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.
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.
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
