Dangerous Lovers: A Memoir

By J. M. Shorney

Growing up in the 1960s/70s was tough at times, especially as a woman. 

 

In her moving, heartbreaking, entertaining and unforgettable memoir, J. M. Shorney shares significant events from her life as she tried to gain her independence and overcome the challenges she faced as a woman.

 

Working as a female butcher in an all-male environment came with its own problems at a time when women were classed as second-class citizens and sex objects. And when she became pregnant at 19, she had to become even stronger.

 

She suffered sexual abuse at the hands of two men in her life who should have been role models instead of abusers, and she experienced a horrific time when an unhinged, wealthy, childless woman threatened to kidnap her baby, and she was stalked by a young man who was obsessed with her.

 

J. M. Shorney also fell in love with the wrong type of boy and her life could have turned out so differently had the real love of her life not come along.

 

From almost running away with a young man the night before his wedding to daring, coming-of-age sexual encounters in Brighton (at Devil's Dyke) you'll experience a gamut of emotions as you read through this incredible, raw, honest and beautifully crafted memoir. And you'll be so glad the author decided to share her story and her happy-ever-after.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. M. Shorney
• Release date: Nov 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223662105

Book preview

Dangerous Lovers

A Memoir

Dangerous Lovers

A Memoir

––––––––

J. M. Shorney

So give her this dance.

She can’t be forsaken.

Learn how to love her with all of her faults.

––––––––

The Eagles

~ * ~

Based on true events.

Dedicated to the lovely man

I married.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One Hungarian Rhapsody

Chapter Two The Safe

Chapter Three The Only One

Chapter Four Stalked

Chapter Five Rebel Without a Cause

Chapter Six Along Came a Spider

Chapter Seven The Joker

Chapter Eight If Ever the Devil Was Born

Chapter Nine Sibling Rivalry

Chapter Ten If You Can’t Be Good

Chapter Eleven Italian Tony

Chapter Twelve Brighton Rock

Chapter Thirteen For What You’ve Got

Chapter Fourteen Headaches and Antique Dealers

Chapter Fifteen Plans Unravelled

Chapter Sixteen The Invisible Girl

Chapter Seventeen A Desperate Woman

Chapter Eighteen Cold Shoulder

Chapter Nineteen An Angry Young Man

Chapter Twenty Winds of Change

Chapter Twenty-One Friday Night Harrowing

Chapter Twenty-Two Destiny of the Wishbone

Chapter Twenty-Three The Hero I was Holding Out For

Addendum

Other Books

by J. M. Shorney

Prologue

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If I had known then with whom he was involved, and what he really was, would I have ignored the first gorgeous man I had seen in ages? Turned him away because of my highly principled religious upbringing?

Although he was accompanied by four other young men indolently lounging on the museum steps in the bus station, he might have stood alone. For he was the only one I really saw. So what was it about this boy that made him stand out from the rest, enough to send my feminine pulses racing that summer day in 1967? Was it because good-looking boys drew me like magnets?

Perhaps eighteen-year-olds are more worldly-wise today than I could ever hope to have been back then. If I had known what he was and what he was into, I should have been perceptive enough to have made a rather wiser decision. But all I saw that August afternoon was a lean, athletic frame in a black tee shirt and tight burgundy jeans. Silver ring in his left ear. Tendrils of long black curly hair framing handsome features. Intense brown eyes in the darkest of olive skin. When a smile creased his lips, my senses reeled in the knowledge that I had to get to know him.

Of course I had no idea how to accomplish this. After all my mother was with me. A fact I realised when she reminded me we had shopping to do. Because for a single hair's breadth moment in time, it might have been just him and me, and no one else existed. Did I imagine him mouth a silent ‘goodbye’ when I walked away? Because I knew, beyond a reasonable doubt, that I must see him again. I must! It was imperative....

Chapter One

Hungarian Rhapsody

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Lost in my own retrospection, I was barely conscious of Annette when she said, ‘I know a boy that’s interested in you’. I believed that to be nothing more than a wind-up. Others had referred to boys being ‘interested’, and things had all come to nothing. For my thoughts remained indelibly on the boy I had seen in the bus station and the reason why I displayed precious little interest. Even if there was some semblance of truth in it, which there probably wasn’t, I wondered if I might have dreamt the boy I had seen. Someone who was hardly likely to be interested in me.

