Arnador screamed with pain. It gave another vicious shake, and then let go, as the alerted driver hastily reined it in.
As the horse tried to rear, Pedro snatched the boy away.
‘You stupid bugger!’ he shouted, and shoved the crying boy back under the barrier.
Nearby horses shuffled uneasily, and the crowd round Manuel pushed backwards, away from the restive animals.
In the space left, a furious, scared Pedro shook Arnador like a terrier shaking a rat. The boy cried out in pain and fright.
A constable pushed his way along the front of the onlookers. ‘What’s this? What’s this?’ he shouted. ‘Keep back there.’
Pedro cursed under his breath; the last thing he wanted was an over-zealous constable making a fuss. He let go of Arnador, and growled at the boy, ‘Shut up! You’re not dead yet.’ He urged both boys towards the shops behind the crowd, muttering, ‘Excuse us, please.’
A passage was made for them, and for the constable who followed. Arnador was doing his best not to cry, but his face was as white as Rosita’s front doorstep.
Manuel whispered uneasily to his father, ‘Should we take Arnie home?’
As they took refuge from the crowd in a shop doorway, the constable said, ‘Now then. What’s up?’
‘The boy went under the barrier to pet a horse – and it nipped him. He’s all right,’ responded Pedro.
Scared that the constable would demand his name and address, because he had crossed a police barrier, Arnador snuffled agreement with Pedro. ‘It gave me a fright,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’
‘Lucky you weren’t kicked,’ the constable told him, and turned away.
Arnador still looked very white, so Pedro said, ‘We’ll take you home – make sure your shoulder’s all right.’
‘I can see myself home,’ Arnador protested. He was afraid Pedro would tell his father that he had been disobedient.
‘Nonsense!’ Pedro eased the boys away from the Parade, and they went over to Renshaw Street, to get a tram up to Catherine Street.
When Arnador put out his hand to grasp the upright rod in order to swing himself up the tram steps, he cried out, despite his earlier protestations of being able to manage alone.
Pedro helped him on, and they sat in the downstairs part of the vehicle; young men usually went upstairs so that they could smoke.
Arnador’s eyes were clenched tightly shut; the shoulder was hurting badly. Pedro regretted his burst of temper, as he saw the boy struggling to be brave. Manuel watched both of them with apprehension.
Arnador was too young to have a key to his home, so when they rang the doorbell, Betty, the maid, answered it. She viewed Pedro’s handsome face with insolent interest. What was their Arnie doing with a common seaman?
‘Something wrong?’ she asked, making no move to let them enter.
Pedro asked to see Mr or Mrs Ganivet.
‘She’s restin’,’ replied Betty, opening the door just sufficiently to let Arnador in.
Pedro’s eyes narrowed. ‘Tell her that Mr Echaniz wants to see her.’
It was an order, and she reluctantly let them into the hall. He removed his peaked cap as he entered, and she viewed with scorn his navy woollen sweater. What would the mistress think? Then she turned sulkily and flounced up the stairs. Arnador held one arm against his chest, to ease the pain, and led them into the red velvet opulence of the Ganivet sitting-room.
The boys hung uneasily round the doorway, while Pedro stood in the middle of the room, and was made suddenly aware of the bareness and shabbiness of his own home. Arnador struggled out of his jacket, and winced as Manuel helped him loosen it from his left shoulder.
Mrs Ganivet nearly ran into the room, tucking loose strands of her hair into her bun as she came. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, as Arnador turned his blenched face towards her.
She turned to Pedro, and he made himself known to her. He explained briefly what had happened, and finished up, ‘He’s probably got a nasty bruise. I thought I’d better bring him home.’
‘Stupid boy,’ Mrs Ganivet exclaimed tenderly. ‘Take off your jersey, luv. Let’s have a look.’
Arnador cried out when she heaved the garment off him, and pulled down the shoulder of his undervest. There was a clear line of bruises on both sides of the snow-white shoulder where the horse’s teeth had gripped him.
