, not exactly,’ Bob said. ‘Though still haunting for you, eh, Keith?’

  Which had them all bursting into great peals of laughter yet again.

  ‘Keith, just frigging tell me!’ she commanded.

  Back when Keith had been in the army, he’d been based in the barracks at Biggin Hill in Kent and, when on leave, rather than make the long journey back up north to Bradford, he’d often stay at Bob and Margaret’s house in Kent instead. This gave him a base from which he could enjoy spending his free time in London, doing a round of his favourite pubs, with or without his army mates, then just jump on a late train at Charing Cross back to where his sister lived.

  This particular day, he’d been surprised to bump into an old friend from Canterbury estate. ‘It was Bobby,’ he explained to Shirley. ‘Bobby Moran. Back then he was a bit of a drifter and he’d often do things like that, just hop on a train from Bradford and see where it took him, see if he could earn a few bob for somewhere to kip and food and beer. Then, when he’d had enough, he’d hop on a train back. Always called it “going on my jollies”. Anyway, naturally, we got together, see what we could get up to for a couple of days; he was always skint –’

  ‘Probably still is,’ remarked Margaret drily.

  Keith agreed. ‘And you know me – never turn down an opportunity to make a few bob, eh? And it was easy enough to have a quick word with the pianist, get up and sing for the punters, with Bobby working the crowd, collecting pennies in his trilby.’

  ‘And?’ Shirley prompted, after Keith had paused for a mouthful.

  ‘And, naturally, this being Bobby, once we’d divvied up the money, off he wanders and I’m left to get drunk on my own. So I get talking to this older guy who’s been sitting watching me singing. London bloke, very posh voice. But seemed okay. Told me he was a retired sailor, and he looked the part as well – apparently spent most of his years in the navy. Anyway, I buy him a couple of pints out of my singing money, just to be sociable, and when it gets to three o’clock, I’m not ready for chucking out yet.’ Keith turned to Bob now. ‘You know what it’s like when you’ve had loads to drink, don’t you? You want to stay out all frigging night.’

  Shirley laughed. ‘Correction. You do, Keith. The rest of us know better. Most of us know when we’ve had enough.’

  ‘Well, anyway,’ Keith continued, ‘with the pub shut till six, I’m at a bit of a loss as to what to do. It feels way too early to head back to Margaret and Bob’s, but being on my own, I’m at a bit of a loose end. “Tell you what,” says the old bloke. “I don’t live far from here. How about you come back to mine for a bit of dinner. I live with my sister and she always cooks loads. Then you can head back to the pub later on.” “Are you sure?” I ask. Because it feels like a bit of an imposition, obviously. But he insists and, as I’m starving, I agree. We get in his car then – he says his place is only ten minutes’ drive away, and it is – and it’s a lovely place, as well. Very grand. And in the garden there’s this washing line, with his sister’s stockings and smalls hanging from it, so I’m thinking – hmm, wonder if we’re talking a younger sister, here?’

  Shirley punched Keith in the arm. ‘Trust you, you bleeding pervert!’

  Margaret laughed. ‘Oh, believe me, you ain’t heard nothing yet, Shirl.’

  ‘All right,
Margaret, no need to rub it in,’ Keith said, shaking his head. ‘Anyway, so we go inside and straight away I can smell this lovely dinner cooking, but there’s no sign of the sister. “Oh, she must have nipped out,” the old man says, “but she’ll have dinner on for us, don’t worry. Nice chicken casserole,” he goes. “Made in the French style. Coq au vin,”’ he added, grimacing at Bob. ‘“Meanwhile,” he says, taking me into this grand sitting room, “why don’t we sit down and watch a bit of telly?” He then draws the curtains, shutting out the daylight – “so we can see it better,” he tells me – then tells me to sit on the couch and he turns the telly on.

  ‘And you know when you start to feel funny about something?’ Keith said. ‘That something’s not quite right? Well, that was the feeling I got when I sat down on that couch. Still, I was starving, so though it felt weird, sitting there with him in the dark, I thought I’d probably eat the dinner before heading on my way. But then – and it was so sudden, I had no idea what was coming – he suddenly drops his pants and throws himself down on the rug!’

  Shirley gaped. ‘What? Oh my God – he didn’t?’

