Closer than Blood: Friendship Helps You Survive

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 sisters 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.

But it was mainly better because she now had her Granny Wiggins living on the same street, and her Auntie Edna also living just a few doors further along – both places that provided a much-needed means of escape from the chilly atmosphere at home.

It was escape of another kind that had begun to occupy Shirley’s mind as she’d entered her teens, however. She was counting the days till she could escape into her own life, which was going to be so different from the way it was now. She’d have her own home, her own husband and lots and lots of children. She would make her own wedding gown, and would float along the aisle in it, and have a ring put on her finger by a wonderful, loving man – Pat Boone or Elvis, perhaps, or that dreamy Tab Hunter. Or even – she sighed inwardly now, as his voice filled her head again – of her latest crush, the beautiful Cliff Richard, who could serenade her as he swept her off her feet.

The Lister’s Arms was at the bottom of Manchester Road, and was currently the place all the young people went. She’d been a few times with John, her ex, but she always felt a little out of place there. It could be a rough place; lots of the lads from the Canterbury estate went there, so when she did go – with John, and latterly with Anita – they always tended to keep themselves to themselves.

‘You go to the bar, Neet,’ Shirley whispered as they walked into the busy pub. She’d never even tried to get served when she went in there, because she didn’t look old enough by a mile yet. It was different for Anita, because her mam and dad let her wear make-up, so she’d been able to buy drinks since she was only 15.

It was yet another reason why Shirley couldn’t wait for her eighteenth birthday. Anita nodded. She knew the drill. ‘You grab some seats then, okay? Half of bitter?’

Shirley cast about then, trying to spot a couple of seats free in one of the corners, though it was difficult to see through the throng of people. Many were just standing chatting, but a few were gyrating to the sounds coming from the throbbing juke-box, and Shirley felt the familiar tug to get on the impromptu dance-floor and move to the music as well.

But then she spotted an empty table and rushed to bag it before it was taken, content for the moment to take in the atmosphere and marvel at the couples jiving and jitterbugging nearby.

‘Guess who’s propping up the bar?’ Anita shouted above the din as she set down the two drinks on the table.

‘Who?’ Shirley asked, too far away to see over the crush of bodies.

‘That Tucker Hudson. Remember? One of those brothers from over Canterbury.’

Shirley nodded as she sipped the head off her beer. She didn’t really know the Hudson brothers, but she certainly knew of them. Knew they were best avoided, like pretty much everyone else did from her part of the world. She also knew the eldest one, Charlie, was back out of prison, and that he was the one you needed to avoid most of all, even if John had always talked about him like he was some sort of local hero.

She remembered that day she’d gone to court with John. It had seemed a strange thing to do then and it still felt strange now. All the cheering and chanting, and there being so many people, all to see someone sent down for doing something criminal – all there to support someone who her dad had said only got what he’d deserved. She’d never really understood that, even if John had tried to explain it to her. But then John had been friends with the Hudsons – one of the younger ones, anyway. Keith, was it? Yes, she was sure that was his name. The cocky, good-looking one. Till he’d gone and joined the army, at any rate.

‘Which one?’ she asked Anita, feeling suddenly fretful that if he was here, John himself might be in tonight as well. Which wasn’t a problem, exactly, but she still didn’t want to see him. Not so soon after finishing with him, anyway.

‘Keith,’ Anita confirmed, sitting down and shrugging her bag off her shoulder. ‘The short one. Remember? He’s in here with his sister. You know. Annie? Annie Jagger?’

Shirley shook her head, because she didn’t think she did. She wished she was more like Anita, who always seemed to know everyone. But then she would, wouldn’t she? She had two older brothers to go out with, after all.

‘There,’ Anita was saying now, as a record ended and the crowd parted briefly. ‘See them now? She’s the one with the platinum blonde hair.’

Shirley spotted them finally and then felt her face immediately flush; Keith Hudson was looking straight at her.

She lowered her gaze. Now she remembered him. And he’d hardly changed at all. Filled out a bit, even if he didn’t look a great deal taller, and with the same arresting dark looks that she remember being so taken with before. John had noticed that too – she remembered that as well. He’d gone on about the two of them making eyes at each other – given her a pretty hard time about it, refusing to accept her denials. And now, having forgotten all about him these past two years, she realised those denials had been untrue. She risked raising her eyes again. He was still looking straight at her. Sizing her up. Almost willing her to hold his gaze.

‘So?’ she said to Anita, dropping her eyes again, feeling suddenly flustered. ‘Why should I care who’s in?’

‘I didn’t say you did care,’ Anita answered. ‘I was just saying, that was all. But now you mention it …’ she added, glancing towards the bar and back again and grinning.

‘Are we having a dance then, or what?’ Shirley interrupted, twisting on the banquette so that she was facing more away from the bar now, feeling strangely uncomfortable under Keith Hudson’s continuing scrutiny and still worried that John might be somewhere roundabouts as well.

‘Hold your horses, Shirl!’ Anita said. ‘Let me have a slurp of this, at least. Ah, and don’t look now, but guess who’s coming over …’

Shirley turned around, expecting to see Keith Hudson striding towards her. But it wasn’t. It was his sister, who looked like a mini Marilyn Monroe. It was a look lots of girls tried to emulate, but few managed to achieve. This one did, though. She was really very pretty.

But she also had the same sort of reputation her brothers had, if Anita was to be believed. ‘Watch her, Shirl,’ she whispered now. ‘She’s a bit of a wildcat.’

Not knowing quite what to make of that – what was she going to do? Attack them? – Shirley could only smile and make room on the banquette as the girl, who had that confident look of someone in her early twenties, marched up, said ‘shove up’ and plonked herself straight down between them.

She didn’t speak at first either, but instead delved immediately into a capacious patent leather handbag, plucked out a pack of cigarettes and pulled one out with her teeth. She looked as though she might offer them round, and Shirley hoped she would. The rest of the girls there looked so sophisticated with their cigarettes hanging from their manicured fingers. But no, they quickly disappeared back into Annie’s bag again.

She lit the cigarette using a shiny book of matches, and then took a long drag, carefully blowing out a series of smoke rings through her perfectly painted ruby lips.

Shirley watched in awe, wishing she could do something so clever. But, despite managing the odd secret practice, it was a skill that had so far eluded her. She would definitely have to pinch one of her dad’s Capstans the next time she got a chance so she could practise some more.

Her entrance made, Annie Jagger turned towards her and smiled. Shirley smiled back nervously, wondering what exactly she’d come over for.

‘My brother fancies you,’ she said matter of factly, while tapping the end of her cigarette in the direction of the already over-flowing ashtray. She looked Shirley up and down then; not in a bitchy way, just as if she was working out whether she agreed with him.

‘For some reason,’ she then added, causing Shirley to revise her first interpretation. ‘And he wants to take you out on a date.’