Blood Line: Sometimes Tragedy Is in Your Blood

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.

HarperElement

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First published by HarperElement 2014 as My Uncle Charlie This edition 2018

© Julie Shaw and Lynne Barrett-Lee 2014

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018 Cover photographs © Plainpicture/Harald Braun (woman); Mark Owen/Trevillion Images (man)

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

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: 9780007542260

Ebook Edition © February 2018 ISBN: 9780007542277

Version: 2018-07-09

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

The Final Countdown

Note by the Author

Hudson Family Tree

Prologue

Part One

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

Part Two

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Epilogue

Glossary

Acknowledgements

Exclusive sample chapter

Further titles in this series

Moving Memoirs eNewsletter

Write for Us

About the Publisher

The Final Countdown

Slouched, you slowly shuffle, unsure where you’ll safely sleep,

Hood hitched close, hiding your head as you falter down High Street,

Weather beaten face and weary eyes, no longer a welter weight,

A punch bag, a punk, a parasite now, you care not to ponder your fate.

The bottle, the bag, the boxing brochure, bound tightly beneath your belt,

The past, the present, the pain to come, no prickle of pride to be felt,

A doorway, a dumpster to bed down in, destined to die in the damp,

A chorus of chants cloud your chemical brain, seconds out for the champ.

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

November 1999

Vinnie pulled the lapels of his Crombie together and shivered. A bloody church was no place to be on a November morning. Any church, but definitely not St Joseph’s Catholic Church which, built in the 1800s, made plenty of its lofty religious aims, but absolutely no concessions to comfort. And it didn’t help that they’d yet to shut the doors. Every time they creaked open to admit yet another latecomer, another blast of freezing air came in too.

He glanced around him, marvelling at the size of the turn-out. He was 42, so by now he’d been to a fair few funerals, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the church so packed with mourners. Neither, he reflected once the service got under way, had he remembered just how long a fucking funeral mass could be. He leaned close to his mother, June, who was standing beside him, dressed in one of her trademark fur coats. ‘How long is that fucking priest going to drone on for?’ he whispered. ‘I’m fucking freezing my bollocks off here!’

June kicked at Vinnie’s boot with the toe of her black stiletto. She was 65 now, still slim, and though she was slightly less spiky than she had been in her younger days, she was still pretty feisty when she was in the mood to be. ‘Vinnie! Have some respect!’ she hissed, picking up her hymn book in readiness for another hymn to start. ‘Bloody swearing in a church. Pack it in!’

Vinnie duly picked up his own hymn book and looked across at the coffin up in front. He’d had a good innings, had his Uncle Charlie – that was what everyone kept saying, anyway. No, 76 wasn’t that old, but it wasn’t that young either. And, truth be known, Vinnie thought, casting his eye again over the enormous congregation, he’d done fucking well to make it that far, considering. June’s oldest brother, and for many years the linchpin of the whole Hudson clan, he’d flirted with death often enough to be considered lucky to have reached his seventies. And there was little doubt, though he’d be gone, that he’d not be forgotten.

The organ started up again, and Vinnie made a big show of wincing as his mam started belting out the final hymn. She could sing, no doubt about it, but he couldn’t resist it. Winding her up was still a reliable source of entertainment, specially given what she was singing. Make me a channel of your peace? he thought. As if! Are you listening to this, our Charlie?

Vinnie glanced at the box again, unable to suppress a grin. He’d probably be turning in his coffin before he was even in the bloody grave!

He checked his watch surreptitiously as the hymn drew to a close, not wanting to risk another prodding from his mother. Not long now, hopefully, and then he could get outside and have a roll-up. And get a proper look at some of the faces he’d yet to properly clock. And there were a lot of them crammed in behind him, he knew that – all suited and booted to come here and pay their respects to his uncle, even though, ironically, many of their battle scars had probably been inflicted by the old rogue himself.

The rows in front, on the other hand, were full of close family, though you wouldn’t know it – none were actually weeping. Aunties and uncles, various in-laws, and fuck knew how many cousins. Probably even a few second cousins, too – Charlie’s influence had reached out far and wide. There was also the woman Vinnie knew was Charlie’s latest ‘companion’. She was called Dorothy Mary, and looked around the same age as his mother. Though, caked in make-up and with thick, dark arches drawn on where her eyebrows should have been, Vinnie thought she resembled some kind of old shop mannequin. He didn’t know her well, but knew enough to know she was probably in a minority of one – the only one who was actually genuinely grieving for Charlie, because though his loss was sad there wasn’t much grief going on, not in the traditional sense. Which was understandable, because his uncle had been something of a stranger when he died, having isolated himself from friends and family years ago.

