—She won’t play the parlour trick any more …
—She robbed me …
—And me, too …
—Faith then, I wasn’t thankful to her. I was not, dear. After the second half-glass of whiskey she charged me four fourpenny bits, and from the sixth one eighteen pence. By the docks, it was true for the doctor from Brightcity: it only suited the small intestine, while porter suited the large intestine. Too much whiskey caused the small intestine to burst and the large one shrivelled up with spleen. I had no pain …
—… She’s lucky, neighbour, if the Sunday opening is all that’ll be against her, but people say she watered the whiskey bottles …
—She’ll lose the pub? …
—She might, neighbour, she might. But I wouldn’t say so …
—What’s the bloody use, so?
—Siúán the Shop’s daughter will lose her trading licence for certain. She’ll be tried in the Military Court … Black market tea. It was the sergeant caught her …
—The sergeant, then, even though she used to give him tea and cigarettes for nothing! …
—You were the cause of my death, my ugly Siúán! …
—… The One-Ear Breed, is it, neighbour? That youngest one of the tailor’s was arrested in England …
—Well done, Billyboy! Well done! …
—He stabbed the Redman’s son from Donagh’s Village …
—Oh! The same ancestral kidney trick another One-Ear played on myself! He’ll be hanged …
—They say he’ll go to prison …
—He’ll be hanged …
—They say, neighbour, that it’s easy to hang a person in England right enough. But I don’t think he’ll be hanged, all the same. He’ll get a few years in prison, maybe …
—A few years in prison! Arrah, to hell with yourself and your prison! If he’s not hanged …
—They say the Postmistress’s daughter will get a year and a half or a couple of years in prison too … Letters containing money, neighbour, but it was the Irish Language Enthusiast’s letters that put the bloodhounds from Head Office onto her scent …
—My goodness me! After me spending twenty years teaching her …
—Faith then, Postmistress, believe you me, neighbour, I wouldn’t like to see anything happen to your daughter … Take it easy, Master dear, calm down! … By the holy little finger, Master, I never opened a letter of yours! … Oh! She could have, Master, but I didn’t help her! …
—That oldest son of mine, Billyboy, is he still keeping company with Road-End’s daughter? …
—I’d say so, neighbour. Himself and Road-End’s daughter will be at the next court. It’s reported that your other son …
—Tom …
—Yes, Tom. It’s reported that himself and Tomáisín’s son caught them in your turf stack before daybreak …
—The second son and Tomáisín’s son caught the oldest son stealing his own turf for that soot-stinking breed of Road-End’s!
—All I know, neighbour, is that he’s summoned to appear in court …
—Oh! May the devil pierce him with his front teeth! The nimble-fingered chimney-sweeps of Road-End are in a right sooty mess so!
—Your wife has served them with another summons, for putting their cattle on your land …
—Now, indeed! At the dead of night! Well done herself! She’ll win too, you’ll see! I wish the oldest one was cleared to hell out under the elements, and some excuse of a wife brought in on the big holding for the second son! I wonder, Billyboy, did Tomáisín’s family ever return the spade they borrowed to dig their first meal of early potatoes? …
—I don’t know that, neighbour … To make a long story short, neighbour, the Road-End crowd are getting a trouncing from the law at the moment. The other Sunday, the priest was like a man bitten by his lap dog. He got up before daybreak and caught some crowd stealing his turf. They say it’s the Road-End crowd …
—The same crowd who were licking his eyebrows …
—… I don’t think, neighbour, the priest would hold his umbrella between the Road-End crowd and the rain, ever since the son was given a six months’ prison sentence …
—Road-End’s son? …
—Road-End’s son, seriously! You’re spinning lies?
