My Mam Shirley

  Copyright

  All names and identities have been changed in this memoir, to protect both the living and the children of those who have died. Some changes have been made to historical facts for the same reason.

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  HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  First published by HarperElement 2014

  FIRST EDITION

  © Julie Shaw and Lynne Barrett-Lee 2014

  Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014

  Cover photographs © Plainpicture/Cultura (woman); Shutterstock.com (dress); Matt Carr/Getty Images (man, back left); Gustavo Di Mario/Getty Images (man, back right); Shutterstock.com (jacket and tie, back right); Mark Power/Magnum Photos (background)

  Julie Shaw and Lynne Barrett-Lee assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work

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  Source ISBN: 9780007542284

  Ebook Edition © December 2014 ISBN: 9780007542291

  Version: 2014-10-10

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Echoes of My Past

  Note by the Author

  Hudson Family Tree

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Exclusive sample chapter

  Moving Memoirs eNewsletter

  Write for Us

  About the Publisher

  Echoes of My Past

  A wall full of faces smile down on me,

  And my heart begins to swell,

  Past fuses with present so seamlessly,

  Oh the stories these pictures could tell.

  Old black and white memories are dancing,

  Side by side with the colour of youth,

  Hidden heartache temporarily halted,

  By smiles that are clouding the truth.

  Such happy times, such sad times,

  Each inextricably linked to the last,

  With spaces left for the future,

  Amid these echoes of my past.

  Note by the Author

  My name is Julie Shaw, and my father, Keith, is the only surviving member of the 13 Hudson siblings, born to Annie and Reggie Hudson on the infamous Canterbury Estate in Bradford. We were and are a very close family, even though there were so many of us, and those of us who are left always will be.

  I wanted to write these stories as a tribute to my parents and family. The stories are all based on the truth but, as I’m sure you’ll understand, I’ve had to disguise some identities and facts to protect the innocent. Those of you who still live on the Canterbury Estate will appreciate the folklore that we all grew up with: the stories of our predecessors, good and bad, and the names that can still strike fear or respect into our hearts – the stories of the Canterbury Warriors.

  Prologue

  Listerhills, Bradford, 1946

  Shirley glared at the man who was sitting across the table from her; sitting, moreover, in her mam’s chair. He was old and very tall and he was staring at her.

  He leaned forward. ‘You’ll sit there all day, madam, if that’s what it takes,’ he said. ‘But you will eat those sprouts and that’s an end to it.’ Then he sat back in her mam’s chair and lit a cigarette. Shirley looked down at the disgusting green balls on her plate. No way was she eating them. Her mam wouldn’t have made her eat them. Her mam had gone to work – she worked on the trolley buses and had left hours and hours ago – and if Shirley had to sit there till she came home, then she would.

  Shirley couldn’t quite believe her mam had gone and left her with this strange man in the first place. Normally when she went to work she’d leave her with her Granny Wiggins or her Auntie Edna, but then the man had turned up last night and they’d both sat Shirley down, with serious looks on their faces. ‘This is your dad,’ her mum had explained. ‘He’s come home from the war.’

  Shirley didn’t remember much about the war, but she knew she had a daddy and that he’d been in it, far across the sea, somewhere hot. He was called Raymond and her mam said he was going to be in charge now, which apparently included cooking all the meals when her mum was out at work and forcing her to eat things she hated.

  Well, trying to. ‘But I hate sprouts!’ she protested again, hoping that he might get fed up of listening to her and allow her to leave the table so she could go and do something else. She still had to make her favourite dolly some new clothes.

  ‘And I don’t care,’ he said, blowing smoke out of his mouth in a cloud that wafted across to her and made her nose wrinkle. ‘Good food is hard to come by,’ he added, ‘and sprouts are very good for you. So you’re not going to waste them. I’m your father and that’s that.’

  Shirley scowled at him. Two could play at that game. She folded her arms, started to swing her feet under her chair and counted sheep going over a wall in her head. She could count to a hundred now – her mam had taught her how to do it when she couldn’t get to sleep at nights, and now it would help pass the time until she got back home from work.

  As Shirley counted she stole glances at the man across the table. He had shiny stuff on his hair and the tops of some of his fingers were all yellow, and she decided she didn’t like him one bit. She’d wanted him to be an uncle so she knew he’d go away again, or, if he wasn’t, at least be nice like they always were. Her mam had brought home several uncles, all of them vastly preferable to the miserable-looking man in front of her, so if she did have to have one move in with her and her mam, why couldn’t it have been one of them instead?

  Not that she’d ever tell anyone. Her mam had warned her that she must never, ever mention the uncles, and because Shirley was a good girl she would do as she was told.

  But she wasn’t going to be a good girl when it came to eating sprouts. Her mam didn’t make her eat them and this dad man wasn’t going to either. So she was still sitting at the table when the sky grew dark outside and her mam finally got home from work.

