Graveyard Clay- Cré Na Cille

by Máirtín Ó Cadhain

  The streak of misery is ailing at last. The devil take him, it’s about time for him … Is that what he said: “I think I’ll take a tour back there any day now … And I’ll guarantee you this much, there’ll be ructions in those holes back there … If Páidín’s mule …” You’re certain he didn’t finish what he was saying …

  Haven’t I told you already I don’t want … what’s this you call it? … spiritual assistance… Nell’s talking about building a new slated house? … They’re breaking rocks for it. Ababúna! That’s what the little hunchback said: that they had to do it, now that the new road was built up as far as the door. Oh, the little crupper! … “that there’d be a priest in the house soon, if God spares the people.” Oh, the bitch! … Her legs are giving up? It would serve her right if she was never able to walk the new road … The things you don’t know now, you’ll know all about them in a week’s time. But they were all scared to come to the house to you.

  What’s that you said? … That Jack the Scológ was very ill. That’s the fatal illness now. The St. John’s Gospel. Nell and Big Brian’s daughter will get another lump of money … You didn’t hear anything about the St. John’s Gospel … You didn’t know that Jack needed spiritual assistance. He needs all the assistance he can get now, the poor man …

  Beartla Blackleg was anointed … Little Cáit and Bid Shorcha are poorly, you say … They don’t stir out of the house at all now. They won’t be stretching or keening any more stiffs from now on, so …

  They put up the cross over Máirtín Pockface the other day … and over Red-haired Tom too. Of course, that red good-for-nothing is no length at all here … That’s what you heard: that Nell advised Pádraig not to put a cross of Island limestone over me … You’ll know all about it in a week’s time. Thanks very much! … Oh, you may be sure, sister dear, that it’s true. She would say that—the bitch—and Big Brian’s daughter and Nóra Sheáinín’s daughter urging her on … Big Brian said that: “If I were Pádraig, I’d give that babbling little hag her fill of Island limestone … I’d dig her up out of yonder hole … I’d whisk her into the Island … I’d cock her up on the highest pinnacle of stone there … like the man on the Big Stone in Dublin …” Oh, indeed, it isn’t the word of the Lord that’s on his lips even though death has him on a halter … I tell you I don’t want any spiritual assistance …

  Nóra Sheáinín’s daughter, Nell and Big Brian’s daughter talking again? Easily known. Arrah, devil the fight was ever there, just that little prattler of Pádraig Labhráis’s telling lies … True for you, sister dear. The Battle of the Hornless Cows.11 Tinkers, the whole lot of them … You’ll know more in a week’s time …

  A letter must have come so? … She didn’t say who she’d leave the money to … Oh, she wrote to Pádraig too … Wasn’t she the meddlesome stump to go writing to Big Brian’s house where she has no kith or kin … She said for certain that she was poorly … And that she had made her will. Had Dad! … And that she’d ordered a tomb in Boston graveyard. A tomb! Like the Earl has. A tomb over our Baba. Bad luck to her, couldn’t she make do with something more modest than a tomb! … She put money in a bank for the tomb to be perpetually maintained. By God, now … And money for Masses! Two and a half thousand pounds for Masses! Two and a half thousand pounds! The will isn’t worth much now. Big Brian’s family in America will pilfer the rest of it. Couldn’t suit me better. Nell’s share must be tiny now. She won’t be singing “Eleanor of the Secrets” any more, going up past our house …

  You think Pádraig didn’t write back to Baba. He’s gone to the devil if he didn’t! … Will you stop annoying me about how you’ll know more in a week’s time! What use is it to me what you’ll know in a week’s time? … The Small Master doesn’t write letters for anybody now … Too busy … What did you say he was doing? … Studying form. That’s very strange talk indeed … Betting on racehorses. Oh, you’re not serious! He doesn’t do a tap in school except reading about them … The priest has turned against him. My God, I thought the pair of them went for walks together. Or was that not true? One shouldn’t believe a word you hear in this place … He gave a sermon about him … Of course, everybody would know who he was talking about, without mentioning his name or surname … “Wasting their time and their money on gambling, and going around with drunkard women in Brightcity,” he said … “I heard of a man from this parish who drank forty-two pints, but little gluttons of women who can guzzle a small barrel of brandy without having to powder their noses afterwards …” By Dad, if he’d known about Nóra Sheáinín! … There’s talk that he’ll get rid of the Small Master … Oh, here we go again! You’ll know more in a week’s time … You’ll know things in a week’s time, alright, my sister oh! …