No, this sadness today wasn’t like being upset over the loss of a close relative – it was more a kind of emptiness for a time that had passed. Charlie’s death represented a lost age, the end of something. Vinnie felt it and he was sure that all the others did too.

But he wasn’t one for melancholy, any more than he was one for funerals. And, looking around him, he grinned to himself again. It probably wouldn’t be a bad day out, this, all told. Yes, he’d had to sit through three hymns and a long boring sermon – not to mention having to listen to the divvy priest utter a load of crap about what a ‘stand-up’ guy Charlie was – but, looking at this lot, he realised the wake might actually be okay.

His mam had already told him it was going to be held at the Spicer Street Club, a brisk 15-minute walk away, and a place that had already played host to many family funerals, weddings and christenings. He couldn’t wait to get there. Who knew? It might not just be a good knees-up. There might be a punch-up or two as well.

Slightly cheered now – due respect to his uncle notwithstanding – Vinnie picked up the order of service he’d not looked at up to now. It was a simple affair, a single sheet of paper, folded in half. On the front was a picture of St Joseph’s and Charlie’s birth and death dates, and on the back they’d printed a black and white photograph of the old bugger. It wasn’t recent – not much danger of Charlie having posed for pictures in recent years, after all – but as Vinnie looked at it, it was like he was looking straight into the past. There were family resemblances, and there were family resemblances, and this family resemblance was staggering. Fuck’s sake! he thought, smiling to himself as the priest rabbited on. He looks just like me grannie Hudson in a suit!

Or, rather, did. Now Charlie was gone, it was like something important had died with him. It was the end of an era, the likes of which they’d probably never see again. The era of the Canterbury Warriors.

Part One

Chapter 1

Bradford, April 1919

8 April 1919 was a defining day in history for the city of Bradford. It also marked the end of an era. The First World War had brought many social changes. With millions of young men called up to serve their country at its outset (with many more to come, to replace the injured and fallen) millions of women had stepped in to fill the employment gap.

It had been women who’d kept the city on its feet during the crisis – taking on jobs that were definitely not considered ‘women’s work’. It had been women who’d toiled in factories for the war effort, too, spending long hours on assembly lines, doing laborious, dangerous work. So-called ‘Canary Girls’, their reward for their toil in building countless shells and missiles was the tell-tale yellow skin of jaundice, due to constantly handling explosives.

But the war had now come to an end. This was to change everything, as the young demobbed troops needed their jobs back, and little by little the women who’d kept the home fires burning were being let go and sent home to care for their men. This naturally included the transport infrastructure, and 8 April saw a major social change. It was the last day a woman would punch the tickets on Bradford’s corporation trams – they wouldn’t be seen again as conductors for many years.

8 April was also a defining day for Annie McArdle. Eighteen years old, she had weathered (and often enjoyed) the war years, but today she was about to embark on a new journey. Today was the day that she’d walk up the aisle of St Joseph’s Catholic Church and vow to love, honour and obey her handsome beau, Reginald Harold Hudson, and their personal battle was about to begin.

‘Aww, Annie, love,’ Doris McGuire yelled as she threw a handful of rice at her old school pal. ‘You know what? You look like the cat that got the cream!’

‘Silly bugger!’ Annie replied, ducking to try and avoid the next shower of grains winging its way towards her. She hitched up her wedding gown to save it getting blackened in the dirt. She loved her dress – it had taken her mother weeks to sew up and she felt like a queen gliding around in it. She gave Reggie’s arm a quick loving squeeze. ‘Here, Doris,’ she joked. ‘It’s this fellow here that should be the one grinning. Luckiest day of his life, this is.’

‘Don’t show me up, woman!’ Reggie snapped as they made their way down the church. ‘And hell fire! I wish they’d knock it off with that bloody stuff!’

Narky bugger, Annie thought. And on their wedding day as well. Not that she was overly bothered. She knew that where Reginald was concerned she could give as good as she got – always had, always would – so he was just going to have to get used to it. They were married now and Annie intended to be just as brazen a wife as her mother had always been; not taking any nonsense off him ever.

