The Liverpool Basque (27 page)

He would never forget the walk with Uncle Leo that he took that night through the deserted streets of Liverpool, ruminated Old Manuel, as he fried bacon to go with a tin of beans for his supper.

He had remembered dimly the young man who had kissed him on the back of his head, before going out to climb into the horsebus waiting to take him down to the dock, to a ship and to a new life. He remembered him as particularly tall and thin, even at a time in his young life when adults appeared to be all legs. As he walked, that momentous night, he was surprised to discover that he was nearly as tall as Leo.

They had sat for a while in the old churchyard of St Nick’s – the seamen’s church – and had then wandered down St Nicholas Place to take a look at a Cunarder at the Princes Landing Stage; and all that time, Leo talked.

He talked as if he had had no one to confide in for a very long time – and he probably had not, considered Old Manuel, chewing on a bacon rasher as he waited for his beans to heat. Uncle Leo had spoken in Basque, sometimes pausing to hunt for a half-forgotten word, sometimes pouring out an idea in a quick, rumbling flow.

At first, they had walked in silence, until Manuel asked shyly, ‘Did you get any of Granny’s letters – or the one I wrote to the postmaster in Nevada?’

‘Other than two when I first went out, and I answered those – no, I didn’t get any – that is, not exactly.’ He grinned at the youth beside him. ‘But I
heard
about your letter – so I came home.’ He relapsed into silence while he
stopped, hands in pockets, to watch a Furness Withy boat being moved downstream, its lights winking at them like distant stars.

‘I’m thankful you’ve come, anyway,’ Manuel ventured. ‘Will you be able to stay with us?’

Leo rocked gently on his heels. ‘I want to.’ He spoke absently, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. ‘Provided I can get a berth.’ The December wind was chilly, and he pulled up the collar of his jacket.

Manuel nodded, and then asked, ‘What did you mean when you said you had heard about my letter?’

‘Well, it was strange. I heard through a Basque AB we took on at Corpus Christi – I was working in Argie boats. He’d come down from Colorado, in hope of shipping out on a British boat – he was a Liverpool man like us – though I didn’t remember him at all. While he was hunting for a ship in Corpus Christi, he met two other Basque lads from Nevada, who’d got just as fed up with the place as I had. They’d tried all kinds of jobs and finally quit; and, like me, had decided to go back to sea.’ He paused to light another cigarette, and then went on, ‘One night in a bar they were talking about how Basques were scattered all over the world; and they told him about going into a post office in some goddamn awful place in Nevada, where they had spent a night, and reading a letter pinned up on a notice board. It was from a kid in Liverpool telling the postmaster about his uncle, Leo Barinèta – how things were bad in Liverpool, and he was trying to trace him. They remembered it, because they had sailed out of Liverpool, en route from Bilbao to Nevada; and they remembered that the Basque agent there was called Barinèta.

‘When this lad shipped with us and heard my name, he came and told me. Simple as that.’

‘Jesus Mary! Had they stayed in our house?’

‘I don’t know. Heaps of youngsters went through our house.’

‘So you came home?’

Leo stopped to ponder, while he watched a laundry van inch through the gate to the Princes Landing Stage. Then he said, ‘It wasn’t that simple. I couldn’t come right off. Reckoned I’d sign off next time I got to Corpus Christi – which was a regular port for us. I was fed up with Argies anyway. I knew that if I then went to Galveston or Houston, there was a good chance I’d find a British ship short of crew – if anybody’s going to desert a British ship, they’ll do it there – or in New York.’

Manuel’s conscience gave a small jolt, as he remembered his own intentions at Houston.

‘But why didn’t you look for a British ship when you gave up in Nevada? Then you could’ve come straight home.’

‘Well, you know how it is. I didn’t want to come home and tell the Old Man that I’d made a wrong decision; he thought Nevada was paradise on earth – but he’d never been there! I only stuck it for six weeks – there was almost a war going on between cattle ranchers and sheep-herders – and we were being harassed by gangs of cowhands. I couldn’t stand the bloody sheep either – stupid buggers.’

‘Mam wrote to you when Grandpa was killed.’

‘So she said. I never got it, though – I’d moved over to try Colorado by then, I think.’

‘Grandma was never the same after he died.’

‘I can well believe it.’

‘You know, you could’ve written to us,’ Manuel upbraided him, his expression resentful below the black beret he was wearing.

Leo made a wry mouth. ‘I’m hopeless at writing. I kept thinking I’d do it when I was settled. It took years, though. Kept trying different jobs – but an immigrant is dirt – even if he can speak three languages – and all you get is labouring jobs. I was out of work, so I came down to the coast, and shipped on the first freighter that looked anything like
– and it wasn’t a bad ship; I’ve been sailing out of Bahia Blanca for over six years now. And I suppose I was settled. To be honest, it was as if I’d never lived in England. Like a lot of emigrants, I was looking forward all the time – not back.’

