The Liverpool Basque (14 page)

Pedro looked anxiously at them. Both women looked as if a good gale would blow the pair of them to Kingdom Come. Even Rosita didn’t appear too well. What a bowl of trouble it all was. He wanted to weep himself; but men can’t cry. He badly needed a good meal and his bed, and some clean clothes to put on – he had not had his clothes off for days.

‘It was a true accident,’ Micaela told him dully, her veined eyelids drooping to hide her agony of mind. She was still haunted by the fact that it was she who had urged Juan to do a job which, she felt, should have been done by a younger man.

After Micaela’s cracked voice had faltered through the story, Rosita took Francesca from her, and herself changed
the child on the table. She glanced back at her husband and said, ‘You look as if you’ve been in the wars. Where’ve you been, luv?’

Pedro picked up his mug of tea again, and drained it. ‘All over the bloody Atlantic,’ he told her exasperatedly. ‘Afraid of subs – and miles off course. They shouldn’t have sent us to New York in the first place.’

‘New York? I thought they always did the west coast of Africa, and that way?’

‘Oh, aye. Most times that’s what we do. Not this time! We went from New York up to Halifax and Montreal. Then back south again to Charleston and then to New Orleans. I’ve been down as far as Argentina. The fellas were getting desperate that we’d never get home again, with one thing and another.’ He rubbed his tired eyes. ‘The war’s changed everything.’ He felt in his pocket for his cigarettes, took one out and lit it, while the women watched in silence. Then he said, ‘Finally, we got a cargo for Liverpool, and were we thankful! But we had such foul weather and were blown so far south that the Ould Man was worried about coal being enough, never mind whether we’d be spotted by German subs.’

Rosita was worrying about what she was going to give the unexpected arrival to eat, but she said, ‘You poor dear. Was the ship damaged at all?’

‘She’s got one or two nasty cracks in the deck. She needs a good overhaul. The Ould Man and the Chief are talking in the office now – and they’ll not be mincing their words. She’s that old, she’s near falling apart, she is. They want a refit.’

Rosita was still holding Francesca. She put her free arm round his shoulders, and he leaned against her. He wanted her.

‘The company’ll fire them for speaking up like that,’ Micaela said nervously. ‘Even a ship’s master must mind what he says.’

‘Not nowadays,’ he said with a sudden grin. ‘They’re getting short of men. Too many gone into the Navy – called up from the Reserve.’

Rosita put Francesca down on the floor again and the child crawled away on her own small voyage of exploration. Her mother was anxious. It was unlike Pedro to complain seriously about anything. He carped occasionally, like all seamen did but it did not mean much; like his mates, he had a doglike patience and endurance, an acceptance of the dangers of his calling and of company parsimony. Now she felt sick at the thought of enemy submarines meeting a boat that probably could not travel at more than ten knots; it would be a sitting duck. As if in agreement with her apprehensions, the baby within her kicked quite energetically.

She pulled herself together, and said firmly, ‘I bet you’re hungry. I haven’t got a lot in the house, but I’ve got bacon and eggs – and fried bread?’

He nodded. ‘That sounds good,’ he assured her.

Manuel came wandering in in search of tea, and greeted his father exuberantly. Now Daddy was home everything would be all right, and Aunt Maria would stop bursting into tears every time you looked at her.

Micaela made herself get up briskly. ‘What about a wash and a shave,’ she suggested, ‘while Rosita gets the tea?’

‘Oh, aye,’ Pedro responded, with feeling. He put his young son down from his knee. ‘Go and get the bucket from the outhouse,’ he told him. ‘We’ll fill it from the oven tap, and I’ll go up and have a good wash.’

Obediently, Manuel went to collect the enamel bucket always used for this purpose and set it in the hearth under the shiny brass tap of the hot water tank. He squatted down and turned on the tap; it belched a thin stream of nearly boiling water. While he watched it trickle into the bucket, he wondered what his father had brought him this time.

Later, Micaela refilled the tank with cold water from the tap over the sink because Pedro forgot to do it.

‘How long will you be home, Pedro?’ Micaela asked, as she stretched upwards to lift some dinner-sized plates from the dresser shelf.

‘Depends on what the Ould Fella fixes with the bosses,’ he responded morosely. ‘Maybe a few weeks.’

A few weeks!