‘Dear me!’ she exclaimed. ‘Mr Echaniz, do sit down a mo’, while I get the arnica bottle and a towel. You must have a cuppa afore you go.’ She turned to Manuel, ‘And you sit down, luv.’
She pushed her son to the red plush sofa, and told him, ‘Arnie, dear, you rest here.’ She tucked a matching red cushion behind his back. ‘There, that’ll be more comfy. Back in a mo’.’
As she ran upstairs, they could hear her shouting to Betty to make some tea and put out the cup cakes.
‘How does it feel?’ asked Pedro of the sufferer.
Anxious not to be thought a coward, Arnador replied that it was easing. ‘Mother always makes such a fuss,’ he added in apology.
Aware of the fussiness of mothers, Manuel made a face at him.
When his mother dabbed arnica liberally over the bruises and then padded the shoulder with one of his father’s big cotton handkerchiefs, so that the arnica would not get on to his jersey, Arnador drew in his breath sharply.
‘There you are, dearie. Now you lean back on the cushion. You’ll feel fine when you’ve had a cuppa cha,’ she told him.
She turned to Pedro, who had been watching her ministrations without comment. ‘It was proper kind of you to bring him home,’ she said. ‘He’d have probably been all right by himself, but it must’ve been scary for him – you don’t expect to get bitten by a horse, do you?’
As Pedro agreed, she sat down by a little mahogany table. He half rose to go, but she saw the movement. ‘Stay a bit,’ she urged. ‘Betty’s making the tea. It’s nice to meet Manuel’s father.’ Within her, she was acutely aware of the handsome man before her and was slightly ashamed of herself. How could a decent Catholic woman feel like that?
To cover her embarrassment, she plied Pedro with quick questions about where in the Pyrenees his family lived and confided that her husband’s and her own grandparents had come from Pamplona. As she spoke of Pamplona, she shyly changed from English into Basque, and Pedro smiled and spoke Basque in return.
While the adult conversation flowed back and forth, Manuel watched Arnador. Though his colour was better, he reclined awkwardly on the sofa. His eyes were closed and he was, for once, silent. ‘Is it still hurting?’ Manuel whispered.
Arnador opened his eyes, and nodded.
‘Sorry,’ Manuel muttered.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The day after Old Manuel had written for Lorilyn how Arnador had been bitten by a horse, he awoke to a flawless summer morning. When he looked across the drive at the Strait dappled with sunshine, he decided that he would take the Rosita out in the afternoon; if the wind were right, he would sail her up the coast. First, however, he had to take the rose up to Kathleen’s grave and then go to buy some much-needed groceries.
Because of the need to carry the groceries home, he took the car out and carefully drove it up to the cemetery. He did not linger there very long; just stood looking at her memorial stone, which was brightly lit by a shaft of sunlight, and then, with a sigh, went back to the car, and drove downtown to Safeway’s.
In the car park, he parked carefully between a couple of trucks, and went into the shop. As he entered, a blast of air-conditioning made him wish he had put on a pullover; sudden changes of temperature bothered him sometimes.
He looked very frail as, with slow care, he moved down the aisles, picking out the things he needed. Sharon Herman noticed his entry, as she contemplated the offerings of the meat department. His frailty and the resigned droop of his shoulders moved her in a way she could not explain to herself. She quickly dropped two lamb chops into her basket, and walked towards the aisle down which he
had vanished. She soon caught up with him, as he stopped to pick up a tin of coffee.
Manuel was startled by a plump, soft hand being laid over his thin brown one pushing the shopping trolley. ‘How are you?’ asked the feminine voice.
He jumped, and looked up.
Not Veronica, thanks be to Holy Mary, but her house guest. His brown eyes twinkled amid a myriad of wrinkles, and his wide mouth curved up into his usual quirky smile, as, with some relief, he assured her that he was very well. He could not think of anything more to say, so, on the spur of the moment, she asked him if he would like to have a cup of coffee with her. She joked that the store had a small corner with a coffee machine, which was meant for the use of senior citizens – she was tired and needed to sit down – but she was really too young to sit there without embarrassment – it would be so much easier if he could spare the time to sit with her!
