Evil Relations

by David Smith

  Maureen was the less academic of the two girls, with a lackadaisical attitude to life. Born on 21 August 1946, she was timid as a child and relied on her elder sister, the tomboyish Myra, to protect her from neighbourhood bullies. As a practical arrangement, Myra had lived since the age of four with her widowed gran, Ellen Maybury, a frail, diffident lady in her 70s who doted on her firstborn granddaughter. Despite living apart (Maureen with her parents in Eaton Street, Myra with Gran in nearby Bannock Street), the sisters remained exceptionally close. Myra usually addressed Maureen by the childhood nickname ‘Mobee’. She was still as protective towards her younger sister throughout their teenage years, even though Maureen had learned to stick up for herself by then; she was one of the Taylor Street gang, tough-talking and hard to beat in a fight. Physically, the two were very different, though they both wore their hair in permanent stiff clouds of candyfloss blonde and favoured heavy eye make-up, but Maureen was slim with birdlike features while Myra was sturdily built and sporty. They differed in their ambitions, too: Maureen was happy in her surroundings and looked forward to marriage and motherhood, while her sister dreamed of a life beyond Manchester and wanted to share it with someone more sophisticated than the boys she knew. Maureen worked in a succession of low-paid factory and retail jobs, but by 1961 Myra had a position ‘with prospects’ as a secretary at Millwards Merchandising, a chemical wholesalers off Levenshulme Road.

  Ruminating on his early relationship with Maureen, David explains: ‘She was just always there. Saturday night in the chip shop: Maureen. Friday in Sivori’s: Maureen. Every single day on the street corners: Maureen, again. She was part of my clique. That was the thing about Gorton: I hated the place, but I loved my mates and the girls. I loved Taylor Street chippy, Maureen Hindley, Basher Bradshaw, Sammy Jepson and his roaring 750cc Vincent motorbike, and the Cummings lot. In a way, it was like being part of an extended family. Everyone knew each other and life revolved around those streets – hell, my life was those streets. Loitering in cafes and necking up the back entries, with girls actually asking for love bites – I was only too delighted to oblige. But I always went back to Maureen.’

  He was aware of Myra but had little to do with her then: ‘She didn’t hang around the streets like the rest of us. The only time I ever saw her out and about was when she was “in transit” between Eaton Street and Bannock Street. She’d either be walking very fast and purposefully with her arms folded, or clicking in her high heels down the street carrying two plates balanced on top of each other. Nellie cooked tea for her daughter and Granny Maybury every night.’

  Then he grimaces: ‘The only other time I’d see Myra was when she was in a temper, heading home to sort out her drunken father. Husbands in those days were real Jekyll and Hyde characters. Street angels and house devils, we used to say.’

  * * *

  From David Smith’s memoir:

  I’m lazing in Sivori’s, bored, playing the jukebox for myself: Duane Eddy’s ‘Rebel Rouser’ and The Everley Brothers’ ‘Ebony Eyes’. Smoking nineteen to the dozen and enjoying feeling moody, as teenagers do.

  Maureen’s sister Myra pushes open the door and approaches me with a smile: ‘Hiya, have you seen our Mobee? I need to speak to her.’ I tell her I’m waiting for Maureen myself and ask what’s the message, though I can probably guess. It’s Saturday, which means ‘girly night’ for the sisters, who have a routine of doing one another’s hair every weekend. Tonight Myra wants Maureen to do the honours; Bob and Nellie will be going out separately as is their ritual, so Eaton Street will be free to serve as this week’s salon.

  I slyly note their plans. I’m happy: it gives me a place to go on a Saturday night, plus I might get lucky on the settee instead of making do with a knee-trembler up against the wall of a back entry. These days are good days, hot and long, played out to the music of America, hormones ready to offload by the bucketful.

  Myra leaves with a smile – ‘See ya, Dave’ – and Maureen arrives about an hour later: a much slimmer version of Myra, with panda eyes and the trademark cigarette in hand. She always enters with a flourish, full of life, posing, pretending not to notice me, giggling with a few friends while I sit faking a mood. Eventually she comes across and we spend the afternoon together in Siv’s, drinking espresso and feeding the jukebox until it’s time to go.