‘Okay,’ I sighed. ‘Who is it? If this is a wind-up.’

Her words scarcely penetrated until she said, ‘You met a boy at the bus station yesterday.’

For a moment, time seemed to stand still while my heart pounded in my ears. I was stocking up the freezer cabinet of beef joints, and for a moment, all concentration was lost with what I was doing. ‘How did you know?’ I regarded her in surprise.

Annette’s eyes widened. The first thing you noticed about her was her eyes, the way they stared out, so large and bulbous, almost as if they appeared to eclipse the rest of her features.

‘He lives near me. His name is George. And he wants to meet you. That’s if you’re interested. If you are interested, he’ll be outside the shop at twelve. I told him that’s when you go for lunch.’

Interested! Did she have to ask? I was so overcome that he should want to see me that I was close to passing out. I know it’s crazy, right, to practically swoon like a lovestruck schoolgirl over a boy. But that’s how I was in those days. Okay, so I was stupid and naive. Of course I had no idea then how naive I really was.

The hands moved far too slowly around the clock toward my lunch hour.

I was serving a customer when the object of my affection entered the shop. Was it enough that my heart should perform a crazy somersault, only for it to sink once more when he walked past my counter without a backward glance? While the lamb’s liver I was weighing opted to slide off the scales and back onto the counter as if in an escape attempt.

‘You dropped that,’ the customer reminded, favouring me with a withering look. The kind usually reserved for the village idiot, but which was in reality a grating voice in the back of my subconscious because one eye was already following George’s progress as I sensed him making a beeline for Annette’s checkout.

‘Concentrate, Jenny,’ a male voice admonished. I think it belonged to Don, the butchery manager, but I scarcely paid him much attention because I realised that George had seen me in this awful bloodstained overall and chef-style hat. I know my overall is five inches above the knee, and the hat is little more than a beret, but I can’t avoid feeling dowdy.

Although the customers marginally concealed her checkout from view, I know he was there and that they were chatting. Annette was smiling up at him with something of a glint in her eye, possibly of adoration. I know she has crooked teeth and a lisp as if she’s sucking in air, but that’s beside the point. It’s enough to leave me with an acute inferiority complex as I attempt to resurrect the lady’s liver when she complained that she wanted a fresh piece.

I could only watch helplessly as George walked out the back way without speaking as if he were deliberately avoiding me. That yesterday, when I barely slept a wink thinking about him practically all night, might never have been. Annette was obviously winding me up. It’s her he fancies and not me. The taste of bile rose in my throat. And I suddenly wanted to cry because of this sense of betrayal. I’m doing it again. Losing my head and my heart over a boy. I’ve obviously disappointed him. I’m not what he thought I was. I never pretended to be pretty. And yesterday was cloudy. He hadn’t seen me close up. Hadn’t seen my spots.

I had already begun to feel jealous, and we hadn’t even dated. He and Annette seemed so pally. She admitted she had known him for a while, they had dated, and that he lived near her at Sandleford Close.

All I knew about Sandleford Close was that it was a rougher, poorer area of Newbury with a bad reputation. Not that I should hold that against him. He might have lived in a tent; it would scarcely make a difference. All I needed to know was that he would be outside Liptons supermarket at twelve o’clock. Or was all this, as I continued to believe, a wind-up on Annette’s part?

It was after ten past when I left for lunch. All the while my heart beat a frightening tattoo inside my chest at the possibility of him not being there. And if he wasn’t, then I had no idea how I could possibly return to work and cope with such abject disappointment.

But he was there, leaning against the store window, wearing a faded denim jacket thrown over a close-fitting black tee shirt. His curly hair freshly washed. Brown eyes lit up above Annette’s head when he saw me.

‘I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,’ Annette enthused with a sort of knowledgeable smile, one that appeared to rest on George alone when he inquired if I’d like to go for a drink.

The pub wasn’t crowded at lunchtime, so we were able to find a quiet corner. When he asked what I would like, I requested an orange juice, and George returned from the bar nursing a half pint of beer.

