—Your mother refused him about a wife! Your mother! Her father tried to pawn her off on me, but I wouldn’t marry her. She was purblind. She had a mole under her ear. Fifteen pounds was all the dowry she had. I wouldn’t marry her …
—I wouldn’t marry Big Brian. He asked for me …
—Arrah, I wouldn’t marry Big Brian either. He asked for me twice.
—Nor would I. He asked for me three times. By the oak of this coffin, he did. He damn near failed to get any wife at all. Caitríona Pháidín would have gladly married him, the time Jack the Scológ left her there, but he didn’t come asking for her …
—Ababúna! Cite of the lies! The ash-potatoes hag …
—… Honest, Dotie. The place wasn’t good enough at all. There’d be no fear of me settling my daughter there, and six score pounds of a dowry with her, only for it would have grieved me too much to keep her from him. There was always that streak of romance in me, and I wouldn’t have the heart to let paltry worldly considerations become an insuperable obstacle to their pitiable love. Honest. Only for that, Dotie, do you think I’d let my daughter, or my six score pounds, in on Caitríona Pháidín’s few measly pockets of land? …
—You mangy bitch! You So-an’-so! Don’t believe her! Don’t believe her! Muraed! Muraed! … Do you hear what Nóra Filthy-Feet is saying? And Cite of the lies? … I’ll explode!
5
—… Do you think it’s the War of the Two Foreigners?
—… A bad bottle the murderer gave me …
—… I had two score pints and two in my belly, and not a drop less, when I was tying Tomáisín …
—… It’s well I remember it. I twisted my ankle …
—“Zee dog is sinking.” Qu’est-ce que c’est que “zee dog” … Qu’est-ce que c’est que “zee-dog”? Zee dog. Zee dog.
—Bow wow! Bow wow!
—Un chien, n’est-ce pas? Zee dog. Bow wow! Zee dog.
—The dog. The dog. The dog, you numskull!
—“Zee dog is sinking.” Le chien pense, n’est-ce pas? “Zee dog is sinking.” Mais non! “Zee dog is sinking.”
—How would a dog be sinking, you numskull? Maybe he was thinking, or drinking, or even stinking. But it wasn’t sinking. Sinking! The devil a dog I ever saw sinking.
—Zee dog is sinking.
—The dog is thinking. The dog is thinking.
—“Zee dog is sinking.” “Sinking: t … h … i … n … k … i … n … g”! “Sinking.” Ce sont les mots qui se trouvent dans mon livre. “Zee dog is sinking.”
—If it’s sinking let it sink. The devil a thing we can do about it, or about whoever put it in the book either. Maybe it went drinking, and then it started sinking on account of the hangover and the empty pockets …
—Je ne comprends pas. Après quelques leçons peut-être … “Zee white cat is on zee stool.” “Cat”: qu’est-ce qu’il veut dire? “Cat”? “Cat”?
—Me-ow! Me-ow!
—Miaou! Miaou! Chat! N’est-ce pas? Chat.
—Yes, what else?
—“Zee mat is small. Zee ’at is tall. Zee ’at is tall. Pól ’as a tall ’at …”
—You’re a liar! I never had a tall hat. You could hardly say I even had a low one! Do you think I’m a bishop or something?
—Je ne comprends pas. “Pól is old …”
—You’re a liar. I was young enough. I would only have been twenty-eight this next Feast of Saints Peter and Paul.
—Je ne comprends pas. “Pól is not drinking.”
—He’s not drinking now, because he doesn’t get the chance, but he drank all he had before this, and that wasn’t much.
—Je ne comprends pas.
—Au revoir! Au revoir! De grâce! De grâce! …
—The devil a word of Irish he’ll ever learn.
—He wouldn’t be long picking it up, all the same. We had an Irish learner staying with us the year I died. The devil a word in the whole wide world he had, but learning out of those little books like your man there. He’d be in the kitchen every morning an hour before I got up and he’d have the whole house topsy-turvy: “This is a cat. This is a sack. The cat is on the sack. This is a dog. This is a stool. The dog is on the stool.” That was his rigmarole all day long. He had my mother demented. “For God’s sake, Pól, take that fellow with you over to the field,” she said to myself. I was mowing a meadow by the boreen down to the shore at the time. I took him off with me. We were barely there when it was time to come back for our dinner, because he read the lesson to everyone we met on the way.
