The Hillbillies

By Peter Harrison

This ebook is based on the original paperback but has been put back to the 1960s and amended slightly.

The year is 1960. The Hill Family: Adam, Rebecca and son Charlie are all battling their own private demons; surviving - existing - in the wild and wonderful North-East of England.

Rebecca, an alcoholic with morals of an alley-cat, still festers over a long-ago broken romance with the local gigolo, Jimmy Shannon, and carries a dreadful secret about her violent, miscreant teenage son, Charlie.

Adam, a typical collier; hard-working, hard drinking and brutal, especially towards his wayward, criminal son, spends most of his married life trying to suppress the self-destruct button because of the antics of his emotional, erratic spouse.

Charlie Hill, out of control in his final year at school is a bully, a thief and an arsonist who works on a regular basis for local gangster Elvis Priestley. Upon leaving school he manages to secure employment at the local colliery even though the industry is dead on its feet.

Two topsy-turvy years in the turbulent lives of the family, culminating in the inevitable, unreliable confessional that threatens to destroy all three lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barny Books
• Release date: Oct 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310761058

Book preview

Dedicated to

My daughters

Lynne & Eve

Acknowledgments:

To the power-brokers behind

Barny Books:

Molly Burkett and Jayne Thompson

Prologue

Agnes Bailey looked at the clock. She could not wait any longer, Roy! she said. Get upstairs. Wash your face and clean your teeth … I’ll be five minutes.

The boy scampered out of sight, laughing and shouting with pleasure, South Shields! We’re going to South Shields!

Minutes later Agnes reached the back door of her neighbour’s house. She looked resignedly at the property, knocked at the door and entered. Rebecca! You there? she called out. There was no answer. Agnes walked through the kitchen, her features pinched and grim at the acrid, overpowering smell that wafted over her.

Charlie, she said, her voice lower, softer, as she peered into the living-room. The curtains had been closed but it could not hide the mess and mayhem of the place. She saw the boy in the gloom huddled in the big old arm-chair.

Oh Charlie! she whispered. Charlie Hill started to sob. Agnes approached the lad, eased her large frame on to the arm of the chair, her fingers gently touching the nape of his neck. Where’s your mother, Charlie?

Gone, Missus.

Where, Charlie? she asked resignedly.

The boy kept his head down, Don’t know, Missus Bailey.

Agnes shook her head, her emotions held in check, her tone soft, How long this time, Charlie?

Two days, he stammered and began sobbing, his face hidden in his grubby hands. Two full days!

Agnes asked carefully, You know what today is, Charlie?

School outing, Missus Bailey, he replied, wiping his shirt-sleeve across his running nose. Me and Roy are supposed to be going to South Shields.

The woman stood, sucking in air, a determined look on her stout face. Right! she said resolutely. We’re still going!

The boy looked up for the first time. Attempted to dry his eyes as he gasped, Nothing’s ready, Missus! No money! Nothing!

Agnes grasped the lad’s hand and eased him out of the chair, cuddled him like he was her very own. Where’s your dad, Charlie? she said, pulling a huge handkerchief from the sleeve of her blouse. Licking one corner of the material, she proceeded brusquely to clean his face.

Bed, Missus, said Charlie, grimacing. He’s on night-shift. His fingers tightened on hers, Can’t wake him, Missus. Wouldn’t dare. He’s in a bad mood with Ma. She took all the money again. Charlie did not mention the beatings he had suffered at the hands of his demented father. Took all the wages again and left nothing for us!

You eaten Charlie?

His face puckered with grief, his head lowered and slowly eased into the pendulous midriff of the woman, whispered, Haven’t even stayed off school, Missus. Teacher said anyone staying off school couldn’t go on the school trip. Didn’t stay for school dinners, Missus, Ma didn’t leave any money for me so I just came home at dinner time and sat until it was time to go back. Didn’t tell anyone, not even Roy.