He laughed, and wheeled his trolley over to the corner she indicated. They filled paper cups with coffee, and sat down at a small table. Manuel put two packets of sugar into his coffee and stirred it with a plastic stick. ‘Bridget! That’s it,’ he said, as he looked earnestly into her face.
She looked so startled that he had to smile again. ‘You remind me of someone I knew when I was a small boy. She delivered babies and often she nursed people who were sick. She actually brought me into the world. She wasn’t a qualified nurse, like you, of course.’ He was too shy to tell her that everybody loved and trusted Bridget.
She was interested, and, because it had been in the forefront of his mind the previous evening, he told her how his friend Arnador’s shoulder had been treated at home with arnica; and its partial dislocation discovered over twenty years later when he volunteered for the Royal Air Force.
‘I used to carry his school satchel for him, because his shoulder hurt him – and he never played cricket again – or pelota. But I’m grateful for it,’ he assured her. ‘If he had gone into the Air Force, he would probably have been killed in the Battle of Britain – so many of them died. As it is, he’s still pretty spry. Best friend I could ever hope for.’
‘Really?’
Manuel’s face was suddenly a little wistful. ‘He’s a great lad. I get a letter from him most months. I wish he were nearer.’
‘Has he ever come over here?’
‘Oh, yes. He came a couple of times when Kathleen was alive. And he’s been twice since – since she passed away. It’s my turn to go to Liverpool.’
‘Are you going?’
‘I hadn’t thought of it – not seriously, that is.’
‘Perhaps you should.’ She did not want to point out that, at their age, one or the other of them might die quite soon.
He caught the implication of her remark, however, and considered it for a moment. Then he replied, ‘Perhaps I should. I won’t tell Faith, though. At least not until the last moment.’
‘Who won’t you tell?’
‘My daughter Faith. She always worries when I travel. Says I’m too old.’
‘Live dangerously!’ she advised. ‘Do what you want to do.’
He laughed, as he turned to look at her. ‘You’re dead right,’ he told her. ‘I will.’
Chapter Twenty-eight
At the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, 1918, the great war to end all wars came to a finish. Throughout the war, my daily life had gone on much the same, wrote Old Manuel to Lorilyn; yet, behind everything I did, it lay like a threatening black shadow; your Auntie Francesca and I used to dread that Father would be killed, and we were so relieved every time he docked, especially when he came home a few days after the war ended. We knew then that he was safe.
On 11 November, Rosita stood on her doorstep, leaning against the doorjamb, one arm round ten-year-old Manuel, and thanked God that the child had been too young to serve in the conflict.
At her feet, on the step, sat Francesca, aged five, and Little Maria, just four. Between them sat Grandma Micaela. They were watching fireworks rocket into the sky, and riotously drunk neighbours dancing round a bonfire. Micaela could actually see nothing, but she could hear the crackle of the fire, the reports of the fireworks and the shouts and shrieks of the dancers; earlier, she had heard all the church bells of Liverpool ring out the victory. In her mind, however, she heard the frantic weeping for those who would not return home – and she saw the shocked faces of wives whose husbands had returned so badly mauled that they would have to be nursed for the rest of their lives – on minuscule pensions, if they were lucky enough to get one.
While the little girls chattered excitedly and drew her attention to scenes she was too blind to see, she fingered the rosary in her pocket. Her faith had been tried to the limit by the senseless slaughter of the war; and yet, she ruminated sadly, what hope had she to cling to, other than the belief that God knew what he was doing.
Francesca snuggled down closer to her. ‘I’m cold, Granny,’ she said in Basque.
The old woman opened her shawl and wrapped it round her little granddaughter.
The huge bonfire fell in with a crash and a rain of sparks, and some of the more noisy dancers went in a mob to the Baltic Fleet. Joey Connolly asked his father to take him closer to watch a few Catherine wheels whizzing bravely on warehouse doors. Pat agreed, and asked Manuel if he would like to come, too.
