The Liverpool Basque

by Helen Forrester

  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.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Guy Fawkes Night did not turn out at all as Manuel had expected.

  Pat Connolly built one of his perfect bonfires and lit it. To the pleasure of the small crowd which had gathered to watch, the fireworks all went off with appropriate bangs and whooshes. The potatoes had been roasted to blackness on the outside and steamy perfection inside. But a thoroughly frightened Manuel had clutched Jean Baptiste Saitua’s hand, and had, at first, even refused to put a match to his own bangers.

  He was obsessed by the nightmare scene he had witnessed at home, immediately before Jean Baptiste had whipped him away to join Pat Connolly.

  Aunt Maria had begun to moan, saying that she had a terrible pain in her side. She started to thresh about on the couch; her crochet, her rosary, her smelling salts, her medicines were scattered suddenly from the tiny sidetable; her hot-water bottle and her shawls fell off the couch.

  With unusual agility, Grandma had leapt up from her own chair; and his mother, after glancing quickly round, hastily deserted the washing-up, and, as she squeezed round the table, dried her hands on her apron.

  ‘Give me a towel, quick!’ Grandma shouted to her.

  Rosita grabbed the kitchen towel and threw it across the room to her. A paralysed Manuel saw it turn scarlet, as his aunt doubled up and spat blood.

  At that moment, Jean Baptiste Saitua and Domingo came through the unlocked front entrance to collect Manuel.

  Jean Baptiste gave one horrified glance at Maria, and said immediately to the boy, ‘Ready to go? Let’s go down to the bonfire.’

  Easing her way round the furniture towards Maria, Rosita said quickly, ‘Yes, luv. Away you go. We’ll look after Auntie.’ She added softly to Jean, ‘Ask Bridget to come quick and Madeleine.’

  Though filled with dread, Manuel allowed himself to be led away. While he and Jean Baptiste knocked on Bridget’s door, Domingo ran fleetly back to his home to get his mother.

  ‘What’s to do?’ asked Bridget apprehensively, seeing the child’s white face in the light of the street lamp.

  ‘It’s Maria. Go quick.’

  ‘Jesus Mary!’ It was a call she had been dreading, and she fled back to the kitchen to get a clean apron.

  Manuel silently walked down to the corner of Corn Hill. He was afraid to ask the big Basque what was happening to Auntie Maria, because he dreaded an honest answer. He had expected that his grandmother and mother would come to join in the fun; but he realized now that they must look to his aunt’s needs. He hoped that her Guardian Angel was on the watch and doing better than Grandpa’s had.

  Persuaded by Pat Connolly, he obediently carried bits of wood and rubbish from a niche, in which it had been hidden by the boys, to the bonfire to keep it blazing.

  Pat had stored the fireworks on top of a wall, well back from the fire, and young Vicente Saitua had been stationed near them to guard them from thieves.

  Even the excitement of the rockets sparkling in the cold November sky failed to divert Manuel completely. He kept glancing over his shoulder and wondering if he dare run back home.

  Jean Baptiste was well aware of what was probably going on in the Barinètas’ home; his wife had sent back a message with his son that on no account must Manuel be allowed to go home.

  Instructed by his mother, Domingo asked Manuel casually, ‘Where’s little Frannie?’ and was much relieved to hear that she went to bed early.

  ‘Me mam said she was too small and would be afraid of the noise,’ Manuel explained.

  ‘Oh, aye,’ agreed Domingo. ‘This is fun for big lads, like us, int it?’ and this had coaxed a faint smile out of the frightened child.

  Though they did all they could to make a happy evening for the children, both Pat and Jean Baptiste were heavy-hearted. Consumption was a wicked disease, and you never knew who would be struck by it next. The Basque families, better fed and slightly better housed than most people in the dock area, had no other case that he was aware of. But even the rich feared it, particularly amongst their women and children.

  ‘It’s rough on old Mrs Barinèta,’ said Pat, under his breath to Jean Baptiste, as he heaved some stringed bundles of newspaper into the flames. ‘The wife says she hasn’t got over losing her hubbie yet.’

  ‘Will they call the doctor?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ replied Pat. ‘He can’t do nothing for her. It’d be more expense for the family, and wouldn’t do no good. He might put her in hospital. They wouldn’t want her to die there.’

  ‘They’ll have to get him for the Death Certificate, won’t they?’

  ‘They’ll worry about that later. Bridget’ll help them as much as she can.’

  ‘Oh, aye. And our Madeleine, too. Better to die in your mother’s arms, with friends round you.’ Jean Baptiste stepped back from the bonfire, to join Domingo and Manuel.

  ‘Come on, Mannie,’ he said kindly. ‘I’m going to send a rocket up specially for you.’ He took the long-stemmed firework from the top of the wall, and squatted down, to put it into the long neck of a beer bottle as straight as he could make it stand. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘if you set it like that and put a match to it carefully, it’ll go straight up into the air – and not into somebody’s bedroom window!’ He struck a match and handed it to Manuel. ‘Now, you light the fuse, here.’

