She turned a little sulky: “Yes,” she said to the Master, half in jest and half in earnest, “if anything should happen to you, the Lord between us and all harm …”
“What could happen to me?” says he, in a disgruntled voice.
“Accidents are as common as air,” says I, “it’s the duty of the insurance man always to say that.”
“Exactly,” says she. “I hope nothing will happen. May God forbid! If anything did happen to you, I wouldn’t survive without you. But, the Lord between us and all harm, if you should die and if I didn’t die at the same time … what would become of me? It’s your duty …”
And, believe it or not, didn’t he take out a life insurance policy! One thousand five hundred pounds. He had only paid four or five instalments, I think—big instalments too. She made him take out another two hundred and fifty at the time of the last instalment. “He won’t last long,” says she with a smile, and she gave me a wink.
She was right. It wasn’t long before he wasted away …
I’ll tell you about another big coup I had. It wasn’t half as good as the one with the Big Master …
—You got one over on the Big Master just as Nell Pháidín did on Caitríona about Jack the Scológ …
—Ababúna! I’ll explode! I’ll explode! I’ll ex …
4
Hey, Muraed! Hey, Muraed! … Can you hear me? … They were burying Seáinín Liam on top of me. Indeed they were, Muraed … Oh, have a bit of sense, Muraed! Why would I allow him into the same grave as me? I never had to pick and sell periwinkles. Didn’t he and his people live on periwinkles, and I’d remind him of that too. Even in the short time I spent talking to him he nearly drove me mad going on about his old heart … It’s true for you, Muraed. If I had a cross on my grave it would be easily recognised. But I’ll have a cross soon now, Muraed. Seáinín Liam told me. A cross of Island limestone like the one over Peadar the Pub … My son’s wife, is it? Seáinín Liam said she’d be here on her next childbirth for certain …
Do you remember our Pádraig’s eldest girl, Muraed? Yes. Máirín … That’s right, Muraed. She’d be fourteen now … You’re right. She was only a plump little thing when you died. She’s in college now. Seáinín Liam told me … to become a schoolmistress! What else! You don’t think she’d be sent to college to learn how to boil potatoes and mackerel now, or make beds or scrub the floor? That old scrubber of a mother of hers could do with that, if there was such a college …
Máirín was always fond of school. She has a great head on her for a child of her age. She was away ahead of the Schoolmistress—the Big Master’s wife—before the Master died. There’s nobody in the school who’s any way near her, Seáinín Liam tells me.
“She’s extremely advanced in learning,” he says. “She’ll be qualified a year before everybody else.”
Upon my word, he did, Muraed … Now Muraed, there’s no need for talk like that. It’s not a wonder at all. Why do you say it’s a wonder, Muraed? Our people had brains and intellect, even if I say so myself …
—… But that’s not what I asked you, Seáinín.
—Ah, Master, the heart! The heart, God help us! I’d been for the pension. Devil a thing I felt … Now Master, don’t be so irritable. I can’t help it. I fetched a creel of potatoes. When I was easing it off me … But Master, I’m not saying a word but the truth. Of course I know damn all about it, Master, but what I heard people saying. I had more to worry about, unfortunately. The creel came down lopsided. I gave … What were the people saying, Master? Our people had no time for saying anything, Master, or listening to anything. We were building a new stable for the colt …
What were the people saying, Master? You know yourself, Master—a man like you with so much education, God bless you—that there are some people who can’t live without gossiping. But a person who has a weak heart … Amn’t I telling you what they’re saying, Master, if only you’d have a bit of patience and not be so ratty with me. I wouldn’t mind, but the weather was great for a long time while we were building the stable … The people, Master? They’re saying more than their prayers, Master. But a person who has a weak heart, God help us …
The Schoolmistress, is it? I never saw her looking better, Master, God bless her! ’Tis younger she’s getting, so it is. She must have a great heart … People used to be talking indeed, Master. There’s no denying that. But faith, myself and the young fellow were busy with the stable … Don’t be so ratty with me, Master dear. Of course, everybody in the country was saying Billyboy the Post was never out of your house.
