My Mam Shirley

by Julie Shaw

  No, she’d hang on, she thought, reaching for one of their still brand-new tea towels and turning the tap on, doing the universal hip-jiggling ‘save it till later’ dance that all women know how to do.

  Once the tea towel was moistened sufficiently to scrub her shameful face, she stared out onto the cobbled street. How on earth had Keith talked her into staying the night? And there, of all places? She knew her dad might have forgiven it if they’d been going to someone else’s and he could have been reassured they’d been staying in separate bedrooms, like they had when they’d visited Margaret and Bob. But they’d been alone, and he’d guess that – Shirley couldn’t lie to her dad about it, either. She’d done wrong and was just going to have to face the music. Which brought a smile to her lips as she checked she looked respectable. Yes. Perhaps she should just blame it on the music.

  Not that the night had begun with any dishonourable intentions. They’d gone out the previous evening to the Black Bull at Little Horton, for a bit of a pre-wedding celebration. It was also a chance to have a proper Hudson get-together, now that Margaret and Bob had come down. They were staying with Reggie and Vera and their boys, while Keith’s mam stayed at Annie’s and, along with Malcolm, who Keith had asked to be his best man, and his wife Val, who was one of the bridesmaids, they’d all been in the mood for a bit of a shindig.

  It had turned into a great night, with family members popping up all over the place and, as was usually the case, the drink flowed freely. Young Annie and Keith had been up singing, entertaining the whole pub, and, halfway through the evening, even their Charlie had turned up – and promptly gone and ordered drinks all round, despite not having a penny with which to pay for them. But, Charlie being Charlie, nothing was said about this detail; perhaps, Shirley reasoned, they were doing such goodness anyway that one free round among so many didn’t much matter.

  It turned out there were many, many rounds. The pub stayed open till very late in order to accommodate their happy customers, and when Keith and Shirley arrived back at Lidget Terrace a little after two o’clock in the morning, she did feel extremely happy – and definitely not in the mood to go home yet, despite the wobbly half-hour walk home.

  She had to be honest with herself. It had taken almost nothing for Keith to persuade her to sneak into number 17 and be alone together for a bit in the home that in just over a week would be their home – the home where they’d finally consummate their marriage and hopefully start the family she so craved.

  But that week made the difference – the fundamental difference – and she agreed only on the basis that there’d be no funny business, and that they’d set the alarm to go off at 8 a.m. sharp so she could sneak home before her parents woke up. That way, she’d reasoned with her late-night fuzzy logic, it would be almost like coming in ‘extremely late’, as opposed to rolling in the following morning.

  ‘But come on, Shirl,’ Keith had pleaded when they got in, both tiddly and giggling. ‘You’re not going to make me sleep on the couch, are you? I put the record player up in the bedroom earlier, so we can put that on and just have a cuddle. I swear on my life I won’t try anything on.’

  He’d crossed himself theatrically, in order to demonstrate his sincerity, and, since she found it hard to resist him at the best of times, she eventually conceded, even though she was well aware that it was the same lack of willpower where Keith’s charms were concerned that was likely to be her undoing.

  ‘But I’m not taking all my clothes off,’ she said as she headed unsteadily up the stairs. ‘I’ll be keeping my underskirt and tights on.’

  Keith laughed at this as he followed, lending a supporting hand to her backside. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, caressing her. ‘Anything you say, ma’am.’

  ‘I mean it, Keith,’ she said, trying to sound sterner than she was feeling. ‘You promised we’d wait till after we were married. So I mean it – no funny business, okay?’

  Once in the bedroom, Keith switched on the light before going across to draw the curtains, prompting Shirley, who still had at least some of her wits about her, to go across and turn the light off again. However bold she was in some ways, she was extremely shy about her body, and the thought of Keith seeing her taking her clothes off – even if only half of them – was unthinkable.

  ‘Hey, Shirl,’ he protested, ‘how am I supposed to see to put a record on?’

