My Mam Shirley Read online

  She allowed herself a secret smile and squeezed his arm fondly. No, they’d be fine. But as far as she was concerned, that was it. He might think he was moulding her into a suitably tough Hudson woman, with all his ducking and diving and scams and general naughtiness, but he was wrong. She was moulding him.

  Moulding him into suitable marriage material.

  Chapter 10

  November 1959

  One thing about sitting at the newspaper-covered dining table in the back room at Tamar Street was that there was always something to read. It was warm too, which was welcome after Shirley’s chilly walk to Canterbury from Sutcliffe’s, the range now crackling away cheerfully just behind her, Keith’s dad having stoked the fire as soon as she’d arrived.

  It would be Christmas soon and Shirley was determined to do something for the Hudsons. After all, given the amount of time she spent there these days, it only seemed fair. Though Keith had told her they didn’t really bother with things like trees or baubles, she’d already decided that, if she could afford to do so, anyway, she was going to pop down to Woolies and get some decorations so that she could contribute something festive to the household.

  And she was confident she would be able to afford to, as well. Since she’d persuaded Keith, back in the summer, to let her take charge of at least some of his weekly pay packet, they were a lot better off than they had been. And unless he was very devious (and she didn’t think he was) he’d been keeping out of the bookies as well. It wasn’t just the money they saved that made Shirley happy, either; it was the fact that he seemed to be making a commitment to being responsible, which was all grist to the mill where talking her dad round about her boyfriend was concerned.

  And, oh, how she wished her dad could know the Keith she knew. She glanced again at the piece of paper she held in her hand now, before she re-folded it and slipped it back into her handbag. She’d almost missed it – tucked between her purse and her pack of tissues, it wasn’t easy to spot, after all. But as soon as she saw Keith’s uncommonly beautiful script-like handwriting – which was now so familiar – she’d known exactly what it was.

  The note safely stashed, she picked up her jar of tea and took a sip. As ever, it was strong and scalding, because that was the way Reggie made it, so she went over to the sink to add a half-inch of cold water. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do, Reggie?’ she called over to where he was sitting in his armchair. ‘I could tidy the back room or something if you want, just till Annie gets back. Make myself useful.’

  Shirley had already laid the table. It was the first thing she tended to do for Annie when she went round after work for her tea – something she did two or three times a week these days. Her own mam and dad couldn’t understand it. The Reads were a meat and two veg kind of family and Mary worried that Shirley wouldn’t be getting enough ‘nourishment’. Shirley had long given up explaining that when you’d been forced to eat bloody liver and onions and big steaming dinners all your life, egg and chips – or even dripping and bread – were a very welcome change.

  So she’d carried on. After all, she was a grown woman now, wasn’t she? And, knowing when she was beaten, Mary had stopped nagging her about it. In fact, she’d now got into the habit of baking an extra batch of scones or a Victoria sponge cake, just so Shirley had something to take with her from time to time. ‘It’s the least I can do,’ she’d said when Shirley assured her there was no need. ‘It’s only right, since they’re feeding you so regularly.’

  But Shirley had arrived early today, which meant Keith, who still worked at Fox’s Dyers, wasn’t back yet and, unusually, Reggie was the only one at home. Annie had gone to the chip shop on Central Avenue to get supplies, and Joe, now finished in school, was still out painting somewhere. He’d started a job for Joe Laine, the same decorator that Keith used to work for, and Shirley knew how much the extra pay packet meant. And with only one left in school now – well, most of the time, anyway – things would hopefully get a bit easier for them.

  ‘And our David is out goodness knows where,’ Reggie had explained when she’d first arrived. ‘Little sod that he is, he’s probably out raiding some poor bugger’s shed. That’s his latest bloody pastime – Keith tell you? He’ll end up sharing a bedroom with our Malcolm again if he’s not careful, that one will.’

  He’d gone to make the tea then, and though Shirley was happy enough, she still felt self-conscious around Reggie when there were just the two of them there, and badly in need of something useful to be getting on with.

