Southport Days with Shirley

[this is a long piece - forms a trilogy (part two has been posted here as a 'stand alone' and is popular as a performance piece) the whole thing is autobiographical] 

Southport Days with Shirley   

 

teenagers holding hands

sheltering from winter winds  

waiting for the last bus,  

to take Shirley home 

 

hurry up... yet... don’t come yet  

 

back-row cuddles at the Odeon 

ignoring the movie action 

Doris Day and Rock Hudson 

watching Shirley staring at the screen 

(her profile light, dark, light in the flickering) 

and cupping the bicep I took for a breast 

instead 

 

aching to kiss but dreading missing 

 

bunking out to beat the Anthem  

racing Lord Street to the K. D.  

she always beat me 

unless I’d popped  

a stack of Dexies  

 

hot chocolate for Shirley -    

with a buttered toast teacake -  

nothing was too much for her 

when I had the necessary –  

 

black coffee for me  

 

she was a good girl  

sensible, reliable 

 

I lived on the streets 

pilfering and selling speed

leftover once I met my needs   

 

I think I loved her  

I think she loved me too 

 

we planned to court properly;  

first a flat, a job, a suit, polished shoes,

make myself presentable  

for Sunday tea at her parents’ place 

in Rufford, nr. Ormskirk,  

Lancashire  

 

we spent the occasional night together  -  

in a sea-front cheap hotel 

(whenever Shirley could afford it)

did she enjoy the loving?

I cannot recall  

 

I was usually high,  

talking nonsense - 

that I can recall  

 

black bombers quickly wasted me  

my blood turned septic,  

teeth to cheese...  

 

Shirley left me,

“I don’t want to read they found you dead in a gutter,”   

 

on my way from town 

heading back south  

she sat at ‘our’ table –  dead centre, 

of the Kardomah window,

nibbling a ‘toasted’ 

 

next to her,

a bloke named Peter  

he had a job  

could afford to treat her 

 

I spotted a creeping tear,  

she waved - the merest flutter -  

and blew a discreet kiss

under cover  of wiping

a smear of butter  

 

I waved, shrugged,  

raised my arms, defeated 

shot a wry smile 

as I passed on

to start hitching  

 

it was rumoured she was expecting, 

I might be the father,

but it was the ‘swinging sixties’  

such ‘details’ hardly mattered  

when I was a mess  

and Shirley wasn’t.  

 

After 50 plus years of searching, and two days after writing that (as a class homework I had set) , I  reconnected with Shirley - we chatted online and renewed our friendship -- we never met again.  

I wrote “let’s dance” for her after she said she was diagnosed with stage four cancer.  

It is a promise made knowing it would never be kept.

let’s dance 

 

take my hand,  

I promise we will dance  

tangos, boleros,  

wild fandangos  

 

drink muscatel straight from the bottle  

sing loud outrageous songs  

with curtains wide and lights full on  

through firefly jacaranda nights  

 

make stabs at the lyrics of Bob Dylan classics,  

I’ll crawl out the window acting like a diplomat  

you in your leopard-skin pillbox hat  

the spitting image of a Siamese cat  

 

we’ll be having fun  

freewheeling highway sixty one 

 

it’s all right, Ma,  

ignore the blood spots on the floor  

it’s just my forehead bleedin’  

from butt butt buttin’ on heaven’s door  

 

we’ll revive forty-fives.  

doo-wop backing Da doo Ron Ron,  

and Dancing in the Street 

 

cuddling up to Coltrane, 

 A Love Supreme 

sweet and cool 

on sultry summer nights 

 

neighbours will mutter,  

“they ought to know better,” 

and shutter their ears  

against our whooping  

celebrating nothing left to lose 

 

tuck your red dress in your Janet Regers  

turn breathless cartwheels across the floor  

make me seasick - make me yell for 

More! More! More! More! More! More! More! 

 

and we will be dancing  

wild dervish dances  

leaping, twisting,  

banshee howling,  

laughing  

 

oh yes, my darling,  

I promise you dancing  

I promise you singing and drinking  

laughter and loving and joy  

I promise you  

forever,  

us  

 

Then the inevitable news – how could I attend the funeral or her memorial? 

 I grieved alone. 

 

Shirley died today 

 

the long expected news still shocked 

with family and loved ones at her bedside 

and good humour and bravery 

she gently slipped away

 

was the cancer biding its time 

all those wet windy 

nineteen sixties evenings 

when we sheltered 

on Marine Drive, Southport 

waiting for the last bus

to take her home  to Rufford 

Nr Ormskirk,  Lancashire?  

 

she could not come home with me 

I had no home 

the upturned boat I sheltered under 

did not have room for two 

 

I did not know it then   

but I was a lousy boyfriend 

I did not know what boyfriends did 

or girlfriends expected 

so we parted 

so it goes

 

I married another 

fathered sons and daughters 

but I never forgot her  

Shirley was gentle, strong, compassionate,  

oh and funny with an infectious giggle 

 

she married another 

that did not last 

my marriage foundered too 

that’s what marriages tend to do 

 

Shirley gave birth to her babies 

nurtured her children 

wore a new hat every wedding 

 

while I was, perhaps, a footnote in her life 

a memory of a chaotic lad she briefly knew 

tossed in the winds of drugs and crime  

she meant far more to me 

she was my first lover 

the first to welcome me deep into her very self 

 

I prayed when I was told she had died 

asking god to make her welcome 

in the place she did not believe in 

 

I waited… in silence…waiting…listening 

long minutes later I heard her voice, 

 

“Ricky, it’s wonderful,” 

 

I guess we’ll meet up again.