The Liverpool Basque

by Helen Forrester

  Her grandmother replied honestly, ‘The post office doesn’t have any more money, dumpling.’

  ‘Could we pawn something?’ Manuel asked.

  ‘We haven’t got anything that would raise a pound. I had to pawn even Granny’s and my wedding rings a few weeks back, to pay for Frannie and Maria going to school.’

  Shocked, Manuel looked down at his mother’s left hand. It was bare – and he had never noticed, he thought ashamedly. ‘Dear God!’

  He glanced wildly round the room. ‘Could we at least hide the furniture, so that the bailiffs don’t get it?’

  ‘I’m going to ask Pat to help us put it in his yard – I hope it doesn’t rain.’

  ‘What about the tenants’ stuff?’

  ‘They won’t take that. They’ll be mad, though, when they can’t find ours. Not that they’ll get more than a few pence for each piece – if they manage to find it and auction it.’

  Rosita was slowly collecting herself. She looked up at Little Maria watching her fearfully from the safety of Manuel’s arms, and said, ‘Don’t be afraid, pet. Mummy’s going to finish a lot of cutlery boxes by tomorrow noon, and Mr Holley’ll pay me for them.’ She added, for the benefit of Manuel and Francesca, ‘He closes on Saturday afternoon.’

  A frightened Francesca leaned against Manuel, frozen by a gnawing dread of that vague monster, the workhouse, which everybody seemed to hold up as the ultimate punishment for being poor. Her mother’s decision to work on her boxes gave her a ray of hope, and she said, ‘You go on with the boxes, Mam. I’ll do the dishes and see Little Maria into bed.’

  Manuel put Little Maria down, and, after a doubtful glance up at him, she wandered back to the hearth rug, to collect her rag doll. Francesca briskly made her way to the kitchen sink and the dishes, while the youth said to his mother, ‘The newsagent’s will still be open – I’ll ask him if he’ll advance next week’s half-a-crown to me.’ He walked quickly round the table, to take down an old jacket of his father’s hanging on the back door, and put it on. ‘When I come back, I’ll go round all the tenants and try to squeeze a bit out of each of them.’

  His mother nodded; she had no hope of his success; but he was back within a few minutes with a shilling in his hand. ‘One,’ he said triumphantly. ‘All we need is nineteen more!’

  The shilling was carefully deposited on the mantelpiece, while he determinedly plodded up the stairs. As he went up, he heard Little Maria gabbling her prayers at her grandmother’s knee. The child finished, ‘Amen. Can I have a piece of bread and jam before I go to bed, Granny?’

  He paused halfway up the staircase. His mother snapped, ‘No, you can’t. Get up to bed.’ He turned and ran down again. Never before had he heard his mother refuse any of them food, except immediately before a meal.

  ‘Mam!’ he cried reproachfully. ‘She didn’t have much tea.’

  His mother paused in her application of glue, and with brush poised, said sulkily, ‘I must keep what I have for breakfast.’

  Little Maria, halfway into her nightgown, began to cry, and Micaela shifted herself to embrace the child.

  Standing in the doorway, Manuel snorted indignantly. ‘Mam! She’s only little! You can give me a slice less at breakfast!’

  He thought his mother was going to weep again, but, instead, she said resignedly, ‘All right. Get her a piece.’

  While he got the loaf out of the bread box and carefully cut a slice, Francesca stacked the washed dishes on the dresser. She was hungry and the bread smelled so good; but she felt that she was nearly grown up, like Manuel, so she did not ask for a slice herself. She watched while Little Maria climbed on to Micaela’s knee, and, with a bright smile, accepted the bread. Then she went to stand by her mother, as Manuel put the rest of the loaf back into its box, and slowly turned to go heavily up the stairs again.

  She said to her mother, ‘Mam, I could cut the pieces of baize for you, especially if you made me a paper pattern.’

  Rosita doubted the steadiness of the child’s hand, when it was necessary to be precise. She replied doubtfully, ‘The divisions of the baskets are not identical, dearest; that’s why it’s such a slow job.’

  Francesca picked up the next box and looked attentively at it. ‘Let me try, Mam. I’ll measure very careful over the box itself.’

