My Mam Shirley

by Julie Shaw

  ‘I can’t,’ Shirley wept. ‘I just can’t do it anymore.’

  Considering what she’d already gone through with her two previous pregnancies, nothing had prepared Shirley for this kind of trauma. This relentless pain, this endless shouting, this refusal by anyone to accept that she just couldn’t do it anymore! She’d been in full-blown labour for five and a half hours now, and she was too knackered to carry on. Why couldn’t they just let her sleep for a while? Build her strength up? Have another try tomorrow? The midwife, when she suggested this, burst out laughing, as did her junior. Which at least made them seem a bit more human.

  ‘Oh, love,’ she said, ‘I know you’re tired, sweetheart, and I know what you’ve already been through, but I’m afraid that there’s no going back now – no way of stopping things. Much as I’d love to put my feet up and have a cuppa and a currant bun back in the office, this baby’s coming whether we like it or not.’

  Shirley was getting nausous now with the amount of gas and air she’d been using, and she was beginning to feel as though she was out of her own body and watching some other poor exhausted woman trying to push her baby out. ‘I can’t do it!’ she screamed with the next powerful contraction. ‘You have to help me.’

  Sister Harris looked at Shirley’s chart and then took her temperature. ‘I won’t be a second, Shirley, love, I’m going to speak to the doctor.’

  As soon as she left, Shirley was gripped by a feeling of pure terror. What was happening now? What did Sister Harris know that she didn’t? Was she going to come back with a syringe and put her to sleep again? Was she going to wake up in another living hell?

  It seemed not. Though the doctor now at her beside looked concerned, he had no needle – just an air of brisk efficiency. ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Hudson,’ he told her in his deep, no-nonsense voice, ‘it just seems that the baby is ready to say hello, and we need to give you a bit of a hand.’

  He then turned the midwife who had been stroking Shirley’s hand. ‘Forceps,’ he told her. ‘Please prepare the stirrups.’

  To Shirley’s horror, her legs were suddenly dragged even further apart and placed in loops of canvas slung from straps either side of the bed. Stirrups was right, she thought, trying to still her racing heartbeat, though still finding space in her head to feel eternally grateful that husbands weren’t allowed in the delivery room. But the moment was fleeting; it was only seconds before the pain between her legs became so intense and unbearable that she thought she was going to pass out.

  But just as her head started spinning into space, she heard the unmistakable sound of a baby’s cry. The midwife checked her watch and then stroked the damp wisps of hair from Shirley’s face. ‘It’s a baby girl, Shirley. A flipping big one, an’ all!’

  The pain disappeared as if spirited away on horseback. Gone, all of it. Gone. It felt like the biggest miracle imaginable. ‘Is she all right? Is she okay?’ she asked. ‘What day is it?’

  Sister Harris beamed at her. She really wasn’t so bad, after all. ‘Why, it’s her birthday, of course,’ she told her. ‘And it’s a Monday, love, remember? And, let me see, Monday’s child is fair of face, isn’t she? And, oh, she really is. And she has ten little fingers and ten little toes – I counted. So don’t you worry. She is absolutely fine.’

  As Margaret, Keith and Mary later crowded around the little white-blanketed bundle that Shirley was cradling, she could hardly believe anyone on earth could be as happy as she was at that moment. Just looking at her husband gazing so tenderly at the daughter they’d created was, without a doubt, the best feeling in the world. ‘I thought of a name, love,’ she told him. ‘As long as that’s all right with you. Is it?’

  Margaret laughed. ‘Shirley, love,’ she said, before he’d even opened his mouth, ‘you should have seen his face when he phoned and they told him you’d had her. He was like a bleeding dog with two tails. I don’t think he’ll give two hoots what you want to call her.’

  ‘She’s so beautiful, love,’ Mary whispered as she gazed at her first grandchild. ‘I had a look at all them other new babies on my way in, and they looked all wrinkly and screwed up. Our little girl here is by far the prettiest.’

  ‘Oh, Mam, honestly!’ Shirley said, realising she had a lifetime of this ahead and not minding at all. ‘Will you give up? All babies are beautiful.’