It was only when he removed his jacket that I was aware of the single word ‘Annette’ tattooed on his right wrist. And I momentarily froze when I saw it. But I quickly regained my composure. I was unwilling to let him see how that name etched into his wrist had bothered me. When he told me he thought I was the prettiest girl he had seen in a long time I couldn’t help but feel a little heady. Not that I took compliments lightly. He was probably just saying it because it was our first meeting, and he wanted to be polite.

‘Even Annette?’ I dared, holding my breath in fear that he might think jealousy had prompted me to ask. Though he would not have been wrong.

Then he said, ‘Annette’s not pretty. She’s just...well, Annette.’

This response afforded a modicum of satisfaction. But I couldn’t help thinking that someone who has a person’s name tattooed on their wrist must care a great deal for them.

The last thing I intended was to scare him off into thinking I was possessive, so I preferred to ask Annette about the tattoo instead.

George and I shared each other’s lives that lunchtime. He confessed that he was unemployed but was drawing dole money while he looked for a job. He had only been living in England for eleven years since 1956 after emigrating from Hungary during the uprising. This obviously accounted for the smouldering dark eyes and the olive skin. He explained that he lived with his mother but that she didn’t speak much English.

I too volunteered a little about myself, the house where I lived. How it was a 250-year old Georgian coachman’s cottage in a small village. He smiled to display a perfect set of white teeth and reckoned I must be rich. ‘Not really,’ I told him. ‘But we are comfortable, I suppose.’

I wasn’t drunk on one orange juice when he escorted me back to work. But I was lightheaded with an adrenaline rush of excitement. When he asked if he could kiss me, I allowed him to do so. The kiss was gentle, hesitant, when I wanted him to snog my face off. But it was early days. When he asked to see me again I readily agreed. ‘Is Saturday evening good for you?’ I nodded that it was, and he suggested we could go to the pictures. I told him I had to catch a bus but should be there just after seven-thirty. We arranged to meet outside Woolworths, then walk to the cinema from via the park. With a farewell kiss, I reluctantly allowed him to leave. That afternoon I felt as high as a kite, and I hadn’t touched a drop.

Saturday couldn’t come quickly enough. As I worked most Saturdays, I hurried home eager to get ready. And felt Mum and Dad deserved an explanation for where I was going. I told them that I had met someone.

The weather was warm, so I wore my shortest dress with a light cardigan. Stepping off the bus I made the five-minute walk to Woolworths, where I stood and waited ... And waited. And waited. For a whole hour. The movie was probably halfway running by now. The times I checked my watch as the hands moved around to eight-thirty. Still George failed to show. It was then I realised that I had been stood up! The ‘Annette’ tattoo returning to haunt me, so that was all I could see until it filled my mind almost to bursting. It meant I would have no other choice than to return home and probably cry myself to sleep. Just when I believed I had found a boy I liked, who professed to like me, he decided to dump me. Now I knew who for, didn’t I? Annette confessed she had dated him. He had her name emblazoned on his wrist. What other proof did I need?

There was no bus until much later, so I was compelled to return home in a cab.

Alone in my bedroom, I could almost hear them laughing, George and Annette at the way they had duped the country girl.

Having eaten little over the weekend, and wishing I had never met George, I was determined to tell Annette what I thought of her on Monday morning.

I arrived an hour earlier to help the men put on the front counter display, so I had plenty of time to compose my broadside. When she strode in just before eight-thirty, I was sorting out the old stock before replenishing the new in the freezer cabinets and then I realised Annette was looming over me. So I inquired in a voice colder than an Arctic winter if she had had a good weekend.

‘It was okay,’ she shrugged, ‘Quiet. You?’

Yes of course it was quiet with you and George cosied up together.

‘Actually, it was the worst weekend I’ve ever spent in my life," I told her.

‘I know, Jean, he told me. And he asked me to give you this.’ She pressed a letter into my hand.

‘I knew it!’ I exclaimed. ‘He’s finished with me.’

‘Just read it okay,’ she urged. ‘Then you can decide for yourself.’

The letter was brief and appeared to have been hastily penned. Most of it filled with apologies. How he hoped I would understand, but he couldn’t blame me if I no longer wanted to see him. He had stolen some money and thought he had gotten away with it, but the police had turned up on the doorstep and arrested him.

‘I hope you’ll wait for me. But if you don’t want to see me anymore, I’ll be hurt, but I’ll understand.’ He had signed the letter, ‘All my love, George,’ plus several kisses.

