Graveyard Clay- Cré Na Cille
Page 4
A similar argument applies to personal names, but in the present text it is not so pressing, since the English or anglicised equivalents of most of them—Cáit, Bríd, and the like—are obvious anyway. A few that are just English names spelled in the Irish phonetic system, such as Jeaic, we have let revert to their English forms. However, we found it necessary to translate nicknames, as they are indicative of status, appearance, ancestry, or the community’s attitude towards the person named. So we have “Siúán the Shop” and “Máirtín Pockface,” for example. As with placename elements there are some puzzles, of course: what exactly is implied by the nickname of Tomás Taobh Istigh we think we know, but the ambiguity of Jeaic na Scolóige’s name is not just in our minds but commented on (unrevealingly) by other characters in the book.
Translation theorists speak of the “target language.” I don’t like the aggressive term; I’d rather think of a “host language” and what variety of it might most generously welcome this demanding but rewarding text. The formal principle—a bold invention—of Ó Cadhain’s novel is that it is entirely composed of direct speech, with no explicit indication of who is speaking. So, for the reader to be able to ascribe each speech to the right speaker by its tone and vocabulary as well as its content, a dialect of English with a notable range of expressive means is called for, and of course in Ó Cadhain’s own territory a Hiberno-English that has for centuries been living next door to and borrowing household items from the Irish language offers itself. The English of the Conamara Gaeltacht can range from bardic frenzy to cocksure modernism; but it is a potent brew, to be used with discretion; it is no use translating Irish into an English that itself calls for translation or has been debased by Paddywhackery.
Finally, and despite our sense of the enormity of what we have undertaken in opening to non-Irish readers’ eyes a book so long aureoled in distant respect, I must say what a pleasure the task has been. I hope too that our partners Bairbre and M have found that their considerable contributions have been repaid in the wild humours of Ó Cadhain’s Graveyard Clay.
Tim Robinson
CHARACTERS AND DIALOGUE CONVENTIONS
CAITRÍONA PHÁIDÍN Caitríona (daughter of) Páidín. Newly buried
PÁDRAIG CHAITRÍONA Pádraig (son of) Caitríona. Her only son
NÓRA SHEÁINÍN’S DAUGHTER Pádraig Chaitríona’s wife. Living in same house as Caitríona
MÁIRÍN Girl-child of Pádraig Chaitríona and Nóra Sheáinín’s daughter
NÓRA SHEÁINÍN Nóra (daughter of) Seáinín. Mother of Pádraig Chaitríona’s wife
BABA PHÁIDÍN Baba (daughter of) Páidín. Sister of Caitríona and Nell. Living in America. A legacy from her expected
NELL PHÁIDÍN Sister of Caitríona and Baba
JACK THE SCOLÓG Jack (son of) Scológ. Nell’s husband
PEADAR NELL Peadar (son of) Nell and Jack
BIG BRIAN’S MAG Daughter of Big Brian. Wife of Peadar Nell
BRIAN ÓG Young Brian. Son of Peadar Nell and Big Brian’s Mag
BIG BRIAN Father of Mag
TOMÁS INSIDE Relative of Caitríona and Nell. The two of them contending for his land
MURAED PHROINSIAIS Muraed (daughter of) Proinsias. Next-door neighbour and life-long bosom friend to Caitríona
Other Neighbours and Acquaintances
Guide to Dialogue Conventions
— Speech beginning
—… Speech in progress
… Speech omitted
GRAVEYARD CLAY
Time
Eternity
Place
The Graveyard
Regimen
Interlude 1: The Black Clay
Interlude 2: The Spreading of the Clay
Interlude 3: The Teasing of the Clay
Interlude 4: The Crushing of the Clay
Interlude 5: The Bone-Fertilising of the Clay
Interlude 6: The Kneading of the Clay
Interlude 7: The Moulding of the Clay
Interlude 8: The Firing of the Clay
Interlude 9: The Smoothing of the Clay
Interlude 10: The White Clay
Interlude One
THE BLACK CLAY
1
I wonder am I buried in the Pound Plot or the Fifteen-Shilling Plot? Or did the devil possess them to dump me in the Half-Guinea Plot, after all my warnings? The morning of the day I died I called Pádraig up from the kitchen: “I beseech you, Pádraig, my child,” I said. “Bury me in the Pound Plot. In the Pound Plot. Some of us are buried in the Half-Guinea Plot, but even so …”
I told them to get the best coffin in Tadhg’s. It’s a good oak coffin anyway … I have the scapular1 mantle2 on. And the winding-sheet. I had them left ready myself … There’s a spot on this sheet. It’s like a daub of soot. No it’s not. A fingermark! My son’s wife for certain. It’s like her sloppiness. If Nell saw it! I suppose she was there. She wouldn’t have been, by God, if I could have helped it …
Little Cáit made a botch of cutting out the shroud. I’ve always said not to give a drop of drink to herself or Bid Shorcha till the corpse was well away from the house. I warned Pádraig not to let them cut out the shroud if they had drink taken. But Little Cáit can’t be kept away from corpses. Her greatest delight every day of her life was to have a corpse anywhere in the two townlands. The crops could rot on the ridge once she got the whiff of a corpse …
The crucifix is on my breast, the one I bought at the mission … But where’s the black crucifix Tomáisín’s wife got blessed for me at Knock Shrine3 the last time Tomáisín had to be tied? I told them to put that one on me too. It’s much better looking than this one. The Saviour on this one is crooked since Pádraig’s children dropped it. The Saviour on the black one is gorgeous. But what’s the matter with me? I’m as forgetful as ever! There it is under my head. It’s a pity they didn’t put that one on my breast …
They should have knotted the rosary beads round my fingers better. Nell herself did that, for sure. She’d have been delighted if they’d fallen on the floor when they were putting me in the coffin. Oh Lord God, that one would keep well clear of me …
I hope they lit the eight candles over my coffin in the chapel. I had them left ready for them, in the corner of the chest under the rent papers. That’s something no corpse in that chapel ever had: eight candles. Curraoin only had four. Liam Thomáis the Tailor had six, but he has a daughter a nun in America.
