The Liverpool Basque (18 page)

Every time his father docked during the First World War Manuel’s tight-clenched stomach would relax, and he looked forward to their doing things together. As he grew bigger, he understood clearly that it was Pedro who maintained the household. His mother worked very hard; when she was not scrubbing floors, she was cooking, washing or driving bargains in the market. In her spare time, she knitted and mended, as she gossiped to neighbours, who wandered freely in and out of the house.

But women had only the money their husbands or fathers gave them. And without money everything collapsed. Manuel looked forward to when he could go to sea, and, when he returned, drop money and chocolates into his mother’s lap. He ignored his grandma’s hints about the Church and university; having to go to school until one was sixteen was a long enough stretch.

Arnador did not agree with Manuel about his future; he had his own eyes fixed on university, though he was unclear what he would study.

On his return, Pedro was invariably greeted with almost hysterical relief by Rosita and Micaela. Not for them were the grumbles of other local women about the meanness of their menfolk, or the groans at the likelihood of another pregnancy. There was an abiding love and general agreement between Rosita and Pedro, and quiet, patient Micaela had a place both in their hearts and in the home.

Manuel had little idea how lucky he was to have such a peaceful home; he took it for granted. If, when visiting his young friends, he stumbled upon a family row with dishes
flying, or a wife or son being beaten, he was always alarmed and nonplussed. Rosita might shout at him for entering the house with dirty boots or slap her little daughters for being rude, but it had nothing of the ferocity he observed elsewhere.

Street fights were rare in his small corner of the dockside. Arnador said, however, that they were common in the north end of the city, particularly when the pubs closed on Saturday night. ‘Sometimes the police get beaten up,’ he told Manuel.

By silent consent they kept out of that area. Arnador was careful, and had a disarming way of dealing with people, considered Old Manuel, with some amusement. He could not recall his ever getting into a physical fight, though he could be a formidable debater, the old fox.

While Pedro was at home, Rosita’s face would look a little less drawn, and Micaela would lose some of the gravity which had become habitual to her. The house would be cheered up by the friendly rumbling of Basque voices, as friends of Pedro’s dropped in to see him, on their way to the Baltic Fleet.

Like most seamen during the war, Pedro had an uneasy feeling that his time might be short. Whenever he was at home, he made a habit of taking Manuel to the park to sail his boat on the pond, or they played pelota against a warehouse wall. To the amusement of the dock watchman, who knew Pedro quite well, they sometimes swam together in Wapping Dock; it was common to see boys diving off the steps there, but it was rare to see a man. The watchman, who was supposed to keep people out of the water, sometimes turned a blind eye.

They also went across the river in the ferryboat, to explore the Wirral countryside beyond Birkenhead, or, when the tide was in, to swim in the sea at Hoylake.

One evening, Pedro found Arnador doing his arithmetic homework with Manuel at the kitchen table. He found
Arnador’s slightly pompous character amusing, and, when he heard from the boy that he hoped to go to the university, he was keen to foster the friendship with Manuel. If Mannie was destined for higher education, he had better have friends who also studied; he realized that Wapping Dock boys were unlikely to comprehend the necessity of hard work at school.

Manuel forgot about little Brian Wing, the last hope of the Chinese laundry, who, most evenings, sat by his mother’s ironing board, while she heard him spell in English, a decrepit dictionary at hand to confirm the correctness of his efforts. His eldest brother now worked full-time in the laundry, and the next one had just gone to sea, but, with the elder boys now adding to the family income, Mr Wing wanted better things for his smallest son; the child never moved out of the steamy laundry until his homework was done.

Pedro was the first seaman with whom Arnador became friends. His father dealt with them every day in his chandlery business, as they came to buy all the requirements of a ship from rope to teapots; but Arnador was not encouraged to visit the warehouse. He was much more fascinated by Pedro’s stories of his life at sea than Manuel was. Manuel had listened to his father and his grandfather talking about their lives ever since he could remember; he regarded their adventures as a man’s normal life. He believed that everybody understood seagoing and docks and foreign ports – they were all part of the life you hoped to escape to the minute you could finish school and be a man, preferably not later than aged thirteen. It was as well that he did not take seriously his family’s determination that he should have further education; if he had, there would probably have been an instant rebellion; he accepted the discipline of St Francis Xavier’s, but he assumed it would not last for that long.

It was through a horse that Pedro made the acquaintance of Arnador’s mother. Once, on shore leave, he took both boys to see the Annual Horse Parade in Lime Street. Liverpudlians flocked there to see working horses groomed to perfection, their tails and manes plaited with coloured ribbons. Their polished harnesses glittered with brightly shining horse brasses and had flowers attached to them.

Though Francesca had little idea of the reason for the outing, she howled to be taken along. As usual, she was bought off by Rosita’s promise of a halfpennyworth of dolly mixtures from the corner shop. Rosita would have enjoyed going to see the Parade, too, but she earnestly wanted Manuel to have his father’s company; amongst seagoing families, too many boys barely knew their fathers, except when they sat, downcast, by their empty fireplaces, unemployed.

In Lime Street, Pedro and the boys stood behind a temporary barrier to watch the heaving, shining mass of animals. While Pedro, a cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth, gossiped with another man in the crowd, Arnador and Manuel sucked boiled sweets produced from the depths of Pedro’s tobacco-dusty pocket. A few police kept the crowd orderly, so that no one was kicked by an irate horse or run over by a backing wagon.

Living at a distance from the docks, Arnador did not see as many horses as Manuel did, nor had he had the regular warnings from his mother to keep out of reach of them. He was enthralled by the sheer beauty of the animals, which were not ordinarily so well groomed. The nearest to him was a neat little carriage horse with a coat like polished coal; it was in the shafts of a light trap. The driver held the reins loosely in his lap, and tipped his straw hat to someone on the other side of the carriage. A lively exchange of jokes ensued, and the horse stirred uneasily.

Cautiously, Arnador slipped under the barricade, and approached the dark beauty.

Pedro called, ‘Hey! Come on back, lad.’

Arnador ignored him, and patted the horse’s neck.

‘Arnador!’ Pedro was not used to being disobeyed.

The youngster half turned, grinned at Pedro, and said, as he stretched out his hand to stroke the animal’s nose, ‘He’s OK, Mr Echaniz. He likes it.’

Pedro saw the animal’s lips curl back from its yellowed teeth, as it moved its head from the caressing hand. He swiftly ducked under the barrier to pull the boy back. Arnador saw the movement and reluctantly turned to obey Pedro. The irritated animal leaned forward and bit into his shoulder. The heavy teeth did not manage to bite through his jacket, but had a firm enough grip to give the boy a sharp shake.

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?’