  ‘If you open those curtains again, you’ll manage well enough from the moonlight,’ she replied, undressing herself as far as she thought was appropriate under the circumstances, while he did so. She then slipped quickly into the cold bed and wriggled her legs around to try to make it warmer, while Keith took off all but his underpants with great enthusiasm, whipping his trousers off, leg by leg, and flinging them into a far corner, mindless of how much they’d crease. Shirley smiled to herself. She’d have to nag him about things like that at some point. But not now. Tonight she found it rather lovely.

  ‘Aren’t you cold?’ she asked, as she watched him first set the alarm clock then find a record and place it on the turntable. She noticed with a rush of affection that he was already dancing – well, after a fashion, anyway – to a tune that must be running inside his head. Shirley marvelled at seeing him so unselfconsciously nearly naked; marvelled at the thought that in just over a week from tonight, they’d be in this very bedroom, the long wait finally over, free to be with each other as husband and wife finally, able to dispense with the shackles of underskirts and tights. The thought of being naked with him thrilled and frightened her in roughly equal measure. He would finally see – finally have – all of her.

  ‘Ta da!’ he announced suddenly, and the air was full of sound. Unexpected sound, too; she’d thought he’d choose some sort of love song or ballad – but he’d put on the William Tell Overture. It was one of her favourite pieces of music, and it meant a lot to both of them because it was the first record that she and Keith had bought together.

  Young Annie was a great fan of classical music and she’d had a version by someone called Rossini. ‘You’re a pair of reprobates,’ she’d joked when they’d bought their own copy and it had turned out to be a rock and roll version by the Ventures. She’d gone one further when Keith confessed he loved it because it was the theme tune to The Lone Ranger, and roundly clipped him round the head for being so common.

  But that was the truth of it, and who cared why they liked it anyway? Keith turned around then and, with a whoop, mimed the Lone Ranger riding an imaginary horse towards the bed, making her burst out laughing as he jumped in beside her, went ‘brrrr!’ and quickly enfolded her in his arms.

  ‘You silly get!’ she began, but the words were soon derailed by the much more pressing business of kissing and cuddling, which, now they were in the place they both most wanted to be, was gathering momentum along with the music.

  Within minutes, Shirley found herself pinned under her ardent fiancé and most definitely not wanting to shove him away. Thank God she’d insisted on keeping her tights on, she thought distractedly, because she knew the way she was feeling meant that if the unthinkable started happening, she’d be too swept away to stop herself letting it. As it was, she found herself in the bizarre situation of being made love to, but not – not to mention feeling the stretched nylon pulling at her toes in time to the crescendo of drums and trumpets.

  Keith rolled off her finally, clearly spent and sighing happily. And as she tingled with excitement and felt her pulse slowing down, she wondered – did this mean she was no longer a virgin? She turned on her side to ask Keith but, as she’d already half suspected, he was flat on his back, spark out and snoring. No, she told herself sternly, as she watched his chest rise and fall. She still had her tights and pants on. So she couldn’t be. But as she wriggled the tights off – she’d popped a toe through both feet now, annoyingly – she still felt her cheeks begin to burn.

  Shirley’s cheeks were still burning now, and it wasn’t from the cold air, as she’d made the short journey from
one house to the other. Her dad was sitting in his usual spot by the fire, just as she’d expected, and his expression told her all she needed to know. That there was probably no point in trying to explain herself. She would try anyway, she decided.

  ‘Dad, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It just got so late. And I’d had a bit to drink – we were all out celebrating for the wedding and, well …’ She stopped, not knowing what else to say, braced for him to tear her off a strip.

  Raymond was staring at her, his eyes boring into her soul, it seemed, and what upset her all the more was that it wasn’t the expected anger on his face that she saw – it was disappointment. Deep disappointment.