Rosita had expected Manuel to leap at the offer. But he scuffed his feet, and said he did not want to go. Though he and Arnador often played with Mary and Joey, he was beginning to feel oddly uncomfortable in his own neighbourhood. A better education and a growing awareness of a bigger and more interesting world than that of Wapping Dock or being a seaman was beginning to make him feel cut off. At times, when playing in the street with the international collection of children from nearby, he found himself carefully silent; they had once or twice given him a hard time when he had made some ill-considered remark, which, in St Francis Xavier’s, would have passed for humour.
On Armistice Night, he sensed the terrible sadness beneath the jollity of the singing, dancing people, and he felt sick.
Arnador, bespectacled and earnest, had never shared his schoolfellows’ jingoistic acceptance of the nobility of dying in muddy trenches; there had to be better ways of stopping the Germans, in his opinion. He read the papers far more thoroughly than Manuel did, and observed the increasing number of discharged, wounded men on the streets, many of them dressed in hospital blue. He told his father flatly that he would never be so stupid as to volunteer and probably would not answer a call-up.
Mr Ganivet lectured him angrily that, though he was a Basque, England was his country and he should be prepared to lay down his life for it.
Afterwards, Arnador told Manuel about the ensuing family row, and said angrily, ‘It doesn’t make sense. Who wants to be blown to bits? I bet the Germans don’t.’
Manuel was quite shaken by Arnador’s passionate outburst. He responded promptly, by saying, ‘Well, they can stop fighting.’
Yet, twenty years later, when the German Nazis threatened Britain, Arnador had tried to get into the Royal Air Force. Perhaps he had felt that a fundamental principle was at stake that time, Manuel decided.
One of Manuel’s saddest memories of the First World War was that of Effie Halloran sobbing bitterly in his mother’s kitchen-living-room, because both her boys had been killed. He had wanted to run away from grief so close to home. But he had sat at the kitchen table trying to do his homework, and chewed the end of his wooden penholder. Awful things happened to women, as well as to men, he had thought. Men went to sea and faced danger daily – that, in his head, was the essence of being a man – but he felt uneasily that the women at home had to be pretty brave, as well.
Men poured home, ships were laid up, war factories closed. Women who had worked hard and well during the war years were impatiently shoved aside and told to go back home and raise a family.
Women resented this, not only because their modest wages had given them a modicum of independe
nce, but because for many of them earning was a necessity; they had lost husbands, sweethearts, brothers and fathers, and had, therefore, to maintain themselves. It was some time before such women were absorbed by light industry as welcome cheap labour.
The land fit for heroes was slow in arriving. Pedro’s ship returned to its old routes down the west coast of Africa, and he took good care not to give a hint of his desire for a move to another company, until he was sure of a ‘hit’. Meanwhile, cargoes were not so easy to come by and, to cut costs, the quality of food supplied by the owners deteriorated from poor to worse. Seamen and engine room crew were increasingly recruited from Lagos at wages much lower than those asked for by Liverpool men. The officers made little complaint; they were worried enough about retaining their own jobs, and, as repairs were deferred, how long the old tub would stay afloat.
When ashore, Pedro looked up all the men he knew who worked for de Larrinaga, most of whose crews were Basque. His friends all said mournfully that the competition was wicked; every company had its own group of men who had served it before and who were competing anxiously for any vacancies.
Pedro understood the pressure only too well. Some of the Negroes in his current ship felt themselves to be so vulnerable to unemployment that they hastened to sign on for the next voyage immediately the previous one was completed, to make sure of retaining their job; in effect, they never stepped off the ship for months at a time.
In the event, another enemy swept through the population. Spanish flu, incurable, unstoppable, took thousands upon thousands of lives, particularly amongst young adults, already thinned out in Europe by the slaughter of the war. It left those who survived the attack weakened and deeply depressed. Ships’ crews were far from immune, and that was, perhaps, why a jubilant Pedro suddenly hit on a berth with de Larrinaga in the Esperanza Larrinaga. It had a Liverpool crew, mostly Basque.
‘The wages aren’t a lot better,’ he told Rosita. ‘But the conditions are. Jean Baptiste knows the cook and says he’s great.’
The Liverpool Basque Page 20