Bugger this! said a determined Agnes Bailey.

Missus?

Get your coat, Charlie, or we’ll miss the bus!

I’ve got no spending-money, Missus Bailey, and he started sobbing softly. Not a penny!

I’ve got plenty to spare, my love, she answered and swept the child into her arms. Now come on, or Roy will get upset!

"What about my dad? cried Charlie. Shouldn’t I leave him a note and explain? He might go mad if he doesn’t know where I’m at?"

Leave your father to me, soothed the woman, bustling towards the door. I’ll sort it out later.

It was the best day of Charlie’s life. The sun burned all day long, the resort bursting with folk determined to enjoy the day. South Shields; sand, sea and uninterrupted sunshine! Glorious. The Easington crowd were game for anything and everything, Mid-morning and the fourth year pupils, parents and tutors were all in the park watching the local brass band bursting with confidence, very loud and occasionally out-of-tune, as they blew and battered their instruments with gay abandon, intoxicated with a heady mix of alcohol and atmosphere. Nobody cared a damn. Then the finale; the climax of the show, the singing contest announced over a squeaky, echoing microphone and Agnes, always eager for a laugh and a good time, volunteered their little group as first in line for the gala, dragging two fearful boys with her onto the rickety stage. Agnes, Charlie and Roy: Agnes Bailey, lead vocalist and, after a hesitant, nervous start, the boys dutifully followed her lead with the winning song: This Ole House. Would have made Rosemary Clooney proud. Charlie cried with laughter.

Afternoon saw the school party descend on to the beach. After an hour on the hot sands, someone suggested a swim. Almost as one the group started stripping off their clothes, only Charlie wavered and dithered. It was as if a cloud had settled over him.

Agnes, still in over-sized knickers and bra, knew something was wrong. ‘‘You okay, Charlie! she said, trying to nudge him into action. Something wrong, pet?"

No trunks, Missus! He looked crest-fallen and embarrassed, his features turning crimson. No swimming-trunks!

Agnes Bailey chortled and said, It’s nothing to worry about, Charlie, playfully raking her fingers through his hair. Leave your underpants on. No one will care.

Charlie looked mortified. Got none, Missus Bailey, he stammered. Eyes glared morosely at the sands. Ma said they’re a waste of money. He started to sob with humiliation.

There was just the touch of the parent in her tone. That’s enough of that! she said firmly. Striding to the oversized bag, Agnes fished about before pulling out Roy’s underpants. Bright red! Right my boy! We’re sorted!

Roy ran into view. Ma! he cried with outrage. They’re mine!

Shut your gob! said Agnes Bailey, feigning irritation, grabbed at the youngsters and cuddled them fondly. It’s time for a swim.

Charlie had a wonderful day.

The evening, however, was a different matter. Eight o-clock saw the two figures sitting opposite each other. Not a sound in the room, save for the spluttering of the coal-fire. Total silence between father and son, each alone with their own thoughts. Charlie, worn out with the excitement of the day ached for sleep but could not move. He had been ordered to sit still and not to speak a word and he knew he had to obey. It was eight-o-clock, another hour and Adam Hill would have to leave for work. He was in a sour mood. His wife was missing and he was working nights. He glowered at the boy; hating him, hating his mother, full of anger and frustration, his huge hands unconsciously gripped the arms of the chair. She had been gone two days. Two bloody days! Up to her usual tricks, no doubt. Raided his pockets too, even took the change. He thought of the long night ahead without any bait. Adam was starving, had not eaten a bite of food all day, not a bloody scrap anywhere in the house! That bloody woman! Two days missing! How the hell was he going to get through the shift?

Bed! he ordered, gesturing at his son, his tone venomous and threatening. This minute!

The boy walked quickly out of the room, his head down. When he reached the staircase, Charlie hurried up the steps, ran into his bedroom and bolted the door. Slumping on to the unmade bed, he put his hands together and started to say a prayer for his mother. Same prayer he had said the previous night. He wanted his mother home. Drunk. Sober. It didn’t matter. Could not bear the thought of another night without her. Worried about her, wondering where she was, wondering what she was doing.