  ‘Well, try one. Cut the baize fractionally bigger than the section – not much bigger, or we’ll run out of baize. Then try the piece in the particular box, and trim it very carefully. When you’ve cut out a set, I’ll glue it in – and we’ll see how well you’ve done.’

  As Manuel climbed the narrow staircase, to knock first on the Rawlingses’ room, he quaked inwardly. The young couple lived on the edge of penury; and he knew that Lily Rawlings was expecting – most mornings, when he got up, he heard her vomiting.

  Rawlings was, however, much more worldly-wise than the stripling facing him. If the bailiffs came when he was out, they could easily haul out what bits of furniture he owned; and he knew that he would never find a more kindly landlady than Rosita. Further, Lily would need helpful women around her if the baby were to survive. Manuel’s request for money – any money – had to be taken seriously.

  He turned to his anxious wife standing behind him, her cotton dress tight across her stomach. ‘Lil, have you got any cash at all?’

  She replied unwillingly, ‘A couple of bob – for food till Tuesday. Have you?’

  He made a rueful face at her. ‘A tanner for ciggies,’ he owned up. He dug the sixpence out of his trouser pocket, and stared at it in the palm of his hand.

  ‘Go and get your two bob – I got work for Monday and Tuesday, for sure.’

  ‘You’ve got to eat!’

  ‘Ask Mrs Betts at the corner to put it on the slate till Tuesday night.’

  ‘I don’t know that she will,’ protested the girl weepily, but she obeyed, and brought the silver two-shilling piece from under their alarm clock on the mantelpiece.

  Rawlings plunked his cigarette money into Manuel’s hand, and Lily reluctantly proffered her florin on the palm of her hand, hoping that he would not actually pick it up. But Manuel took it; it was her roof as well as his own that he was trying to save.

  Auntie Effie greeted him with affection and asked him in. Her face fell when, seated by her minute fire, he asked her if she could pay a bit towards her rent.

  ‘I did tell your mam I’d pay next week. I started a new job in the bottle factory – washing bottles and jam jars. Me chest is bothering me something awful, and I lost three days’ before I got this job.’ She nervously chewed her overlong thumbnail, and Manuel noticed that a thick grime lay under all her nails, despite having her hands in water much of the last two days.

  Manuel waited. Effie’s mind worked like a clock about to run down.

  She heaved a great sigh, and felt in her skirt pocket. ‘Bailiffs?’ she asked.

  ‘Monday morning,’ Manuel assured her. ‘Mam’s got till Sunday night to find a pound.’

  He felt dreadful when she slowly counted out half a week’s rent into his hand. ‘I were paid two and a half days yesterday,’ she muttered, ‘and I don’t know what I’m going to do. Maybe, if I work Monday, the boss would let me have the money for that day.’

  ‘They will do that sometimes,’ Manuel said. ‘Pat told me once.’

  Conor said flatly he hadn’t a cent. Not till next week. Iris simply wept, and her youngsters behind her looked like death’s heads. The hospital cleaner in the parlour said crossly that she had never missed paying her rent; it was unreasonable to ask her to pay in advance.

  Manuel gave up.

  That Friday night, Rosita, Francesca and Manuel worked on the silver boxes until after eleven o’clock. Francesca’s eyes drooped with fatigue; her back muscles and arms ached from working at a table too high for her. Nevertheless, when she heard the alarm clock go off in her mother’s room the next morning, she crawled out of bed, and joined her mother at the kitchen table, to slowly snip the pieces of baize
for her. As soon as Manuel had finished his paper round, he joined them, to paint the insides of the boxes with glue.

  Micaela made tea without milk or sugar; the two little girls were each given a slice of bread to eat. Francesca sat looking at her slice for a moment and then slowly tore it into two, to share it with Manuel.

  ‘You eat it up,’ he ordered firmly, and, when she hesitated, he told her, ‘The newsagent’s missus gave me a cup of tea and some biscuits.’

  As the morning progressed, hunger bit into all of them, and they became slower.

  Rosita’s voice was dull and hopeless, as she said, ‘We have to do eighteen boxes to make up the rent – and to pay the ferry across the river to deliver the money.’ She laughed suddenly and wildly. ‘I don’t know how I am going to manage next week, even if we manage to pay tomorrow.’