Listening to his uncle, Manuel had been leaning against a fence, watching basket after basket of laundry being shoved into the side of the liner. Now he transferred his gaze to his uncle. Leo’s face was set, with the same closed-off expression that Manuel had noticed when he had first arrived home. He looked like Uncle Agustin – who never wrote either. ‘Are you all right, Uncle Leo?’ he inquired.

Leo shook his head, and then said slowly, ‘Yes. I’m all right. I lost the wife about a year ago, and sometimes it hits me again – especially because of finding Mother gone, as well.’

‘Wife?’ Manuel looked at him with complete astonishment. He had always imagined his uncle to be a footloose bachelor. ‘What happened? Was she a Liverpool girl?’

They turned to walk along the Princes Landing Stage, past the empty, folded-up gangways which served the ferry-boats. In the lamplight, Manuel anxiously watched the play of expressions on his uncle’s face, while the man got a hold on his feelings.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said to Leo. ‘You must feel like Mam did when Dad was lost.’ He was tremendously curious about this new-found romance, and he ventured, ‘Tell me about her.’

Leo was, in truth, glad to tell someone about his loss – he had not bothered Rosita with it, as she unburdened to him her stories of years of struggle and grief written all too clearly on her lined face. Sometime he would tell her, but not for the present.

He found it difficult to express to an untried stripling the unexpected happiness he had found when he had met Consuelo, and the appalling emptiness when she had died.
He threw down his cigarette butt and ground it under his heel. Then he said, ‘I met an Argie girl, first time I docked in Bahia Bianca; she and her mam were selling fruit in a little street market. I was just a deckie then, an AB, and I’d been signed off. I was alone and I’d a bit of money to spend, and wondering what to do next, though I expected to rejoin the ship in about three days’ time. She said she knew by my clothes that I was no Argie; she thought I was American, so she tried her bits of English on me. She was a pretty little thing, all curves, if you know what I mean?’ Manuel nodded; he knew because his interest in girls was growing daily.

‘Well, she and her mam were surprised when they got an answer in Spanish, and we joked quite a bit. Then, when I went down to the ship, they had a cargo and were going to sail again in two days’ time. So I signed on, and away I went. But I didn’t forget her. Next time we docked, I walked up to see if they were still in the market. And they were.’

He looked at Manuel, and the boy was glad to see his eyes suddenly twinkle. ‘Now you should know you don’t play around with Spanish girls; they often have strong-minded dads and brothers! Anyway, her mam settled it, by asking if I’d a place to stay when I was in Bahia Blanca – seeing as how I seemed to be sailing out of the port regularly – I’d told them I was a Basque, originally from Liverpool. Now, I told her, I was in a sailors’ lodging house and wasn’t too happy about it, so she said she had a spare room where I could safely leave my gear – and stay when I was in port. I didn’t know then that she had
three
daughters with no dowry money to marry off!’ He suddenly laughed at the recollection, and his whole character seemed to change; he lost his quiet withdrawn look, and was suddenly very much like his father, Juan Barinèta, who had always appreciated a joke.

Manuel chuckled. He said, ‘She was trusting, wasn’t she?’

‘She’d got me weighed up. She was a wise old owl. And Consuelo and I got along fine, no doubt about that. So I married her,’ he finished simply, ‘and we lived in with her family – and it worked quite well, because I wasn’t under their feet that much; and when I was there, the girls spoiled me rotten!’

‘I bet they did,’ agreed Manuel. ‘No father around?’

‘No. Nor brothers. The father took off when they were young, and their ma had managed to bring the girls up herself – and nice girls, they were.’ His face went dark again, as he said, ‘Then we were hoping for a baby and we began to watch out for a place of our own near her mam, so she wouldn’t be too lonely while I was at sea. I wasn’t worried about her, because her mam was there.’ He sighed. ‘I was away, and she was about four months – and, one day, so her mam told me, she suddenly went down with fever – fevers are common there, because the land is swampy and they don’t have much in the way of drains or clean water. Anyway, I came home to a grave and three demented women.’

‘That must’ve been awful.’

‘Oh, aye. There were a few other deaths in the neighbourhood, and my guess is that it was cholera – it kills that quick, you’d never believe it. The others were lucky they didn’t get it.’

Manuel put his arm round his uncle’s shoulder. He shuddered. Cholera had visited Liverpool in times past.