  They were surrounded by a small squad of slightly older boys, who said they remembered other Guy Fawkes Nights, when rockets fizzled and then seemed to go out, only to suddenly take flight dangerously close to the faces of all of them. As Manuel put the match to the fuse, they all seemed to yelp together, ‘Nearly took me ear, it did.’

  Manuel wanted to back quickly away, but he was hemmed in by the boys’ big boots round him. The rocket, however, after a preliminary spit, soared upwards, leaving a stream of red and green stars after it. It did a splendid arc, and the onlookers let out a collective exclamation.

  Manuel was impressed. He watched the firework until the last green star died in Liverpool’s overwhelming smog, and Jean Baptiste smiled down at him, and said cheerily, ‘That was the best rocket I’ve seen in a long time. You must’ve lit it exactly right.’

  He was relieved when the lad looked up and grinned at him.

  Pat Connolly had been watching the potatoes bake in th
e ashes, turning them occasionally with a spade. They were now giving out a delicious smell, so he pushed them out of the fire and lifted them to the edge of the pavement to cool.

  Manuel was suddenly very hungry, and Pat Connolly chose a particularly big one and split it open with his penknife. ‘Got a hanky?’ he asked.

  Manuel quickly produced a grubby piece of rag from his pocket, and the potato was carefully laid on it; a welcome heat from it permeated to his hand. Everybody wanted a potato, but Pat was careful to give them only to his own little party.

  With shrieks and squeaks at the heat, the potatoes were slowly eaten with the fingers. Manuel ate all the soft inside of his potato and threw the blackened crust into the fire; but Brian Wing ate every scrap, his chubby face getting liberally blackened by the potato’s well-burned skin.

  Then the Catherine wheels were, one by one, nailed to a warehouse door. When lit, they whirled out a huge circle of sparks, and the children danced back from them to avoid being burned. An older boy set off a couple of bangers amid the long-skirted women who had come to see the bonfire. The jokes became raucous, as the women lifted their skirts and petticoats, for fear of their catching fire. Some of them ran up nearby steps, exhibiting black woollen stockings and bare thighs. In the light of the glowing ashes, with their long shadows dancing on the brick walls of a factory, they looked to Manuel like real witches.

  The party was being taken over by grown-ups. Brian’s big brother was the first to realize it, and politely and discreetly began to withdraw with Brian. Brian protested loudly and tried to kick his patient brother. Pat and Jean Baptiste nodded to each other, and Pat took the hand of a sleepy Joey. He turned to his young daughter, Mary, now a skinny eight-year-old, and ordered, ‘Our Mary, you take Manuel’s hand. He’s coming to our house tonight. His auntie isn’t feeling too clever, and we don’t want to wake her up with him coming home, and all.’

  Mary nodded. ‘Give me your hand, Mannie,’ she said; she was used to being the big sister in charge of a small brother.

  He backed away from her. His face was covered with smuts and he looked as if he were about to cry. ‘No! I want to go home,’ he whined. Then, more hysterically, he wailed, ‘I want me mam.’

  Jean Baptiste swept him up into his arms, and told him peremptorily, ‘Your mam wants you to stay with Mary tonight. Now stop crying – you’re a big boy now.’

  Jean Baptiste’s red face looked like carved granite under his black beret. He had spoken crisply in Basque, exactly like Grandpa used to when he was cross.

  Manuel’s wails became a subdued snuffle.

  Trotting along slightly behind Mr Saitua, Mary looked up at the unhappy face peering down at her over the big Basque’s shoulder. ‘Mam’s making hot cocoa for us when we come in,’ she promised.

  She did not know what was happening in the Barinèta household, except that it had been obvious to her at the bonfire that something was wrong, because Rosita had not joined them. She had, however, already learned from her mother to protect Joey from some of the hard facts of the raw life around him; and now she was doing her small best for Manuel, despite her own nervousness that her mother might not be at home.

  She smiled up at him and wrinkled up her nose. He smiled wanly back and stuck his finger in his mouth. He liked Mary.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Auntie Bridget was not at home, so Mary carefully made cocoa for them all, and they drank it while sitting on the rag hearth rug before the dying fire. Then Mary took them upstairs, ordered them to take off their outer clothes, while she took off her own dress and stockings. She then put Joey and Manuel into a double bed and climbed in after them. After a few minutes of pushing and shoving, they settled down to sleep, and the next thing that Manuel knew was Auntie Bridget’s smiling face, as she shook each of them and told them to hurry up or they’d be late for school.

  Downstairs, a bowl of porridge with a little sugar and milk awaited them. Pat Connolly had already gone to work; his empty porridge plate still lay on the table.

  Though Bridget Connolly had been up all night and was so tired she felt fit to drop, she sent the children off with a pat on each small behind, and the injunction to Manuel that she was sending them off a bit early, so that he could pop in and see his mam.

