—Not a bit of him, but Pádraig told me he was talking to him last fairday and what he said was: “I assure you, Pádraig Ó Loideáin,” says he, “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 evening she was buried. A youngster belonging to …” A right blatherer, that same Sweet-talking Stiofán! … What sort of coffin did they put me in?
—Ten pounds, Caitríona. A fine big collection.
—Are you talking about the coffin or the collection? Why don’t you listen? … What sort of coffin did they put me in? Coffin …
—The best coffin in Tadhg’s, three half-barrels of porter and a good dash of poteen. There was enough drink there for twice as many. Nell told him so, but nothing would do him but to get the three half-barrels. Indeed there was lashings of drink there. Even though I was an old man myself I drank twelve mugs that night, not to mention all I drank the day you were brought to the chapel, and the day of the funeral. To tell you the truth, Caitríona, for all the respect and affection I had for you, I wouldn’t have risked drinking that much if I’d known the heart was weak …
—You didn’t hear that Pádraig said anything about burying me somewhere else in the cemetery?
—I gave my side a little wrench and there wasn’t a puff of breath left in me. The heart, God help us …
—Will you listen to what I’m saying, Seáinín. Listen to me. You didn’t hear that Pádraig said anything about burying me …
—You wouldn’t have been left unburied anyhow, Caitríona, no matter how much drink there was. Even myself who had a weak heart and all that …
—You’re the biggest dimwit since Adam ate the apple. Did you hear that Pádraig said anything about burying me somewhere else in the cemetery?
—Pádraig was to bury you in the Pound Plot, but Nell said the Fifteen-Shilling Plot was good enough for anyone, and that it was an awful thing to put a poor man to that expense.
—The bitch! She would say that! She was at the house so?
—A fine big colt we bought after Christmas. Ten pounds …
—Was it for the colt you paid the ten pounds? You told me before there was ten pounds of altar-money …
—There was ten pounds in your altar-money for certain, Caitríona. Ten pounds, twelve shillings. That was it exactly. Big Brian came along as the funeral was turning at the head of the boreen, and he was pressing a shilling on Pádraig but Pádraig wouldn’t accept it. That would have been ten pounds, thirteen shillings if he had …
—Rammed down his throat it should be! Big Brian! If the ugly streak of misery was looking for a woman he wouldn’t be late … But now, Seáinín Liam, listen to me … Good man! Was Nell at the house?
—She didn’t leave it from the time you died till you were brought to the church. She was the one attending to the women inside the house the day of the funeral. I went back into the room myself to fill a few pipes2 of tobacco for the Mangy Field crowd who were too shy to come in. Nell and myself began to talk:
“Caitríona is a fine corpse, may the Lord have mercy on her,” says I. “And you laid her out beautifully …”
Nell drew me into a secluded corner: “I didn’t like to say anything,” says she. “She was my sister …” Faith then, that’s what she said.
—But what did she say? Out with it …
—When I was easing it off myself inside the house I gave my side a little wrench. There wasn’t a puff of breath left in me. Not a puff! The heart …
—Oh, the Lord bless us and save us! Yourself and Nell were in the corner of the room and she said: “I didn’t want to say anything, Seáinín Liam. She was my sister …”
—Faith then, that’s what she said. May I not leave this spot if she didn’t: “Caitríona was a rough and ready worker,” says she. “But she wasn’t the cleanest, may the Lord have mercy on her. If she were, I assure you she would be laid out beautifully. Look at the dirt on that winding-sheet now, Seáinín. See the spots. Isn’t that disgraceful! You’d think she could have washed her grave-clothes and laid them aside. If she’d been lingering for a long time I wouldn’t mind. Everybody’s noticing the spots on the winding-sheet. Cleanliness is a grand thing, Seáinín …”
—Ababúna! Holy Mother of God! I left them as clean as crystal in the corner of the chest. My son’s wife or the children must have soiled them. Or else whoever laid me out. Who laid me out, Seáinín?