Our father, who art in heaven. Could never remember the next word. Was it Hello be thy name or Hollowed? Neither sounded right. He bit his lip and concentrated. Charlie improvised, Dear Jesus. Please bring my mother home safely. Please ask her to come home tonight because my dad is really worried about her.

He started sobbing so he pulled blankets over his face to muffle the sound. Did not want his dad running up the stairs again, leather belt in hand. Did not want any more punishment. Mother! he gasped, tears streaming over his face. I want my mother! I’m frightened!

Chapter One

A cold morning mist clung to the deserted streets. Old Ben Russell drove the milk-float through the rows of council houses. He parked the vehicle, grasped the few bottles and made his way into the small cul-de-sac. Striding back to the van minutes later, his arms full of empties. Ben inadvertently glanced at the middle house, at the upstairs window damaged months earlier in a domestic dispute. It was still in need of repair. Curtains fluttered wildly at the inrush of air. He shook his head. Used to deliver to the house. Not any more, even though he was still owed money. Not worth the bother, not worth the harassment from the Hill family.

It started to rain. The milk float moved away towards the western perimeter of the village, towards the big church and the single row of terraced houses called Clappersgate. Ben was already soaked to the skin as he hurried into the small back-yard, not seeing the figure standing motionless. With a shriek loud enough to wake the dead, the old man dropped the bottles. The din was horrendous. Hell’s Teeth! he shouted.

The youth stood before him. Harry Shannon, five feet two, twenty stone plus, a huge dressing-gown draped untidily over his obese frame and, adorning his huge skull, a large, battered fedora. A cascade of golden locks fell to his shoulders almost hiding the whiskered jowls. Harry Shannon was concentrating on the overcast, leaden heavens, head arched up towards the grey morning. With an almost inaudible grunt and the faintest hint of a frown he turned his attention to the newcomer.

Good morning, Mr. Russell, he said in an almost childlike voice.

Jesus, Harry, was all Ben could muster as he looked at the mess of glass and liquid strewn over the yard. Look at the mess!

Harry Shannon whispered, Mother said the sunrise can be lovely, and gazed again at the dull skies seemingly oblivious to the broken bottles that tattooed the place. Bemused and confused he continued, But there’s no sun, Mr. Russell!

The old man calmed. Being annoyed with Harry was like being angry with an infant. Harry was brain-damaged; born that way.

I’ll get some more, Ben said and left the yard.

The back-door of the house squeaked open. It was Ruby Shannon, Harry’s long-suffering mother. She had been pretty once but that was a long time ago. The burden of her son had left its mark. She was old for her years and heavy now, almost as wide as her son.

Ruby Shannon scolded, Harry?

Mother! said the innocent, bewildered youth.

What have you done now?

Mother, said Harry naively. It was Mr. Russell’s fault.

Ben returned. Tried to apologise as he handed over new bottles to the mother. Ruby smiled resignedly, handed the milk to her gaping son and ordered him gently back into the house. She found a broom and started to clean the mess.

I’m sorry, Ben, she muttered. He can’t help it.

Chapter Two

Hours later the rain stopped. Tantalizing fingers of sun tapped over rooftops and streets. Charlie Hill opened his eyes. He had been dreaming of his grandparents again. He gazed about the bedroom, at the broken window and the curtains slapping noisily like abandoned flags. In those long distant days, his grandparent’s house had been a warm and comfortable home. Charlie had been carried daily to the place. Had a vague picture of his mother laughing as she helped with the household chores. Still remembered the smell of polish always wafting about the place as his mother cleaned and cared for her parents’ home. Everybody happy then, apart from his dad who was always moaning, who could not understand the bond between daughter and parents.