Leo felt the shudder, and said, ‘It’s the way life is, lad.’ Though the remark indicated resignation, the tone did not. Then, making an effort, he said firmly, ‘But I didn’t bring you out to talk about me. I want to think about your mam and the girls – and you. Let’s sit down here a minute – I wanted to speak to you first, before I talk to your mother.’ He indicated a seat at the end of the landing stage, and they sat down. ‘Now, what I had in mind is …’

It was obvious that Leo had been thinking hard during
the week he had been with Rosita, and that he had been distressed by the obvious discomfort of having lodgers intruding on her all the time. He suggested that he should live with them in a cheaper, smaller house – if they could find one with three bedrooms, and he would make Rosita a regular allotment. ‘Somewhere up in Toxteth, maybe – where she wouldn’t be too far from her dressmaking or her friends. How does that sound to you?’

It seemed wonderful to Manuel, as the sickening sense of responsibility which had haunted him for years seemed to ease at the thought of having another man to share it. He said, almost boastfully, ‘I’ll be able to make her an allotment as well.’

‘Oh, aye. But that’s what I really want to talk to you about. The way you are, you aren’t going to get anywhere much. I want you to do as well as Pedro did, and go to technical school in January, if they’ll take you. Take some kind of engineering, so you can work ashore when you get older. A lot of fellas do that, if they get the chance.’ It was cold sitting on the bench, so he shoved his hands into his pockets. ‘I got a bit saved for when Consuelo and I got a place – and a bit for the baby that was coming. I can use this to start you off – and Rosita and I could feed you, I expect.’

‘Don’t you want to get married again?’ Manuel asked baldly.

‘I thought about that. But it’s unlikely I’ll meet another Consuelo.’ He smiled at the boy beside him. ‘If, by chance, I do, we’ll worry about it then.’ He took his hands out of his pockets and rested them on his knee. They looked big, callused and capable. He muttered, ‘I doubt I will.

‘Saitua was saying the other night, when he came in, that you’re the brightest lad here amongst the Basques. I want you to go to technical college, and then do courses between going to sea – and we’ll have a qualified engineer in the house before we know it.’

He stood up, and clapped the shoulder of the astonished boy, whose life had been changed in five minutes.

‘Come on, now,’ Leo urged. ‘It’s very late – and Rosita’s going to scold us for being out in the cold for so long.’ He struck a match on the heel of his shoe; and in the tiny flame, Manuel saw his eyes twinkle, as he said dolefully, ‘Have to behave ourselves now, because Rosita’s going to boss the pair of us.’

Manuel’s new home was in a decent, tree-lined street of working-class homes in Toxteth. The front room had a small bay window which jutted straight on to the pavement, and, when Rosita managed to buy a second-hand treadle sewing machine, she put it in the window, so that she had a good light for her sewing. Increasingly, however, as Sloan’s realized her skills, they tended to employ her for full weeks in their workrooms, which meant that, between her wages and Leo’s allotment the little family felt quite prosperous. While in college, Manuel worked in his spare time at various odd jobs, and was able to bring home a little additional money to Rosita.

The house was much closer to Arnador’s apartment than their previous home had been; so, while he was still at school and Manuel was attending technical college, they often worked together on the living-room table in the evenings, and were of help to each other.

Anxious to be thought grown-up, Francesca and Maria sometimes claimed the other end of the table to do their modest assignments. As they all grew older, they would, at the weekends, frequently play cards together or go for walks in the parks. When Manuel finished college and went to sea, as a very junior electrical engineer, and Arnador was doing his first degree at Liverpool University, the boys spent a lot of time together during the periods Manual was ashore.

At first sight, it seemed as if their lives would diverge, as Arnador was drawn into the university world, and the young men pursued their vastly separate careers. It was
not so. They had the easy association of brothers who liked each other, without the natural jealousies of blood brothers. Manuel was aware of how easy it could be for a man at sea to get cut off from friends ashore, and he made a particular effort to keep in close touch with his friend. To Arnador, Manuel was as much part of his life as his family was, and he automatically included his friend in his social life, if Manuel were in port. Because of the tight Basque connection, with its ties of language and culture, Rosita, Leo and Mr and Mrs Ganivet frequently asked the boys to meals; and birthdays, Christmas and Epiphany were days when a special effort was made to see each other.

When she was sixteen, bright, intelligent Francesca, with her delicate red curls and flawless skin, obtained a post with Boot’s Cash Chemists, to work behind their cosmetics counter. Boot’s had an exceptional staff and a job with them gave a girl a certain prestige. Once she had some experience, Francesca was encouraged by modest promotions. Rosita saw to it that her black dresses were always perfectly cut, her white collars starched and neat. She loved her work, which led to a career in cosmetics lasting a lifetime.

A year later, her more prosaic sister went into a bakery as an apprentice. She enjoyed what she was doing and became a skilled confectioner, much in demand to decorate elaborate wedding and birthday cakes. She had a merry, teasing way with her, and had lots of admirers.

Manuel and Arnador explored the world of women together. They were careful not to commit themselves to any particular one, mainly because they both knew that it would be some years before either of them could afford to keep a wife and family.

