Graveyard Clay- Cré Na Cille
Page 34
—If the night was dark …
—Oh, don’t be talking drivel! I swear by my soul it wasn’t a real aeroplane! A real aeroplane is easily recognized …
—Mes amis …
—Permission to speak! Permission to speak, then!
—There are signs, all the same. The devil a bit of heed I ever gave to ghosts till I heard about Seán Mhaitiú who’s buried here, down in the Half-Guinea Plot. It was his own son told me. This was before I came down through the hatch myself. He was up on the loft of lies at the time too, but he didn’t tell a lie about his own father. His father’s last request, when he was in the throes of death, was to bury him here in this graveyard beside the rest of his people. “I’ll die peacefully,” he said, “if you promise me that much.” That West Headland crowd are lazy loafers. They put a bit of sod over him back there in the old cemetery near his house. But sometime during the following month the son was making cocks of dried seaweed on the shore. I heard this from his very own mouth. He saw the funeral coming out of the cemetery. He told me it was as clear—the coffin, the people and everything—as the armful of seaweed he was putting on the cock. They passed close to him. He recognized some of them, but he’d never divulge their names, he said. He was afraid at first, but when they’d passed over by the strand he plucked up a little courage. “No matter what God does to me,” he said, “I’ll follow them.” And so he did, over by the shore, step by step, till they came into this graveyard and buried the corpse in the Half-Guinea Plot down there. He recognized the coffin. He wouldn’t tell a lie about his own father …
—Where’s Seán Mhaitiú? If he’s here, nobody heard a squeak out of him …
—I don’t have it from the Pope’s own tooth, but that’s what his son told me, and devil the lie he told about it …
—The dead didn’t walk. Call the Half-Guinea crowd and they’ll tell you whether he’s there or not …
—Arrah, leave those loudmouths alone! …
—The devil a bit of me will leave them alone. Hey, you Half-Guinea lot! …
—… Bríd Mhaitiú is here …
—And Colm Mhaitiú …
—And Pádraig Mhaitiú …
—And Liam Mhaitiú …
—And Maitiú himself …
—… The West Headland cemetery is where Seán Mhaitiú is buried. He had married back there …
—He wouldn’t tell a lie about his own father! …
—Changing places like that is not as easy as changing political parties. If it were, Dotie would be back on the fair plains of East Galway long ago …
—And the Frenchman … But maybe his ghost is all that’s here of him …
—The story is no more strange than what Billyboy the Post told me: that Tomás Inside has been seen chasing cattle off his patch of land. Pádraig Chaitríona and Nell’s son made two halves of it between them, but neither of them is happy. Pádraig’s crowd and Nell’s crowd see him every other week. The week one family sees him, the other one doesn’t. Nell brought the priest to walk the land and they read a barrage of prayers and a few St. John’s Gospels, he says.
—She would, the little bitch. I hope to God she’ll never gain a mangy penny by it! My Pádraig has plenty of land without it …
—I heard, Caitríona, that you haven’t given Jack the Scológ a bit of peace since you died …
—God would punish us …
—Nell told Tomás Inside that you won him over …
—Wasn’t it Big Brian she used to be after?
—Oh! Jesus, Mary and Joseph! After Big Brian! …
—Bloody tear and ’ounds, didn’t he say … “Hoh-roh, Mary, your wares and your bags and belts …”
—What did he say?
—What did he say, Son of Blackleg?
—What did he say, Beartla?