Three half-barrels of porter I told them to get for my wake, and Éamonn of the Hill Field promised me personally that if there was any drop of the hard stuff4 to be had on the Mountain5 he’d bring it himself without waiting to be asked. It would all be needed, with so much altar-money.6 Fourteen or fifteen pounds at the very least. I sent someone, or a shilling, to many places I didn’t owe a funeral visit at all in the five or six years since I felt myself failing. I suppose all the Mountain crowd came. It would be a poor show if they didn’t. We went to theirs. That’s the best part of a pound for a start. And the Wood of the Lake crowd would follow the in-laws. That’s the best part of another pound. And the whole of Glen of the Pasture owed me a funeral … It wouldn’t surprise me if Sweet-talking Stiofán didn’t come. We were at every single funeral of his. But he’d say he didn’t hear about it till I was buried. And the song and dance he’d make of it then! “I assure you, Pádraig Ó Loideáin, if it cost me my life’s blood I’d have been at the funeral. I owed it to Caitríona Pháidín to come to her funeral even if it was on my two knees. But devil a word I heard about it till the night she was buried. A young lad …” A right blatherer, the same Sweet-talking Stiofán! …
I wonder was I keened7 well. No word of a lie but Bid Shorcha has a fine tearful wail, if she wasn’t too drunk. I’m sure Nell was sponging around there too. Nell crying and not a tear on her cheek, the pussface! That one wouldn’t dare come near the house while I was alive …
She’s happy now. I thought I’d live another few years and bury the bitch. She failed a lot since h
er son was injured. Even before that, she was going to the doctor fairly often. There’s very little wrong with her. Rheumatism. That won’t kill her for a long time. She takes good care of herself. Which I didn’t do, and it’s now I know it. I killed myself toiling and moiling … If only I’d seen to that pain before it became chronic. But once it hits you in the kidneys your goose is cooked.
I was two years older than Nell, anyway … Baba, then me, then Nell. A year last Michaelmas I got the pension. But I got it before my time. Baba is bordering on seventy-three. She’s close to death now, for all her efforts. Our people weren’t long-lived. When she gets word of my death she’ll know she hasn’t long left herself, and she’ll make her will for certain … She’ll leave every single penny she has to Nell. The pussface got the better of me after all. She has milked Baba well. But if I’d lived till Baba had made her will I’d say she’d have given me half the money in spite of Nell. Baba is fickle-minded. I was the one she wrote to most, these last three years since she moved out from Big Brian’s people in Norwood and went to Boston. It’s a great relief that she parted company with that nest of vipers at any rate …
But she never forgave Pádraig for marrying that scold from Mangy Field and turning his back on Big Brian’s daughter Mag. She wouldn’t have gone next or near Nell’s house, that time she was home from America, if Nell’s son hadn’t married Big Brian’s Mag. Why would she! … A little hovel of a house. And a filthy little hovel at that. Not a house fit for a Yank at any rate. I don’t know how she put up with it at all, after our house and those grand American houses. But she didn’t stay there long before taking off over again …
She won’t come to Ireland again in her lifetime. She’s done with that now. But who knows, she might get itchy feet again when this war is over, if she’s still among the living. As for Nell, she’d charm the honey from a hive, she’s so sly and cunning. Blast Baba for an old hag! Even though she parted from Big Brian’s family in Norwood, she still has a great regard for his daughter Mag … Wasn’t my Pádraig the silly little fool not to take her advice and marry the ugly wretch’s daughter. “It’s no use going on at me,” said the little fool. “I wouldn’t marry Big Brian’s Mag if she was the last woman in Ireland.” Baba went off up to Nell’s as if she’d got a slap in the face, and she never came near our house again, except to step in for a moment the day she was going back to America.