  As if to deliberately add to their torment, the noise from outside the house seemed to be even more trying than usual; the riveters, the horses and carts and the clatter of clogs and boots on the pavement seemed particularly active. Sometimes the kitchen table shuddered as the great presses in the factory behind the house worked through the Saturday shift, so that Rosita had to pause, a strip of baize in her hand, until the upward swing of the biggest press allowed the table to be steady for a moment and she could quickly and accurately place the piece of baize in the box.

  By eleven o’clock in the morning, they had completed sixteen boxes. Their time was short. Manuel quickly washed the worst of the glue off his hands, and began to pack the cutlery boxes into two cardboard containers. Though not terribly heavy, the two cardboard boxes were clumsy to carry, and Manuel said to his mother, ‘Wash your hands, Mam. I’ll carry these up to Mr Holley’s for you.’ His mother had not eaten since yesterday’s teatime, a meal of bread and margarine, and he feared that she might faint on her way to her employer’s warehouse. ‘Hurry, Mam. We can’t risk missing Mr Holley!’

  Rosita wearily dragged herself to her feet, and did as he had bidden her. ‘All that work – three of us doing it – for thirteen shillings and fourpence!’ she said to Micaela. ‘And we still haven’t got a pound.’

  Micaela nodded. Manuel said, ‘Well, it’s better than nothing,’ and he carefully tied twine round the two cardboard boxes to make them easier to carry.

  They caught Mr Holley, just as he was tidying up before going home. He amiably checked the boxes, however, and paid the stony-faced woman.

  Outside, on the pavement, Rosita looked up at her son. She was swaying on her feet. ‘I’ll have to use the two and sixpence you gave me for food,’ she said brokenly. ‘I’d hoped to put it towards the rent – but I can’t. We must eat.’

  Manuel put his arm in hers to steady her, and asked uneasily, ‘Do you think Mr Fleet would accept a bit less?’

  ‘Not a hope. He meant what he said.’ A tear trickled slowly down Rosita’s cheek. ‘And I can’t get any more on tick at the corner shop.’

  That tear and the hopelessly disillusioned look in his mother’s tired blue eyes were something Manuel never forgot.

  As they walked slowly towards a corner shop, Manuel said, ‘If Jean Baptiste was in work, he’d help us.’

  ‘Certainly – but he isn’t. They’re only saved because their boys are older and are working.’

  ‘I could ask Mr Ganivet,’ suggested Manuel.

  ‘We can’t.’

  ‘He’s very kind, Mam.’

  ‘He is,’ responded Rosita with feeling. Then she told him how his school expenses had been paid for over two years by the kindly chandler.

  Manuel was stunned. ‘Does Arnador know?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  They paused at the entrance to the little shop. ‘You should have told me,’ he reproached her.

  ‘I thought that if I did you would feel awkward with Arnador.’

  He did not answer her, because he did not know whether that would have been the case.

  She said gently, ‘It’s only a week, now, to the end of term. And you’ll always be able to say that you went to St Francis Xavier’s until you were fourteen. It’s a good recommendation for work.’

  Manuel nodded bewildered agreement. It would have been even better, if he could have stayed until he was sixteen or seventeen and got his Matric. While his mother entered the shop and he waited for her outside, he stared unseeingly at the tiny window space of the shop, packed with dusty cards advertising everything from tobacco to paraffin and Sunlight soap, and tried to think of someone who could help them.

  He realized for the first time how the number of Basque families in the neighbourhood had been sharply reduced by the war, when the menfolk found it safer to sail in Spanish ships out of Bilbao. Others had been able to move to more salubrious neighbourhoods, as their children grew up and began to earn. Of the remaining little community, Mr Saitua was not the only man out of work; and there were one or two families with whom they had never been friends, because Grandpa Juan had not approved of them – his polite term, Manuel suspected, for small vendettas; like anyone else, Basques could carry grudges for a long time.

  He wished suddenly that Arnador was his brother, so that he could confide to him the details of the nightmare they were facing. Arnador was so sensible.

  But Arnador was not a blood brother, and, moreover, Arnador’s father had already helped them very generously.