  ‘No, love,’ Reggie said now, in response to her question, ‘you just sup your tea and rest your legs for a bit. It must take you a good 20 minutes to walk up that hill and across here, mustn’t it? No, you stay put. Annie won’t be long.’

  Shirley picked up her tea, which was finally cool enough to handle, and went to sit on the sofa in the front room with him. He grinned at her as she perched on the edge of it. ‘And what was that tickling you just now, my girl, anyway? Don’t think I didn’t see you having a giggle at the table.’

  Shirley coloured. She hadn’t even realised he’d been taking any notice. ‘Oh, nothing,’ she said. ‘Just a little poem from your Keith, that’s all.’

  Reggie grinned again at her. ‘Thought so,’ he said, looking very pleased with himself.

  Shirley hoped he didn’t want her to read it to him. Keith often wrote her poems that were so funny they made her laugh out loud, and which she could never wait to show her mam, if not her dad. But at other times he popped soppy love letters in her handbag. Soppy enough to make her blush. And this was one such. So she definitely didn’t want to share it – not with her mam and definitely not with Reggie.

  But it seemed he didn’t want to hear it anyway. ‘Gets it from me, you know, Shirley,’ he said, placing his paper on his lap. ‘You know – his way with words. Bit of a family trait, that.’

  ‘I know,’ Shirley agreed. ‘He’s really clever with them, isn’t he? Does lovely verse for birthday cards as well.’

  Reggie nodded. ‘That he does, lass. Chip off the old block is our Keith. Here,’ he said, leaning forward in his armchair and clearing his throat, ‘I’ve got one for you – give you a bit of a giggle. De spring is sprung, de grass is riz, I wonder where de boidies is? Some say de boid is on de wing, but dat’s absurd – I’ve always hoid dat de wing is on de boid!’

  Shirley laughed at his impromptu performance. ‘Did you make that up yourself, Reggie?’ she said, cupping her tea between her hands to warm them.

  He shook his head. ‘No, lass, I didn’t. Not that one. Don’t know who did, truth be told. Not that I didn’t pen a few gems of my own, back in the dark ages. Only trouble is, my old brain can’t blinking remember any of them.’

  ‘Aww,’ Shirley said, smiling at him. ‘Did you write poems for Annie?’

  Reggie chuckled. ‘That I did. Though only for the first year or so. Maybe less than that even,’ he added dryly. ‘Didn’t seem any time at all before nippers and nappies took over our lives.’ He paused then, before winking and correcting himself. ‘Well, that and the fact that my Annie turned out to be a bleeding lunatic o’ course.’

  Shirley couldn’t help but burst out laughing at that. And her own chuckles made Reggie start laughing as well. It was rare that she ever got to see this side of him and it pleased her; she knew without a doubt that as soon as Annie or one of the others walked in, he’d pick up his paper and immediately resume reading it, further contributions consisting only of occasional grunts from his chair. It was just the way he was, and she accepted this – her own dad, when he had a mind to, being exactly the same.

  She glanced out of the window, aware of how quickly the light was fading. Though it was only five o’clock, it was already getting dark outside. The street lights were coming on now, illuminating the estate and, to Shirley’s mind, making it look so much nicer than, in reality, it was.

  Reggie was watching her. ‘Shall I tell you something, Shirl?’ he said. ‘If you sta
re through that glass long enough you’ll start to see the ghost of Horsewhip Aggie!’

  He chuckled again as she dropped the piece of curtaining she’d been holding up and went across to the far side of the window. Horsewhip Aggie was apparently legendary round these parts. A hag of a woman, who was said to have completely lost her mind, she was the sort of character who so fascinated the local kids that, despite their terror of her, they’d still dare one another to torment her by knocking on her door and running away – not least because she’d then come roaring out of the house carrying a big horsewhip and threatening to choke any kid she found with it.