  ‘He bleeding did,’ Keith said, the image obviously still a sharp and painful memory. ‘Right there in front of me – trousers down like a flash, all his money falling out of his pockets and rolling round the floor – and there’s worse than that, too. He’s got his trousers round his ankles, now, and he’s trying to kick his shoes off, and underneath he’s got all this stuff on.’

  ‘What stuff?’ Shirley wanted to know.

  ‘Women’s stuff! Women’s stockings and suspenders, lacy bleeding knickers, the lot!’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Shirley spluttered again. ‘So there wasn’t any sister, then?’

  Keith shrugged. ‘Haven’t a clue – I didn’t frigging wait to find out! I just jumped up, grabbed some coins off the floor for me bus fare back to Leicester Square, kicked him right up the arse and then ran for my life!’

  ‘I’ll bet,’ Shirley agreed, trying to imagine the shock of it. ‘So there wasn’t a sister – he was the sister. I’ve read about stuff like that.’

  Bob laughed. ‘Shame young Keith hadn’t, eh, lad? Could have got in one heck of a sticky situation there.’

  ‘Don’t I know it?’ Keith agreed. ‘I found a bus going back to the West End and went back to the same pub. Never needed a shot of whisky so badly in my entire life. And they all knew. All the regulars – all of them were grinning at me and tittering. They knew exactly what had been going on. And just think about it, Shirl – he’d been sitting there in all that garb, chatting away –’

  ‘Chatting you up,’ Margaret corrected.

  ‘Too right!’ Keith agreed sheepishly. ‘What an idiot. Let me tell you, Shirl,’ he added, pinching thumb and finger together, ‘I was that close to being his coq au bleeding vin! Could have put me off for life, that could.’

  Shirley blushed as he winked at her. Somehow, she didn’t think so.

  Chapter 15

  3 March 1962

  Shirley stared up to the ceiling and tried to get her bearings. She could sense something was wrong, even though she couldn’t quite work out what it was. She closed her eyes again, conscious that sleep could easily reclaim her, snuggled as she was under the soporific weight of sheets and blankets, and with her head cradled by the sweet-smelling feather pillow. But, no; there was definitely something prodding at her consciousness, but what? She rolled over, opening her eyes again and straightening out her legs, only to find herself nose to nose with her sleeping fiancé and – worse still – with her bare thigh hard up against the warm flesh of his.

  ‘Keith!’ she hissed, springing away from him as if she’d touched molten metal. ‘Oh, my God, Keith! What time is it?’

  He barely stirred – his only response was a drowsy half-smile. ‘Keith!’ she hissed again, wriggling upright and trying to shake him awake.

  His own lashes parted only slowly. He’d been deeply asleep, clearly. Was still half asleep now. ‘Wassup, Shirl?’ he mumbled blearily, hauling both arms from beneath the covers and using the heels of his hands to rub his eyes awake. Then, as consciousness brought consternation, he blinked at her. ‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’

  Shirley knew he only had his underpants on under those covers, and the recollection only stressed her more. Especially in conjunction with the look in his eye when he realised she was climbing out of, rather than into, the bed. How could he have forgotten? Had he really been that drunk?

  No, he hadn’t, she thought ruefully, her cheeks colouring at the memory. ‘Don’t even think it!’ she said, waggling a finger at him while he reached for the little alarm clock on the far bedside table. ‘Keith, you don’t get it. I’ve been here all frigging night!’

  He raised the clock to his face and squinted at the tiny hands. ‘Just gone eight,’ he reassured her as he replaced it with a clatter. ‘Anyway, why are you getting in such a flap? You’re all right for a bit yet. It’s Saturday, don’t forget. And you’re not due down the market till eleven. Come on. Stop fretting. Come back in the warm for another cuddle.’

  He flapped the covers back and patted the space in the bed suggestively. But even the prospect of snuggling up against his lean, almost-naked body wasn’t enough to quell the terror in Shirley’s heart. ‘Keith, how can you think about things like that at a time like this? Are you mad? Oh, shit, Keith. My dad is going to kill me!’

  He grinned. Then let his gaze travel down to her bare legs and feet. ‘Well, you know what they say, Shirl,’ he said, reaching out to tug at her wrist. ‘May as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, eh? If he’s going to kill you anyway, might as well make it worth it.’

