Blood Line: Sometimes Tragedy Is in Your Blood
Previously published as My Uncle Charlie.If you lived on the notorious Canterbury Estate in the ‘40s and ‘50s, then you knew there was one man you did not want to cross: Charlie Hudson.A solitary man, feared and respected by the gangsters of the time, Charlie was a boxer who never lost a fight, in or out of the ring – the most infamous of The Canterbury Warriors.Blood Line, the second title in the explosive series unravels a story of debauchery, crime and self-destruction. Charlie Hudson was a born leader. The eldest of eight brothers and four sisters and with a boxer for a father, fighting was in his blood. And as the young protégé of local Italian gangster, Mr Cappovanni, Charlie not only learned to knock every opponent out, he also learned the tools of the crime and extortion trade well; emerging into adulthood in the middle of the war years as a natural heir: running cons, illegal books and a band of prostitutes.But when Charlie met Betty, a sweet, caring girl, he was determined to be a better man for her. He’d still deal with ‘business’ but no more would he bed his working girls, and the birth of their baby girl, Elizabeth, sealed it: he knew life could not get any better. But for a man who had only ever lived in the belly of the Canterbury Estate underworld, it could definitely get worse…Gritty and engrossing, book two of the Hudson family saga delves deeper into history of the infamous Canterbury Warriors; the true story of one man’s ascendancy to power, and the tragedy that brought it all crashing down.
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All names and identities have been changed in this memoir, to protect both the living and the children of those who have died. Some changes have been made to historical facts for the same reason.
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First published by HarperElement 2014 as My Uncle Charlie This edition 2018
© Julie Shaw and Lynne Barrett-Lee 2014
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018 Cover photographs © Plainpicture/Harald Braun (woman); Mark Owen/Trevillion Images (man)
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Julie Shaw and Lynne Barrett-Lee assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work
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Source ISBN: 9780007542260
Ebook Edition © February 2018 ISBN: 9780007542277
Version: 2018-07-09
Contents
Part One
Part Two
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.
