The Liverpool Basque

by Helen Forrester

  ‘You know, Frank Abbott. He’s a stoker in the Royal Navy – on the Abouki.’

  ‘Oh, aye. Something happened to him?’

  ‘The Jerries sunk his ship. She got the telegram yesterday evening, poor soul. And her with three kids.’

  Pat put down his newspaper, and nodded. ‘There’s going to be a lot of them,’ he prophesied.

  Joey interrupted. ‘Is that Rosemary’s dad?’

  ‘Yes, luv. She’ll have to go into service or summat. No more school for her – or the two boys either – they’ll have to work.’

  ‘Why, Auntie Bridget?’ This from Manuel.

  She looked kindly down at the boys, while the sooty water from her saucepans ran slowly down her fat arms. ‘Well, when you haven’t a dad there’s no money coming in. Even if their mam can find work, it won’t be enough.’

  Pat had caught the gist of her remarks, and he said, ‘Ethel Abbott’ll get a bit of a pension.’

  ‘Ta, ever so,’ replied his wife with heavy sarcasm. ‘With a bit of luck it may feed the cat. And him serving his country, and all.’

  Pat made a wry face. ‘It’s true. They don’t care a tinker’s cuss about folk like us. Dying for your country! That’s a joke.’ He returned to his sporting news.

  So if you were drowned at sea, you had died for your country and joined The Fallen. He swallowed. The idea frightened him – Papa was at sea. And Grandpa, who had been king in his own home, would not be there any more; the thought gave him a dreadful, empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. The news that, because Rosemary’s father had been killed in the war she would have to go into domestic service, did not help. All Basques knew that to be a servant in a private house was humiliating in the extreme; Panchika Saitua was the only person with whom he was acquainted who served in a private home – and Grandpa had always said that Saitua’s daughter was the stupidest woman he had ever met – which probably accounted for her situation.

  Dying for your country did not help your family, ruminated Old Manuel. He had certainly learned that from Rosemary’s tragedy, and, in adulthood he had borne it in mind – not that it had done him much good; his legs ached every day of his life from the effects of another war, another time.

  He remembered Miss Carr again – and the other anxious teachers. For years afterwards, as men were lost at sea or killed in their thousands in the trenches of France, those women must have tried to comfort their pupils, while their own brothers and sweethearts were constantly at risk. He still recollected them with respect.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The cost of Grandpa’s funeral was paid from his Burial Insurance with the Prudential. Their representative, a small, neatly dressed man in a bowler hat, brought the money and delivered it to the widow with some ceremony. He had been coming to the house for years to collect sixpences as premiums. His appearance in the street always caused the same worry and, occasionally, consternation to housewives that the rent man did; nobody missed paying him if they could help it; the thought of being condemned to burial in a pauper’s grave was too terrible to contemplate. He was a kindly soul, however, and had been known to help out a harassed family by putting their contribution in himself, hoping that they would pay him later, in a week when there was more work in the docks.

  It was with genuine sympathy that he sat with Grandma for a few minutes, conveying his condolences and that of his company, as he passed the cash to her. ‘Mr Barinèta was a grand man, Missus. We shall all miss him,’ he told her, as he took out a handkerchief, grey with much washing, and blew his nose hard.

  She smiled dimly at him, and Rosita pressed a glass of wine on him. When he rose to leave all three women thanked him effusively for coming so promptly.

  He insisted that Manuel should see him out, which the boy did, while the pound notes slipped from Micaela’s lap on to the rag hearth mat, as she turned to cling silently to Rosita, and Maria wept.

  Carried by his mother, Manuel was taken into the parlour to say goodbye to Grandpa, before the coffin was finally closed. He had been nervous about this, because a girl at school had told him that she had been made to kiss her dead aunt in her coffin, and her cheek felt cold like a frog and she smelled horrid.

  No such gesture was expected of him.

  Grandpa looked strangely young, not really like the volatile old man he had known; he had a bandage round his jaw, which made him look odd. He said, ‘Goodbye, Grandpa,’ and slipped down from Rosita’s arms, to run back to the warm familiarity of the kitchen.