  Ababúna! The Small Master forgot to post the American letters he wrote for Pádraig … Ó Céidigh’s wife found them in old clothes he left behind when he moved into new lodgings … Ababúna! She told Nell all that was in the letters …

  Pádraig has some sort of jinx on him: why didn’t he take the letters himself and post them? Do you think that I’d ever leave my letters behind me with the Small Master, or with the Big Master? Schoolmasters are a strange lot. It was always obvious to me that they had more on their minds than my letters. When the Big Master was writing for me didn’t I see him going like a weaver’s shuttle from table to window to try and glimpse the Schoolmistress going along the road! …

  The Schoolmistress wouldn’t write a letter for anybody either, you say? … Too busy looking after Billyboy, the thieving hussy! Oh, if only Pádraig had taken my advice and gone in to Mannion the Counsellor he wouldn’t have to depend on anybody. That’s the man who wouldn’t be long writing a powerful letter for seven shillings and sixpence. But Nóra Sheáinín’s daughter would be loath to part with as much as a penny … You heard Pádraig was half-hearted enough about the will? … That’s more of Nell’s deception. Surely you don’t think she has scruples about deceiving my son when she’s deceiving her own husband … “That Pádraig was alright since Bessy died.” Big Brian would say that … Will you leave off about your spiritual assistance! …

  Máirín is to go back to college again? She’ll get on fine this time. Oh! She wasn’t sent home at all the last time; she came home of her own accord! The creature was homesick? You don’t know what she’s going to be? … A schoolmistress, I suppose … That’s all you heard about her? …

  Pádraig has a lot of cattle on the land. More power to him! …

  Tomás Inside has moved out of his own house? … The leaking roof shifted him … It should have shifted him a long time ago. That’s what he said: “By the docks, the drop was hitting me between my gob and my eye, no matter where in the house I moved the bed to. I think I’ll go rubbing shoulders with the gentry for the rest of my life” … He came to Pádraig’s house for two nights and then moved permanently into Nell’s? The land is left to Nell, so … You don’t know whether he signed it over to her or not. Only Mannion the Counsellor would know that! … It’s of no damn interest what you’ll know more exactly in a week’s time! It’s what you know now! … Tomás Inside said that: “Nell was much more good-natured than Caitríona. I prefer to stay in Nell’s where I’ll be rubbing shoulders with the gentry. None of the gentry go near Caitríona’s.” Tomás Inside’s blenny-head will make a fine sight indeed for gentry! … “The gentry have the best of tobacco and they have fine women around them.” That little pussface will soon give him his bellyful of women. If she feels any ailment coming on she’ll get the St. John’s Gospel from the priest and make Tomás Inside hit the road. A pity there isn’t some good soul above ground to alert the poor unfortunate! How the world has changed! Tomás Inside the grinner rubbing shoulders with the gentry …

  Lord Cockton came fishing to Nell’s place every day this year. He was able to bring the car up to her door … The priest brings the car to her door too … Ababúna! Lord Cockton brought that bedraggled head out in the car … Brought her to Headland Harbour to
take the air. He has little respect for his car, putting bitches like her into it …

  The priest’s sister was up there fowling too. Was she wearing trousers or a dress, then? … Trousers … Herself and Lord Cockton were fowling together. Isn’t it a wonder the priest wouldn’t stop them! I suppose the same Lord Cockton is a black heretic. There was a lot of talk that she was going to marry the Wood of the Lake schoolmaster … Oh! Here we go! You’ll know exactly in a week’s time! We’ll have to get you permission to go back up above again for a week …