She glanced at Reggie now, and her hand went immediately to her stomach. It was flat now – she was a slim girl – but it wouldn’t be for much longer. Which was okay – their hasty marriage wouldn’t seem unusual, not with all the servicemen coming home and rushing to wed the girls they’d been reunited with. But it had also shown her the kind of man Reggie was in that department; a man, to use her mother’s parlance, who expected to be serviced on demand. She’d have to nip that idea in the bud quick smart.

It was amusing, though, watching Doris and the rest of her friends giving her cheeky winks – implying that she was in for a great surprise tonight. Annie snorted at the thought. She’d already had that; the surprise being that, contrary to what everyone had told her – about it being a chore and a bind that she’d just have to get used to – she’d actually enjoyed it, rather a lot.

No, she thought, the surprise would come in seven months, near as good as. But hopefully it would be a late arrival so it wasn’t too blindingly obvious that she’d been such a wicked, wicked woman.

The wedding breakfast, which actually took place in the afternoon, was held at the McArdles’ house. Like the Hudsons, they lived on the Broomfields estate, and in the same row of small terraced houses that they rented from the corporation.

Usually a bit of a hovel, it had put on its best face for the day – swept out and cleaned sufficiently to be smart enough to receive guests, of which there were now 30 or so, all piling in through the narrow doorway, and falling hungrily on the feast of bread and dripping Annie’s mum had prepared, washed down with cupfuls of her dad’s mead.

Billy McArdle’s mead was a legendary tipple locally. Mostly because it was potent enough to be the cause of many a sore head, even after downing just a couple of cupfuls. Well, in today’s case, as was the case when there was any sort of occasion, jarfuls – many would be drinking from washed and scrubbed jam jars, there being far too few cups to go round.

But Billy’s mead was also famous because he was a bit of an enthusiast, often experimenting with flavours, depending on what kind of fruit he could nick from various gardens. Sometimes it was raspberry flavoured, other times scented with blackberry, but at this time of year there was little to add, so the wedding drink was just made with the usual honey.

‘A toast! A toast!’ he cried now, as he swung his mead upwards, and Annie felt her heart swell with love. She never really understood why her mam was so mean to him. To her he was a very fine man. ‘To our little Queen Annie and her prince charming, Reggie Hudson,’ he continued, beaming at them. ‘Long may they reign!’

Annie’s mum, Queenie, picked up her husband’s pipe from the stone fire top and puffed on it. ‘And good luck, my girl,’ she called across to her daughter. She roared with laughter then. ‘Because you’re gonna need it. Mark my words!’

‘Oh, Mam, give up,’ Annie chided. ‘You know he’s not a wrong ’un. Well, not half as bad as some of them, anyway. And at least we’ll have a roof to call our own over our heads.’

This had been a great source of pride to Annie. But an even greater source of relief. Two of her friends, Doris and Florrie, had already been married for a couple of years now, and were still living with their in-laws, all crammed in together. Hardly the most romantic way to start married life. And though she got along with Reggie’s family, she certainly didn’t want to live with them. She was 18 now, and sick of being treated like someone’s child. No, she wanted to be in charge now – rule her own roost.

Queenie tutted and pointed over to Reggie. He was standing by the window, laughing and roaring with the other men. ‘Really?’ she said. ‘Look at him! Drunk as a lord already, he is, pound to a penny. And it’s not yet six o’clock.’ She then smiled, giving Annie a nudge on her arm. ‘Mind you, girl,’ she whispered, ‘if he carries on like that, at least you might miss out on a bit of how’s yer father.’ She winked knowingly. ‘Now that you can do without!’

Annie felt her cheeks redden. How could her mam say things like that? She moved away from her. She certainly didn’t want to talk about that sort of thing and definitely not with her mother. Not with someone who didn’t have a good word to say about the man she’d supposedly once loved. No, she’d find more agreeable company with her friends. She caught her new husband’s eye as she went over to join them, pleased to feel the same flutter of excitement she’d always done as their eyes met, remembering what he’d said earlier about how he loved the way she looked with her hair up, how she looked like a painting of a goddess. Slightly less agreeable was the lewd, suggestive wink he responded with, specially when he followed it up by grinning at Doris and Florrie, causing them to dissolve into a fit of giggles and blushes too.

They knew him too well, she thought, as she joined them. But then, that was probably to be expected. All four of them worked at the local Punch Bowl pub and had done for over a year now – Reggie as a waiter and with Annie, Doris and Flo serving the drinks.