For fear of finding himself permanently entangled with a girl, Arnador refused to go out with female fellow students. He would say scornfully to Manuel, ‘They’re husband-hunting
– and I suspect that their mothers watch them like cats.’ Then he would add unkindly, ‘And what’s more they’re boring!’

So they laughed, and picked up girls at dances or in cafés. They played cricket with scratch teams, attended football matches, got drunk, and, altogether, did not allow their studies to weigh them down too much. With other male students, they sat around in pubs and cafés, eyeing the girls, and argued politics hotly over pints of beer or cups of coffee.

It was during one of these rather shallow debates, at the time when, in Germany, Adolph Hitler was rising to power, that Arnador soberly forecast another war. In fact, neither he nor Manuel was the least surprised when the Spanish Civil War broke out, though it was Arnador who said sadly, ‘This is only the prelude.’

A number of Liverpudlians, including some Basques, went to Spain to fight General Franco. Neither of the friends was keen to go, Arnador because he felt Franco would win and Manuel because he knew he must help to maintain his mother and Uncle Leo when they grew too old to work.

Those were good times, thought Old Manuel wistfully, despite the thundering of European dictators and the shadows cast by the war in Spain, not to speak of the worry about his relations caught in the conflict. His and Arnie’s lives seemed to be set on hopeful courses, and they had all the optimism of youth.

As he remembered, he was looking down at the huge fountain in Butchart Gardens, a few miles out of Victoria. Jack Audley and his wife had persuaded him to join them for dinner in the restaurant in the Gardens. Though crowded with tourists, he had enjoyed the riot of colour that the Gardens presented. Now, however, he was very weary, his legs ached and he needed to take a pill to assuage
the pain. His mind was tending to wander, and he wished suddenly that Arnie was beside him.

Arnie was now eighty-five! Manuel found it astonishing, regardless of the fact that he was eighty-four himself. Arnie’s sister, Josefa, was even older – a formidable harridan in her nineties, with whom Arnie now made his home. When he was young, Manuel had, on the few occasions when he met her, been afraid of her as she swept into the Ganivet house, so sure of herself with her starched uniform rustling round her. During the war, she had suddenly become more human to him, when, as a result of a passionate encounter with a Royal Air Force Pathfinder much younger than herself, she had shocked everybody by becoming pregnant, something which had not become obvious to her family until after her Pathfinder had been shot down over Hamburg. Pathfinders’ lives, during the war, had been nearly as short as those of merchant seamen, Old Manuel reckoned.

She was forty-one years old and well advanced in her nursing career. She was totally distraught because she could not bring herself to seek an abortion. Her parents were shocked beyond measure. They had rallied round her, however, as had her nursing colleagues; and Josefa subsequently picked up her career again after six months’ quietly given leave – surgical nurses were worth their weight in gold at a time when wards were filled with casualties. Her mother tenderly babysat her solitary grandchild, a girl who was christened Josephine.

Josephine was now an accomplished concert pianist. She was unmarried, and, when she was not on tour, she enlivened Josefa’s and Arnador’s retirement by making her home with them, and contributing a share to the upkeep of the household.

She had been good for her Uncle Arnador, who was now a Professor Emeritus at the University of Liverpool, considered Old Manuel. She encouraged him to take a bus
down to his department twice a week, to read the journals connected with his subject, and continue his interest in the vagaries of human population.

As the fountain sprayed him lightly with water, Old Manuel chuckled. He still felt that it was lucky that Arnador had been a demographer; it meant he could understand and take an interest in his friend’s discipline. If, for example, he had become a physicist, Manuel admitted that he would have been sunk.

‘What are you laughing at?’ Jack Audley asked. He was bored with watching the fountain; but his wife had involved herself in a long conversation with a Japanese visitor, who had come specially from Osaka to see the Gardens. The Japanese spoke English well, and Mrs Audley was encouraging him to take a look at the Japanese garden which formed part of Butchart Gardens.

Manuel turned to him. ‘I was thinking about old Arnie. Remember him? He’s been to stay with me a few times.’

‘Sure.’

‘He had a funny career. He counted heads all his life – like, whole populations. From his figures, he can often forecast what’s likely to happen to a country – or even an individual, like whether you’ll get work or not. He makes me laugh because he’s better than a gypsy coming to your back door to tell your fortune.’

‘Humph.’ Jack Audley did not believe him; he was also feeling grumpy. He said deflatingly, ‘Don’t get any gypsies out here.’

Manuel was irritated. Sometimes, he got from Jack an annoying reminder that, though he had been in Canada for years, he had alien roots and different formative experiences. It made him feel at a loss, when his interests were summarily dismissed – even a tiny one, like a knowledge of gypsies.

It’s time I went home to visit Arnie, he decided, feeling quite as grumpy as Jack. Jesus! How his legs ached!