  You think the marriage has been abandoned? I thought the Wood of the Lake master was a decent man and that he didn’t touch a drop … What did you say? My ears are stuffed … That she’s keeping company with Road-End’s son? That the priest’s sister is keeping company with Road-End’s son! By God, it’s a funny world! …

  Road-End’s son warned Lord Cockton: not to go fowling with her any more unless he himself was there with them… Seáinín Liam’s son heard him say that to him …

  What’s this? Where are you? … They’re carrying you off … They know now this isn’t your grave … God speed you, my friend! Even though you’re related to Big Brian you can speak pleasantly to a person. Not like that useless lump, Red-haired Tom …

  6

  —… Me giving a word for each pint to the Gaelic Enthusiast …

  —… The Big Butcher often told me he had great regard for me on account of the regard his father had for my father …

  —… And me down to my last shilling …

  —I wonder is the Small Master down to his last shilling now …

  —… “I laid an egg! I laid an egg! …”

  —C’est l’histoire des poules, n’est-ce pas?

  —… Honest, Dotie. My mind is extremely sluggish this past while. I am as much in need of culture as the head of corn is in need of sunlight. But there’s no culture at all here now. It’s a crying shame for the Big Master. When a person comes to the graveyard he should leave the futile pettiness of life above behind him and use his time to develop his mind. I often tell the Master that but it’s no use. He can’t talk of anything now but the Schoolmistress and Billyboy the Post. Something has to be done to rescue him. Honest, Dotie. We don’t have that many cultured people that we can afford to do without any one of them. He must be prevented from imitating Caitríona Pháidín’s scolding. Words like “bitch” and “hussy” and “snot-face” are forever on his lips now. Caitríona is a bad influence on him. That one belongs down in the Wastelands of the Half-Guinea …

  —Mangy Nóirín …

  —Let on you don’t hear her at all, Nóróg …

  —Yep, Dotie. I mean to go ahead on my own and found a cultural society. I think a lot can be done to improve the minds of the people here and to give breadth and scope to their cultural feelings. A wide range of subjects will be discussed, from political matters to communications, economics, science, learning, education, and so on. But they’ll be discussed in a proper and academic manner, irrespective of sex, race or religion. No one who’s accepted into the society will be hindered from expressing their views, and the only qualification for membership will be a love of culture …

  —Do you think it was the yeast of culture germinating in me that made me take up the pot-hook and strike …

  —De grâce, Dotie. “God forgives the big sins, but it is we who cannot forgive ourselves the little sins,” as Eustasia said to Mrs. Crookshank when they were fighting over Harry. We’ll aim to broadcast information about other aspects of life—foreign affairs in particular—and by so doing give various groups of people an understanding of each other. We’ll have debates regularly, lectures, soirées, Question Time, Symposium, a Prestigious Periodical, Colloquium, Discussion, Summer School, Weekends, and Information Please for the Half-Guinea Regions. This society will be a great asset to the cause of wide-ranging culture and peace. This type of society is called a Rotary. Cultured people such as the Earl are involved with the Rotary …

  —And sailors …

  —Let on you don’t hear her at all, Nóróg …

  —Yep, Dotie. I will. But that’s a good example of the sort of opinion that has to be obliterated by the shining light of the Rotary. Caitríona is not the only one who has a mind like that. If she were, one wouldn’t mind, but the perception is quite common. Sailors are an interesting group. Only a narrow uncultivated mind would criticize them …

  —Only for those knives they have, Nóróg …

  —De grâce, Dotie. That’s another perception that has to be abolished …

  —Who else will be in Rotary, Nóróg?

  —I’m not exactly sure yet. Yourself, Dotie. The Big Master. Peadar the Pub. Siúán the Shop …

  —The poet …

  —The devil pierce him, the cheeky brat …

  —… But you haven’t read The Golden Stars, Nóróg?