  We walk down Taylor Street, my right arm slung around Maureen’s shoulder and her left arm about my waist, gripping my studded leather belt. When we arrive at Eaton Street, her parents are out. The house is a carbon copy of every other in the neighbourhood: a poky back-to-back with a loo in the yard. I go for a piss in the damp little brick outhouse. Yesterday’s Daily Mirror has been ripped into squares and pinned to a nail on the wooden door. The only luxuries are a well-used toilet brush and a rubber plunger.

  Back indoors, Myra still hasn’t turned up, so I busy myself choosing records from Maureen’s music collection. There’s a good coal fire going, but the chimney needs sweeping – smoke burps throatily into the living room. Old dinner smells filter through the house: Maureen’s meal of boiled cabbage, meat and gravy sits on a pan of simmering water, kept warm with a lid that rattles every so often. I get up and open the front door to draw the fire. Smoke wafts out onto the street as I sit down to listen to Elvis warbling from the red-and-cream Dansette.

  Suddenly Myra appears in the doorway, flustered. ‘Sorry I’m late, got behind with my job, you’re not going out tonight are you, Mobee?’ She pulls a face and wheedles, ‘Say you’re not going out, oh please, please, my hair is a mess, be a little angel and do it for me . . .’

  She sets down two large bottles of Bulmers cider and throws Maureen a packet of Park Drives. Sound, I think to myself: a drop of cider, ciggies, the chance of a promise – this is what I call a Saturday night. Maureen brings in three coffee mugs. No posh glasses in this house, just mugs and a pint pot belonging to Bob. The set-up among the Hindleys is much the same as any other family in these streets: Bob’s a fighter, Nellie’s a bawler, and the two girls accept that being female is a hardship.

  That’s just how it goes.

  The Hindleys are no better or worse than the rest of us; we’ve all got our problems and most of them are pretty similar. Take the girls’ parents: Bob and Nellie both drink in the same pub, the Steelworks Tavern, but Bob drinks in the men-only vault and Nellie sits in the lounge with the women. Every Sunday night, Bob joins his wife in the lounge bar. Those nights are ‘safe’, but Fridays and Saturdays, when they drink in the same pub but in separate rooms, are unpredictable and often deadly.

  But, like I said, that’s just how it goes.

  We sit with our cider and ciggies, listening to Brenda Lee and the Big Bopper. The girls are as close as sisters can be and both share the same priority: Nellie. Myra is the big sister not only to Mobee, but to her mother as well; she’s the mannish female with nice legs, great tits and the punch of a heavyweight boxer. She can flash a smile one minute and cut you to ribbons with a glare the next. That’s the Myra I know.

  The girls natter about Granny Maybury and gossip about the neighbours – who’s going with whom and who’s finished with whom – but Maureen’s evading Myra’s most pressing question. In the end, out it comes: ‘So, how’s Mam then, Mobee?’

  Maureen’s answer is quick, practised and level: ‘She’s fine, Myra, she’s fine. She’s gone out with Brenda Johnson from number six. Yes, she’s fine. She’s OK.’

  ‘And how was he last night?’ Myra never refers to Bob as anything other than ‘he’. ‘Pissed as usual?’

  ‘Oh, he wasn’t bad. Mum got herself off to bed the minute he came in. She gave him his supper and left him in his chair. Everything was all right, Myra. I swear it.’

  Myra frowns, her pencilled eyebrows meeting beneath the blonde cloud. ‘Well, if he steps out of line, you come and get me. Do you hear me, Mobee? Even if it’s the middle of the night, you come and get me. No matter what, if he fucking kicks off, you leg it round to our gran’s and yo
u get me. Promise me you will, Mobee. Promise.’

  Maureen agrees, but Myra isn’t quite finished. ‘Never let anybody hurt you either, and if they do you come and see me, understand?’ She flashes me one of her special hard looks to emphasise that she’s in the ‘all men are bastards’ mood. I stare back, then shrug my shoulders, thinking, ‘Screw you, Myra, you’re some bit of stuff.’

  The girls go into the kitchen. Maureen washes Myra’s hair at the Belfast sink. I listen to them laughing together and re-stack the Dansette: time for a bit of Eddie Cochran to liven the joint up. I picture Bob and Nellie drinking in their separate rooms at the Steelie. Poor lonely sods. After all these years they’ve finally lost each other, nothing to show for their lives but two daughters, nothing else in common any more.