It was a fine big colt, Master … What’s the use of being so ratty with me, Master. There’s damn all I can do about whatever happens to the whole lot of you. I had more to worry about, God help … He spends time in the house, is it? On my soul, he does indeed, Master. I wouldn’t mind that, but in the school as well. He calls into the school every day and gives the letters to the children, and himself and the Schoolmistress go out into the hall for a chat. Arrah, God bless your innocence, Master. You don’t know the half of it. But I had more to worry about. There wasn’t a puff of breath left in my body. The heart …
5
—… But Cóilí, Cóilí …
—Let me finish my story, my good man:
“‘There’s nobody can inform me about this case now,’ says Daniel O’Connell,6 ‘but one person—Biddy Early—and she’s seven hundred miles from here, working charms for distillers whose poteen is being robbed of all its powers by the fairies, in a town they call Bones of the Horse7 in the County of Galway back in Ireland. Saddle and bridle the best horse in my stable till I go and fetch her to London in England riding pillion behind me …’
“Off he went. ‘Miss Debonaire,’ says he to her … ‘How dare any son of a hag take liberties with my name?’ says she …”
—… Now then, Siúán the Shop! Looking for votes for Peadar the Pub! Why wouldn’t you? Your son is married to his daughter above ground. And even if he weren’t, yourself and Peadar would be as thick as any pair of thieves …
—This is the thanks I get now. You’d have died years before your time only for I gave you credit. Running into me begging each day: “For the honour of God and His Blessed Mother give me a grain of flour till I sell the pigs …”
—I paid dearly and direly for that same flour, my sharp little Siúán. All the people were saying: “Siúán the Shop is good and charitable. She gives credit.” You did, Siúán, because you knew you’d get paid, and if the odd person wouldn’t pay you, a hundred others would …
—The same basic principle applies in insurance …
—I’d get a bag of flour for a pound if I paid on the nail. If I waited till fairday or sold before the fair, it cost me one pound, three shillings. If I wasn’t able to pay for six or nine months, it cost me one pound, seven shillings. You were smooth and sweet to the big shot. You were cruel and contemptuous to the person who didn’t have his penny in the palm of his hand. Thanks be to God the day has come that we’re not afraid to say it to your face …
—Arrah, Siúán, you little toady—toadying to the well-off—you little toady Siúán, it was you who killed me four score years before my time. For want of fags8 … I saw you giving them to the sergeant, who didn’t shop with you at all but in Brightcity. I saw you giving them to a lorry driver that nobody knew where the devil he came from, and that you never made a penny on. You kept them under the counter. “Just the one,” says I. “I’ll make do with that for now and maybe they’ll be more plentiful from tomorrow, the beginning of the month …”
“Where would I get fags?” says you. “Don’t you know I don’t make them! …”
“If I could afford four or five shillings a box for them,” says I … “Keep them!”
I went home.
“You should gather up that scattering of seaweed you left down there and spread it on the field over here,” says my mother.
“Seaweed!” says I. “My seaweed spreading is over,
mother.”
I threw out a spit. It was as stiff as a male briar. May I not leave this spot if it wasn’t. There was a kitten on the hearth. He began to lick at the spittle. He took a fit of coughing. May I not leave this spot if he didn’t.
“This doesn’t look good,” says I. I took to my bed. I didn’t get up any more. For the want of fags. My death is on your head, toady Siúán, toadying to the well-off …
—And so is my death! Your clogs were my killer, you cheating Siúán. I handed out my two pounds, five shillings into your hand. It was in the blackest depths of winter, and us building the road in Donagh’s Village. Drawing stones9 on a hand-barrow I was, in that wet hollow to the south. May the same hollow smother and drown forever and ever! It was there I was fated to die. I put on the clogs. Oh, the devil as much as one drop did they keep out after the second day …
I rested the barrow.
“What’s wrong with you?” says my workmate.
“There’s plenty wrong with me,” says I. I sat down in the fork of the barrow and I pulled my drawers up above my ankle. The small of my foot was as blue as Glutton’s nose. By Heavens, it was.
“What’s wrong with you?” says the big boss when he came by.
“There’s plenty wrong with me,” says I.
“There’s plenty wrong with you, I’m afraid,” says he.
“Siúán the Shop’s clogs,” says I.