  Keith shook his head. ‘Your mam’s right. Not as beautiful as this one is, Shirl,’ he said. ‘As she would be,’ he added proudly. ‘She’s a Hudson. Anyway, you were saying. What did you want to call her, love?’

  My mam got her way, of course. They named me Julie.

  Epilogue

  Shirley and Keith went on to have two more children after me – Glenn in 1965 and Paula in 1967. After that Shirley decided to get sterilised as, despite her childhood desire to have ‘lots and lots’ of children, they thought that three were probably enough.

  In 1968 they re-married. The way of the Hudsons had always been to send their kids to Catholic school, and as Shirley didn’t want to disrespect their tradition, she and Keith got wed again, this time in the local Catholic church, so that their own three Hudson children could attend St Anthony’s RC School in Clayton.

  During the 1970s, the family moved back to Canterbury estate for a while, as Keith was determined that his kids learn to look after themselves, believing that village life produced children that didn’t know nearly enough about real life. He taught all three of them to box at an early age, just as his dad had with him, and if any of them ever got bullied – boy or girl – either he or Shirley would drag them out to the street and insist they fight their corner, win or lose.

  Keith’s mam, Annie, never settled in a home of her own again, preferring to move around members of her huge extended family, and making her presence felt right to the last. In late August 1980 she was staying with her sister Mary’s daughter, Gloria, and, true to form, getting impatient waiting for the local club to open so she could go and get a drink.

  Gloria, busy styling her hair for her, as she often did, was trying hard to talk her into waiting for an extra hour and going down with her and her husband.

  ‘If you just hang on till seven o’clock, Auntie Annie,’ she said, ‘then me and Wilf will walk you.’

  ‘I’m not a bleeding invalid, Glo!’ Annie had snapped. ‘And you know as well as I do that the club opens at six. Now just hurry up with my bleeding hair and don’t leave a bald spot showing like you did last night!’

  At a quarter past six, Annie, by now 76, ordered a whisky at the bar of the New Roadside Club in Low Moor. She took her usual seat, a sip of her drink and then died at the table.

  In 1985, Shirley’s mam, Mary Read, also died. Aged only 66, she had been suffering from dementia for the last two years of her life when she finally died in hospital of a brain aneurysm. That was in June. In October of the same year, Raymond joined his beloved wife. He was also 66 and died of lung cancer. Shirley was distraught at losing both parents so quickly and had a terrible time coming to terms with it.

  Keith and Shirley – my lovely mum and dad – are now in their seventies, and still as much in love as they ever were. It’s been many years now, but on 14 December every year they remember their lost baby boy, and wonder. Despite trying, they have been unable to find out where he was buried, and, at the time of writing, no one has taken responsibility for his death.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank my agent Andrew Lownie for this wonderful opportunity to tell my stories, and the team at HarperCollins for putting their trust in me every step of the way. I also want to thank the wonderful Lynne Barrett-Lee for helping me turn my dream into reality. Without her help, these stories would still be in the box in my garage, gathering dust.

  I would like to dedicate these books first and foremost to my parents Keith and Shirley Hudson. They made me who I am today, and have loved and supported me all my life. And to my gorgeous husband Ben, who has had to endure me practically ignoring him for two years w
hile I worked on my writing, and who learned how to cook, clean and work the washing machine while I was in my ‘zone’. I also need to mention my brother Glenn and sister Paula, who have giggled along with me as I decided what material to use and what most definitely needed to stay buried, and my cousin Susan Taylor (our Nipper), who has been on hand whenever I needed her for historical accuracy or juicy snippets. All of my family deserve a mention, but they are legion and mentioning them all would fill a book. They know how much I love them.

  Finally, I also dedicate all these words to my favourite ever cousin, Willie Jagger. Rest in peace, Willie. You know how much you’re loved and no doubt you’ll be laughing your arse off up there at the thought of me being an author. Every time I see our Pauline it makes me so happy because she reminds me of everything you were.

  Gripped by My Mam Shirley?

  Discover the first title in the Notorious Hudson Family series.

  Read an exclusive excerpt now.