  The girls enter the living room. Much preening of Myra’s hair follows, a lot of backcombing and lacquer fizzing overhead. It smells like a proper salon, all wet and then slightly scorched. They chat about the latest mascara brands and whisper about their monthlies. A real rock ’n’ roll Saturday night out for me.

  Myra takes a turn at the Dansette and Mobee greets her choice with a scream of approval. The girls grab each other and dash to the middle of the room. I quickly push the Formica coffee table out of the way and the girls begin to jive. Mobee spins like a whirlwind, out of control. Myra catches her, mirroring every move as they sing ‘Da Do Ron Ron’ at the tops of their voices, laughing hysterically – just happy girls together.

  *

  Two or three weeks later, the Saturday after Good Friday. Why do we Catholics call it Good Friday? In Gorton, there’s nothing good about Fridays. Pay day and getting double-pissed, the wife’s housekeeping to one side and the undeclared leftovers down your sodding throat, screw them all, the long, the short and the tall. That’s Friday in Gorton.

  Late afternoon finds me in Siv’s again, preening myself and messing about with the jukebox. Maureen comes in without her usual giggle and tease; she’s white-faced and drawn, smoking like one of the filthy locomotives that pass my window day and night.

  ‘Dave, it’s Mam. There’s been a bit of trouble – he kicked off again last night . . .’

  Good Friday.

  ‘. . . and he’s at it again today. Come to the house and talk to him. He’ll listen to you.’

  Will he fuck, I think, knowing Bob is long past listening to anyone, stuck as he is in a two-up, two-down shit hole, surrounded by angry females and nursing his memories. He used to be a muscled paratrooper, now he’s an unemployable cripple; why the hell should he listen to anyone, least of all me?

  ‘He’s not himself, Dave. If Myra finds out, she’ll go off her head. Please come to the house with me – have a cup of tea or something.’

  I know Bob’s safety isn’t paramount to Maureen; she’s frightened about what might happen if Myra and he come to blows.

  I slide reluctantly off my chair and follow Maureen’s clacking heels down Taylor Street, insisting there is no way I’m arguing with Bob. His reputation at the back of the Steelie is enough for me.

  We arrive at Eaton Street. The front door opens straight into the living room, just like my home in Wiles Street. A well-oiled Bob sits hunched and morose in his chair by the fireplace. Maureen goes through to her mother in the kitchen.

  I take a seat opposite Bob, lowering myself into Nellie’s chair. ‘How’s it going then, Bob?’

  He lifts a half-filled glass of whisky above his head in acknowledgement. ‘Sound, you fucker, fucking sound.’

  Bob is still fighting the war – this time out of a bottle.

  Insistent female voices reach us from the kitchen, raised not in temper but pleading. Nellie appears carrying two covered plates for Myra and Granny Maybury, as is her daily ritual. I’m familiar with the routine, but the sight of her face startles me. She makes no effort to hide the battered mess: one eye is completely closed and swollen, bulging blackly from its socket, and her top lip is engorged, the bloated flesh almost touching the tip of her nose.

  She struggles to speak as she stands there, determined to show that she’s still a proud woman despite everything. The words come out in an injured lisp: ‘Fuck you, Bob Hindley, fuck you to hell and back!’

  I sense real misery behind the anger, even though she obviously means every muffled syllable.

  Bob erupts, shouting at his wife and to the rest of the world: ‘Fuck off!’ I flinch as he hurls his glass across the room. It doesn’t break, but rolls noisily across the floorboards into a corner. ‘Just fuck off!’

  Nellie goes out, still carrying the covered plates, and I sit silently, tapping my fingertips on the chair arm, bracing myself for more trouble.

  It’s not long in coming.

  The front door flies open with a resounding bang and Myra strides into the room, cursing Bob to the heavens. She stands quivering with fury before him as he struggles up from the chair.

  ‘Come on, you bastard!’ she screams. ‘Get up, fucking stand up, you fucking useless piece of shit!’

  But Bob can’t. He’s too drunk, and unsteady on his feet at the best of times. His fists are clenched, though, waiting for the fight, but he’s no longer any match for Myra; she hammers into him, punching fast and full in the face. Bob is too slow to protect himself from the onslaught. Blood spurts from his nose and mouth, scattering down his shirt.