Back we went after dinner. I began giving him little words like “scythe,” “grass,” “wall,” “cock,” little words like that. The day was very sultry, and he was having great difficulty getting his tongue round the words. He spat out a few thick spits. He asked me how I’d say “pint” in Irish. “Pionta,” says I.
“Pionta,” says he, and he gave me the nod … The two of us went over by the shore to Peadar the Pub’s. He stood me two pints. Back we came to the field. I gave him another word. “Pionta,” says he. “Pionta,” says I. Over we went again. Two more pints. Back to the field again. I gave him another word. Over again. Back again. Over and back like that all day long. Me giving him a word for each pint, and he giving me a pint for each word …
—… I fell off a stack of oats, indeed …
—… Do you think I grew in a cabbage patch, that I was never at the pictures? …
—An old fellow like you?
—An old fellow like me? I wasn’t always old, you know!
—They’re really lovely. I saw beautiful things at the pictures. Houses like the Earl’s house …
—I saw a fine cross there, and I’d say it was made out of Island limestone …
—I saw lots of trousers-women …
—And black women …
—And people of culture, nightclubs, quays, tall ships under sail and mariners with skins of every colour. Honest …
—And the odd ugly streak of misery …
—And women with sweet malicious smiles, like Siúán the Shop when she’d be refusing you cigarettes …
—And women with wily intentions, like Peadar the Pub’s daughter, waiting inside the door to play the parlour trick on some poor unsuspecting customer …
—You’d see fine big colts, faith …
—And football matches. But I swear to God Concannon would make curds and whey of the backside of any of those footballers …
—You wouldn’t see any drift-weed at all at the pictures …
—Or two thatchers on opposite sides of a house …
—Or nettles like there were in Donagh’s Village …
—Or flea-ridden hillocks like there were in your own village …
—I’d prefer Mae West myself to any of them. If I got a new lease of life my only wish would be to see her again. She’d be a great woman to handle a colt, I’d say. Myself and the young fellow were in Brightcity the night before the fair. We had a few pints. “That’s enough now,” says I. “If we overdo it we could easily put a hole in the price of the colt.” “It’s too early to go to bed yet,” says he. “Come on to the pictures.” “I was never at the pictures,” said I. “What harm?” said he. “Mae West will be on tonight.” “Faith then, if that’s the case, I’ll go.”
In we went. A woman came on. A fine big woman, faith, and she began to smile at me. I began to smile back at her. “Is that her?” said I. “Arrah, not at all!” said the young fellow. Soon another fine stump came on. She placed a hand on her hip. She tilted herself to one side and began to smile at us all. We all began to smile back at her.
“That’s her now,” said the young fellow.
“Look at that!” said I. “She’d be a great one to handle a colt, I’d say. As soon as the stable is finished a young fellow like you could do worse than find a young little rump of a woman for himself. But I wouldn’t advise you to have anything to do with the likes of her. She’d be good at handling the col
t alright, but …”
“But what!” said the young fellow …
A stout little man came on then, like that paunchy fowler who comes to Jack the Scológ’s, and he was talking to the two women. He began to wave his arms wildly in the air. Another stumpy little man came out. The spitting image of that gent who comes fishing to Nell Pháidín’s—Lord Cockton. Mae West said something to him. Indeed, the young fellow told me what it was, but for the life of me I can’t think of it now …
The stout little man’s cheeks puffed up as if he had a balloon in his mouth and he put the palms of his hands against his ribs. He was very fat and out of breath. I’d say he was a man who had a weak heart, God help us! …
—… Only once, Cite. That’s as often I was ever at the pictures. I’d much rather see them again than to know what life held in store for me. It was the time my daughter who’s married in Brightcity was having a baby. I spent a week there minding her. She was convalescing at this stage. Her husband came in from work one evening. He had his dinner, and dressed himself.