  Chapter 1

  Bradford, October

  June McKellan was standing in front of her chipped-tile fireplace, skirt hitched up slightly at the back. She was warming her backside from the last of the embers that were sizzling out on the coal fire. Her husband, Jock, was slouched across the brown moquette settee in his favourite position – bottle of cider in one hand, cigarette in the other. His eyes were glued to the television as he squinted through a cloud of fag smoke to watch the last race of the day. June stared at the sight she had married. ‘Are you gonna fucking move today, or what?’ she asked him. ‘And if you’ve won fuck all on the horses again, you better get yourself out on the tap. We’ve no coal, and I’m off out tonight!’

  Jock dragged his gaze from the TV and looked up at her. ‘Shut your cake-hole, June,’ he said. ‘You’re going no-fucking-where till you’ve got me another bottle of Joe Rider and some twifters.’ Jock turned his attention to his wife then, his gaze full of animosity as he looked her up and down, and she could tell exactly what he was thinking. And knowing none of the thoughts were nice – the contents of his head rarely were – she jabbed him in the shoulder to reinforce her orders.

  ‘I’ve got your cider and your fags, gob shite,’ she snapped. ‘Now move your arse off that couch before our Vinnie gets in for his tea. Fucking social worker’s coming at half five.’

  ‘What?’ Jock said, alert now. ‘What the fuck for?’

  ‘Been to see Moira,’ June told him irritably. ‘Needs to talk about something apparently. And, no, I don’t know what, because I haven’t spoken to her yet, have I?’

  ‘Moira?’ he said again. ‘Why Moira?’

  ‘Because I was fucking asleep, okay?’ And hungover, same as you were, she thought but didn’t add. ‘Anyway, get up and get out, will you? I don’t want you sitting here pissed as a fart when she gets here. Go on – go round your Maureen’s and borrow some coal and a few quid till we get your dole.’

  Jock dragged himself up and pulled his woollen cardigan closer round his bloated stomach. ‘I’m getting a bit sick of this, June,’ he said, crushing out his cigarette. ‘Our Maureen thinks I should give you a fucking slap and make you stay in.’

  June threw her head back and laughed at him. ‘Your Maureen’s coming out with me, idiot! And I’d like to see the day you give me a fucking slap!’

  Jock slammed the door as he stumbled out of the house, and into the sooty late afternoon light. Little twat! He was a good foot and a half bigger than her, and one of these days he would knock her out, never mind the slap. What a fucking cow bag she was, stood there like that, all bleached hair and lippy. Oh, all his mates had thought he’d cracked it when he copped for June – five foot fuck all, and a waist you could get your hand around. Well, they didn’t know what he had to put up with, did they? Gobby little cow that she was.

  He meandered down the path and into the street, scowling as he dodged the dog shit on the pavement. He could do nothing right in her eyes. Not these days, at any rate. The three kids, on the other hand, could do no wrong. Fucking twat. He’d slap her proper, one of these days.

  Her feckless hulk of a husband out of the way, June resumed her position by the fire, shivering but happy now. She would be down at the Bull with Maureen in a couple of hours, and she couldn’t wait; the blokes down there wouldn’t dream of talking to her like that. Let the miserable bastard stew, she thought. She wouldn’t be dwelling on it, not after a couple of halves, anyway.

  Jock had only been gone five minutes when 13-year-old Vinnie burst through the door, a big smile on his face for his mum. ‘Warming the old man’s supper up, ma?’ he joked, pointing to her skirt. June laughed. He was a case, was her Vinnie, and no one understood him like she did. And all the neighbours were just jealous bastards, that was all – accusing him of every little thing that went down on the estate. Yes, he had gotten himself into bother now and again, but so what? All kids got into fights or went out robbing, didn’t they? Why always blame her son? It wasn’t fair.

  ‘Quite funny for you that were, son!’ she told him drily. Then she nodded towards the kitchen. ‘Go on,’ she told him. ‘There’s some sarnies in there for you and a biscuit on top of the cupboard. Don’t tell your dad where they are though,’ she added. ‘Greedy bastard’s fat enough as it is!’

  Vinnie grinned. Then his expression changed. ‘Mam,’ he said, not quite looking at her, ‘you know when the social worker gets here? Well, whatever she says is a load of shit. A few on the estate are saying the youthy got robbed last night, so no doubt she’ll try and fit me up for it, you know, to the bizzies. I swear I wasn’t there, Mam, honest I wasn’t. But you’re gonna have to say I was in all night cos they’re not gonna believe me when I say it, are they?’