—And Road-End’s old lady nearly got another six months’ sentence, neighbour, for receiving stolen goods …
—My drift-weed for certain! …
—Not so, neighbour, but the contents of Lord Cockton’s car, including fishing gear, a gun and all that sort of thing. He went into the Earl’s at night and took dinner jackets, tennis trousers, gold watches and cigarette cases … And a few thousand cigarettes from Siúán the Shop’s daughter, and sold them for threepence each to the young women of Donagh’s Village. The clay pipes were killing them …
—It was good enough for Siúán the Shop’s daughter! …
—And for the Earl! …
—And for the young women of Donagh’s Village! …
—And for Road-End’s son, the little blackguard. By the docks, dear, I don’t begrudge him that much! He was a bit too ready with his boot …
—He stole the trousers from the priest’s sister too, but there was nothing said about that. Seáinín Liam’s son and some of the Woody Hillside young lads saw them on Road-End’s daughter on the bog, but she wore a frock over them …
—The straddle-bag my eldest son is keeping company with? … Yes! She’ll have her photograph taken in those trousers now, as more temptation for the eldest one …
—The priest’s sister was upset when Road-End’s son was sent to prison, Billyboy? …
—Arrah, don’t you know well she was, Bríd!
—Bríd, neighbour, it didn’t dampen her spirits in the least. “What use is a man in prison to me?” she said. “Road-End’s son is a useless impotent little fellow …”
—She’ll marry the Wood of the Lake Master now? …
—The Wood of the Lake Master is among her broken dolls for a good while now. At present she’s with a Scotsman who’s taking photographs in Woody Hillside. He wears short skirts …
—Now then! Short skirts. And tell me this, Billyboy, was she wearing the trousers when she was with him? …
—She wasn’t, Bríd Terry, but a frock. The best trousers she had—the striped ones—were the ones Road-End’s son stole …
—The trousers Tomás Inside spat on? …
—Now that you mention Tomás Inside, the Postmistress’s daughter told me that Pádraig Chaitríona got … Patience now, Master! Have patience, Master! … Hold on there, Master! I never opened a letter of yours, Master … Listen to me, Master. Two dogs …
—Have a little decency, Master. What did she say about my Pádraig, Billyboy?
—That he got the insurance money on Tomás Inside, and that Nell got a nice fat sum on Jack …
—The blessings of God on you, Billyboy my friend! According to Nóra Sheáinín’s mangy tongue, Pádraig didn’t keep up the payments after I died! Ever since I came into the graveyard she’s used me as a spittoon for every drool and dribble out of her lying mouth. Do you hear me, Seáinín’s daughter, you sponger? May God reward you, Billyboy, and tell her that—tell that mangy daughter of Seáinín’s—that Pádraig got …
6
—… God would punish us for saying a thing like that, Caitríona …
—But it’s the truth, Jack …
—It’s not, Caitríona. I had been ailing for years. She brought me to the best of doctors in Brightcity, every single one of them. I was told by an English doctor who used to come fishing up there to us eight years ago, how long I’d live, to the day. “You’ll live,” he said …
—… “Yes,” says I. “My guts are tangled up …”
—… “Your ankle is twisted again,” he said. “By Galen’s windy plexus …”
—… Musha, you wouldn’t believe, Caitríona, neighbour, how thankful I am to your Pádraig. Not a single Sunday pa
ssed but himself and his wife would come to look in on me …
—The Filthy-Feet breed …
—Musha, Caitríona, neighbour, there’s no soil without weeds. Look at how the Big Master has changed! You wouldn’t meet a nicer man on a pilgrimage to Knock Shrine …
—But don’t you see the way herself and that dishevelled Nell treated me, Billyboy. They got the St. John’s Gospel from the priest and bundled me down into this cupboard thirty years before my time. The same trick was played on poor Jack …
—God would punish us …
—Old wives’ tales, Caitríona. If I were you I wouldn’t believe it …
—You’d better believe it, Billyboy, even though it is an old wives’ tale. The priest is able to …
—I believed that once, Caitríona, neighbour. I did indeed, though you wouldn’t think it of me. But I asked a priest, Caitríona—a very learned priest—and do you know what he told me? He told me, Caitríona, what I should have known very well myself only for the old tale being rooted in my mind. “All the St. John’s Gospels in the world wouldn’t keep you alive, Billyboy the Post,” he said, “when God wishes to send for you.”
