My Mam Shirley Read online

  A lot, it seemed. ‘I’ve just come back from your granny’s,’ Mary explained as she sat down, breathing hard, on Vera’s posh new couch. ‘Anyway, the long and the short of it is that I’m going to sign for you.’

  ‘What – to get married?’ Keith asked her, sounding shocked.

  As he would. She couldn’t do that. It wasn’t legal. ‘But, Mam, you can’t. We need Dad to sign as well,’ Shirley told her.

  ‘Let me bloody finish, will you, girl!’ Mary snapped. ‘You fetch me the papers and I’ll do the signing. Mine and his. I can do his signature, bleeding misery guts that he is. And if he finds out, it’s tough titties, isn’t it?’

  Keith gaped. ‘You’d really do that?’ he asked Shirley’s mam, his face lighting up. He looked at Shirley, and she could tell he was looking at her mam with a new respect. He grinned then, and flung his arms round her, nearly spilling his tea as well. ‘So you will go to the ball after all, love!’

  Shirley knew how he felt. That her mam would do that for them – it made tears well in her eyes all over again. ‘Oh, Mam, thanks so much,’ she said, putting her tea down and giving Mary a hug. ‘But won’t it cause hell between you and my dad? I mean, he will find out, won’t he? How can he not know? Course he will.’

  Mary’s frown became a smile. ‘You leave the old bugger to me,’ she said. ‘And that’s not all. I’ve got even better news for you both.’

  She paused to sip her tea then, her eyes suddenly alive with mischief. ‘Come on, Mam, tell us!’ Shirley urged.

  ‘Well, like I said, I’ve been running about, haven’t I?’ They all nodded. ‘And the last place I went was your granny’s, just now. And me and her have sorted everything out for you.’

  She looked at Shirley and Keith in turn. ‘What, Mam?’ Shirley wanted to know. ‘What have you sorted out?’

  ‘That the pair of you can have number 17.’

  Shirley looked at Keith in confusion and then back to Mary. ‘Number 17? What, here? In Lidget Terrace? What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s for sale at £165,’ Mary explained. ‘And as me and your granny have paid Mr Taylor religiously for years, he’s said we can buy number 17 for you and Keith. No deposit, so you won’t need to worry about that or anything. A pound a week.’ She looked at Keith. ‘You can manage that, can’t you, love? I know it’ll be tight, but it’s a good start. You’ll be buying your first house.’

  Shirley couldn’t take it in. They could actually buy a house? Just like that? It seemed almost too incredible to be true. But it clearly was true; her mam was sat there, real as day, even asking Vera if she had any biscuits to go with the tea. So it had to be true. It was true. No pinching required.

  She’d been wrong. Last night might have been the best night of her life, but today, she decided, had topped it. Her mam was back talking to her. Talking to both her and Keith, in fact. She took her fiancé’s hand and hugged it tight.

  ‘Oh, Mam, she said, ‘Thank you so much. You know I love you, don’t you?’

  Mary grinned. ‘Course I do, pet, and I love you too. But you need to crack on and get hold of those papers for me to sign, before your dad gets wind of what’s happening with the house. Oh, and another thing. Mr Taylor said you can have the keys to it next week, so you can both get on and start prettying the place up a bit. But one thing …’ she looked mostly at Keith as she spoke. ‘There’ll be no living under the brush, mind. You don’t move in there till your married, okay?’

  Shirley squeezed Keith’s hand again and felt the answering pressure. It was all she could do not to giggle like a schoolgirl at what she knew was going through both their minds. ‘Till I’m Mrs Hudson,’ she said, the words feeling delicious on her tongue. And the sooner the better. She was counting the days.

  Chapter 13

  January 1962

  Shirley stood outside the Blue Lion on Manchester Road and stopped to catch her breath. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so fuming. Not least because she’d just put her valuable Saturday job in jeopardy, and whose fault was that? Frigging Keith’s.

  What made her even crosser was that she felt she’d been duped, and it was a feeling that had begun to really gnaw at her as she’d stomped the half hour’s journey from the fruit stall on John Street Market to the pub she’d now entered on Manchester Road. Two months till their wedding! How frigging dare he? Two months, and her working her frigging fingers to the bone; she’d be rattling around like a skeleton in her dress at this rate!