  With her back hurting and her bottom numb, Shirley was upset enough as it was when she saw her, but it was the parcel of chips her mother held in her hand that hit her hardest. She jumped down from the chair and immediately burst into tears.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ her mother asked, immediately rushing across to scoop her up and embrace her.

  ‘He’s saying I have to eat these sprouts, Mam, and I won’t! Tell him I don’t like them!’


  The man she was supposed to call ‘Dad’ was now squatting in front of the fire, a pair of wet socks dangling from his hands. He’d washed them in the sink earlier – her mam’s stockings, too – while Shirley sat and glared at his back, and he had been in front of the fire drying them ever since. ‘You rotten sod!’ Shirley’s mum snapped at him now, which made her feel better immediately. ‘Don’t you dare start laying the law down already, Raymond Read, or I’ll have your guts for garters, you hear me? Your daughter doesn’t like sprouts and she doesn’t have to bloody well eat them!’

  He stood up suddenly, making Shirley jump, and pointed at her mam. And Shirley knew it was very rude to point, as well. Not that he seemed to care. ‘And don’t you bloody undermine me, Mary!’ he snapped, in his horrible deep voice. ‘She’s going to have to get used to me and we might as well start as we mean to go on. It’s a bloody crime to waste food. There’s people starving, in case you hadn’t noticed, and this little madam chooses what she’ll eat? Not on my watch.’

  Shirley’s mam let her back down to the floor again. ‘Go on, love,’ she said, patting her back. ‘Go upstairs and get your nightie on. I’ll put you some chips out, eh? Don’t forget to wash your face, lovey. And behind your ears.’

  Shirley scooted off as fast as she could, leaving her mam and dad shouting at each other. She’d still been in her mam’s belly when her daddy had gone to be in the war, but she’d always told her he was a lovely, handsome soldier. Except he wasn’t. He wasn’t lovely at all, Shirley thought. She ran all the way up the stairs, clapping her hands over her ears to drown out the arguing. She didn’t like that she’d have to ‘get used to him’, as he put it. She didn’t like that he was set on making her eat things she didn’t like.

  She wriggled out of her dress and into her nightie and then went to wash her face and hands, as she’d been told. She knew she should try to look on the bright side her mam had told her about. She’d said her dad coming back might at least mean she’d get some brothers and sisters, and Shirley wanted brothers and sisters more than anything in the world.

  So she could only hope than her mam had been telling her the truth. He definitely wasn’t worth having on his own.

  Chapter 1

  June 1958

  Shirley and Anita burst through the front doors of St George’s Hall into the warmth of the early evening air. Shirley couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so ecstatic. It was almost as if there was electricity running through her. She could certainly still feel the music throbbing away in her chest. But what she mostly couldn’t believe was that she’d actually seen Cliff Richard in the flesh. She knew she’d never forget it ever – not as long as she lived.

  ‘Oh, my good God, Shirl,’ Anita cried, linking arms with her as they spilled out onto the pavement. ‘I love him so much. Did you see how he danced? Did you see? God, them hips!’

  ‘Trust you to be looking at his bloody hips, Anita!’ Shirley scolded. ‘What about his voice?’ She sighed happily as they began to walk. ‘I was far too busy singing along with him.’

  He was sexy though. She had to admit that, even if it was only to herself.

  ‘You bloody liar!’ Anita huffed, reading her mind the way she always did. ‘Far too busy, my eye!’ She stopped on the pavement, then, allowing the throng of girls to stream around them. ‘You know,’ she said, freeing her arm and grabbing Shirley by both her shoulders suddenly. ‘It’s still really early, Shirl. It won’t be dark for hours yet. Please say we don’t have to go home just yet, eh? The Lister’s is only a ten-minute walk away, after all. Let’s go have a drink, eh? You’re a single girl again now, don’t forget.’

  Yes, she was that, and she was determined to enjoy the freedom. Well, as much as she could; no, she didn’t have a boyfriend stopping her from going out and having fun, but there was still her dad constantly on about her every frigging move – where she went, who she went with, when she was home.

  It was all right for Anita. Her mam and dad were different. With two older brothers and a younger sister, she could get away with so much more, not least of which was the freedom to go out with who she wanted. And she did, too – she seemed to have a different boyfriend every week. But mostly Shirley envied her the freedom to stay out till she wanted, or at least a lot later than ten frigging p.m. How lovely it would be not to have your every move scrutinised. To be free.

  Well, she was free in one way, at least. Free to daydream again. About marrying Cliff Richard and having a big house and lots of babies with him, even. She smiled to herself. You never knew, did you? And she was sure he’d caught her eye once or twice. No, she definitely wasn’t ready to go home. She felt much more like dancing. Like Anita said, it wasn’t even dark yet. The night, as they always said, was young.