—The same Big Brian says mischievous things … “Hoh-roh, Mary …”
—What did he say, Beartla? …
—Bloody tear and ’ounds, it wouldn’t do you any good, Caitríona …
—It would do me good, Beartla. Out with it …
—That’s the dote, Bartly. Tell us …
—Oh! Do you hear that little sow of Seáinín’s? Don’t open your mouth about it, Beartla …
—Be a dote, Bartholomew. Tell it …
—Don’t tell it, Beartla. Don’t let it past your lips! …
—Honest to Heavens, you are mean, Bartly, if you don’t tell it. Did he say that every time he opens his eyes her ghost is there in front of him? …
—If you tell it to Seáinín Robin’s little sow, Beartla! …
—Honest to God, Bartly, you’re awfully mean! All cultural relations with you should stop. Let me see now. Did he say that because he refused to marry her when she was alive, her ghost was now his fairy lover? …
—Ababúna! To be the fairy lover of that ugly looking blunderer! I’m warning you, Beartla! …
—On the level, Bartly. Did Caitríona’s ghost tell him to shave himself, or to wash himself, or to go to a foot or shoulder specialist? …
—Bloody tear and ’ounds, Nóra! … Bloody tear and ’ounds, Caitríona! …
—For the life of you don’t tell, Beartla! …
—Honest to God, Bartly! …
5
—… True for you, Jack the Scológ. God would punish anybody for saying I’d be a lover to that ugly streak of misery …
—… You fell off a stack of oats … Did you ever hear of the Battle of the Sheaves? … I’ll tell you. “Cormac Mac Art5 Mac Conn Mac Tréanmhór Ó Baoiscne was building a stack of oats one day in Tara of the Hosts. Tufty Mouth6 was throwing the sheaves to him. The Seven Battalions of Learning and the Seven Battalions of Common-Learning and the Battalion of Minor Freemen came …”
—… There’s great talk of transferring him. A lot of talk …
—But transferring him would be no satisfaction, unless he’s dismissed, and killed or drowned, or hanged, or given the cat’s death afterwards. This graveyard is bursting at the seams as a result of those mercenaries who are billeted on us, Billyboy. “Take two spoonfuls of this bottle,” said the murderer …
—Maybe, neighbour, he’ll be dismissed. I think he might be, too, after the trouncing he gave to a man from Donagh’s Village the other day for handing him a red ticket. But I don’t think he’ll be put to death …
—Arrah, what’s the use, so! That’s what should be done to him: to smother him under a pot. Look at me, he gave me poison! …
—By the docks, didn’t he tell me to drink whiskey? He did indeed, my friend. The blackguard! I wouldn’t mind but I never had an ache or a pain! …
—Galway have a good football team this year, Billyboy? …
—A great team entirely, neighbour. Everybody says that even if they played on crutches they’d win the All-Ireland. Green Flag said it the other day …
—Concannon will make paste of backsides that day …
—Concannon is only a substitute!
—A substitute! A substitute! What are you talking about so? They won’t win! They won’t win! They won’t …
—They have great young players. The very best. They will win, neighbour. You’ll see they’ll win.
—Arrah, shut your mouth! What’s the use in talking rubbish? I’m telling you your young players aren’t worth a bullock’s slime7 without Concannon! I wouldn’t mind but for all this “They’ll win,” “They’ll win”! …
—Begging your pardon, neighbour, one would think you’d prefer them to be defeated with Concannon on the team than to win without him! A taste of revenge would be sweet, neighbour. Concannon was blamed by many in 1941. I never felt so cross as I did that day in Croke Park …
—That’s the truth, Billyboy …
—Billyboy was always very obliging …
—It gladdened his heart to bring you good news …
—And even if it was bad news his grin was like a safety-belt …
—Who laid out Tomás
Inside, Billyboy? …
—Nell and Big Brian’s daughter and Tomáisín’s wife did, Cáit …
—And who keened him, Billyboy? …
—Nell and the village women did, Bid. But yourself and Little Cáit were greatly missed. Everybody was saying: “May the Lord have mercy on Little Cáit, the poor thing, and Bid Shorcha, the creature! Weren’t they great at stretching and keening a man! There won’t be the likes of them again …”
—May God spare your health, Billyboy! …
—Bloody tear and ’ounds, what does it matter who stretches or keens a person! …
—… Hitler is still knocking soft eggs out of them, God bless him! …
—He’s doing fairly well, neighbour, fairly well …
—What do you mean, fairly well! Shouldn’t he be into England by now! …