—Nóra Sheáinín’s daughter and Nell. Little Cáit was sent for but she wouldn’t come … The heart, God help us …
—What heart! Wasn’t it her back she was complaining of? You think that because your own old heart was rotten everyone else’s heart is rotten. Why wouldn’t Little Cáit come ? …
—Pádraig sent his eldest girl to get her. I don’t remember her name. I should remember it indeed. But I died too suddenly. The heart …
—Máirín is her name.
—That’s right. Máirín. Máirín it is …
—Pádraig sent Máirín back to get Little Cáit, did he? And what did she say? …
—“I’ll never go over to that village again,” says she. “I’m finished with it. The way’s too long for me now with the sort of heart I have …”
—It’s not the heart but the back, I tell you. Who was it keened me?
—The stable was finished except for the roof. Little and all help as I was able to give the young fellow …
—You won’t be giving him even that much any more … But listen now, Seáinín. Good man yourself! Who keened me? …
—Everybody said it was an awful pity Bid Shorcha didn’t come, and when she’d have had her fill of porter …
—Ababúna! So Bid wasn’t there to keen me?
—The heart.
—The heart! How could it be the heart! The kidneys were Bid Shorcha’s complaint, the same as myself. Why didn’t she come?
—When someone was sent for her, what she said was: “I wouldn’t stir a foot for them. I cried my eyes out for them, and did I get any respect for it? No: ‘Bid Shorcha’s a sponger. Sponging for drink. I’ll warrant you won’t hear a wail out of her till she has drunk enough to put a billy-goat in kid. She’ll keen woefully enough then alright.’ Let them keen themselves now, if they want to. From now on I’m only going to keen certain people.” That’s what she said …
—A right bitch, that Bid Shorcha. But I’ll let her have it when she comes here! … Was Nell whispering in the priest’s ear at the funeral?
—The priest wasn’t there at all. He went to Siúán the Shop’s cousin’s funeral, as she was fine and close to him. But he lit eight candles …
—That’s something no corpse ever had before, Seáinín.
—Except that one of them went out, Caitríona. Snuffed …
—Snuff the lot of them!
—And he said the world of prayers, and he sprinkled the holy water five times on the coffin, a thing that was never seen before … Nell said he was blessing the two corpses at once, but I wouldn’t say so myself …
—Arrah, Seáinín, why would he do that? May the Lord reward him. Even that much, it’s great revenge on Nell. How is her son Peadar?
—Poorly enough. Poorly enough. The heart …
—Oh musha,3 musha, musha! What’s that nonsense about the heart! Wasn’t it his hip was hurt. Or did it go to his heart since? That’s better still …
—The hip, Caitríona. The hip. There’s talk of the law case being heard in Dublin in the autumn. Everybody says he’ll lose, and that he’ll leave Nell and Big Brian’s daughter without a brass farthing …
—May he do just that! May God grant it … What did you say about Tomás Inside?
—After I’d collected the pension I had a drop of tea and I went down to the Common Field …
—Don’t worry! You’ll never again set foot there … Listen. Listen, I say. Tomás Inside …
—And the little fool gave in to the bitch …
—He was busy, but he said he’d put a bit of straw here and a bit there on the worst leaks till he’d get a chance to give it a proper cover … The heart …
—’Tis true for you. The heart. Pádraig has a good heart. Too good … You didn’t hear him say anything about putting a cross over me?
—A brand-new cross of Island limestone, Caitríona …
—Soon?
—Soon indeed …
—And my son’s wife?
—My son’s wife? … My son doesn’t have a wife, Caitríona. I told him that when the new stable for the colt is finished a young fellow like himself could do worse than …
—To go to a doctor about his heart, Seáinín, for fear he had caught the disease from you. My son’s wife. My son Pádraig. Nóra Sheáinín’s daughter. Do you understand me now? …
—I do. Nóra Sheáinín’s daughter. Sickly. The heart …
—That’s a damned lie. It’s not her heart; she was sick …
—Sickly, Caitríona …
—Thanks for the news! I knew that much myself. I thought she might be showing some signs of coming here. She’ll be here on her next confinement for sure. Did you hear anything about Baba?