  ‘It’ll be such a help,’ Keith had said to her, just after Christmas, when the possibility of helping on the fruit stall every Saturday had come up. A friend of their Annie’s had told him about it and he thought it was a brilliant idea. ‘It’ll help pay for the buffet, won’t it, Shirl?’ he’d added. And she’d had to concede that was true. ‘Not only that,’ he’d gone on, but you’ll be able to nick a bit of fresh fruit and veg for me, won’t you? Do me good. I tell you, Shirl, I’m struggling a bit in that house all by myself.’

  Shirley hated both ideas. She didn’t want to take the job and she certainly didn’t want to take the fruit – and probably wouldn’t – but she did concede that it probably made sense. Money was tight and though she already worked long shifts at Sutcliffe’s, it wouldn’t hurt to do a few extra hours on a Saturday to help with the costs of their upcoming nuptials. And it felt only fair. Poor Keith had been working like mad since her mam had got them the keys for number 17 – couldn’t have worked harder if he’d tried. Him and their Reggie had done a lovely job as well. They’d decorated their little one-up, one-down so beautifully that she almost had to catch her breath every time she went in there, realising that this beautiful home was going to be all their own.

  It was almost done now, as well, most of the furniture in, too; she couldn’t wait to show off their beautiful green couch and the new double bed she was particularly proud of, with its huge spring mattress and the beautiful, shiny wooden head and foot boards. She hadn’t asked where either of these items had appeared from, but suspected that it had something to do with Malcolm, who was now back out of prison – and for good this time, it seemed, because he was now settling down (and hopefully calming down) with Valerie. They’d plenty of blankets, sheets and curtains, too, courtesy of Mary, and she was counting the days till she and Keith could move into their own little palace, especially now her dad was beginning to come round to it all.

  Not that it had been an easy process. Although Raymond had stuck to his guns, even after Mary had forged his signature, he had eventually taken on board that she and Keith were getting married whether he liked it or not. After all, as Shirley had pointed out till she was sick of hearing herself saying it, by the time they married, Shirley would be 21 anyway, so wouldn’t even need their consent.

  Still, as far as Raymond was concerned, no man would ever be good enough for his little girl, and no matter how persuasive Mary had been, he still wasn’t entirely happy. Perhaps he never would be. Though Christmas had reaped unexpected rewards on that front, during a family get-together at Granny Wiggins’s. Keith and Shirley had been there, were there along with Mary’s sisters, Edna and June, and, of course, Mary and Raymond had been there, too. Everyone had been drinking when, out of the blue, since no one thought she was anywhere near enough gone, Shep, Granny’s dog, had gone into labour, and started giving birth to a litter of puppies.

  ‘Come along, you youngsters,’ Granny Wiggins had said, cool as a cucumber, and a slightly pickled one at that. ‘Soon as they’re out, you’re to take them to the water butt and drown them.’

  Shirley didn’t think she’d ever been quite so horrified. Yes, she knew it was standard practice – they were mouths that her granny couldn’t afford to feed, and with no one around to take them off her hands, it was the ‘kindest’ thing. Lots of others of her generation did just the same, and it wasn’t as if it was the first time. Granny Wiggins always drowned Shep’s puppies. But Shirley couldn’t help it; she wanted no part in it – seeing
them born and, even as Shep was giving birth to more of them, taking them and killing them? It upset her so much she’d had to run from the room in floods of tears.

  Keith had come into his own then. ‘Hang on, we want one of those puppies,’ he told Granny Wiggins, despite Shirley knowing full well they could ill-afford to have one, even if Keith had wanted one, which he didn’t. It had been something they’d already discussed.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ Shirley’s gran had said, though she knew no such thing. ‘You can no more look after a pup than I can, lad. Eat you out of house and home in no time.’

  ‘We’ll manage,’ he’d said, with an edge in his voice that Shirley knew meant business. ‘Let her keep one and wean it, and we’ll take it off you soon as it’s ready.’ And though she was thrilled her gran had conceded she’d known from the way Keith had looked at her that if she’d said no, he’d have probably taken it anyway and weaned it himself.