  ‘Get out of my sight, Shirley,’ he said, his voice as quiet as her own had been. ‘The celebrating generally comes after the wedding. All the celebrating,’ he finished, turning his face away, dismissing her, as if he couldn’t bear to look at her. His only gesture was to her mam, who’d been standing silently in the doorway, to go across and turn the television on for him.

  Shirley hung her head. The way he’d looked at her, there was no point in arguing with him. No point in pointing out that, just as Keith had kept saying, she was a grown woman. One who’d be living with her husband in that same house in a week. She had broken the rules and that was all there was to it. She’d let him down. She’d done wrong. She’d disappointed him.

  It was that more than anything that brought the lump to her throat; that and the fact that she’d only had about two hours sleep, off the back of which she’d now have to wash and change and go to work.

  She did as she’d been told and went into the kitchen, thirsty and, despite the lump in her throat, ravenous as well. She reached for the kettle. She needed tea and perhaps a slice of toast. Mary followed her. ‘Oh, Mam, he’s in a right mood with me,’ Shirley said, sobbing, as her mam gathered her into her arms to give her a cuddle. ‘I didn’t mean to stay all night, honest I didn’t. And I swear on my life, we didn’t do anything. We really didn’t, Mam.’

  ‘Hush, love,’ Mary soothed. ‘Take no notice of your dad. He’ll be all right. It’ll all be forgotten by the time you get wed, you’ll see. Why don’t you go upstairs and have a long soak and sort that pretty face out? You’ve time enough still, haven’t you? I’ll get some breakfast ready for you once you’re done.’

  Grateful for her mother at least, Shirley mounted the stairs slowly, her feet feeling leaden, the lack of sleep already beginning to make its presence felt. Worse than that, though, was the leaden feeling that had lodged in her heart as well since seeing the way her father had looked at her. It would have been better if he had shouted, she decided. Much better. She could have argued back. Instead, what she now felt was dirty, like she’d let him down badly. Like he was ashamed of her. All that waiting and being sensible and doing things properly, and one frigging alarm clock had undone it all. Or, rather, Keith had, by not setting it properly. Yes, her mam was probably right – it would all be forgotten by this time next week, but the thought of her dad’s disgusted expression remaining in place made next Saturday seem a long way away now.

  She had a bath and dressed in her work clothes, her mood as glum and dark now as it had been giggly and light only a few hours before. She’d made her bed and she’d have to lie in it – there was nothing else for it – but she really didn’t feel in the mood for a day down the market, and the thought of Keith enjoying a lie-in just up the road – in their marital bed – made her even more irritable. And when she pulled the tights from her bag – fit for nothing but the bin now – the ruination of her day was complete.

  Not quite, as it turned out. Because as soon as she came back down – taking care not to so much as glance into the sitting room – she realised she’d left both her warm gloves and her apron up at the new house, having gone there straight from work the previous Saturday. So she’d have to run back up and get them, which meant she’d probably miss the bus. She felt tears spring in her eyes again, but by an effort of will managed to stem them, brushing the back of her hand across her eyes as she shot through the door, hoping her luck would change and the bus would be late.

  She ran up the road, into the house and straight into the arms of Keith, who’d been heading out just as she was heading in. He grinned and lifted his hands up – her apron was in one, and her gloves were in the other. She could have kissed him.

  ‘I was just about to drive down to take you to work,’ he said. ‘Thought I’d do the honourable thing and brave the wrath of Gunga Din.’ He winked at her suggestively. ‘Seemed only fair under the circumstances.’

  This had Shirley’s cheeks burning in shame again, which was annoying it itself. Why was it all right for lads but not for girls? Why were there so many rules about what girls were allowed to do, when the lads – or so it seemed to her – could do anything they liked?

  But her fractious mood was dispelled only half an hour later. Once Keith had dropped her off and she’d gone to put the first of her gloves on, she felt something crinkle inside. It was a piece of paper, folded twice, and as she opened it up she knew what she’d find – one of his little poems.