  Manuel felt sick with hunger and fear.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  On Saturday night, the family rejoiced in a meal of potatoes boiled with chopped cabbage. They cooked it on a shovelful of coal borrowed from the widowed hospital cleaner who lived in the parlour, an Irish woman who kept to herself. In fact, the family hardly ever saw her except on Friday, which was rent day, because she worked such long hours and tended to stay in bed on her days off.

  Nobody went to Mass on Sunday morning. Instead, Rosita and Francesca began work on a new pile of boxes, given to Rosita by Mr Holley in return for the completed ones. Manuel did his heavy Sunday newspaper round first, and then sat down to help. Whether they saved their home or not, the family knew they must try to obtain a little money on Monday, in the hope of keeping themselves out of the workhouse; Mr Holley was their only hope.

  The spectre of the workhouse haunted Manuel particularly. In a week’s time, he would be looking for work, and being dressed in workhouse uniform would not recommend him to an employer; in their eyes, it would label him a shiftless ne’er-do-well. He would be wiser simply to take to the streets, he thought passionately.

  Little Maria played in the street with one of Peggy O’Brien’s little girls; and Micaela, wrapped in a blanket, silently nursed her arthritis. They had each had a piece of bread for breakfast. They had been unable to boil water to make tea, and this had made the women feel very low.

  They had worked for a couple of hours, when their boredom was broken by an exclamation from Micaela, who was fighting her way out of the encompassing blanket. ‘Claire Carrandi – she would. It’s not much to ask, is it?’

  Rosita paused in her careful smoothing of a piece of baize. ‘Who?’

  ‘The undertaker’s wife. You must remember her! She’s a Basque – married to Carrandi, who died of a fever in the West Indies. We were quite friendly for years. Then, when she was widowed, she married Ould Biggs, the undertaker – and that seemed to take her away, somehow.’

  ‘I do remember – when I was a young girl.’

  ‘She’s nearer my age than yours. I haven’t seen her in a long time. Juan gave her hubbie plenty of carting work – transporting the emigrants and their luggage down to the dock. Ould Biggs owes us plenty. Now, Sunday afternoon is a good time to go to see an old friend. Little Maria can take me up this afternoon, while you get on with the boxes. Claire will lend it.’

  Rosita looked a little anxiously at her mother. ‘Could you manage the walk up to Park Road, Mam?’

  ‘I’m the only one who can ask her, so I’ll do it – somehow.’

  It was true that probably only
Micaela could negotiate a loan from Claire; but it was with reluctance that Rosita watched her set out, with her arm around the shoulder of Little Maria. The journey was not a long one, except for the pain that Micaela would probably experience, and the fact that she could not see.

  As Rosita came back into the kitchen-living-room, Manuel sensed her worry. ‘Granny’ll be all right,’ he assured her, as he dabbed glue into a corner of a box. ‘Little Maria’s good with her granny – she warns of all the steps up and down – and the traffic.’

  Though it did take a long, painful time to crawl up Sparling Street and along Park Lane to the undertaker’s premises, Micaela’s visit to Claire was not a protracted one.

  The Biggses’ front door was shut, and the whole place seemed locked in the calm of Sunday afternoon. Micaela told Maria to lead her down the side of the building and into a cobbled yard, where lay a couple of carts and a toast-rack horse bus, together with a dust-laden black carriage, all with their shafts up. At the back of the yard were stables in which the horses could be heard shuffling and snorting. Beside the stables were two wide doors, held shut by a large padlock, behind which rested the pride of Ould Biggs’s collection, his beautifully carved black hearse with its etched glass panels.

  ‘There’s a door up some steps at the left,’ Micaela told Maria. ‘Run up the steps and bang the knocker.’

  Maria had to stand on tiptoe to reach the lion’s head which was the door knocker. It gave a reverberating thud, when she let go of it. She ran back down the steps, to stand by Micaela. While they waited for someone to answer, she eased her round to face the door.

  An elderly maid, with long black streamers falling from her white, goffered cap, responded to the knock; Ould Biggs never knew when a bereaved client might hammer on his door, and he insisted that the maid give the right impression of solemnity.