—Not at all, neighbour. But the British and the Yanks are back into French territory again …
—Arrah, what! You’re spouting lies, Billyboy the Post! We’re not making small-talk about sport now, you know …
—It’s nine months now, neighbour, since I’ve been able to read a newspaper, and I don’t know exactly how they’re faring. At that time, everybody was saying that the British and the Yanks wouldn’t be able to make a stand in France on D-Day …
—Arrah, Billyboy dear, why would they? And they were pitched to hell out into the sea again like a heap of dead blennies …
—Faith then, I suppose so, neighbour …
—And Hitler followed them this time—which he should have done at the time of Dunkirk—and he’s into England by now! Der Tag! I think there’s nothing left of England now …
—Non! Non, mon ami! C’est la libération qu’on a promise. La libération! Les Gaullistes et Monsieur Churchill avaient raison …
—Oh! You windbag, you stumbler, you blind fumbler …
—C’est la libération! Vive la France! Vive la République Française! Vive la patrie! La patrie sacrée! Vive de Gaulle! …
—Frenchman, my neighbour, did you hear about the newspaper report that you were awarded the Cross for your valour …
—Ce n’est rien, mon ami. C’est sans importance. Ce qui compte, c’est la libération. Vive la France! La France! La France! La patrie sacrée! …
—Oh, do you hear the racket the little scutterer is raising! He’s worse than the Big Master …
—Musha, Billyboy, you didn’t hear any talk of our getting the English market back? …
—Do you hear the gadfly again? …
—The English market will be fine, neighbour …
—Do you think it will, Billyboy? …
—It will, neighbour. Don’t worry. I’m telling you the English market will be fine …
—May God save you, Billyboy! You’ve plucked the bitter thorn from my heart with those words. You seriously think it will be fine? I’ve a patch of land at the top of the village …
—… It has indeed been published, your book of poetry …
—The Yellow Stars! Oh! Billyboy, my dearest friend, you’re not serious? …
—I didn’t see it myself, but the Postmistress’s daughter told me so … Don’t worry, neighbour. Your own book will soon be published too …
—Do you think it will, Billyboy? …
—I’m certain it will, neighbour …
—You have secret information so, Billyboy? …
—Musha, I used to hear a little tattle, neighbour. I used to be very friendly with people here and there. The Postmistress’s daughter … Oh! Master, calm down, calm down! …
—Have a bit more manners, Master! …
—There’s great money to be earned in England still, Billyboy? …
—It’s not as good as it was, neighbour. The food is awful. The Woody Hillside, Sive’s Rocks and Donagh’s Village crowd have come home …
—A holiday among the nobly bred nettles of Donagh’s Village will do them good …
—… Your son, his wife and their two children are home …
—Ah! You’re having me on, Billyboy! …
—God forbid, neighbour! By the holy little finger! …
—And the black wife is home with him? …
—She is, bedad, and the two children …
—Listen here to me, Billyboy. Tell me the honest truth. Are they as black as they say? As black as the Earl’s little black? …
—Don’t worry, neighbour. Far from it …
—Are they as black as Road-End Man after being up a sooty chimney? …
—By my soul, they are not, indeed …
—As black as the Big Tinker with the lumps on his face? …
—Don’t worry, neighbour. Not that black, either …
—As black as Baba Pháidín’s fur coat after Caitríona’s house? …
—Shut your mouth, you little brat! …
—As black as Big Brian in a hangover sweat? …
—But when Big Brian went before the judge after being in the geyser-room in Dublin, he was as shiny-faced as any of the little saints in the chapel window …
—Big Brian in a hangover sweat. About as black as that, now …
—Oh! If that’s the case, they’re not niggers at all …
—The children are not nearly as black as the mother …
—Did they have to call the priest for the old lady? …
—Sure enough, neighbour, she was in a bad way. She didn’t want to let them into the house at all. The people of the village gathered round, and some of them were more inclined to pelt them with stones and chase them off. But, to make a long story short, neighbour, they were brought to the priest and he sprinkled a dash of water from the font on them, and the old lady was happy then … She’s very proud of them now. She brings them to Mass every Sunday …
—If that’s the case, Billyboy, I don’t mind being dead. I thought she’d lose heart and go to bits …
—Musha, have you any news of that young fellow of mine, Billyboy?