—… Hitler is my darling. He’s the man for them …
—If England is beaten this country will be in bad shape. We’ve already lost the market …
—… You Breed of the One-Eared Tailor, it’s you who left me here fifty years before my time. The One-Ear Breed were always ready with the foul blow. Knives, stones, bottles. You wouldn’t fight like a man, instead of stabbing me …
—… Permission to speak! Permission to speak …
—Jesus, Mary and Joseph!—Am I alive or am I dead? Are these here alive or dead? They’re all giving out as much as they did above ground! I thought that once I was laid in the grave, free from chores and household cares and fear of wind or weather, there’d be some peace in store for me … but why all this squabbling in the graveyard clay? …
2
—… Who are you? Are you long here? Do you hear me? Don’t be shy. Feel as free here as you would at home. I’m Muraed Phroinsiais.
—For God’s sake! Muraed Phroinsiais who lived next door to me all my life. I’m Caitríona. Caitríona Pháidín. Do you remember me, Muraed, or do you lose all memory of life here? I haven’t lost mine yet at any rate …
—And you won’t. Life’s the same here, Caitríona, as it was in the “ould country,” except that all we see is the grave we’re in and we can’t leave the coffin. You won’t hear the living either, or know what’s happening to them, apart from what the newly buried dead will tell you. But we’re neighbours once again, Caitríona. Are you long here? I didn’t hear you coming.
—I don’t know if it was on St. Patrick’s Day I died or the day after, Muraed. I was too worn out. And I don’t know how long I’m here either. Not very long anyway … You’re a good while buried yourself, Muraed … You’re right. Four years come Easter. Spreading a bit of manure for Pádraig in the Hollow Field I was, when a young girl of Tomáisín’s came down for me. “Muraed Phroinsiais is in the throes of death,” she says. And then, believe it or not, wasn’t Little Cáit already going in the door of the house by the time I got to the top of the haggard!8 You had just expired. It was I closed your eyelids with my own two thumbs. Myself and Little Cáit laid you out. And indeed, everyone said you looked lovely. No one had call to grumble. Everyone who saw you said you made a beautiful corpse. There wasn’t so much as a hair out of place on you. You were laid out as smoothly as if you’d been ironed onto the board …
… I didn’t linger long, Muraed. My kidneys had been failing for a long time. A blockage. I got a terrible pain there five or six weeks ago, and I caught a cold on top of that. The pain went into my belly and from there up into my chest. I only lasted about a week … I wasn’t that old at all, Muraed. I was only seventy-one. But my life was nothing but hardship. It was, God knows, and the signs are on me. When it hit me it hit me hard. There was no fight left in me …
You can say that indeed, Muraed. That hussy from Mangy Field didn’t help matters at all. What possessed my Pádraig to marry her in the first place? … God bless your innocence, Muraed dear, you don’t know the half of it, for not a word of it ever passed my lips. It’s three long months now since she as much as lifted a finger … Another child. She only just pulled through. She’ll never survive the next one, I’d say … There was a clutch of children, and not an ounce of sense between them, apart from Máirín, the eldest girl, and she was at school every day. I used to potter around as best I could myself, washing them and keeping them away from the fire and giving them a bite to eat … You’re right, Muraed. Pádraig will have no house left, now that I’m gone. Certainly that hussy isn’t fit to keep a house, a woman who spends every second day in bed … Now you’ve said it, my friend! Pádraig and the children are to be pitied …
I had indeed. I had everything left ready, Muraed, shroud, scapular mantle and all … Honestly, Muraed, there were eight candles over me in the chapel, and that’s the truth … I went into the best coffin in Tadhg’s. I’d say it cost every penny of fifteen pounds … But there are three plaques on this one, Muraed, not just two … And you’d think each one of them was the big mirror in the priest’s parlour …
Pádraig told me he’ll put a cross of Island limestone9 over me like the one over Peadar the Pub, and an inscription in Irish: “Caitríona Bean Sheáin Uí Loideáin …” Pádraig himself said that straight out, Muraed … I wouldn’t have dreamed of asking him, Muraed … And he said he’d put a railing round the grave like the one round Siúán the Shop, and that he’d plant flowers over me—damned if I can remember what they’re called—the sort the Schoolmistress had on her black outfit after the Big Master died. “It’s the least we could do for you,” said Pádraig, “after all the hardship you endured for us …”
But tell me this, Muraed, what part of the graveyard is this? … Upon my soul you’re right, it’s the Fifteen-Shilling Plot … Now, Muraed, you know in your heart I wouldn’t expect to be buried in the Pound Plot. If they did bury me there I could do nothing about it, but as for asking them to …
Nell, is it? … By Dad, I nearly buried her before me. If only I’d lived just a little longer I’d have done it … Her son Peadar’s accident set her back a lot … A lorry knocked him down, back at the Strand, a year or a year and a half ago, and made pulp of his hip. They didn’t know for a week in the hospital whether he was coming or going …