—Your Baba in America. She wrote to Pádraig sympathising about your death. She sent him five pounds. She didn’t make any will yet. He told me that eldest girl of his—what’s this her name is? I don’t remember. I should remember, but I died too suddenly …
—Pádraig’s eldest girl. Máirín …
—That’s her, Máirín. The nuns somewhere down the country are taking her to make a schoolmistress out of her when she has enough learning …
—Máirín going to be a schoolmistress! May God save her. She was always very fond of the books. That’s great revenge on Nell …
—… Our joint candidate in this Election …
—May the Cross of Christ protect us! Don’t tell me there are elections here too, Caitríona. There was one above ground the other day.
—How did our people vote?
—I gave my side a little wrench. The heart …
—See how he wanders off again! Listen to me! How did our people vote?
—The old way. How else? Everybody in the village voted the old way except Nell’s people. Everybody in her house changed over to this other crowd …
—May God send her no luck, the pussface. Of course she would turn her coat. She was always treacherous …
—They say this other crowd promised her a new road up to the house … But indeed there’s not a bother on her yet. ’Tis younger she’s getting. I never saw her look better than the day you were buried, Caitríona …
—Be off with you, you old sourpuss. None of your people ever had a good word to say, so they didn’t … Be off with you. This isn’t your grave at all … The cemetery must be upside-down entirely when the likes of you was going to be buried in the same grave as me. Be off with you down to the Half-Guinea Plot. That’s where you belong. Look at all the altar-money there was at my funeral. Look at the respect the priest showed me. Your coffin didn’t cost a penny over five pounds. Off with you. You and your old heart. The cheek of you! … Your people seldom brought good news. Clear off now! …
3
… And ten miserable pounds is all the altar-money there was, after all my efforts putting money on altars for every lazy good-for-nothing in the country. Nobody—living or dead—is worth doing a good turn for … And the Mountain crowd didn’t come to my funeral … or the people of Glen of the Pasture or Wood of the Lake … And of course Sweet-talking Stiofán didn’t come, the big-mouth. They’ll answer for this some day. They’ll be coming here …
What chance did anyone have of coming, with that pussface Nell building a nest in Pádraig’s ear, advising him not to tell anyone about my death. And there she was laying me out and handing round drink at my funeral. She knew well I wasn’t alive, so she did. The dead person can’t do a thing about it …
I wouldn’t mind but Little Cáit and Bid Shorcha didn’t come. I’ll let them have it hot and heavy for that. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if Nell had approached them beforehand and put them up to not coming to our house at all. She would do it, the pussface. Any woman who said I didn’t have clean grave-clothes set aside to be laid out in … May no corpse come into the graveyard ahead of her! …
But Baba sent five pounds to Pádraig. Even that much is a great help to him. It will coax that hussy of a daughter of Nóra Sheáinín’s, and now she won’t be able to say she’ll be the only one out of pocket with my cross. It’s no bad sign either for Baba to be writing to us … If only I’d lived another few years to bury that bitch Nell before me …
It’s great that Máirín is going to be a schoolmistress. That will madden Nell and Big Brian’s Mag: for us to have a schoolmistress in the house and them not to have one. A schoolmistress earns great money, I believe. That’s what I’ve always heard. I must ask the Big Master how much his wife was earning. Who knows but Máirín might be teaching in our own school, if the Big Master’s wife left, or if anything should happen to her. That’s when we’d have revenge on Nell. Máirín going up the church every Sunday morning with her hat, her pair of gloves, her parasol, a Prayer Book the size of a turf-creel under her arm, walking up to the gallery with the priest’s sister, and playing the piano. Let Nell and Big Brian’s Mag eat their heart out—if they’re still alive. But they say it’s up to the priest to appoint schoolmistresses. If that’s so, I don’t know what to say, as Nell is so friendly with him … But who knows. Maybe it won’t be long till he leaves, or till he dies …