“Were you ever at the pictures, Bríd Terry?” said he.
“What are they?” said I.
“There are all sorts of pictures shown in a place up there,” said he.
“In the church?” said I.
“Not at all,” he said, “the pictures.”
“Pictures of Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary, and St. Patrick and St. Joseph?” said I. “Not at all,” he said, “foreign countries and wild animals and peculiar people.” “Foreign countries and wild animals and peculiar people,” said I. “Upon my soul, I won’t go near them at all. How do I know, the Lord between us and all harm! …”
“You have the mind of a peasant,” he said, in stitches laughing at me. “They’re only pictures. They can’t harm you.” “Wild animals and peculiar people,” says I. “Who knows what might happen?”
“There’ll be a picture about America on tonight,” says he.
“America,” says I. “I wonder would I see my own dear Bríd and Nóirín—God be with them!—and Anna Liam …”
“You’ll see people like them,” he said. “You’ll see America.”
And of course I did. There never were such wonders! A pity I can’t describe them! That wretched fire destroyed my memory completely! But I can assure you, Cite, everything was as clear to me as if I had been over there beside them. There was an old woman there cleaning the door with a cloth, with a grimace like Caitríona Pháidín’s face when she’d see Nell and Jack the Scológ going past her up home from the fair …
—Ababúna!
—And there was a fine spacious room there, Cite, with a roundtable like the one you gave the pound to Caitríona to buy, that she never paid back …
—That’s a damn lie …
—And there was a silver teapot like the one in Nell’s, sitting on top of it. And a man in black clothes with golden buttons opened the door. I thought it was the Red-haired Policeman, till I remembered they were in America. Another man came in wearing what looked like a postman’s cap, and the man of the house and himself began to argue. The man with the golden buttons and himself caught the man of the house and threw him down the stairs. I thought he’d be a heap of bones because there were three or four flights of stairs below. Then they threw him out the door on top of his head and he nearly upended the old woman. Honest to God, Cite, I felt sorry for her. Her head was in a tizzy.
Then the man of the house looked back and waved his fist at the man who threw him out. I thought it was the Big Master—the same snub nose and slit eyes—and that it was Billyboy the Post who threw him out, till I remembered they were in America. I knew that whatever about the Big Master being in America that Billyboy the Post couldn’t be there, with the post to be delivered every day …
—The ruffian! The lecher! The …
—This man who you’d take for Billyboy went up the stairs again to the room, and there was a woman there wearing black clothes with flower prints.
“That’s the Schoolmistress, if I’m not dreaming,” says I to myself. But then I remembered that they were in America and that the Schoolmistress was teaching school at home a few days before that …
—The trollop …
—De grâce, Master … Now, Dotie …
—The man with the golden buttons opened the door again. Another woman came in who had a snub nose and a fur coat just like the one Baba Pháidín had when she was home from America, till she had to get rid of it on account of all the smudges of soot in Caitríona’s …
—That’s a damn lie, you slut …
—… Oh! A smashing picture, Dotie! Honest! There was excitement and consternation. If only you saw that part where Eustasia said to Mrs Crookshank:
“My dear,” she said. “It’s no use going on arguing about it. Harry and I are married. We were married in a Registry Office on Sixth Avenue this morning. Of course, my dear, Bob is still there …”
And she shrugged her shoulders triumphantly. Oh! It’s an awful pity you didn’t see Mrs. Crookshank’s face, Dotie, when she was left completely speechless. I couldn’t help thinking—if the cultural comparison may be excused!—of what Nell Pháidín said to Caitríona: “We’ll leave Big Brian to you, Kay.”