The house was a pig-sty now. There were times when he missed the old home. Two streets away and like a thousand miles. His first house was okay. Not too bad in fact. Once, it was clean enough to invite his friends in to play. Charlie closed his eyes, reminiscing. When his grandparents died within eight weeks of each other his mother, Rebecca, demanded they all move from their old home into her parent’s house. She could not bear the thought of someone else living there. His mother had been born there and wanted to spend the rest of her life there. Please Adam, she had pleaded. Do it for me! Dad was livid. He had spent a fortune on the old house and was adamant that under no circumstances were they moving.

He lost the battle and the family moved lock, stock and barrel into his grandparent’s house. Then slowly, inextricably, their lives deteriorated. Dad was unhappy about starting over and for his mother, the move proved a turning-point in her life. She changed as a person. Little things at first, things you would hardly notice. After meals, for example, she would be taking away plates and dishes. Washing and cleaning a priority. A place for everything and everything in its place, she would say. Not now. Not for a long time. His mother started leaving the cleaning. I’ll do it soon enough, she would comment. The washing-up will be there when I’m not. Her head was in the clouds. Miles away. Some days, his mother made little effort to converse with her family. Changed from a chatterbox to a silent brooding clown. She would forget to vacuum and then ask Charlie - who wasn’t as big as the Hoover - to finish the task. After a while she would not even ask just look at him with those big blank eyes, only she was not looking at him, she was in another place. Charlie did not think anyone could help. His mother changed, not immediately, but slowly. Over weeks and months she became a different person, as if she were drowning in her own despair, in a quicksand of sorrow and mourning of her own making, pulling down those closest to her.

Charlie stirred. It was Saturday. Best day of the week. He smiled to himself, knowing that both parents were present for once. His dad was snoring loudly from the other bedroom and the occasional clatter downstairs meant that his mother was around. Week five and Rebecca Hill had not vanished, had not disappeared into the night only to resurface days, sometimes weeks later filled with regret and misery. Disorientated and despondent. Always promising never to wander again, never again to drink. On my word, son, she would always say. That’s the last time! May God strike me down dead if I touch another drink! Some days she would swear on the rosary. Charlie missed his mother when she was gone. Nobody knew the pain he suffered. Week five and she was still around. Could not believe his good fortune. He ran down the stairs, filled with optimism and cheer.

Mum, he greeted her, then attempted to grasp the cigarette packet from his mother’s hand.

Rebecca winked, a rare smile filled her face. She threw the pack at her son. Don’t take liberties, she said. One only, you hear?

Charlie pulled out two cigarettes and stuck them in his mouth. Grabbing a box of matches from the fireplace he lit them both together. Seen it done at the movies. Ancient black and white films. Jimmy Cagney, tough guy with cool moves. Mum, he said and handed one to his mother, said cautiously, You okay?

Rebecca nodded her reply, gazing at her son, a myriad of thoughts clouding her head. With a loud sigh she rose on unsteady feet, alcohol still washing around her system. Felt nauseous and queasy, and moody enough to sour vinegar.

I’ll make some breakfast, she muttered and wandered towards the kitchen. Wondered if she would make it through the day.

The upstairs door banged out an ugly sound and the landing groaned like an out-of-tune piano as the big man thumped his way down the staircase. Adam Hill walked into view, squatted heavily in the big arm-chair that had just been vacated by his wife, stretched out a thick arm towards Charlie and demanded the smoke. Pass it over! he grunted arrogantly.

Charlie fired back immediately, Get lost!

Give it here! demanded the older man. If you know what’s good for you!

Rebecca shouted from the other room. For Christ’s sake!

Charlie relented, still fearful of his old man, handed over the cigarette and growled, Hope it chokes you! and joined his mother in the kitchen. Didn’t want to push his luck.

Rebecca handed her cigarette to her pouting son. She grasped the cup and drank greedily at the dark contents.

Charlie naively said, No milk again, mother? remembered the old days when the milkman would call daily. Long gone.