  He remembered the funeral itself quite clearly. His mother, Grandma and Auntie Maria wore black head-scarves, and their blouses, skirts, shoes and stockings were the same dead colour. He himself wore his best black Sunday suit, which was rather short for him at the cuffs and ankles. The elaborate, horse-drawn hearse was followed by numerous women, their flowered pinafores doffed for the occasion, so that they, too, were in black. Those few men who were not at sea, or who were not working that day, followed the women; they, too, wore their black Sunday suits with black berets on their heads; some were very old and limped along with the aid of walking sticks; Manuel did not know many of the latter – they were the men with whom Grandpa had played dominoes in quiet corners of the Baltic Fleet. At the end of the procession, two Irish neighbours, both of whom worked a night shift, followed respectfully; they were distinguished from the Basque community by their flat caps and grubby grey raincoats. Both of them had a band of black ribbon sewn around their left sleeve, to indicate that they were in mourning.

  Next to the hearse in the procession was a carriage for the immediate family. Auntie Maria had insisted on being dressed and accompanying her mother, so Mrs Saitua came in the carriage with them, to help Maria in and out and generally sustain everybody. Nobody spoke. As they passed up the street, any men who saw the procession, whether acquaintances or strangers, took off their hats as a mark of respect to the dead. A sprinkle of newly uniformed soldiers saluted the hearse, rather than doffing their caps.

  After the funeral, everybody crowded into the Barinèta home for cakes and sandwiches made by Rosita and her neighbours, washed down by all the wine in the house and by strong black tea for those who liked it.

  It was not as grim as Manuel had expected. The kitchen-living-room was filled with men, smoking like fireplaces on days when there was an east wind. They talked quietly in a mixture of Basque and English. They sometimes laughed as they recalled amusing stories of the dead man.

  Grandma Micaela’s rocking chair had been moved into the parlour, the two chairs which had supported the coffin having been hastily moved back to the kitchen-living-room.

  Surrounded by a phalanx of women, she sat with Francesca sleeping soundly on her lap, and received, with bent head, the commiserations of her friends and neighbours. To Manuel, she seemed to have become suddenly very old, with none of her usual sprightliness and quick movements. Beside her sat Auntie Maria, coughing, and weeping steadily into a black handkerchief.

  Rosita, aided by Bridget Connolly and Madeleine Saitua, patiently filled cups and glasses, put out a number of saucers to act as extra ash trays, and accepted, with gratitude, small gifts of food or wine brought by kindly neighbours.

  Old Manuel put down his ballpoint pen, and stretched himself stiffly in his swivel chair. Having been bereaved of Kathleen, he now understood something of his Grandmother’s despair. For a while, after the funeral, she had been almost completely closed into herself – terribly lost to the world continuing to struggle round her – as if her mind had ceased to function. She would do slowly and mechanically anything Rosita asked her to do, and, when it was finished, would sit in her rocking chair, her hands in her lap.

  It was Rosita, who, with a worried frown, took on the difficult task of making Pedro’s allotment stretch to cover all the needs of three women and two children. She tended to be short with her son, and he was glad to go to school, he remembered.

  Rosita herself felt far from well. As the weeks of her pregnancy progresse
d, she ceased feeding Francesca herself, and gave her bottles of diluted cow’s milk and bits of mashed up vegetable from her dinner plate.

  In those early weeks, without the weekly sum handed out by Juan Barinèta from his cash box, they had had to augment the housekeeping by taking money out of the boxes under Micaela’s bed, money saved for clothes, for extra coal for bitter winters and other small emergencies. This worried Rosita desperately.

  She had hoped that her father had something still in his cash box, kept at the back of the wardrobe. Sometimes, after a group of emigrants had passed through, it could be expected to hold quite a sum. When she and Micaela opened it, however, it proved to have very little in it. It dawned on them that they had not had any lodgers for some months before Juan’s death. He had mentioned that the threat of war must have made would-be emigrants nervous about taking a long sea journey. He had joked about it, but, as they surveyed the small pile of silver and a few pound notes, they realized that he must have been very worried about his financial situation; yet, he had not bothered them with it. ‘Perhaps he was thinking of going to sea again,’ suggested Micaela. ‘That’s what he would have likely done in time.’