—You mangy bitch! You So-an’-so … Muraed! Muraed! Do you hear me? Do you hear the nit-infested Filthy-Feet, and Bríd Terry? I’ll explode! I’ll explode! …
6
And Nell won her case against the lorry driver! Even though her son was on the wrong side of the road. He can’t have been a very bright judge. That slut Bríd Terry was wrong when she said the law would take the last penny off her. And she got eight hundred pounds after all that! The priest, who else? And the pussface had the nerve to go offering up Masses for my soul …
There’s a road being built up to her house. A road that couldn’t be built if my Pádraig wasn’t such a simpleton. She’s playing on him now, just as she played on Jack the Scológ with the St. John’s Gospel. If I were alive …
Not the wind of a word about the cross now. And what that ugly streak of misery said: “That harridan is not worthy of a cross.” Has he no fear of God or the Virgin Mary! And him nearly a hundred years old! May his visit to Dublin do him no good! …
They have forgotten about me above ground. That’s the way, God help us! I thought Pádraig wouldn’t go back on his word. That is if that young fellow picked up the story right? He probably didn’t. He was too keen on going to England …
If my Pádraig only knew how I’m being treated in the graveyard clay! I’m like a hare cornered by the hounds. Betrayed and flayed by Seáinín Liam, by Cite, by Bríd Terry, by them all. Trying to hold my own with the lot of them. And not a single soul to stand up for me. I won’t be able to stand it. I’ll explode …
That pup, Nóra Filthy-Feet, is inciting them all …
Her daughter has changed completely. I was sure she’d be here a long time ago. She’s a great woman. I’m happy now that Pádraig married her. I must tell the truth. I am indeed. I’d forgive her everything herself and her mother ever did to me, for having thrown Nell on her back in the fire, and for pulling every lock of hair and every bit of skin and every strip of clothes off Big Brian’s daughter. And she broke the delph. She overturned the churn Big Brian’s daughter and Nell were making butter in. She jumped on top of a brood of young chickens on the floor. She grabbed the silver teapot Nell had on show on top of the dresser and made a pancake of it against the wall. And she threw the clock Baba gave the pussface out through the window. That’s what the young fellow said …
She’s a great woman. I wish I hadn’t been so hard on her. To throw Nell on her back in the fire! That’s a thing I never had the guts to do …
And she’s left her sickness behind her now. Raising hens and pigs and calves. If she lives she’ll make money …
But to throw Nell on her back in the fire! Her head of fair hair got a scorching. I forgot to ask the young fellow if her fair hair was scorched. I’d g
ive everything I ever yearned for to see her throwing Nell in the fire. A pity I wasn’t alive!
I’d shake her hand, I’d kiss her, I’d clap her on the back, I’d send for one of the golden bottles from Peadar the Pub’s window, we’d drink one another’s health, I’d offer a prayer for the soul of her mother and I’d see to it that her next girl-child would be christened Nóra. But what’s wrong with me? There’s a Nóra there already!
Upon my soul, I’ll call Nóra Sheáinín, I’ll tell her about the job her daughter did and how she’s a great worker now, and I’ll tell her I’m delighted that she’s married to my son …
But what will Muraed, Cite, Bríd Terry and the rest of them say? That I used to revile her, that I used to call her a bitch and Nóra Filthy-Feet; that I wouldn’t vote for her in the Election …
They’ll say that. They’ll also say—and it’s true for them—that she told lies about me: that she said I robbed Tomás Inside, that her daughter got six score pounds of a dowry …
But let them. I’d forgive her anything on account of her daughter throwing Nell on her back in the fire …
Nóra … Hey! Nóra … Nóra dear … I’m Caitríona Pháidín … Nóra … Nóra dear … Did you hear the news from the land above? About your daughter …
What’s that, Nóra? What did you say? Good God above! That you have no time to listen to silly rubbish from the world above! … You involved yourself with filth in the Election, and all you got for it was the seal of the clay! By God! … You can’t be bothered listening to my story … About sordid affairs! You’ll spend all your time from now on with … with … with … what did you call it? … with culture … You haven’t time to listen to my story as it has nothing to do with … with culture. Holy Son of God tonight! Nóra Filthy … Nóra Filthy-Feet from Mangy Field talking about … about culture …
Will you repeat that mouthful of English, when it’s as rare as a cat with a straddle to have English in Mangy Field. Say it again …
—“Art is long and Time is fleeting.”
Graveyard Clay- Cré Na Cille Page 18