  And, unlikely as it might have seemed, it had touched a chord with her dad, who always hated that her gran drowned Shep’s puppies. He’d not said much, but then he hadn’t needed to. Just placed a hand on Keith’s shoulder as he’d gone home that night. ‘You’re a good lad,’ he’d said quietly.

  Everything had changed since that day. And for the better. But there were other changes that needed making, clearly.

  Although she’d at first baulked at having to get up so early on a Saturday morning, the fruit market had by now become like a second home to Shirley, and she’d come to look forward to her weekly stint there. There was such a colourful mix of characters, both manning the stalls and buying from them, and she’d made lots of friends that she’d started seeing socially, as well. She generally hung out with three girls from nearby stalls, Moira, Magdalen and Sheila, who she’d invariably meet up with at Pie Tom’s during their late-morning break, for a cold drink, a portion of mushy peas and a natter. They would gossip about anything and everything: their boyfriends, their clothes and hairdos, what they’d be doing that night, and generally they would have a good laugh.

  Today, however, Shirley wasn’t happy. Not when Moira filled her in on what she’d just seen, at any rate.

  ‘What do you mean they were covered in blood?’ she asked. Moira had just joined them, as she wasn’t starting till 12 today, and had just walked down to John Street with her other half. And apparently seen something that made Shirley’s blood boil.

  ‘I’m telling you, Shirley,’ Moira said as she lit a cigarette, ‘me and my Chiggy were walking down Manchester Road, and there they both were, staggering up it. Your Keith and Malcolm – it was definitely them – laughing and carrying on, covered in blood.’ She paused to exhale smoke. ‘I’m sure Malcolm had a tooth missing – looked like it, anyway. But don’t worry – your Keith looked all right.’

  Whatever feelings of concern came into Shirley’s head were fleeting. And spirited away altogether by Moira’s next utterance, that she’d seen them both heading into the Blue Lion.

  Anger bubbled up inside her. This was becoming something of a habit, despite the deal they’d struck when she’d agreed to take the Saturday job; that while she was working hard – to pay for the frigging buffet, like he’d wanted – he would under no circumstances be spending the money before she’d even earned it, out drinking and gambling with his brothers – something that, just lately, he’d been reneging on.

  ‘I’ll bleeding kill him!’ she huffed. And she meant it as well. He’d promised her faithfully that he wouldn’t be in the pubs today, only the previous evening. Said he was going to spend the day cleaning the windows for the residents of Lidget Terrace – to earn a few bob to take them out tonight. Said he’d be at it all day till it was time to get washed and come and meet her at the market when she knocked off at half four. ‘The little pillock!’ she added, shaking a cigarette out of her packet and grabbing Moira’s matches. ‘He promised he wouldn’t drink till he met me later! Right, that’s it,’ she said, changing her mind and putting the ciggie back in the packet. ‘Two can play at that bloody game.’

  There was a ripple of oohs and ahs among the girls as she stood up and started to untie her apron strings. ‘Hey, what you going to do, Shirl?’ Magdalen asked her.

  Shirley grinned, feeling a keen sense of anticipation rush through her. And something like excitement as well. ‘Well, Magdalen,’ she said, rolling up her pinny and giving it to Moira, you can tell the boss that I’ve got an emergency and had to go. If he doesn’t like it, he can shove it up his arse for all I care. I’m off to go and teach Keith a little lesson.’

  The girls looked impressed, if slightly nervous about this unexpected turn of events. ‘That’s not like you, Shirley,’ Moira pointed out. ‘What on earth you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t actually know yet,’ Shirley admitted. ‘But if it’s beer and a fight he prefers to doing right by me, then he can have one. I haven’t spent all this time around his family without learning how to give him that!’

  She took a deep breath before pushing the doors open and going into the Blue Lion. It wasn’t a pub they used every week but at least she knew it well enough to know the landlord and most of the customers, who were also regulars at the Lister’s and the Bull at Little Horton.

  She saw them as soon as she entered. Saw and heard them, more to the point, because they were clearly holding court; sitting in the corner, both holding pints, and surrounded by quite a gathering – friends, male and female, who were clustered around, their backs to Shirley, obviously engrossed on whatever her silly fiancé and his feckless brother had to say.