  Rosita nodded. It made no difference now. With the money they managed to buy a new jersey and boots for Manuel at the beginning of the school term – the child had grown out of his current garments. They also bought three months’ supply of coal, before the price went up for the winter months.

  They did their best not to touch the Post Office savings account in Micaela’s name – because that was intended, in the long term, for school fees. They were driven eventually to draw enough for two weeks’ rent, rather than get behind with such an essential payment.

  Rosita wrote to Pedro again, care of the company, asking if he could increase his allotment. She hoped that the owners of the tramp steamer, of which he was first mate, would be aware of at least one of the ports which the boat would touch, and would forward her letter to their agent there.

  ‘That’s the worst of tramps,’ Rosita remarked to Bridget Connolly, who met her on the way to post the letter. ‘Even the owners often don’t know, for sure, where a ship is – wandering from port to port, picking up and putting down – and not getting back to Liverpool until God knows when.’

  Bridget hugged her shawl round her. There had been a bit of a frost that morning, and she had been thinking how nice it would be to have a real overcoat – with a lining to it. She said doubtfully, ‘Pat mentioned that your Pedro was trying for a berth with Larrinaga’s. It would be proper nice if he could get one – at least you’d know when he was likely to be home.’

  Rosita shrugged. ‘I wish he could. I haven’t heard from him yet in reply to my letter about my dad. And I wrote to him earlier that I’m expecting again. He writes to me, but he isn’t getting my letters.’

  ‘Aye, luv. Try not to worry. At least he’s in work. Have you heard from Leo?’

  ‘Not for a long while. I can’t imagine what’s happened to him. I worry myself sick sometimes. And my other brother, Agustin – he’s in a tramp steamer, like Pedro – and my uncle in Bilbao – Agustin lives with him – doesn’t know where the lad is going, half the time.’ She paused, and then added grimly, ‘Agustin’s lucky, though – his ship is Spanish-registered – nothing to fear from the Germans.’

  ‘So he still lives in Bilbao?’

  ‘Oh, aye. He’s been courting a Bilbao girl for years. They’re waiting on a house in the same street as Uncle, so the girl will have plenty of company, while he’s at sea.’

  ‘So you can’t expect much help from him – or your uncle?’

  ‘No. They have a struggle.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope Leo comes home.’

  Rosita’s lips trembled. ‘I wish he would, Bridget. I wish he would.’

  Unaware of Rosita’s financial worries, Manuel played with Brian Wing and Joey Connolly, whipping in and out of the alleyways in wild games of tag or cops and robbers, or plodding up to Princes Park to collect conkers from the horse chestnut trees. The chestnuts were put in corners of the kitchen fireplace to dry out. A hole was then carefully bored through the centre and a piece of string inserted. After that, a boy was fully equipped to play conkers for months, until all his chestnuts had succumbed to hits from those of the other boys, after which everybody had to wait for next year’s crop of nuts.

  When he felt the need for male support, Manuel gradually turned to Pat Connolly. He learned that if he faced the deaf man squarely, Pat could read what he was saying from the way his lips moved, a discovery which made Manuel feel very clever. Pat himself got pleasure from playing with him and with Joey.

  One winter afternoon, when Grandma had been invited to a glass of wine with another Basque lady, equally wizened, Manuel unwillingly accompanied his mother down to the shipping office to collect his father’s allotment, which was paid out to her each week.

  ‘Auntie Maria isn’t feeling too good, but she’s going to watch Francesca for me, and I don’t want her to be bothered with you, too.’

  Manuel had not the slightest desire to visit the shipping office, and he whined fretfully that he was fine with Joey.

  ‘Joey’s mam’s delivering a baby,’ Rosita told him shortly. ‘Peggy O’Brien is watching Joey. She doesn’t need anyone else cluttering up her kitchen.’

  Manuel resigned himself to a boring walk down to Water Street.