Even the threat of temporary unemployment if the ship were laid up made Rosita pause, frying-pan in hand. Despite Effie’s rent, the best she had been able to do with her housekeeping was to avoid drawing further from the Post Office account and keep herself out of debt. Saving was impossible. A spurt of deep anxiety broke through her general relief at having her husband safely home, and a shiver went up her spine.

She laid the pan on the draining board while she went to the pantry to get bread, bacon and eggs and lard. They had never been short of food, she considered anxiously, though Grandma and she had contributed to this by keeping house with the greatest care, as if every farthing was the last one they had. Now, she worried. In the past if Pedro was laid off, there had always been Juan or Leo who were working. Now there was only Pedro.

It became a difficult evening, because Pedro was himself worn out. It was made worse because there was no wine in the house to alleviate the strain – one of Rosita’s economies had been to do without it; and, then in the early morning, Francesca woke and howled miserably, aware, perhaps, of an extra person in the bedroom. Rosita made a mental note to move her the next day to a tiny bedroom over the hall; it was time she learned to sleep alone.

A sleepy Pedro was kind about the expected child; Rosita had been afraid that he would have been annoyed at such an early addition to his family. ‘Kids are sent by God,’ he told her; but it did not make him any happier.

The next morning, while Rosita was still urging little Manuel to hurry up or he would be late for school, Pedro quickly shaved himself and washed his face at the kitchen sink. At Micaela’s insistence, he gobbled a bowl of porridge, while standing with his back to the fire to warm himself. Then he grabbed his cap and jacket from the peg on the back door, gave Rosita a quick peck on her cheek, and said, ‘I hope to get back tonight.’ He hurried out of the house, to look at his damaged ship.

The previous night, as he turned over in bed before finally settling to sleep, he had told her that they would talk about their finances tomorrow; and he asked who the woman was he had met on the stairs, as he came up.

‘Effie Halloran,’ Rosita had replied cryptically. Further explanation could wait until morning.

Now he had fled back to his ship, Rosita felt vexed. She knew that he had responsibilities there, but she needed to
talk
to him, quietly and sensibly. Then she realized that if the ship were laid up for some time, there would be too much time for discussion – and no income to discuss. She shrugged, as she turned to deal with Francesca, who was whining because she was hungry.

Under the bleary eyes of the third mate, the ship was being unloaded. They had taken a mixed cargo from New York to Charleston; there, they had picked up armour plate destined for Liverpool. The boat was teeming with men, from company clerks to stevedores, though the job was nearing completion.

The crew members who lived nearby were returning glumly to work; others would get shore leave later on.

Pedro went to look for the bosun; he had to arrange with him for innumerable small repair jobs to be done, and a lot of general maintenance which had been neglected during the voyage because of bad weather.

Perhaps it was the bad weather which had kept the U-boats fully occupied, too. It was a miracle that they had not encountered one. Off course, overloaded, too slow to be part of a convoy and obviously battered by the storm, any U-boat commandant who had spotted them would have licked his chops over them, thought Pedro grimly.

‘The Ould Man’s fit to be tied this morning,’ the bosun told him in reference to the ship’s master. ‘And the Chief’s down in the pit, giving hell to everybody in sight. The office told the pair of them to quit crying into their milk; this is no time for refits, they said; there’s a war on!’

In fluent Basque, Pedro cursed all owners, and stuffed his chapped hands in his trouser pockets. The bosun grinned. He did not understand Basque, but the tone conveyed the meaning. He said to Pedro, ‘They got some fellas down below looking at it; it mayn’t be as bad as we think.’

Pedro did not reply. He had sailed for three years in this old tub, because nothing better had offered. He had, however, been trying for a berth with de Larrinaga, a Basque family firm trading with the West Indies, out of Liverpool. Now that he had more experience under his belt, he felt that he should try again; before the war began, he had been thankful for a job; but, now, merchant seamen were in a little shorter supply and he might stand a better chance. The ship’s turnaround was, however, much quicker than he had expected, so he had to defer his job-hunting.

Against the better judgement of the ship repairers who had been called in, minor repairs only were made and some rigging which had been lost in the storm was replaced.

Intent on a speedy turnaround, the owners gave short shrift to the complaints of the chief engineer about the needs of his engine room. A few days later, the ship sailed for New York, largely under ballast.