  ‘Fucking bastard, fucking big man!’ she screams. ‘Come on, fucking come on!’

  With both hands, she grabs Bob by the hair, lifting him clean out of the chair. He makes a clumsy attempt to grab her throat, but Myra is quick and strong; she throws him to the floor like a rag, smashing the coffee table.

  Then she snatches up his walking stick from the side of his chair.

  I turn my face away, having learned a long time ago that no one thanks you for intervening in a Hindley brawl. Head averted, I listen unwillingly as Myra brings the walking stick down on her father’s spine, again and again, whack after sickening whack.

  Then Nellie arrives home. She doesn’t interfere either, but stands by the door with her arms folded, watching.

  When it’s over, Bob makes no effort to lift himself up. His damaged mouth moves against the floorboards: ‘Fuck off, all of you, just fuck off.’

  Myra throws the walking stick down and crosses the room, enveloping her mother in a bear hug. ‘Mam, you tell me if this piece of shit even looks at you the wrong way again.’

  Maureen stares big-eyed at the scene from the kitchen, her arms tightly folded. Myra then dispenses a hug to her, adding firmly, ‘Mobee, we have to look after our mam, she doesn’t have to put up with this. How can we look out for each other if you don’t come to me?’

  Maureen clings to her sister.

  I lean forward, elbows on knees, and turn sideways to peer at Bob heaving himself back into his chair. His long face is blotchy with blood and rage.

  Myra disentangles herself from Maureen’s hold to point a rigid finger at him: ‘And you, not one word. If there’s a next time, you end up in hospital or the fucking cemetery.’

  He glares at her and spits, ‘Fuck off.’

  She’s across the room in an instant. The flat of her hand lands on his face in a stinging wallop. ‘I said, not one word. That was two. Now keep your fucking mouth shut.’

  I get up and go outside.

  Maureen, Myra and Nellie aren’t far behind me, but I leave them at the door and walk to the end of Eaton Street. I can hear Myra telling Nellie and Maureen not to be scared, that she isn’t going out tonight and will be at Granny Maybury’s if they need her. I loiter on the corner, nudging a small stone out of a crack in the pavement. Myra kisses her mother and sister, then Maureen links arms with her mum and the two of them go indoors. Nellie disappears, Myra marches back to Granny Maybury, and Maureen emerges from number 20 to shuffle in her tight skirt up the street to me.

  Situation sorted.

  * * *

  In 1963, David’s world altered irrevocably when Annie died from cancer. Fol
lowing treatment for her illness, Annie spent six months convalescing at the hotel owned by the Duchess and Bert. David was on his way to visit her one afternoon when an old man sitting on a wall hailed him at the bus stop.

  ‘You know your mum’s dead?’ the man called.

  David froze. Then he began running, and arrived at the hotel to find the whole family already gathered, talking quietly about Annie’s passing. The Duchess took his arm and led him into the bedroom where Annie lay, the colour blanched from her skin. He looked down at her for a moment then walked out, roaming a nearby park in stunned silence. He told himself she had no right to die on him: ‘She should have fought for me. And it shouldn’t have been up to some bloke on the street to tell me she’s gone.’

  After a while he boarded the bus back to Gorton: ‘I was 15 and broken within. I felt like nothing was left for me but the streets where I lived, and Maureen. She’d always been there. I went to her house and we disappeared into the darkness of a back entry on Eaton Street. Then I let everything out, ripping my shirt to shreds, punching both fists into a door until my knuckles bled. The pain left me empty and crying like a baby. Maureen kissed and comforted me, giving me that special feminine sympathy that makes all hurt little boys feel better.’

  ‘I was growing up quick,’ he reflects. ‘I’d worked out long ago what the real family relationships were and had more or less got used to it. Mum was ill for a long time, so it didn’t come as a shock as such – it was how I found out that got to me. That – and not being allowed to go to Mum’s funeral. The family felt that was best for some reason. And, boy, did that hurt – physically and mentally, it really bloody hurt. They were firm I wasn’t to go and never explained why. I needed to say goodbye to Mum properly, but that was denied to me and I never got over it . . .’