The Liverpool Basque. Helen Forrester
alone with his grief.
He stood perfectly still in the back of the hall, but the bell was rung for the third time.
‘Why not leave the plate on the doorstep?’ suggested Sharon, who had already done an eight-hour shift in the Palliative Care Unit and found her feet to be aching abominably.
‘The dogs might get it,’ Veronica replied shortly.
Resigned, Manuel put down his unlit cigarette on the hall table and answered the door. As he opened it, he did his best to show pleasant surprise. He wondered who the other woman was – not a bad-looking judy.
Without hesitation, Veronica stepped into his hall, and he backed hastily. ‘Ah!’ she cooed. ‘I thought you’d never hear me. How are you doing?’ She half-turned towards Sharon, who was still teetering on the step. ‘I want to introduce you to Elaine’s daughter – you remember Elaine? She’s staying with me until she finds an apartment. Come in, Sharon.’
Old Manuel gave up.
He retreated further into the little hallway, while Sharon, loath to intrude, stepped into the doorway.
Who, in the name of God, was Elaine? Old Manuel could not remember.
Blithely oblivious to the lack of welcome, Veronica moved firmly through the archway that led to the sitting-room. ‘I’ve brought you some cold roast beef,’ she announced. ‘I got a roast when I knew Sharon was coming – and it’s too much for us, isn’t it, Sharon?’
Sharon smiled, and fidgeted uncertainly. What was she supposed to say?
Veronica was asking Manuel if she should put the meat in the refrigerator for him. He hastily took the plate from her. He had no desire to have her poking through the entrails of his refrigerator.
‘No. That’s OK. I’ll take it. I’ll put it on the table here.’ He darted through the opposite arch, which led into the dining-room, with an alacrity surprising for a man in his eighties. If he were quick enough, he thought, he could shoo her out of the door again quite rapidly.
He was too late. Veronica was already seated on the flower-covered settee in the sitting-room, and was patting the cushion beside her to indicate to Sharon that she, too, should sit down.
From the archway, Manuel viewed them both with trepidation, while Veronica chirruped on about Sharon coming to nurse in the Palliative Care Unit, and wasn’t it great that they would have such a unit in their closest hospital? Such a shame that there had not been one when Kathleen was so ill.
Manuel stiffened. He was not too clear what exactly a Palliative Care Unit was meant for; but he certainly did not feel like discussing Kathleen in front of a stranger.
The lack of welcome was all too obvious to Sharon, and her colour rose as her embarrassment increased. She glanced directly up at him, wondering how to retreat with grace. What she saw in his face was the closed-off look of suffering, all too familiar to her in her work.
She got up immediately and filled the gap in the conversation which Manuel’s silence had caused. ‘It’s suppertime, Veronica,’ she said firmly. ‘We should leave Mr Echaniz to enjoy the beef, and perhaps we could meet again another day.’ She held out her hand to Manuel, and, since Veronica had not introduced her properly, she added, ‘I’m Sharon Herman. It’s nice to meet you.’
The relief which flooded Manuel’s face was so blatant that she wanted to laugh. Her eyes must have twinkled, because there was the hint of an answering grin suddenly flickering round his wide, thin mouth.
She let go of his hand, and bent to help a disconcerted Veronica up from the low settee.
God’s blessings on the girl, the old man thought, as he assured her that he was pleased to meet her.
With her hand under Veronica’s elbow, she steered her towards the front door, which was still open, and guided Veronica down the steps. Not too sure what was happening to her, Veronica did her best, and said to Manuel, ‘I hope you’ll like the meat. You can bring the plate back another time.’
In her heart, she knew that he would never bring the plate back – the next time she called it would be sitting on the hall table, in a paperbag, waiting for her to pick it up.
He nodded agreeably to both of them. Then he shut the front door after them. He stood leaning against it for a moment, as if to make sure that they would not come back in. Veronica had been Kathleen’s devoted friend, he reminded himself for the umpteenth time. ‘And for her sake, I must be pleasant to her – even if she’s a real cross!’
As he retrieved his unlit cigarette and started back to his den to find some matches, he looked down at the plate of meat. He had a great urge to empty it straight into the rubbish bin – but she did mean kindly, and the young woman with her had understood well enough to take her away. Furthermore, it would save him cooking for himself.
He laughed at himself as he put the plate in the refrigerator, and then went to get his long-delayed smoke.
Nice young woman, he considered, as he thankfully drew on his cigarette. Just what does she do in palliative care?
Outside, as the women went down the steps to the pavement, to walk round to Veronica’s house, Sharon said soothingly, ‘He looked so exhausted and so upset when you mentioned Kathleen, I thought we’d better not stay.’
‘Oh? I didn’t notice.’ Veronica’s expression was puzzled. Then, accepting Sharon’s explanation, she said, ‘Well, I suppose at his age …’ And left it at that.
As he smoked, Manuel stood staring out of the window, rocking slightly on his heels, as if he were in a boat and must keep his balance. He did not notice the two ladies pass beyond his budding lilac tree. His mind had reverted to the memoirs he had been writing for Lorilyn, before the visit.
He smiled slowly at a sudden remembrance of a ship’s master saying to his Grandfather Barinèta that his crew were a lot of ‘hard cases’.
‘Oh, aye,’ he muttered to himself. ‘So were me granddad and me dad – tough as old boots. They could fight anybody if they had to – even other “hard cases” out on a spree of a Saturday night.’
Very thoughtfully, he stubbed out his cigarette in an overcrowded ash tray, and then stood absently rubbing his nicotine-stained thumb and forefinger together, as if to erase the yellow stain on them.
Was he remembering correctly? Had his life in Liverpool really been as golden as he had described? Had the other boys with whom he had played been as good mates as he remembered? While he played or went to school, safe in the shelter of his ferocious old grandfather, what was going on between the adult members of the family?
Manuel would soon be six years old, a thin streak of a child, tall for his age. Filled with resentment, he was clutching his bag of marbles to his chest for fear that Andrew would snatch them from him.
Seven-year-old Andrew had just won his best blue-streaked ollie from him, and Manuel felt sure that Andrew had cheated him, but he was not certain how. Tears of rage sprang to his eyes at the smug look on Andrew’s face as he stowed the disputed marble in the pocket of his ragged shorts.
‘You don’t play fair,’ he yelled. ‘I’ll tell my dad of you!’
Andrew’s lips curled. ‘Who’s afraid of your dad? He’s not home.’
‘Me dad’s a Master Mariner, and he’ll get you when he does come home,’ cried Manuel furiously. ‘So there!’
The youngest of five unruly boys, Andrew was the offspring of a Filipino and an Irish girl, who lived in a nearby street. Nearly a year older than the young Basque, he enjoyed lording it over the smaller lads in the vicinity. Now he made a lewd gesture. ‘My dad’s a stoker,