‘Is this true?’ I asked Annette.

‘Every word. There are things you should know about George. He’s been arrested before. It’s not his first offence. He’s been in approved schools and Borstal.’

‘Then he wasn’t with you?’

‘No, Jean. I know you saw the tattoo. But it’s been over with me and George. If you want my advice, I know he’ll be hurt, but he’ll get over it. He’s a thief, and he’ll always be a thief....’ But, like a badly worn radio set, Annette’s voice faded into nothingness. Because as I pressed his letter to my chest, all I could dwell on was George had not been with another girl.

Chapter Two

The Safe

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If I could have seen into the future would I have taken Annette’s advice and given George his marching orders? Common sense dictated that I should. Don’t let your heart rule your head this time. This is another bad boy you should steer clear of. I know that, and my heart knows that. But it scarcely prevented me from wondering if he’ll seek me out on his release. That will be the telling factor. If he doesn’t then we’re through. And if he does will I resume our relationship? My overactive imagination and lack of trust believed the arrest thing might have been an excuse, and Annette really was with my potential new boyfriend. But it was all there in the local newspaper the following Thursday. The item hadn’t engendered much column space, only going onto relate that George Kovacs had broken into a neighbour’s house after seeing a pile of cash on the table in their living room. According to the news item, he had had a few drinks in the Monument public house, and feeling adventurous, prompted by a shortage of cash, George had slipped in and stolen the money. Apparently, a neighbour had seen George, whom he had known by sight, robbing next door.

George was now on remand, awaiting a hearing.

According to Annette, George’s mother appeared to have washed her hands of him. She had heard Mrs Kovacs laying into her wayward son in her badly broken English.

In my mind, George, who was only eighteen, the same age as myself, was worth saving. His thievery, though opportunistic, was not something I condoned. Yet I vowed if George still wanted a relationship, then perhaps I would be able to make him see the error of his ways. In those early years I still felt George could be moulded into getting an honest job. I was determined, if he would let me, to prove them wrong.

~ * ~

As summer rolled into autumn, I had heard nothing from George. Annette advised me to get on with my life. Not to ‘waste it on that wastrel,’ I think were her actual words. There was no telling how long he might be in jail. When he was released, there were no guarantees he would contact me.

‘He’s a lost cause, Jean,’ she said, her eyes enlarging in disbelief at my suggestion I could help him go straight. ‘You really do care about him, don’t you?’

I told her that I not only cared but that I missed him. And we hadn’t yet had a proper date.

Resting a hand over mine across the table in the Tasty Plate cafe, Annette assumed a serious expression. ‘I’m saying this as a friend who knows George better than you. I’ve lived opposite him for the last few years. We’ve heard the sirens in the night and seen the police bundle him off handcuffed in their panda cars. Poor Mrs Kovacs having the police turn over her house. We’ve taken her in because the rest of the neighbours have shunned her, not just because her son’s given the neighbourhood a bad name. But through fear.’ The colour draining from her face, she returned her cup to her saucer with a shaking hand. This was not the strong-willed young woman I had come to know. Since my ‘relationship’, if you could call it that, with George, Annette and I had become the best of friends. Overlarge mascara-lashed eyes regarded me uneasily as if she had said too much.

‘What were they looking for in her house?’

‘I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘Stolen money, drugs, weapons. Could be anything.’

‘Does George do drugs then?’

‘No, I’ve never seen any. With George, it’s guilty by association.’

‘Association with who?’ I asked warily.

‘With the Shaughnessy brothers,’ answered Annette. ‘Anyone  who has ever done prison time or has dabbled in petty crime, the Shaughnessys get them to work for them.’

The Shaughnessys, on par with Ronnie and Reggie Kray, were the local criminal gang. Many who knew them feared the Shaughnessys. Nothing or no one prevented them from plying their trade as extortionists, protection racketeers, petty criminals, and some even hinted at GBH and armed robbery. The Shaughnessys had their fingers in many criminal pies in those days. To cross them was to incur trouble. I wasn’t to know then how far George was embroiled in their nefarious activities. It shocked me to learn that he might be working for them. Perhaps Annette was right. If the Shaughnessys had involved him, what hope had I to extricate him from their clutches?

My initial brush with Newbury’s answer to the Kray brothers occurred while I worked at the David Greig