—I find it hard to believe, Billyboy …
—Another priest told my wife—the Schoolmistress—the same thing, Caitríona. A holy priest he was, Caitríona: a priest whose two eyes were aflame with holiness. The Schoolmistress had done every single pilgrimage in the whole of Ireland and Aran for me … Hold on there, Master dear! Hold on there! … Stop that commotion, now! What could I have done about what she did? … “It is right to make the pilgrimages,” he said, “but we don’t know when it’s God’s will to work a miracle …”
—But a pilgrimage is not the same thing as the St. John’s Gospel, Billyboy …
—I know that, Caitríona, but wouldn’t the St. John’s Gospel be a miracle? And if God wants to keep a person alive, why should He have to make another person die instead of him? You don’t think, Caitríona, neighbour, that He’s as full of red tape as the Post Office? …
—Bloody tear and ’ounds, didn’t Big Brian say …
—… Do you think it’s the War of the Two Foreigners? says I …
—It’s time you woke up, my friend!
—… It was my wife filled in the forms for Pádraig, Caitríona. Hold on, Master! Hold on! Very well, Master dear. She was your wife too … Have patience now, Master! Patience! Two dogs …
—… There was such a day, Peadar the Pub. Don’t deny it …
—… Forms about the house, Caitríona. Isn’t Pádraig building a slate-roofed house! … Yes, Caitríona, a two-storey house with bay windows, and a windmill on the hillock to supply the lighting … You should see the Government bull he bought, Caitríona!—ninety pounds. The cattle crowd are very thankful to him. All the bulls round the place were idlers.
—Bloody tear and ’ounds, didn’t Big Brian say: “Since England put a stop to de Valera’s cattle, and since the Slaughter of the Innocents, the bulls are so shy …”
—And he’s thinking of getting a lorry for carrying turf. It’s badly wanted in our area. There is no lorry since Peaidín’s was taken off him … Five or six hundred pounds, neighbour …
—Five or six hundred pounds! A sum like that would leave a hole in anybody’s pocket, Billyboy! Nearly as much as Nell got in the court case …
—It’s not a hole in Pádraig’s pocket, Caitríona, and especially since he got the legacy …
—But it was Nell got the fat notes all the same …
—Bloody tear and ’ounds, didn’t Big Brian say that Pádraig Chaitríona wouldn’t recognize a pound note any more than Tomás Inside would recognize the sweat of his own brow, or …
—Wouldn’t you think, Billyboy, if there’s a shower of banknotes blowing their way, that some one of them would think of paying back the pound I gave to Caitríona …
—You little mangy arse!
—… The Postmistress’s daughter told me … Take it easy there, Master! … That’s a damn lie, Master … I didn’t open any letter …
—… Don’t pay any heed to his rudeness, Nóra. Remember he was a non-commissioned officer in the Murder Machine9 … I don’t have time now to read you The Setting Sun again, Nóra. I’m too busy with my new draft of The Piglet-Moon. I got the idea from Cóilí. His grandfather was able to trace his family tree back to the moon. He’d spend three hours a night looking up at it, according to the ancient custom of our ancestors. With the coming of the new moon, his nostrils would produce three sorts of snot: one of gold, one of silver, and the old gaelic snot …
—… What she told me, Caitríona, was that Baba said you were her favourite of all the sisters she ever had, and that you’d be thankful to her, only for you died …
—I did my damnedest, Billyboy, but I failed to bury Nell before me …
—Musha, Caitríona, neighbour, it might be all for the best. Pádraig told myself and my … the Schoolmistress, that Nell left him a good few little extras that weren’t due to him at all according to the will. She’d only accept the half of Tomás Inside’s land from him, and believe you me when I tell you that hardly a Sunday goes by that the priest doesn’t announce a Mass for the souls of yourself and Jack the Scológ …
—For the souls of myself and Jack the Scológ …
—Bloody tear and ’ounds, didn’t Big Brian say …
—And of Baba, and …