Painfully aware of the war being waged in the Atlantic and that he was serving in a ship which, as his second had remarked, was not much better than a bloody sieve, Pedro was careful not to communicate the crew’s unease to his family. Rotten owners who ran rotten ships were one of the hazards of a seaman’s life.

Nevertheless, he and Rosita were heavy-hearted on the day he sailed. Though she was pregnant, he would have loved to take her to bed that evening; but it was not possible with the eyes of his mother-on-law and Maria on him all the time. Sometimes, Rosita, too, wondered savagely if the two women really understood anything about human longings for the comfort of a regular sex life; how difficult it was to be faithful when your man was on a long voyage and other men looked hopefully at you. Did Maria understand the tension between Pedro and herself, as they sat gravely by the fire together, unsatisfied? The pain of loving a man so much was pain indeed.

That last evening, they had sat around discussing their money problems. Anxious that there should be no dissension between Pedro and Rosita, Micaela took the initiative in explaining to Pedro where his allotment went. As she spoke, her knitting needles flashed steadily; she was knitting her son-in-law a new navy-blue sweater.

Pedro listened without comment, while he cleaned out the bowl of his pipe with his penknife.

When she had finished, he said uneasily, ‘The minute I got your letters, when the pilot came aboard, I knew what you were up against. And I know you do your best – I’ve never seen either of you waste anything.’ He was grimfaced, as he drew on his cigarette. ‘I’ve been thinking that I can increase the allotment to Rosita to the maximum the
company will let me. And I’ll hope to give you a bit more when I dock. I have to keep some money by me, you understand. Ciggies don’t cost much, because I don’t buy them in England; I sometimes have to stand the lads a drink – they’re my mates, and I have to live with them.’

Rosita was patching the seat of a pair of Manuel’s trousers; she was an excellent needlewoman, and the stitches barely showed. She looked up at her husband, letting her work fall into her lap, as he stopped speaking. He looked so tired and melancholy, as he slumped in his chair, that it hurt her. She said cheerfully, ‘Not to worry, luv. We’ll manage somehow – with the bit extra you’ll leave us. I’ve still got Francesca’s baby clothes, so we won’t have to buy anything new for the baby when it comes.’

His face softened. She was a sweetheart, and he longed to cuddle her. His face lightened slightly, as he said in a rueful tone, ‘I won’t be able to bring much in the way of presents for you.’

‘Tush, don’t worry about that.’

In the golden glow of a Canadian summer evening, Old Manuel slowly dug over a small flowerbed in his Victoria garden and thought about Pedro. He remembered his bringing him a small blue lorry that he wound up with a key. He had run into Pedro’s open arms to hug him in his excitement at the present, loving the comfort of those strong arms round him and the stubbled chin against his face. That was how he had always remembered him – and always would, thought Manuel, as he stopped digging to let his aching back recover.

After Pedro’s return to sea, Manuel actively missed him. Until then, his father had been a friendly person who came and went, whom he only vaguely remembered between times. It had been Grandpa who had been the stalwart backbone of his life, and, like most backbones, had been taken for granted.

Occasionally, Manuel had nightmares, when he seemed to be flying through the air and then falling to hit the tiles of the lavatory roof. He was grateful when Auntie Maria heard him cry out and lit her candle, and, like a friendly ghost, crept across to his bed to comfort him.

One day, after noting his mother’s swollen figure, he asked, ‘Are we going to have another baby, Mam?’

Rosita smiled. ‘If God wills,’ she said.

‘Will it be a boy or a girl?’

She laughed softly. ‘We don’t know. It doesn’t matter.’

But it does matter, thought Old Manuel, as he remembered this tender moment with his mother. I love Faith, but I would have loved a son, as well. I’d have taught him how to fish – and build and sail a boat – and I could’ve talked politics with him. He would’ve been a real Basque in his ways.

He could not find any irrefutable argument to confirm his idea that a son of his would have embraced his Basque traditions with enthusiasm; he simply sensed that it would have been so.

He wondered if he would have a great-grandson by Lorilyn, a boy who might have pride in his Basque forebears,
who would be as handsome as Pedro and have the wisdom of Juan Barinèta.

He realized suddenly that this dim hope was why he was writing down what he remembered of his early life; he wanted his notes to be passed down to this phantom descendant. Basques were becoming fewer and were scattered, like the Jews, all over the world. He wanted with all his heart to leave on earth a child with the tough independent outlook and the physical and mental strength of his Basque forebears.