  Oh, to be able to. But she dithered for only a fraction of a second before grabbing the tights that lay in a muddle on the rug under her toes, a snake-like coil that only seemed to emphasise her wickedness even more. They were the very same tights that she had begged her mam to buy for her only a few days earlier. A luxury she definitely couldn’t afford herself. But she’d been so desperate to get her hands on a pair. Everyone was wearing them now; they were all the rage currently – and such a blessed change from all that fiddling around with stockings and suspenders. She’d been thrilled to bits when her mum had said she’d treat her to a pair.

  A pair she had promised she would look after. And obviously hadn’t.

  ‘Are you mad?’ she yelped again as she snatched them up and began furiously bunching one leg so she could put them back on. What had she been thinking? ‘I don’t care about frigging work, Keith! My dad is going to go mental. I should never have stayed. And you told me you’d set that bloody alarm clock, for that matter!’

  ‘I did!’ he said indignantly, sitting up and reaching for it again.

  ‘And he’ll be up. No doubt about it,’ she went on, imagining him sitting, clock-watching, waiting for her return. ‘And when he realises I’m not at home … oh, God, I hope my mam’s there to stick up for me.’

  ‘See?’ Keith said, looking at the back of the clock. ‘I did set it. I … ah …’ He glanced up at her guiltily. ‘Seems I didn’t quite.’

  ‘Typical! I give you one simple thing to do and you can’t even do it.’

  ‘Aww, don’t be mean, Shirl. I thought I had, honest. Come on, hop in for a quick cuddle to keep me going …’

  Shirley gave up on the laddered tights and shoved them in her bag instead.

  ‘See, you know you want to …’ Keith began. ‘And why shouldn’t you? You’re –’

  ‘Yes, I know, Keith. Twenty-one and I can do as I like, as you never tire of telling me, but you know as well as I do that it doesn’t matter a bit to my mam and dad. My dad, who is now going to kill me,’ she added, reaching for her skirt and pulling it on.

  ‘At least gi’s a kiss before you go, then,’ Keith persisted. Shirley looked over him and softened. She couldn’t help it. He looked so lovely, with his hair all higgledy-piggledy, and his just-awake face, and his bare ch
est and shoulders all chiselled and sinewy from the hard, physical grafting he did at work all day.

  ‘Go on, then,’ she said, leaning over to do as instructed, only to have him grab her and pull her off her feet and on to the bed with him, clearly not about to take no for an answer.

  But ‘no’ it had to be. Or even worse might happen. ‘You stop that right this minute, Keith Hudson!’ she said, giggling despite herself as she finally managed to wriggle from his grasp. ‘Love, I really do have to go. I can almost hear the steam coming out of his ears from here. I’ll have a quick cat-lick down in the kitchen and see you after work, okay?’

  Keith groaned theatrically and flopped back down on the bed. ‘You’re a cruel, cruel woman, you are, Shirley Read! Okay then, love,’ he added, rolling on to his side as she picked up her bag. ‘I’ll come down about half ten to give you a lift to work, shall I?’

  Shirley shook her head. ‘No, I’ll get the bus. Best you don’t come to the house this morning. I don’t want him starting on you with the wedding any minute now. Don’t want the pair of you falling out at this stage. Plenty of time for that after the wedding.’

  ‘Good luck,’ Keith said. ‘And remember …’

  ‘Yes, I know. I’m 21 and can do what I like.’

  She felt a thrill of excitement and defiance, despite the dressing down that would probably be imminent. In a week it would finally be true – she could do what she liked.

  Shirley ran down the cold stone steps, shivering as her feet made contact with the treads, and made a mental note to talk to Keith about getting a carpet one day for the stairs. It would be so nice to have them carpeted, like Reggie and Vera. They were the talk of the street, what with being so posh.

  She needed a wee pretty desperately but there was no way she’d have gone in the bucket Keith kept beside the bed – she’d blanch at the very thought, in fact. There were some things a lady just didn’t do. But neither could she risk going to the outhouses. She was afraid she might bump into someone she knew. Not her mam and dad – their end of Lidget Terrace was served by a different block of toilets – but the chances of seeing someone she didn’t know were tiny, and with the speed such news travelled it would be all about in no time – precisely the thing that would most infuriate her father and give her mother an attack of the vapours.