  She nodded. ‘You’re right. Why not? After all, I am single, aren’t I?’

  ‘Exactly. So you can do what you like,’ Anita said, grabbing her hand and almost tugging her along the street.

  ‘Well, sort of,’ Shirley cautioned. ‘Though we can’t stay too long, Neet. You know what my bloody dad’s like. He’ll be on that doorstep, winding the clock up and threatening to bloody strangle me if I’m so much as a minute late.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I promise,’ Anita said. ‘We’ll have you home on time, Cinderella. Can’t have your dad turning into a pumpkin, can we?’

  Shirley wasn’t so sure that wouldn’t be the best thing for him. He could certainly do with softening up.

  For all that she railed against him being so ridiculously over-protective, Shirley had never really been one to disobey her father. Disgruntled as she’d been when he’d suddenly appeared in her young life, with all his funny ways and his rules and regulations, she’d soon realised home was a much more agreeable place if she came round to his way of thinking. She’d done this at first simply because she didn’t want to get in his bad books but as time went on and she’d matured a bit, it was because she’d grown to love him. Yes, he was strict and orderly, and yes, he did have this idealistic image of her that she was always going to struggle to live up to, but he adored her and would go to the ends of the earth for her if she asked him to, and she loved that. In fact, sometimes, though she’d never have confessed it to anyone, she thought she loved him even more than her mam.

  Not that Shirley didn’t love her mam too, but Mary could be scary. She had a temper on her that was legendary both with the family and the neighbours. And once the family had been reunited, it soon became clear that, whatever went on before Shirley’s dad went off to war, theirs was not the happiest of marriages. Her dad, it turned out, though always strong and determined, really wanted nothing more than a quiet life. But he didn’t often get one, because Mary was not only very fiery, she was also insanely jealous. Shirley had never really understood why (and still didn’t – particularly now she was older, and understood more about all those ‘uncles’) but it was as if her mam was constantly on guard against her dad being lured away by another woman.

  Raymond wasn’t even safe at work, it seemed. Once demobbed he’d got a job as a boiler firer at a big factory in Listerhills, but it seemed there was no peace for him there either. A regular occurrence in Shirley’s childhood had been her mam constantly spying on him – she’d often turn up at the factory unannounced (Shirley herself sometimes in tow) to check if there were any women anywhere near making eyes at him. And if she got it into her head that he might have set his sights on someone, she’d think nothing of setting about him physically – either with her fists or anything else she could lay her hands on.

  Shirley had spent much of her childhood not really understanding how it worked being a grown-up. As far as she’d been able to tell, her dad only loved two girls in the world: her and her mam. And her mam, in return, was always so horrible to him. How did that work? How could you love someone and be so horrible to them at the same time? Perhaps you couldn’t, she’d come to realise, because, as the years went by, there were never any of the brothers and sister
s they’d promised her when she was smaller – the one thing she’d always wanted more than anything in the world.

  Yes, she’d had her dollies, who she’d loved and cared for with a passion, pushing them along in their shiny pram and dressing them in clothes she’d stitched for them herself. She also had her friends – and she’d make clothes for their dollies too – but at the end of every day no dolly could make up for going home alone; for being an only child in an unhappy home.

  That was all she wanted as a child – a special friend, someone to play with, someone to go with on adventures, but mostly someone to be with when she was at home, who was in the same boat and could take her mind off the endless, endless arguing.

  As it was, she’d spent her childhood stuck in the middle of a war that seemed almost as long and horrible as the one her dad had returned from. Every weekend, almost without fail, her parents, having gone out for a few drinks in the local, would come home and have the same old arguments: her mam accusing her dad of looking in the direction of another woman, and her dad telling her she needed her eyes testing. On and on it would go, usually till Raymond passed out drunk on the kitchen floor, at which point Mary would then yell for her from the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Shirley,’ she’d screech up to her, loud enough to wake the dead, ‘come down and help me get his head in the gas oven!’

  Shirley never would, of course. She’d just cry and cry, and plead for her mam to leave her poor dad alone. ‘That’s it!’ Mary would say then, dragging her coat round her shoulders. ‘We’re leaving home. And we’re never coming back!’

  Shirley remembered walking the streets with her mam for hours sometimes, however cold or wet it might be, and all she could hope was that when her mam finally sobered up enough to take her home, her dad would have taken himself to bed, so the whole cycle didn’t start up again.

  But at least it didn’t last for ever. When Shirley was ten they’d moved to Clayton, on the outskirts of Bradford. It was the kind of village where everyone knew everyone else and looked out for one another as well, and Shirley soon became friendly with all the local children, as well as becoming popular with lots of young mums due to her love of helping out with their little ones.