Heavy with her pregnancy, Rosita once lamented to Effie Halloran that it was great to be a man. ‘Away at sea – away from all the troubles at home. It’s the life of Riley.’

‘We all has our troubles,’ comforted Effie. ‘It’s no joke having a man under your feet all the time. And your Pedro’s good to you.’

The winter mists of 1914 engulfed the city. Around the Wapping Dock, there were no trees to lose their leaves and announce the approach of winter. It was the increasing sound of fog horns bellowing across the water which told small boys that Guy Fawkes Day was imminent.

Manuel, Brian and Joey, with a horde of other small children, began to collect bits of wood, abandoned scraps of furniture, old newspapers and wooden crates, anything that would burn, ready for the bonfire they would make on the fifth of November.

Manuel negotiated with Rosita for the loan of Francesca’s push-chair in which to push the guy around.

‘And what happens if you break it? I’m not having it run all over the place – for a guy!’

On her way to the outside lavatory, Effie heard Rosita’s refusal, and paused to say, ‘Himself’d knock a handcart together for yez. All he’d need is a soap box and a couple of wheels.’

George Halloran was very agreeable to being drawn into
preparations for the anniversary of the Gunpowder Plot, and soon put together a most satisfactory vehicle for them.

The guy itself was made a monstrous object. The lower part of the body was made out of a pair of old overalls once worn by Grandpa. They were stuffed with newspaper. Mrs Connolly provided a hopelessly torn pullover of Pat’s which was also stuffed, to make the upper part of the body; and, to Manuel’s delight, Auntie Maria made a wonderful head by stuffing one of her old black woollen stockings and embroidering a gruesome set of features on it with a length of red knitting wool. A long-since-abandoned beret, which had for years been used as a hot-water bottle cover, gave the guy an unexpectedly Basque appearance.

The effigy was arranged in the soap box, and a whole string of small boys took turns in pushing it all the way up to Paradise Street, where they collected a number of pennies for it from the seamen around the Sailors’ Home. They then pushed onward into Church Street and up to Bold Street, shouting to the well-dressed shoppers, ‘Penny for the guy, Missus,’ or, more belligerently, ‘Remember, remember, the fifth of November, Gunpowder, Treason and Plot!’ The shoppers seemed to feel that grubby urchins with an improvised wheelbarrow had no right to be there, so they only got a few farthings out of them.

Stolid little Brian Wing was trusted by everyone, so he was the group’s treasurer. He carefully put all the coins they collected into his marble bag, since it was not the marble season. Afterwards, they crowded into Mr Wing’s steamy back room, while he obligingly counted the proceeds for them.

While Mrs Wing smiled through the steam as she ironed shirt after shirt, they decided shrilly on their fireworks shopping list. Catherine wheels and rockets were the prime favourites, closely followed by a banger for each boy, and two volcanoes.

Though Mrs Wing would have been thankful for the amount they collected, to add a little pork to their evening rice, nothing was said. Boys usually gave their mothers most of the odd pennies they earned for going messages for other housewives, or minding horses, or catching a line for an incoming boat. Money collected for Guy Fawkes Day seemed sacrosanct; it was the children’s great day.

Because of the war and creeping shortages of many peacetime products, it proved difficult to find fireworks. A very small shop in Park Lane finally yielded a gratifying number, left over, perhaps, from the previous year.

The joyful little boys streamed back to Wapping, to ask Joey’s father, Pat Connolly, to keep them safe from being accidentally blown up. He also undertook to build their bonfire, having acquired a reputation, from previous years, for being very good at bonfires.

‘For sure,’ he said, ‘and I’ll find a bottle or two to set the rockets in.’ Then he asked, ‘Have you got any spuds to roast?’

Crestfallen, they admitted that they had not; and what was the good of a bonfire without potatoes to roast?

Then Manuel announced grandly, ‘Me mam’ll find us some,’ and he fled next door to make good his promise of at least twelve spuds.

‘How many do you want?’ asked Rosita, a little anxiously. She had a sack of potatoes in the cellar, but they had to last for months – and prices were going up at a frightening speed.

‘There’s five of us – and Mr Connolly – and there’ll be some more on the day. Could I have twelve, to be sure?’

About four pounds of potatoes, at least. Rosita bit her lower lip.