And that hussy of a wife of Pádraig’s is still sickly … It’s a great wonder she doesn’t die. But she will, on her next childbirth for certain …
A pity I didn’t ask Seáinín Liam about the turf and the sowing, and about the pigs and the calves, or how the fox is faring these times. I was all set to ask him, then … But what chance did a person have of asking him anything, with all his gibbering about his old heart? I can easily get a chance to speak to him from now on. He was sneaked in just near here …
—… Patience, Cóilí. Patience. Listen to me. I am a writer …
—Hold on, my good man, till I finish my story: “Oh, the blackguard,” says Fionn.4 “It wouldn’t occur to him to leave Niamh of the Golden Tresses to his poor father whose nights are so lonely since Gráinne, that inconstant lump of a daughter of Cormac son of Conn, took off with Big Macán, son of the Black Warrior from Holly Wood of the Fianna …”
—… The most difficult man I ever dealt with in the line of insurance was the Big Master. There wasn’t a trick in my book I didn’t try. I came at him from the northwest and from the southeast. From sunlit seas and frozen mountains. Out of the eye of the wind and by tacking against it. As a pincers, as a ring, as a sledgehammer, as Cuchulainn’s spear, as an atomic bomb. As a fawning pup and as a thief in the night. With a shipful of human kindness and with a bellyful of satirical reproach worthy of Bricriú.5 I gave him unheeded invitations to the snug in Peadar the Pub’s. I gave him cigarettes for free and lifts in the car for free. I brought him exact reports of the prowling of inspectors and the latest gossip about the rumpus between the Schoolmaster and Schoolmistress of Grassy Upland. I told him mouth-watering stories about young women …
But it was no use. He was afraid that if he took out an insurance policy with me it would be his total ruination. Nobody could persuade him to part with a farthing …
—But I did …
—You did, and so did I. Hold on. He was the biggest miser who ever wore clothes. He was so shrewd he could herd mice at a crossroads, as they say. The only wild deed
he ever did was that trip to London when the teachers got the rise …
—That was the time he was in the nightclub.
—It was. He spent the rest of his life telling me about it, and warning me to keep my mouth shut about it. “If the priest or the Schoolmistress heard about it!” he would say …
Then he married her: the Schoolmistress.
“Maybe,” said I to myself, “I’ll succeed in locating some generosity in him now. The Schoolmistress would be a great backing to me if I could only cajole her. And it is possible to cajole her.” There isn’t a woman born who hasn’t that kernel of vanity, if one can only uncover it. I didn’t spend time selling insurance without knowing that.
—I know it too. It’s easier to sell to women than to men if you have your wits about you …
—I’d have to allow some time for the novelty of the marriage to wear off a little. But I couldn’t leave it too long either, because he might not be so amenable to his wife’s advice if he was beginning to lose interest in her charms. Insurance people know these things …
—And booksellers too …
—I gave him three weeks … It was on a Sunday. Himself and herself were sitting out in front of the house after their lunch. “Here I come, you rascal,” says I … “By the bone marrow of my forebears I’ll do business today! … You have the week’s work schedule prepared by now, and the notes you’re forever talking about. You’re stuffed with food, and if the wife is at all favourable it will be easier to play on you than another time …”
We had a bit of chat about the affairs of the Realm. I said I was in a hurry. “Sundays and Mondays are all the same to me,” said I. “Always prowling, ‘seeking whom I may devour.’ Now that you’re married, Master, the Mistress should make you take out a policy on your life. You’re more valuable now than you were before. You have the responsibilities of a spouse … I’m of the opinion,” says I to the wife, “that he doesn’t love you at all, but you serve his purpose, and if you die he’ll take another one.”
The two of them laughed heartily. “And,” said I, “as an insurance man I have to tell you that if he dies there is no provision made for you. If I had a ‘gilt-edged security’ like you …”
Graveyard Clay- Cré Na Cille Page 11
