The Liverpool Basque. Helen Forrester

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СКАЧАТЬ total relief, Manuel edged back from Andrew, and shrieked, ‘Coming, Grandma!’ Then he turned and ran for home. It left Andrew in command of the field – but, Manuel solaced himself as he tore back to the safety of Grandma, he now had nobody to play with.

      Thanks to Grandma’s calling him, his retreat was an honourable one; even Andrew would admit that. When mothers called, you responded fairly promptly. If you did not, you got soundly slapped the minute you showed your face at home – and there was always the overwhelming threat from the females of the family, ‘When your dad gets in, I’ll tell him about you!’ Fathers whacked much harder than mothers did; they sometimes took their belt to you.

      Grandma bent to catch him in the curve of her arm. ‘Come along, dumpling,’ she said in Basque. ‘We’re going up to the market. Your dad’s docking tomorrow; and your mam wants to have chicken ready for him when he gets home.’

      ‘Do I have to come?’ asked Manuel in a whining voice. He had been to school, had his tea, and had then gone out into the street to play, only to find himself up against Andrew. He was tired, and the thought of the long, boring walk up to St John’s Market made his legs ache.

      ‘Yes, dear. With Auntie Maria only just out of hospital, she can’t watch you. Who’ll take care of you while we’re out? Your grandpa’s gone over to the Baltic for a game of chequers and a drink.’

      With the threat of Andrew and his brothers still in his mind, Manuel saw the point of this, and made no further demur.

      

      On her return from the hospital the previous day, Manuel had watched his spinster Aunt Maria being laid carefully on the old sofa in the big kitchen-living-room, so that Grandma and Mother would not have to run up and downstairs to and from her bedroom while nursing her.

      She was his mother’s elder sister, and she and Manuel were great friends. She had taught him to play snap and snakes and ladders, and she usually took care of him whenever the others were out.

      Now, back home, she was exceedingly quiet, her face white and haggard, except for a single hectic pink spot on either cheek.

      It was called convalescence, which Manuel understood was another word for getting better. But he had noticed that all the ladies who had crowded in to see her during the last twenty-four hours looked sad, and sighed. ‘TB’s a terrible thing, God save us,’ they had murmured to each other. Then they had spoken to Auntie Maria in bright, artificial voices.

      Even seventy-eight years later, as he wrote about them in his Canadian home, for Lorilyn, he could still remember clearly the black-clad women, their arms wrapped in their woollen shawls, despite the summer heat, while they smiled determinedly and chirruped like birds, as they bent over the stricken invalid.

      

      Grandma took his hand and led him up the worn sandstone steps into the soot-blackened house, to see if his mother and two of her Basque friends were ready to set out.

      Rosita was just wrapping Manuel’s new baby sister, Francesca, into the folds of the black shawl she wore. He felt a sting of jealousy at the baby’s privileged position in his mother’s arms; she had usurped his place. Admittedly, Grandma had been particularly kind since Francesca’s birth – but Grandma was kind to the baby as well.

      As he waited in the crowded kitchen-living-room for the women to marshal themselves, Aunt Maria put out a bone-thin hand and held his fingertips, as she smiled up at him. Manuel looked down at her. Neither said anything, but Manuel found it consoling that he still appeared to be his aunt’s favourite; she had never even held Francesca in her arms, as far as he was aware.

      It was always a matter of earnest debate between Grandma Micaela, Rosita and Aunt Maria whether it was better to go to the market early in the morning, when there was lots of choice; or to go at the end of the day, when it was possible to beat down the prices of wares which vendors did not want to have to take back home. Since a live chicken was as fresh in the late afternoon as it would have been in the early morning, they had decided to go at the last possible moment.

      Aunt Maria felt well enough to be disappointed that she would miss the excitement of the market, and she said wistfully that she wished she had an invalid chair to go out in.

      Grandma grunted. Invalid chairs were beyond the dreams of avarice, so she said comfortingly, ‘Never mind, dear, save your strength for tomorrow. We’ll get you up and dressed in time to greet Pedro when he arrives. He’d be so happy to see you up and about – so you mustn’t tire yourself today.’

      Mollified, she allowed Grandma to prop her up with another cushion and put an extra shawl around her, though the day was warm. With a glass of water, her spectacles and her rosary on a stool by her couch, she settled down resignedly to await their return.

      By the time the four chattering ladies reached the beginning of the narrow lane at the back of the market, where poultry was sold, Manuel’s feet were dragging through the straw which littered the cobblestones. Fine beads of perspiration lay on his forehead, and he clutched Rosita’s black skirt, in order to keep up with her. The smell of poultry droppings and other manure lay like a blanket over the crowded lane, and was not improved by the intense odour of dozens of unbathed women, who sat amid their goods for sale. He felt stifled and began to grizzle.

      Amid the din and the thick black skirts flapping round him, his wails went unremarked. Men and women shouted, puppies yapped, ducks quacked; fouled in their own excrement, kittens mewed pitifully and scratched at the bars of their cages; next to a cage of clucking hens, a lone goose hissed at passersby. Only rabbits crouched quietly, their quivering noses a tiny indication that they were still alive, despite the heat.

      The approach of a small group of Basque women, chattering loudly in their own peculiar language, did not raise the hopes of the purveyors of poultry. They, too, were hot and weary. An impending Basque invasion made their spirits wilt: if the women bought anything, it would only be after strenuous bargaining; it would surely make any stallholder they fastened upon late home for his tea.

      After strolling the length of the still busy lane, the target of the Basque attack became a small cage holding three hens, which appeared not to have sold because they were rather scrawny. Before showing any direct interest in the birds, Grandma Micaela led a distracting minor scrimmage by examining carefully a pair of rabbits. She poked at them through the bars of their cage, and they stared back at her without hope. She drew Rosita’s attention to them, and she also poked disparagingly at them. Rosita’s two friends, who had accompanied them, pursed their lips and agreed loudly with one another that they weren’t worth sixpence each. The man in charge of them said something inaudible under his breath.

      Sighing, they looked desultorily at a pair of slaughtered hens, not yet cleaned or feathered, hanging heads down in front of the next small stall.

      ‘Here ye are, ladies,’ called the stallholder, beaming at them. ‘A real nice dinner. Good fat birds. One and sixpence each. Feather ’em yerself.’ He unhooked the hens and held them against his forearm for inspection. Four ladies pinched the hens’ breasts and declared in chorus that they had no fat on them.

      The man lost his amiability as quickly as it had been assumed; the price he had asked was fair for two good birds. ‘Pack of bloody Israelites!’ he muttered, and turned angrily away to accost another shopper.

      Though Grandma’s eyes were weak and she could not see any of the products very well, prompted by Rosita, she opened negotiations with the man who had three live hens. They were, apparently, the last of his offerings for that day; several empty СКАЧАТЬ