‘Right ladies’ man, that one is,’ Doris warned, as Annie took a sip from her drink. ‘You’ll probably have to keep him on a leash.’

The mead tasted warm in her throat. Pleasant. She took another gulp, almost downing it. ‘Oh, don’t you worry,’ she said. ‘The bugger’ll be wearing a leash, more like.’

Flo clearly didn’t want to linger on such a depressing line of thought. She stroked the arm of Annie’s wedding dress and sighed. ‘Aw, your gown is lovely, Annie,’ she cooed. ‘You look the bee’s knees, you really do. Like a princess. I wish I’d had a dress like that when I married my William. We had bugger all, us, compared to this. Still don’t!’ She sighed then, and looked across to where her own husband was. ‘And you know how folk say things like “It seems like it was only yesterday when you married him”?’

Annie nodded.

Flo stopped stroking the soft material and looked wistfully at her friend. ‘Well, it doesn’t. Not to me. It seems like a million years ago that I felt like a princess.’

‘Even more reason for me to make the most of it, then!’ Annie said quickly, not wanting to spoil the happy mood that was overtaking her now the mead had started taking effect. ‘Look,’ she said, doing a twirl so her friends could see how prettily the dress moved. ‘See the way it flips up at the bottom?’

She really wasn’t looking forward to having to take it off, not really. Well, she was, because Reggie would be helping her. But it still seemed a shame – seemed all wrong that once it was off, it was all over. That you only got to wear something so beautiful for a single day.

‘It’s just gorgeous,’ Flo said, planting a kiss on Annie’s cheek. ‘And I’m so happy for you. And I bet you can’t wait to get carried over that threshold later, too, Annie. Imagine that, eh? Annie McArdle with her own corporation house!’

‘Annie Hudson now, Florrie, remember? I’m not a McArdle any more. Thank God,’ she added with feeling, glancing across at her parents, and seeing them already engaged in one of their regular angry rows, probably about nothing in particular. It wasn’t going to be that way with her and her Reggie. She wouldn’t let it. She’d have him dancing to her tune before he even realised.

She looked at him again, not quite believing her luck. He was a catch, was her Reggie. There was no doubt about it. With his coal-black hair sleeked back so he looked like one of those film stars, his dad’s posh suit fitted him perfectly. He wasn’t a tall man, but he was built well, with muscles in all the right places, and looks that could melt a girl’s heart.

Oh yes, Annie thought, she would have to keep an eye on this one. Right now, though, she would cut him some slack. It was supposed to be a party after all.

And it was a party that went on till midnight. One minute the house was full and it seemed the next it was suddenly empty, and Annie realised her dad was passed out on the floor while her mam was busy shoving the last remaining guest out. ‘Go on, bugger off!’ she was shouting, all the niceties obviously over with. ‘You’ve all got homes to go to, haven’t you?’ she barked.

All but one, it seemed. The guest who’d bagged the one decent armchair and who was slumped in it, only just awake.

Her husband. ‘Are you ready then, Reggie?’ she asked him, shaking his shoulder. But he merely grunted and shook her arm away. ‘Reggie!’ she said again more sharply. ‘It’s time to go now!’ He at least opened his eyes at this, but what Annie saw wasn’t encouraging. He looked boss-eyed and could hardly keep them open.

Now sure quite how she was going to rouse him, let alone manhandle him to their house, she called Queenie over to help. ‘Mam,’ she called, ‘come and see if you can get him up for me, will you?’

Queenie looked at him and smiled, then she shook her head at her daughter. ‘You could throw a pan of water over him,’ she suggested, ‘but it wouldn’t do you much use. No, you go on and get yourself home, girl. He’s going nowhere, is he? Any more than your ruddy father. No, leave him here to sleep it off – best thing for him, really. And for you, love,’ she said more gently. ‘It’s not often you’ll have a night off, so if I were you I think I’d make the most of it.’

‘I can’t do that!’ Annie exclaimed, mortified. ‘It’s my wedding night! Come on, Mam – help me at least get him on his feet.’

But her mother just looked at her sleeping son-in-law of not quite a day, tutted at Annie and shook her head again. ‘You really want to take that lump home with you? Really? Trust me, love, even if you do manage to stagger home with him, what then? When they get into that state, it only means one of two things – either a good hiding or a bit of the other. You’ll enjoy neither tonight, so go on – enjoy this last night of peace, girl, because it’ll be a long time before you can enjoy another.’