  Instead of the usual acne-covered clerk, Rosita was dealt with by a bald, older man, who was obviously unaccustomed to the task of coping with the wives of ships’ crews crowding round his beautifully polished counter; the wives were interspersed with noisy toddlers, who tried to see what was going on by scrambling up the ornamentation of the counter; they left dirty fingermarks all along the top of it and scratches on the customer’s side. Enough to drive a decent man out of his wits.

  As he carefully checked his account book, one woman called teasingly, ‘What’s happened to our Charley? Why isn’t he here?’

  The clerk looked up and answered sourly, ‘He’s volunteered – and about time.’

  The woman grunted, and made a face at the wife standing next to her. ‘There’s a lot as has done that.’

  ‘This country has to be defended, Madam. It is the duty of all men – of the right age – to join the colours.’ The remarks sounded like a reproach to the menfolk of the waiting women, and a whispering grumble went through them. Didn’t he know that they all had menfolk at sea, who were in constant danger from German attack? However, none of them dared to respond to his remark; you never knew how word might get back to the managers, and a job be lost in consequence.

  Rosita had intended to ask Charley which would be the best port to write to and what the agent’s address was, in order to get a letter to Pedro; but she was unnerved by the portly man she faced. She picked up the money he threw down in front of her, signed for it, and then counted it carefully in front of the clerk. He sucked through his teeth in irritation at the delay.

  Flustered by his aggressive stance, Rosita counted it again. ‘I’m short a joey,’ she said finally, a tremor in her voice.

  ‘You telling me I made a mistake?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  ‘I don’t make mistakes.’

  Faced with such male intransigence, Rosita prepared to sacrifice a threepenny piece she could ill afford, when the woman behind her, braver than the rest, addressed the cashier. ‘There’s a joey underneath your cuff, you stupid bugger. I seen it roll. Slap money down like that and it’ll fall all over the place.’

  Rosita glanced round. A heavily built, middle-aged woman, her black shawl decently draped over her head and shoulders, was glaring at the discomfited clerk. She had a face like a bulldog, and at the moment it was flushed red with indignation barely suppressed. ‘You don’t have to put up with the likes of him,’ she assured Rosita roundly. ‘Youse right. And there’s the joey.’ A fat forefinger shot over Rosita’s shoulder to point at the tiny silver coin, which la
y where a second before the clerk’s arm had rested.

  As if it were something dirty, the clerk flicked the coin across to Rosita with his thumbnail.

  At this further display of discourtesy, a murmur went through the crowd of women.

  Rosita picked up the coin and put it carefully into her change purse. She turned to smile at the woman who had been so helpful. The woman gave a wide grin, displaying a mouth empty of teeth, except for one incisor. ‘We’re going to miss our Charley, aren’t we, duck?’ she remarked loudly.

  Rosita agreed, and small titters at the clerk’s discomfiture were audible amongst the onlookers.

  ‘What’s volunteered, Mam?’ Manuel asked, as they went slowly down the stone steps of the shipping office.

  ‘It means Charley’s gone to be a soldier.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To fight the Boche in France.’

  Manuel considered this information for a minute or two. Then he asked, ‘But why, Mam?’ There was general puzzlement in the small boy’s tone.

  The brush with the cashier had upset Rosita, and she answered him impatiently. ‘For goodness’ sake, stop asking silly questions. I don’t know.’

  And when, later on, she considered his question, she really did not understand why Britain had gone to war. Let the damned Frogs look after themselves, she thought bitterly, as long as Pedro comes home safely.

  As she turned the handle of her front door, she paused, her head against the woodwork. She felt exhausted, and the immense courage she had shown since her father’s death suddenly deserted her. The bullying in the shipping office, the sense that Charley would probably get himself killed, the fear that Pedro was in danger, her unwanted pregnancy, and the loss of a good and well-loved father all came together. Her underlying grief finally exploded. She burst into wild tears.

  ‘Mam,’ cried Manuel in alarm. ‘Ma, what’s up?’

  ‘It’s all right. I’ll be all right in a minute,’ she gasped.