  It served her purpose well. Even if either of them had been able to get a glimpse of her as she slipped inside, they were clearly much too wrapped up in themselves to take any notice. Which left her free to calmly walk past the Saturday drinkers to the bar and turn her back on them – though with the Hudson brothers holding court, probably with some tale of great bravery, she knew she was as good as invisible anyway. She would soon put a stop to that, as well.

  She smiled at Billy, the landlord. ‘Two pints of bitter, please.’

  ‘Hello, Shirley, love,’ he said, returning her smile. Then he nodded towards the little retinue in the corner. ‘I’d just get your own, love,’ he advised. ‘Keith and Malcolm have already got pints.’ He leaned forwards slightly. ‘And they’ve already had a fair few, lass.’

  Shirley smiled again. She was quite enjoying this – perhaps it was the adrenalin coursing through her. ‘That’s all right, Billy,’ she said. ‘Just the two pints, please, as I said. I’m going to surprise them with another.’

  Billy laughed as he pulled them. ‘No wonder he’s marrying you, lass. What a bird, you are!’

  There was no answer to that. And she was all done with smiling. Or laughing, for that matter. Because this was no laughing matter. She felt a fresh wave of anger rise inside her; right at this moment, she wasn’t in the mood to talk weddings. ‘Thanks, Billy,’ she said politely as she curled her hands round both the glasses and turned around.

  She was about to head towards them, but she checked herself. She could see more of Keith now – though there was obviously no danger of him seeing her. Obviously the centre of attention, he only had eyes for his audience. He was indeed caked in blood – dried blood – and his shirt was ripped open, and Malcolm, next to him, was obviously revelling in the telling of their earlier adventures. ‘You should have seen him,’ Malcolm roared, loud enough to carry right across to her, ‘that bleeding Spare Rib went down like a sack of spuds! One punch and’ – he mimed it – ‘down he went!’

  Shirley knew Spare Rib. He was another of the characters that frequented most of the local pubs and bars. Her mouth set in a tight line, she listened as he continued. It wouldn’t have taken much, she thought. Poor bloody Spare Rib. He was tiny – even smaller than the Hudson lads.

  ‘And then, out of nowhere,’ Malcolm continued, ‘comes these two big bruisers. Built like brick shithouses, the pair of them. Spare Rib, still rolling on the
floor, and me and our Keith looked at each other – didn’t we, Keith?’

  Keith nodded and took up the story. ‘Well, you know me,’ he said, to an obviously gratifying chorus of agreement, ‘I just thought, in for a penny, in for a pound! I nodded at our Malcolm, and we just dived in, didn’t we? I thought we were gonners at first – who bleeding wouldn’t?’ More miming, presumably, Shirley thought, of what a brick shithouse looked like. ‘But it turned out they were all brawn and no brains. They never saw one punch coming, not one. Anyway,’ he finished, sitting back on the seat, his shirt gaping suggestively, ‘we left ’em in the Lister’s splattered on the deck, and came up here.’

  Shirley had seen and heard enough. Had had enough even before she clocked the two women simpering around Keith and Malcolm, obviously far from oblivious to their heroic charms, despite – or perhaps because of – their dishevelled state. Particularly that of her good-looking soon-to-be husband – batting their eyelashes and, if Shirley wasn’t mistaken, giggling like a pair of schoolgirls, rather than the ageing muck ’ooks they undoubtedly were. She wasn’t having that.

  ‘Listen, love,’ she said as she approached the busty blonde who was apparently about to sit down next to Keith, ‘I wouldn’t park yourself next to my boyfriend if I were you, unless you want to end up as bloody as he is. You understand?’

  The blonde began forming her features into a pugnacious expression but, presumably seeing Shirley’s, changed her mind. She and her friend quickly tottered off, leaving Malcolm and Keith staring open-mouthed at Shirley, apparently arrived out of nowhere and clutching two beers.

  ‘Shirley, love,’ Keith slurred, ‘I was just coming to meet you. Did you finish early?’

  The small gathering also started to disperse now, and seeing the two of them close up made Shirley even angrier.

  ‘I’ve jacked the job in, for your information,’ Shirley barked at him, ‘You bleeding arsehole! You just couldn’t stay out of trouble, could you? The minute you’re out with him’ – she nodded towards Malcolm – ‘all your bleeding promises go straight out of the window.’