  June looked sadly at her son. With his wild, shoulder-length ginger hair and his bright blue eyes he looked the picture of innocence. Okay, so ‘innocent’ was pushing it, but he wasn’t the evil twat that everyone made him out to be. He had a smile that could melt her heart and a sense of humour that could have an audience in stitches. She sighed. Now it seemed she was going to have to defend him again. He’d better not have done anything; she was off out tonight, come hell or high water.

  As if on cue, the letterbox rattled and the front door was pushed open. ‘Can I come in, June?’ they heard a voice say. ‘It’s only me!’

  Sally, the social worker, waddled into the front room, puffing and panting as usual, as familiar a presence in the McKellan household as most of the furniture. She flopped down onto the place on the settee Jock had only just vacated. ‘Hiya, Vinnie, love,’ she said, smiling up at him as she settled into the sagging seat cushion. ‘It’s brass monkeys out there, mate, isn’t it? Get the kettle on!’

  Vinnie gave an obligatory smile and went off to fill the kettle. June knew from the absence of banging and clattering that he’d be trying to listen in. He hated his social worker and not without reason; she was always trying to have him sent away. And June knew part of the reason was the same as the reason she did – because it always felt like Sally could see right through him. Not that he’d hear much of interest. June was too busy staring malevolently at the interfering witch. Not grassing up her son when he wasn’t there.

  But he was as quick as a whippet coming back with Sally’s tea, so there was no time to say anything anyway.

  ‘There you go, Sal,’ said Vinnie as he handed over a pint pot. And then, obviously deciding to really take the piss, he adopted his best posh voice. ‘Best mug in the house, that,’ he said. ‘Especially for you. Now then, to what do we owe this honour?’

  Sally turned to June, looking less than impressed, and June felt a prickle of anxiety. ‘Hark at him,’ Sally said. ‘Proper little host, isn’t he?’

  June scowled at her son. ‘Take no notice, Sally. He has got a point though; you’re not due for a fortnight. What d’you want with us? It all seems a bit suss to me.’

  Sally looked directly at Vinnie then. She knew how the estate operated and especially this family. She might b
e a lump but her brain was pretty sharp. ‘Well, are you going to tell her, or should I?’ she asked Vinnie.

  ‘What are you on about, you daft cow?’ he responded. ‘She’s off it, Mam, I swear to God. I told you I would get accused of summat, didn’t I?’

  June braced herself. ‘What’s he supposed to have done this time?’ she asked evenly. ‘Only, if it’s about the youth club, I’ve heard all about it. He can’t have been involved because he was in here all night with me and our little Josie.’ She glared at the social worker, daring her to contradict her, although half of her knew that Vinnie probably had been at the scene of the crime; had most likely orchestrated the whole thing in fact.

  ‘June, I’m really sorry, love,’ Sally said, frowning, ‘but he’s been fingered by at least three witnesses, all of whom will say it in court, as well. Vinnie was seen smashing in the skylight, lowering one of his mates in and then –’ she looked at Vinnie again, and June clocked his expression – ‘jumping in himself.’

  June digested this, and having done so, felt the bile rise inside her. The stupid little fucker. She sprang forward then, making Sally leap up from the couch in fright. She lunged towards Vinnie, grabbing him by the hair and punching him repeatedly in the head. ‘You lying little bastard, I’ll fucking kill you! When are you gonna fucking learn, you fucking simpleton?!’

  Vinnie squirmed under her grip, but she held firm onto his hair. ‘Mam, fuck off! I didn’t do it, I swear!’ he squealed. ‘They’re lying, Mam! Get off me, you div – you’re hurting, Mam, stop it!’

  Vinnie was almost hysterical by now, but it didn’t appease her. She might be small but she was as nasty as fuck when she started, and boy, did she feel like starting now.

  Sally was up on her feet again. ‘Calm down, June,’ she said, trying to get in between them and extricate June’s hands from Vinnie’s hair. ‘Let’s just sit down and talk about what to do next, shall we? This is getting us nowhere. Come on, June. Let him go.’