  And she wasn’t disappointed. He’d written:

  I know I can be stupid, and I know I drive you mad,

  And I’m not the best looking Canterbury lad,

  But I want you to know, my beautiful Shirl,

  That, without a doubt, you’re my kinda girl,

  So though I know today that you’re feeling bleak,

  Just think, it’s Mrs Hudson from next week!

  Chapter 16

  10 March 1962

  ‘June! Bloody hurry up!’ Mary yelled into the kitchen from the living room. It was 7:30 a.m. on the day of the wedding, and Shirley was sitting patiently in her corset and underskirt on the wooden chair at the back of the room. She felt happy to be up early, as she’d hardly slept a wink. And there was lots to be done, in any case, as they were getting married at 11 o’clock, but her Auntie June wanted a ciggie break – which she’d have to take on the doorstep – and to put the kettle on for a second cup of tea. And what Auntie June wanted, she generally got.

  ‘I won’t be a minute now!’ she called irritably back at her older sister. ‘Stop bloody bossing everyone about, will you? We’ve got hours yet!’

  Shirley loved her Auntie June. The youngest of her mam’s two sisters, she was only five years older than Shirley, and knew everything about everything – well, all the important things, anyway, in much the same way Keith’s sisters Annie and June did as well. She knew about hairstyles and fashion and how to make your make-up look fabulous, so it was no wonder it was June that everyone wanted to do their hair and make-up, and Shirley couldn’t wait to see her transformation complete.

  It was no secret in the family that Mary resented June’s youth and good looks. In fact, Shirley’s mam being Shirley’s mam, she rarely invited her round to the house for fear that Raymond might look at her for too long, or in the wrong way. It was perhaps also one of the reasons why, when June did come to visit, her dad almost always disappeared.

  Whatever the ins and outs of it, it all felt a bit unfair to Shirley’s mind, because she wished she could see more of her glamorous young auntie, who generally sneaked round when her mum wasn’t around. Still, now she was going to have her own place, perhaps she would.

  ‘It’s okay, Mam,’ Shirley said. ‘You can go see to yourself now if you like. Auntie June won’t take much longer, and I’m almost done, I think.’

  Mary studied Shirley’s half-pinned-up hair and still naked face with a distinctly pained expression. She’d been checking the time at five-minute intervals since they’d got up, flapping so much it was almost as if she was getting married herself. She shook her head. ‘No, love, I need to know you’re all sorted out first. I’ll just wait till eight, then I’ll go upstairs and help sort your dad out. You know what our June’s like – she’ll go off the boil; she’s a bit slack if I’m not watching over her.’

  ‘Mam, I’m fine,’
Shirley began reassuring her.

  ‘Yes, she’s fine,’ June repeated, grinning as both Mary and Shirley turned to see her standing there in the doorway, ciggies and lighter in one hand, cup of tea in the other, obviously having heard what her sister had just said. She winked at Shirley. ‘Go on, Mary, go and sort Raymond out – I’ve left some tea mashing in the pot for him, if you want to take him up a cup, by the way.’ She placed her own cup down on the window-sill and threw the packet of cigarettes back into her handbag. ‘Right, then. Let’s get our beautiful Cinders ready for her ball, shall we?’

  Mary looked on disapprovingly, fanning her face as if she could still smell the cigarette smoke on her sister, ‘Oh, that won’t be any good, June,’ she sniffed. ‘He only likes it the way I do it. Not bloody stewed for half an hour like you do!’ And with that pronouncement made, she then flounced off into the kitchen – a blur of floral dressing gown and giant rollers – and started banging around in what Shirley knew was a very pointed fashion. Among June’s various crimes – which were heinous and numbered several, according to Mary – one was that she was a lazy housewife, who didn’t clean her house properly, as a woman should, so whenever June was round, she always made a big thing of scrubbing the kitchen down, whether it needed it or not.

  ‘There she goes,’ June whispered into Shirley’s ear now. ‘Hankering after being a pin-up girl for Vim again!’