There’s a bit of milk left for you and him, and gestured towards the living-room where Adam sat and waited for his breakfast.

Rebecca Hill looked at the remainder in the cup; the Guinness looked like coffee, tasted like nectar. With one long swig she drained the liquid. That’s better! she said with a satisfied, smug look.

Breakfast! shouted Adam Hill from the other room. You’ll feed me before that brat!

Mum! whined Charlie. It’s me first!

When you get a bloody job, bawled Adam. You might be first in line. Until then, it’s me first! You hear?

Mother!

Rebecca Hill shook her head and stared sullenly out of the window, wanted to run away. Run a million miles away from everything and everyone.

Chapter Three

Entrepreneur Edward Aaron Priestley had, for the past thirty years, swept his thick black hair back off his jowly face. For the last ten years he had relied on a fortnightly rinse to keep the grayness in check. He had a reputation to keep and appearances counted. He could not perfect the smirk of The King but he persevered. Same initials as the King of Rock and Roll: Elvis Aron Presley. Natural that local folk called the businessman Elvis.

The singing star ruled the charts. Priestley ruled Easington.

He was 55 years of age. He was wealthy; richer than most folk in the area. Elvis had tried his hand at every mortal thing since leaving school all those years ago. His most enduring characteristic, his one saving-grace, was his obstinacy. Skin as thick and tough as a rhinoceros. Elvis had tried pit-work. Left school at fourteen on the Friday and was grafting at Easington Colliery on the Monday. Five years he lasted. Hated every damn shift. Elvis knew nothing else but pit work, there was precious little employment for a naïve and young lad to aspire to, especially without qualifications. It was either the mine or one of the few factories in Peterlee.

The explosion at the colliery was his wake-up call: His alarm clock failed and he missed the cage. A quirk of fate saved his life. Should have met his Maker that day. Elvis did not return to the pit, not even to collect his work clothes and boots. Eighty odd men killed, Stick that for a living, mused Elvis Priestley. That’s my last shift at the colliery!

The next year saw him working as a car mechanic at nearby Horden. Quite liked it too. But a spot of bad luck meant he had to leave his job sharpish. Still, he had made a penny or two flogging spare parts to the daft lads in the area. That was a real eye-opener, a genuine piece of good fortune which led Elvis on to his next enterprise. A few of the dodgy characters owned Army surplus wagons with engines big enough to haul loads of coal from the shoreline up the steep inclines that snaked from the nearby colliery beaches. Easington, Horden and Blackhall collieries all tipped their waste into the sea, not only stone and shale but coal too, tons of coal. The beaches were literally covered with a beautiful mix of muck and money. Fine coal nuggets. Black gold. Elvis’s ears flapped like a bat when he heard all about the magic of the ocean currents allowing the heavier stone to sink and the lighter black stuff being pushed by the tide towards the shore. Some nights the entire coastline was piled high with beautiful coal, free for the taking. If you had the gumption, the grit and the vehicles to haul it up the treacherous cliffs you could earn easy money. A tax-free booty for the audacious pit pirates.

Elvis persevered with the newness. Although he worked with the local skip-rats, Elvis always wanted to branch out on his own. Knew enough about life to know self-employment was the only way to guarantee riches. Ignoring the threats from the other, more established crews, he bought his very own wagon, found his own piece of shore-line and set up shop. Within two years, the newcomer had bought a second wagon and even hired a few local idiots as casual labour. His biggest competitor, mouth-almighty, Reggie Brown - who always boasted that the beach belonged to him - had left the scene permanently after a suspicious accident. Reggie Brown was crippled. Wheel-chair bound. Someone had doctored the brakes on his truck. Gossip spread like wildfire. Elvis was to blame. The young entrepreneur gained respect. He was becoming a rising star.

He was the first in the area to purchase an automated coal delivery wagon for home deliveries. Early sixties and almost every home was driven by coal or