—… “The best comparison I can think of for Páidín’s daughters,” he said, “are two scabby young dogs I saw observing a mule in the throes of death in Donagh’s Village. One of them was barking, trying to keep the other one away. In the end it strained itself so much with yelping that it burst into a mush. As soon as the second dog saw he had the dead mule all to himself, what did he do but slink away and leave it there for the dead dog …”
—Angry that he’d dropped that stitch off his knitting needle! He thought his own family would coax every little pinch of the will to themselves! … For my own soul …
—Faith then, Caitríona, neighbour, himself and his daughter aren’t fawning on Nell as much as they used to be …
—She won’t be any the worse for that … for my own soul and for the soul of Jack the Scológ …
—He’s between two minds as to whether he’ll come or stay, Caitríona. He was anointed the other day …
—He won’t do it any younger! He’s twice my age …
—My … the Schoolmistress took a trip up to see him. Guess what message he sent down to me with her ? …
—A mouthful of bile, if he hasn’t changed … For my soul …
—My poor uncle hasn’t received any spiritual assistance since I was tending to him, or do you think, Billyboy, he says the Family Rosary? …
—Bloody tear and ’ounds, didn’t he say …
—What he said to the Schoolmistress was: “You’ll tell Billyboy the Post,” he said, “if he hoists sail ahead of me, to tell them all back there I’ll be easing my sails in their direction any minute. Let him tell Red-haired Tom that I’ll knock the blockage out of his gut, in the event that he didn’t heed my advice …”
—Neither she nor anyone else was any the wiser for anything I said, Billyboy. And I may tell you also that the graves are riddled with holes …
—… “Let him tell Son of Blackleg to strike up a verse of a song when he hears me coming …”
— “Hoh-roh, Mary, your wares and your bags and belts …”
— “Mártan Sheáin Mhóir had a daughter
And she was as broad as any man …”
—… “And let him tell that pint-swilling Glutton that I’ll cut him in strips like a sally-rod for having his old wagon of a donkey permanently parked in my field of oats, since that wife of Curraoin’s began her pilgrimages to the courts …”
—Bloody tear and ’ounds, Billyboy, finish it …
—… For my own soul and for …
—That’s all he said, neighbour. Or if he did, my … t
he Schoolmistress didn’t tell me …
—Bloody tear and ’ounds, what’s the use of making a Red-haired Tom of yourself! If there’s going to be ructions let there be ructions! “And let him tell my own darling Caitríona,” he said, “that they had to send for the fire brigade’s long hoses to extinguish me after the scalding I got in the geyser in Dublin, so I have no fear of her boiling water now …”
—Ababúna! Ababúna! Beartla Blackleg! Billyboy dear! Who’s to know but that ugly … stop-nosed … blundering … slouch … might be stuffed down beside me … Oh, Billyboy dear, I don’t believe he washed himself in Dublin … To bury him beside me! Ugh! Ugh! … The room … the grimace … “You can have Big Brian, Caitríona …” Oh! Billyboy, I’d explode, I’d explode, I’d explode …
—Oh, there’s no danger, Caitríona, my neighbour. That will all be fine …
—But look at where they buried yourself, Billyboy …
—The poor creature didn’t know what she was doing … Easy on, Master! Easy on! Don’t worry, Caitríona. That hardy annual is still as healthy as ivy …
—His likes don’t last long at all in the end. Holy Mother of God tonight. I would have less aversion to the Earl’s little black! … What’s this, Billyboy? Another corpse! Oh, woe forever, Billyboy my dearest friend, if it’s him. Listen! …
—Hi, lads! Seán Chite from Donagh’s Village has arrived …
—The place he’s buried is …
—The great Prophecy Professor of the Western World is laid low and his prophetic skull laid at Beartla’s feet …
—Bloody tear and ’ounds, what better pillow for his old skull?
—Seán Chite, what’s your opinion of the world now, or do you think the prophecy is coming true? …
Graveyard Clay- Cré Na Cille Page 35