“May they smother and drown forever,” says he. “If she lives much longer I won’t have a road-worker left who isn’t in the cemetery.”
I went home. I lay down on the bed. The doctor was sent for that night.
“You’re finished,” he says. “The feet …”
“I’m finished indeed,” says I. “The feet … clogs …”
“Siúán the Shop’s clogs indeed,” says he. “As long as she lives I won’t be idle …”
The priest was sent for the following morning. “You’re finished,” he says. “The feet …”
“Finished indeed,” says I. “The feet … Clogs …”
“Siúán the Shop’s clogs indeed,” says he. “As long as she lives I won’t be idle. But you’re finished anyhow …”
And of course I was. A week from that day I was laid out. Your clogs, you cheating Siúán. My death is on your head …
—My death is on your head, you ugly Siúán. Your coffee. Oh, your damned coffee! Your jam. Oh, your damned jam, you ugly Siúán. Your coffee instead of tea: your jam instead of butter.
It was the sorry day for me—if only I could have helped it—the day I left my coupons with you, you ugly Siúán:
“No tea came this week. I don’t know what’s wrong with them that they didn’t send me any.”
“No tea came, Siúán?”
“Devil a grain, then.”
“And the people can’t get any tea this week, Siúán?”
“They can’t indeed. But you’ll get two weeks’ rations next week.”
“But you said that often before, Siúán, and we were never compensated for the weeks it didn’t come … For the honour of God and His Blessed Mother, a grain of tea, Siúán. A little grain. As much as would cover a fingernail, even … The coffee has me poisoned …”
“Don’t you know it’s not me that manufactures tea. If you’re not satisfied you can take your coupons to …”
And you knew right well I couldn’t, you ugly Siúán. Saving up the tea for those who could pay you three times the price for it: houses that kept Irish-language learners, tourists, big shots and so on. You gave it to the Priest’s housekeeper in front of my two eyes, and you gave a quarter of a pound to the sergeant’s wife. Trying to get the priest not to denounce your roguery from the altar; trying to get the sergeant not to denounce your roguery in court …
I brought the coffee home with me. The old woman put down a dash of it.
“I won’t drink it,” said I. “The blessings of God on you …”
“You’ll have to take something soon,” she says. “You haven’t taken a thing since yesterday morning.”
“Let it be,” said I. I got up a lump of phlegm. It was like leather, begging the graveyard’s pardon. The dog began sniffing around it. But not for long. He took off and wasn’t seen again for two days.
“My stomach juices are not what they should be,” I said. “I might as well die right now. I’ll die if I drink that scour of a coffee, and I’ll die if I don’t …”
And I did die. I wouldn’t have a word of speech now only for I sweated the stuff out of me while I was laid out … your coffee was the cause of my death, you ugly Siúán. My death is on your head.
—And my death!
—And my death!
—And my death!
—… I won’t vote for you, Peadar. You let a black heretic insult the faith inside your public house. You had no blood in your veins. If it had been me …
—You were a crook, Peadar the Pub. You charged me four fourpenny bits for a half-glass of whiskey and I was so green I didn’t know what I should pay.
—Your wife would know. Many is the half-glass she drank in my pub. But that was another thing you didn’t know till now, it seems …
—You were a crook, Peadar the Pub. You were watering the whiskey.
—I was not.
—I say you were. Tomás Inside and myself went in to you on a Friday after collecting the pension. This was before the war. The country was awash with whiskey. As soon as you saw Tomás was a bit merry you started talking about women to him. “It’s a wonder you wouldn’t marry, Tomás,” you said. “A man who has a nice patch of land …”
“By the docks, but I have that, my friend,” says Tomás. “You might as well give me the daughter.”
“By God, there she is, and I’m not keeping her from you,” you said … There was such a day, Peadar. Don’t deny it …
Your daughter came into the pub at just the right moment. She took a crock of jam from the shelf. Do you think I don’t remember? “That’s her now,” says you. “She can do whatever she likes …”
“Will you marry me?” says Tomás, moving in close to her.