—Seáinín Liam, that young fellow of yours has a firm grip of what’s good for him. He bought a colt the other day …
—That’s great news, Billyboy. If he had a sturdy little girl now …
—Don’t worry, Seáinín. From what I hear, he’ll have that soon. A woman from West Headland who was in England. With plenty of money, I’m told. The Postmistress’s daughter told me the Small Master is getting married one of these days … Yes. That one who’s in Barry’s Betting Office in Brightcity … The priest doesn’t mention her at all now, neighbour. She took the pledge a while ago … Don’t worry, neighbour. They still talk about that feat of yours. Some say you did it, and others say you’d have burst …
—Devil a burst, then, Billyboy! That’s the God’s honest truth. I drank two score pints and two …
—Do you think an Antichrist will come soon, Billyboy? …
—Don’t worry, neighbour. I don’t figure it will. I don’t think it will. To make a long story short, I wouldn’t say it will …
—Faith then I think, Billyboy, it won’t be long now …
—That will all be fine, neighbour. You may be sure it will …
—Do many people need spiritual assistance, Billyboy, or do they say the Family Rosary?
—I’ve told you often enough, Big Colm’s daughter, to leave matters of heresy to me …
—Would you think, Billyboy, the prophecy is coming true? …
—I would indeed, neighbour. That will all be …
—Would Seán Chite in Donagh’s Village think it’s coming true? …
—On my last trip to Donagh’s Village, the village people—those who weren’t in England—were gathered round Seán Chite in the shade of a clump of nettles in the middle of the houses, and him prophesying …
—Did he say that England would disappear into the air in a ball of fire and ashes?
—In a ball of fire and ashes! In a ball of fire and ashes! He said the clergy would be as hungry as the lay people. Hold on now … He said
no distinction would be made between woman and man. Hold on now … Hold on now … He said the pint would cost tuppence again …
—To hell with your women! Did he say that England would disappear in a ball of fire? …
—He wasn’t that far into it, neighbour. He had only reached where Knotted Bottom was woken up in the cellar and grabbed his sword to free Ireland. At that stage, I produced income tax notices about their legacies …
—Seán Chite is right. Every single word of it is coming true …
—… You say, Billyboy, that Éamon de Valera is winning …
—That’s a damned lie! Billyboy said Dick Mulcahy8 is winning …
—Éamon de Valera and Dick Mulcahy were at the chapel after Mass, a month ago. A Joint Meeting …
—A Joint Meeting?
—A Joint Meeting?
—By Dad! A Joint Meeting? …
—Crikies! A Joint Meeting? …
—A Joint Meeting about the emergency services …
—Éamon de Valera spoke about the Republic? …
—Dick Mulcahy spoke about the Treaty? …
—They didn’t speak about the Republic or the Treaty … To make a long story short, they both made the same speech: thanking the people …
—Ah! I understand now, Billyboy! That was a trick of de Valera’s to hoodwink the other crowd …
—That’s a damned lie! Of course, every old stopped clock in this graveyard knows it was a plan of Dick Mulcahy’s to make de Valera take the wrong turn. Wouldn’t you agree with me, Billyboy? …
—Be careful, Billyboy! You’ve reached the age of sense and reason, and remember that it was our crowd gave you the pay rise and promotion. Remember you were only an “Assistant Rural Postman” …
—My Fellow-Irish People! I’m here today! …
—If you’d been here at the time of the Election …
—No more than myself, Billyboy has nothing to do with politics …
—You coward! Get back under the bed….
—You spineless yoke!
—… Where are you, Pól? Your old friend was around here again this year …
—The Irish Language Enthusiast! You’re not serious! …
—… He didn’t go near Peadar the Pub’s at all … He won’t be hoodwinked there again, neighbour. Peadar the Pub’s daughter isn’t likely to hoodwink anybody any more, neighbour! Oh! There are plenty of reasons, neighbour! The Red-haired Policeman caught her one Sunday recently during second Mass. There wasn’t one of that Woody Hillside, Sive’s Rocks and Donagh’s Village lot home from England who wasn’t in there drinking. People say it was the Irish Language Enthusiast told the police to go in. Your man has a very high-ranking job in the Government …