  She was long gone, apparently, but her ghost clearly lived on. Being constantly threatened by a visit of the ghost of Horsewhip Aggie was one of the first stories Keith had ever told her. Reggie’d winked but she could imagine him threatening them with her too; it was funny, she thought, how similar her and Keith’s parents were, despite having such different lives. They were both stern men who inspired respect and fear in other younger ones – her dad at work, and Reggie in his own lads and among the community generally – but who were both married to women who not only gave as good as they got, but more often than not more than they got as well. She’d not had that much exposure to Annie’s rants at Reggie as yet, but Keith had told her enough to know she was a force to be reckoned with, even if not quite the lunatic he’d cheerfully described her as.

  She pulled the other piece of curtaining across to shut out the night. It was the week after firework night and the street outside still bore the remnants of the huge bonfire that the residents of the street had, to her bemusement, lit right there in the middle of the road. It was bizarre. And certainly nothing like the plot nights Shirley remembered from her childhood. Back in those days, she and her mam and dad would light a small fire on the field opposite their house and all the neighbours and their children would come along. Everyone would bring something nice to eat as well: fruit, pie and peas, rock-hard homemade treacle toffee that you could suck on for ever, and delicious, nutty potatoes that had been almost burned to a crisp in the bottom of the fire.

  Here, though, with no fields at the end of a lane to use, the residents just organised their parties out front. It wasn’t just Tamar Street that had a bonfire roaring in the middle of the road, either; there were huge fires dotted all around Canterbury estate, built with enthusiasm by all the neighbours. They’d start in the morning, with people turning up with their ‘chumping’ throughout the day, building up a pyramid that consisted of anything combustible – planks and offcuts of wood, chairs and armchairs, old toys and tyres; in fact anything that would burn, got burned. And instead of toffee apples and pies, the fare for the occasion was vinegar-soaked chips and as much cider or ale as people could get their hands on, meaning that by the time things were under way half the street were roaring drunk and usually enjoying a mass sing-along. There wasn’t a firework display, not at Canterbury bonfires – in fact, the only kind of ‘display’ generally on offer tended to be courtesy of whichever neighbour started fighting with another first.

  Shirley had loved every single minute. Still keen to make herself useful, she went and tucked Annie’s makeshift draught excluder under the back door. It was made from an old stocking stuffed with yet more newspaper – this time rolled up – and it occurred to her that Reggie’s twice-a-day news-reading habit had more far-reaching benefits than she’d ever have imagined before meeting Keith. She was just pondering that revelation when her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices coming up the path. She went back to the front and pulled the curtain back to find it was all of them – Keith himself, David, Joe and their mam, and it tickled her as it always did how they seemed to have this collective sixth sense about when food might be getting put out, as they often seemed to drift in together.

  Well, apart from Malcolm, who wasn’t there because he was away from home again. He’d only been out for four months – time enough to see his brother pass away, and not a great deal more – before he was sent back to borstal for another stretch. Shirley had tried to take him under her wing for a time, believing that deep down, he surely didn’t want to be involved in fighting and drinking every weekend, but apparently he did. He obviously loved it, in fact, as Keith had constantly pointed out to her. And she’d grudgingly come to accept that her attempts to get him on the straight and narrow were falling on deaf – if amused – ears. If he wasn’t threatening to batter somebody, Malcolm was bored out of his brains. As her mam had speculated, he was probably too frigging clever for his own good.

  No, Keith was right. He always said that Malcolm could start an argument in the mirror if there was nobody else handy, that he seemed to want to take on the world. Which made Shirley laugh, especially given that he was such a scrawny little thing, but it was a fact that the only person Malcolm was afraid of was his brother Charlie, who often had to go round the town finishing up what Malcolm had started. He would then go looking for his younger brother to give him a crack for causing mayhem, which meant Malcolm spent almost as much time trying to avoid a pasting from Charlie as giving him a reason to in the first place. But sometimes it paid off. With the amount of ale and whisky Charlie put away, if he hid for long enough it would all be forgotten.

  She missed Malcolm. Yes, he was a wrong ’un, but there were flashes of goodness in there. She hoped that next time he came out he stayed out of trouble. She grinned to herself. Took a leaf out of his brother Keith’s new book.

  And here he was. ‘I hope you’ve got the tea on the go, Shirl,’ he said as he walked into the room, bringing the chill November air swirling in with him. He nodded behind him. ‘My mam’s got enough chips to feed an army here.’