“Why wouldn’t I, Tomás?” says she. “You’ve a nice patch of land, and a half-guinea pension …”
We spent some time joking like that, but Tomás was half in earnest. Your daughter was wriggling about and fiddling with her neck-scarf … There was such a day, Peadar the Pub. Don’t deny it …
Your daughter went into the kitchen. In went Tomás after her, to light his pipe. She kept him in there. But soon she was back in the pub again getting another swig of whiskey for him. “That old eejit will soon be blind drunk, and he’s ours till morning then,” she says.
You took the glass she had in her hand. You put a good half of water into it from the jug. You filled it up with whiskey then … There was such a day, Peadar …
Do you think I didn’t see you at it? I knew well what was going on between you and your daughter behind the counter. Do you think I didn’t understand your whispering? Your daughter plied Tomás Inside with watered whiskey throughout the day. But he paid the price of whiskey for the water, and he was drunk in the evening all the same … Your daughter spent the day coaxing him. He soon began to order glasses of whiskey for her, and she only filling them with water. A lorry driver would have run into him that evening only for Nell Pháidín, Jack the Scológ’s wife, came in and brought him home with her … There was such a day, Peadar. Don’t deny it. You were a robber …
—You robbed me too, Peadar the Pub. Your daughter gave me change out of a ten-shilling note instead of a pound, and then she was ramming it down my throat that …
—You robbed me too, Peadar the Pub. Your daughter brought me into the parlour, letting on she was fond of me. She sat in my lap. A crowd of squireens10 from Brightcity came in and they were sent into the parlour along with me, and this fool was buying them drinks all night. The next day she did the same thing. But there was no squireen from Brightcity around. Instead, she ga
ve the nod to the scroungers off the corner to come in; they were brought into the parlour, and this stupid fool had to stand them drinks …
—I remember it well. I twisted my ankle …
—until I didn’t have as much as a coin that would rattle on a flagstone. It was part of your roguery, Peadar the Pub: your daughter pretending to be fond of every knock-kneed fool who might have a couple of pounds, till they were spent …
—You robbed me like everybody else, Peadar the Pub. I was home on leave from England. I had a hundred and twenty pounds of my earnings in my breast pocket. Your daughter brought me into the parlour. She sat in my lap. Some infernal stuff was put into my drink. When I awoke from my drunkenness all I had left in Christendom was a two-shilling piece and a heap of halfpennies …
—You robbed me like the rest of them, Peadar the Pub. I had twenty-one pounds fifteen shillings I’d got for three lorryloads of turf that evening. We went in to you to seal the bargain with a drink. At half past ten or eleven o’clock I was on my own in the shop. What did you do but take yourself off. That was part of your cuteness: letting on you noticed nothing. I went into the parlour with your daughter. She sat in my lap. She put her arms around me under my oxters. Something that wasn’t right was put in my drink. When I came to my senses all I had left was the change out of a pound I got earlier, that was in the pocket of my trousers …
—You robbed me too, Peadar the Pub. No wonder your daughter had a big dowry when she married Siúán the Shop’s son. Straight out, Peadar, I wouldn’t give you my vote …
—I had intended from the beginning to conduct this Election in a decent manner on behalf of the Pound Party. But since you, the Fifteen-Shilling crowd, have brought up unsavoury personal matters—things I thought I would only have to reproach the Half-Guinea Party for—I am going to divulge information that is not very complimentary to Nóra Sheáinín, your own joint candidate. Nóra Sheáinín was a friend of mine. Although I oppose her politically, that doesn’t mean that I couldn’t respect her and be on cordial terms with her. For that reason, I hate to talk about this matter. I find it painful. I find it repugnant. I find it distasteful. But it was yourselves, the Fifteen-Shilling crowd, who started this incivility. Don’t be upset if I give you the stick you cut for yourselves. The bed you have made for yourselves, let you sleep in it now! I was a publican above ground. Nobody but a damned liar can say my pub was not a decent one. You are very proud of your joint candidate. She could hold her head up in any company for decency, honesty and virtue, if what you people are saying is true. But Nóra Sheáinín was a drunkard. Do you know that hardly a day went by without her coming in to me—especially on Fridays when Tomás Inside was in the pub—and drinking four or five pints of porter in the snug at the back of the shop.
Graveyard Clay- Cré Na Cille Page 12