At her hesitation, Grandma Micaela ordered firmly, ‘Give them him. Compared to the lot out there, we’re not poor – Pedro’s in work.’

It was a matter of pride.

‘All right,’ Rosita agreed reluctantly.

George Halloran’s willingness to help on occasions was not the only kindness received by the three women.

Domingo Saitua, who worked on the Birkenhead ferry, came in one night, and said shyly, holding his beret between his great red hands, ‘Mam said you wanted a wheel put on.’

Thankfully Rosita produced the push-chair and the loose wheel, and he squatted down by the back door and neatly put it on for her. It was a labour of love – he considered Rosita the most beautiful woman in Liverpool.

Another time, a pane of glass fell out of the kitchen window and shattered in the yard outside. The following day, a wizened old man, who must have been in his seventies and said his name was Pablo, came with a piece of glass, cut it to size and puttied it into the frame. ‘Used to have a drink with Juan often enough,’ he told Grandma, grinning toothlessly.

Afterwards, Rosita laughed. ‘I swear I never told anybody the pane was broken – I haven’t left the house since it fell out!’

‘Grapevine,’ replied Grandma, as she neatly turned the heel of a sock and Pudding tried to bat at the swiftly moving knitting wool.

‘Well, I’m very grateful. Otherwise, I’d have had to fill it with cardboard.’

Numerous small acts of kindness like these helped Micaela in another way; the short visits of other Basques were a comfort to her in her loneliness. She was the oldest woman in the community and this set her slightly apart. Because of her rapidly increasing blindness, which was accepted as a natural result of ageing, she tended to sit more at home, doing jobs that did not require her to move about so much. So she was more easily approached by the
Basque wives of the kind helpers; tired, harassed women, they came to ask her advice.

Aunt Maria also enjoyed the visits. The old couch in the kitchen-living-room had become her permanent bed, so that she did not have to climb the stairs. Manuel missed her and her candle in the bedroom. Lots of old people slept in living-rooms, so he did not see the significance of the new arrangement. He did notice, however, that Father Felipe visited her rather more often than he had done before Grandpa died, and that, though he encouraged Grandma to walk up to the church to attend Mass, he apparently did not expect Auntie Maria to accompany her.

‘Why do we have to go to Mass, and Auntie’s let off?’ he asked his mother crossly, when he had been called in from a great game of Boches and Allies to be made clean for church.

‘Because she’s frail, dear,’ his mother had replied, as she scrubbed his face, hands and knees with Sunlight soap and a piece of flannel.

As he dried his face with the thin kitchen towel, he stared at the patient figure propped up on the couch, her rosary held in her listless hand. She had taken no notice of the exchange between his mother and himself.

Manuel had forgotten the tiny incident, until soon after Faith had been married.

Kathleen had always accompanied him to church, though, being a Protestant, she did not take the Sacrament. One Sunday, she said she felt too tired to walk the short distance to Mass, but that she would like to attend.

She had never complained before of fatigue without an obvious reason for it, and it was with some anxiety that he got the car out. Because parking was difficult to find and the distance not very great, it was the first time that he had ever driven to church.

It had been the beginning of the end, he thought
helplessly, as had been the increasing number of visits to Maria by Father Felipe.

Kathleen had not had the consolation of priestly visits; the church had so few men that pastoral visits had, largely, become a folk memory. Instead, she had had innumerable hospital visits for blood infusions, to counteract the leukaemia which had struck her down. She had been admitted at other times for all kinds of infections, to which she had been laid open by the underlying disease. He shuddered when he remembered the lingering misery of the last years of her life, and cursed modern medicine with good old-fashioned Basque curses for extending a life not worth living. Then he reminded himself not to be ungrateful; nowadays, modern medicine could have cured Aunt Maria.

So that she, too, could die of cancer? he asked himself furiously in his distress over his suffering wife.

Distraught at the memory of Kathleen, he pushed his notes to the back of his desk, and went to the kitchen to get a glass of wine. He felt shut in, dreadfully alone. No one to talk to. None of the close neighbourliness of his youth to sustain him. He thought of Sharon, one of the very few who seemed to invite confidences; she always spoke to him if she saw him in the garden. Of course, Veronica also stopped to speak; the trouble was that she never stopped speaking! And she had her own axe to grind, he considered grimly.

He slowly put on a jacket and zipped it up. Then, slapping his beret on his head, he went out to walk by the sea.