  A tide of relief went through Manuel. He had a wild hope that everything at home would be all right. Auntie Maria would smile at him from the old horsehair sofa; Grandma would be washing the breakfast plates in the chipped enamel basin in the sink, and his mother would probably be making the beds, or perhaps sweeping the staircase with a dustpan and brush.

  He pushed open the front door and walked in. The house was deadly quiet. The parlour door was shut.

  He peeped into the kitchen. There was no one there, and the horsehair sofa held neither Auntie Maria nor the rumpled pile of bedding which usually surrounded her. The sight of the exposed black oilcloth of the sofa made him turn white.

  ‘Ma!’ he shouted shrilly. ‘Mam, I’m home!’

  His mother came slowly down the stairs. Her hair was a wild tangle of copper, her face white and haggard, her big blue eyes suddenly sunken and bloodshot. She winced, as she slowly descended.

  Manuel stared up at her, and then whispered, ‘Where’s everybody gone, Mam?’

  Rosita reached the bottom of the stairs and sat down heavily on the second stair. She ignored Manuel’s question, and pulled him to her. ‘Did you have a good Bonfire Night, darling?’ she inquired, with a forced smile.

  His eyes wandered round the gloomy stairwell, as he answered absently, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Had breakfast?’

  His eyes came back to her face. ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s chilly this morning. You’d better put your woolly scarf on.’

  She felt him tremble in her arms. ‘Ma, where is Auntie Maria – and Grandma – and Frannie?’

  ‘Well, Auntie Peggy O’Brien invited Frannie to play with her little Theresa, so Effie took her round the corner earlier on. And now Grandma and Effie –’ She paused to sigh heavily. ‘Well, they’re in the parlour.’

  Manuel glanced fearfully over his shoulder at the closed parlour door, and then looked back at his dishevelled mother. ‘Is Auntie Maria there, as well?’

  He had never seen his mother look so ill, and, as tears welled out of her bloodshot eyes, he was appalled.

  ‘Mam,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, Mam!’

  They had been speaking in Basque, and their close communion was made more intense by their own language.

  ‘She’s gone to Heaven, lovey.’ Rosita wept uncontrollably into her son’s serge jacket, the horrors of the night still too close.

  Manuel was engulfed by such primeval fear as he was not to know again for many years; the understanding of the remorseless inevitability of death was lodged in his mind for ever. It appeared to him to be an awful monster waiting to gobble up anyone whom one loved. Creepy-crawlies seemed to be climbing up his back, and his hair rose, like Pudding’s did when an alien cat intruded.

  If Auntie Maria was lying dead in the parlour, how long would it be before his mother lay there – and Grandma? His mother looked as ill as Auntie Maria had done. If they both went, Frannie and he would be alone; in his consternation, he forgot his patient father, at that moment still chugging slowly across the Atlantic.

  He clutched his mother tightly round her neck and felt her curls damp against his wrist.

  Rosita raised her head and pushed her hair away from her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, dearest. Auntie Maria was mother’s big sister – and I’ll miss her.’ She again put her arms round her clinging son – she was so heavy with child that he could not sit on her lap, though he wanted to.

  ‘I love you, Mam – and I love Auntie Maria,’ he said softly.

  She made a valiant effort to pull herself together, despite her enormous fatigue. She pushed him a little away from her, and said quite briskly, ‘I love you, too – my big boy. Now, I don’t want you to be too sad about Auntie Maria. You know
she had a dreadful cough – and it hurt her a lot. Sometimes she would ask God to take her to Him, so that she wouldn’t have any more pain.’ She gave another shivering sigh. ‘And now he’s done it. And Father Felipe told her that everything would be all right – he was here last night – and he said that she was such a good woman that she would be happy with God.’ She tried to smile. ‘But we’ll miss her, won’t we?’

  Her last words became part of an involuntary whimper, and she suddenly clutched Manuel very tightly.

  ‘Mam! Are you hurting?’

  His mother was biting her lower lip, as a long, slow roll of aching pain ran round her waist. Manuel was near to fainting with fright.

  She saw his expression, and, as the pain softened, she laughed ruefully. ‘It’s nothing really, pet. But I wouldn’t be surprised if you got a new brother or sister today. Now then, you’re not to worry – it’s perfectly normal. When you go out, just run back to Auntie Bridget, and ask her to step in. You may have to go to Mrs O’Brien’s for your midday dinner – but don’t worry.’

  Reluctantly he let go of her and pulled his woolly scarf from the peg in the hall, and wound it round his neck. As he opened the front door, he looked back at her, and saw that she was rubbing her back and her eyes were closed, her jaw set grimly. He wondered how he was going to make himself walk to school.

  His mother was silently saying a Hail Mary, as she rubbed her back, and worrying about how to pay Bridget for two calls in less than twenty-four hours. She didn’t charge much, but, in addition, Rosita felt she should send a decently big casserole over to Peggy O’Brien in thanks for her help. Normally, she considered frantically, Micaela and she herself could have managed a birth together. But Micaela was weeping her heart out on her bed. And to send for the only alternatives, a professional midwife or the doctor, was too expensive to consider.