  ‘The pan’s boiled and I’ve already put bread out,’ Shirley said, wondering if she should mention that she couldn’t find any butter. Young David, however, must have read her mind. ‘Ta-daaa!’ he said, reaching inside his school coat and pulling out a greaseproof-paper-wrapped parcel. Shirley immediately recognised the pale yellow stripe on the wrapping; it was her favourite butter. ‘Here you are, Shirley,’ he said. ‘Put that on the table for us, will you?’ He winked. He was another chip off the old block, was David. ‘Left over from the last bring and buy sale,’ he said. ‘Been waiting best part of the week to get my hands on it.’

  Shirley opened it: a lovely pat of Adams best butter. The chip sandwiches would taste much nicer now. She noticed Reggie – back behind his paper – had taken a peek above it, to see what goodies might have been purloined.

  ‘You want some butter on your bread, Reggie?’ she asked. ‘Good for your bones.’

  Reggie grunted. ‘Aye, lass, go on. I’ll have a bit. Perhaps it’ll do something for my bleeding heartburn as well. Been giving me bother all bleeding day.’ And as if to prove a point, he belched loudly, patting his chest with his fist as he did so.

  Annie tutted. ‘Do you mind, you mucky get!’ she scolded as she tore up some extra pieces of newspaper to use as plates. ‘We’re just about to eat, as if you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘Pipe down, woman’ Reggie growled. ‘It’s better out than in.’

  ‘You’ll be out your bleeding self!’ came his wife’s retort, sharp as a whipcrack, causing everyone to choke on their first mouthfuls of chips. But she still made his buttie up, good and hot and buttery, and after Shirley had poured him a fresh jar of tea, she took both over to where he was sitting, thinking, as he thanked her, that she’d rarely in her life felt this content. It was Friday night at last and they’d soon have full tummies and, after a restful evening chatting and a slow walk back home, she and Keith would be off down the Farmer Giles’s coffee bar in the morning and the weekend of fun could properly begin.

  No wonder she felt so at home here, she thought. Because, increasingly, this felt like her home.

  Chapter 11

  January 1960

  It had begun snowing in the night and it was still snowing now, so, it being a Saturday, and as Shirley wasn’t meeting up
with Keith till later on, she had seen no reason to leap out of bed. She was warm and cosy under her eiderdown, and despite knowing how bitter it would be once she did brave the elements to take a trip to the outdoor toilet, she was enjoying watching the florin-sized flakes drifting past her window and the soft pinkish light that snow always brought with it, which always seemed to make the world seem a kinder, gentler place.

  It was gone ten by the time she’d got up and had her wash, and with the snow still falling when she’d returned to her bedroom to start getting dressed, she chose her newest black toreador trousers and a thick peach-coloured jumper. There was something relaxing about a heavy snowfall now she was too old to want to go and play in it. Now it always felt like being given permission not to rush around, and she had already half-decided she was going to spend her morning on her. She’d try out some new looks with her make-up, and perhaps play with hairstyles as well. After all, when she met up with Keith later on she wanted to look her best for him – plus she never knew where they might end up going. The peace wasn’t destined to last, however.

  ‘Shirley?’ came the sound of her mother’s voice from downstairs. ‘You dressed, love? There’s someone pulling up in a car outside. Is it some of your mates? It looks like young ’uns!’

  Shirley quickly smoothed down her trousers. ‘Hang on, Mam – I’m coming!’ she answered, pulling the jumper over her head. She didn’t think it would be anyone she knew – she wasn’t expecting anybody and she knew hardly anyone who had a car, but she wanted a nosey all the same. It wasn’t often a car pulled up on their street – in fact it was a real rarity, because no one on Lidget Terrace owned one.

  It was a little street of back-to-back houses (with two sets of outside loos serving them all) that had been originally built for the railway workers who came to Bradford several decades back, and had originally been nicknamed ‘Navvy Row’. These days, however, with all the workers having long since gone back to where they’d come from, the row had been bought up by a businessman who’d sold some of them off and rented the remainder of them to tenants.