  —No infernal odds, old man! You won’t be accepted. Honest! You are decadent! …

  —Bríd Terry should be admitted. She was at the pictures in Brightcity once …

  —Faith then, I was there myself with the young fellow, the time we bought the colt …

  —Hold on now. I’m a writer …

  —You can’t be admitted. If you’re admitted we’ll rip the graveyard apart. You insulted Columkille.

  —… It’s no use reading it. I won’t listen to your Setting of the Sun. Honest! I won’t … It’s no use pressing me: I won’t listen. I have a very liberal mind, but nevertheless a certain level of decorum has to be maintained … I’m a woman … I won’t. Honest! … You won’t be admitted. Your work is Joycean … You won’t change my mind. I’ll not listen to The Setting of the Sun. You have a low-down mind to have written a thing like that … You’re working on The Dream of the Dinosaur … I won’t listen. The Dream of the Dinosaur. A right Joycean galoot.12 You’re a very low specimen of humanity … You won’t be admitted till you learn every word of the Sixty-One Sermons off by heart …

  —I propose that the Frenchman be admitted. He’s an enthusiastic Gael. He’s flat out learning the language …

  —He’s writing a thesis on the canine dental consonants in the Half-Guinea dialect. He says their gums are blunt enough by now to have a learned study carried out on their sounds …

  —The Institute thinks he has learned too much Irish—of the kind that has not been dead for the prescribed period—and as there’s a suspicion that a few of his words are “Revival Irish,” he has to unlearn every syllable before he’s qualified to carry out the study properly.

  —He also intends to collect and preserve all the lost folklore so that future generations of Gaelcorpses will know what sort of life there was in the republic of Gaelcorpses in the past. He says there isn’t a traditional storyteller the like of Cóilí to be found this side of Russia now, and there will not be his like again.13 He thinks it will be easy to make a Folklore Museum of the Graveyard and that there will be no difficulty in getting a grant for doing that …

  —Oh! But wasn’t that fat fellow fighting against Hitler …

  —Let him be admitted …

  —Thank you all, mes amis! Merci beaucoup …

  —Hitler is against Rotary …

  —If he is, then to hell with yourselves and your Rotary! …

  —… A man who drank forty-two pints! Indeed, you would not be admitted, or in Alcoholics Anonymous, or in Mount Mellary.14 Nowhere but in “Drunkards Limited” …

  —Faith then, I drank two score pints and two! …

  —But Nóra Sheáinín used to drink twice that much on the sly …

  —Shut your mouth, you little brat!

  —Of course it’s not possible that you’d accept any of the One-Ear Breed. If you do, you’ll be stabbed …

  —… How could you be admitted to Rotary when you don’t know your tables? …

  —But I do. Listen. Twelve ones are twelve. Twelve twos …

  —… How could you be accepted: a man who killed himself going
to see Concannon? That was a very uncultured death …

  —The bookseller will be admitted. He handled thousands of books …

  —And the Insurance Agent. He used to do Crossword Puzzles …

  —And Sweet-talking Stiofán. He was a good funeral-goer …

  —… Why wouldn’t you be accepted? Isn’t your son married to a black! The blacks are a cultured people.

  —At least, they’re more cultured than the Eyetalians that son of yours is married into …

  —Caitríona Pháidín should be admitted. She has a roundtable at home …

  —As well as Nóra Sheáinín’s chest …

  —She knew Mannion the Counsellor well …

  —And her son’s daughter is going to be a schoolmistress …

  —Big Colm’s daughter should be admitted. She was in the Legion of Mary. She gives spiritual assistance to people …

  —Easily known, with all her gossip! She hasn’t stopped talking since she cast anchor here …

  —You’re insulting …

  —If that’s the way, the Postmistress should be admitted. She was information and exploration officer in the Legion of Mary, and she can’t but have culture after all she has read …

  —And Cite. Her son was a lance-corporal in the Legion, and she had a Credit Corporation herself …