Sifting

by Mike Mac Domhnaill

  The crows cawed in the chestnut.

  ‘Now, sadly to recall, some of the names inscribed here died in the Civil War, that most awful time, a Chairde … and we are here, both sides now here together, standing here at this monument, to heal those wounds. Aye, a Chairde, those bad times best left in the past.’

  The crows settled back at their nests.

  Paddy Power is entertaining us to a ditty he has picked up with the RAF.

  ‘Home from England, Paddy? Never knew you could sing!’

  I like the brandy cos it makes me randy,

  but give me the good el vino,

  The vino supremo!

  ‘Good on you Paddy. Better to keep it down a bit though. Never know. Ger over there buys that Phoblacht every week. Never know, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘Fine for you lot.’(Paddy’s accent has become tinged from being across the water. Hardly gone four years.) ‘You had your schooling hadn’t you and the chance of the Civil Service. Right, Pat? Me, I left at fourteen didn’t I? Off to England, no choice. No one helped me get into the RAF. No pull there, not like here, all the time who-you-know, not much good when you come from the back of the Home. Bloody fighting the English? Where would we be without the English, tell me?’ Paddy’s getting a bit loud. Another song Paddy. That’s it. Now we’ll move on. Come on Paddy, me boy, you’ll be right. Right as rain in the morning.

  Best man to write a composition. We’d pass it around from desk to desk – that good. Back in sixth class. But for all his brains he would soon be off. Gone from us after the dance down in Shanagolden. On the bus home we said our goodbyes. Fourteen … fifteen …? Was he even that. Our pal in the RAF. Rat-a-tat tat.

  Pádraig, my neighbour, stops me in the street, eyes blazing, he’s back on the tear. ‘All over the world they’re glued into it … this Forsythe whatever … can you imagine what that’ll do? The whole world watching the same thing.’ He leaned in nearer with his whiskey breath. Enveloped. ‘They’re leaving my school above there, leaving in droves, and you, young man, are off with that new crowd thinking ye’ll change the world! Watching the Forsythe whatever all over the world. There’s your imperialism!

  ‘In one day, do you know how many cars passed on the Limerick Road? Go on, take a guess.’ He’s measuring commerce, counting the traffic. Over at the Cross looking out his window I suppose, those months when he’s off it and bright in sobriety. ‘Why would I be chasing around with that other’ – he laughs – ‘that other lunatic Hogan getting them to vote Labour? They’d prefer to be below roaring in front of the monument! Up Dev! Up Collins! And I watch their children leaving my school the minute they hit fourteen, heading away with the cardboard suitcases.

  ‘They’re all watching this Forsythe – “saga” is it? – all over the world! Do you realise what that’ll do?’ I have no answer. There is no answer to full-flown alcoholic reality pouring forth on the sunny footpath. The rattle of the bottles in the bag. A few days and then it blows over. Back teaching for the Emigrant Ship, the Bád Bán. ‘Don’t mind your Irish Brigades carrying flags into battle all over the globe. Wrap the green flag round me boys! Vote for the worker, my eye, they’d run you out the gate, set the dogs on you’ – the laugh was burning out – ‘with that other mad hatter Hogan. As mad as myself the poor man!’

  On good days, walking past us when as children we played out on the road, he’d conjure sweets from the branch of a tree. Magician. ‘Look, empty hands. Tell me can you see anything there? There you are, nothing, check the sleeves, now let’s see which tree might have something for us, which tree,’ – and swish, swoosh, he brought the pastilles! From a cluster of ash leaves. How did he do it?

  We part with him shaking his head at a lost cause. ‘They’d prefer to be shouting below in the Square about “free the North” and “we’ll get rid of the border” with their “vote Fianna Fáil” and “vote Fine Gael”. “We’ll get rid of the border and get you a house when the houses are built!” Live horse, you might say! Get you a ticket for the boat, that’s what they might as well get.’

  ‘Look fellas,’ says Paddy, ‘I’d wear the Poppy and the Easter Lily.’

  ‘Come on, Paddy, time to go home.’

  ‘The Poppy and the Lily,’ as I pulled him out the door.

  You never heard that? Well there you are.

  Rock-a-bye-baby-on-the-tree-top! They’ve picked up the child. The Tans are all over the town! The drunkest of them is waltzing around the kitchen with the baby in his arms. You’ll have to go down.

  —Your name? What’s your name?

  —Mike Donoghue’s my name.

  —That’s interesting. What a fine name he’s got, chaps! Mike Donoghue!

  (The child was back crying in the cradle.)

  —You can’t take our Mike, he’s just home from England. What can he have done to ye?

  —We’ll soon find out what he could’ve done! Come on, Mr Donoghue! Tell us all about Old Johnson.

  All night he’s gone until she hears a thud at the door whatever time it was … after dawn. Thrown there in the doorway, a bundle of blood. All for a name. Lived on a few days. Called out in no roll of honour. Not ‘active’, they said. Mistaken.

  So now for you, never heard that one? Well there you are.

  Acquiescence

  Tadhg felt light and airy coming home from the Advice Office. The window of the Cortina fully down; the breeze was warm. When his tangly reddish hair was cut short he looked the dead spit of his father. Believed in work. Getting ahead. There up ahead now was the father-in-law swinging his stick.

  ‘God, he’s some gligeen,’ Tadhg scoffed to himself, ‘swinging the blackthorn like he’d be droving cattle off to the fairs he’s always on about.’

  ‘Howa Jim! Will you hop in?’

  The old man looked a bit startled at first and then quietly crossed the road to the passenger door and got in.

  ‘Great morning, thank God, Tadhg. You’ll be wynding up the hay above in the fort field I suppose. It must be fit …’

  ‘Not ready for baling yet. The forecast is good. I’ll bale this evening.’

  ‘Wisha I don’t know … but I saw a great flock of crows gathering at the priest’s house. A bad sign when you see them boys gathering …’

  Tadhg only laughed softly. The old man gave him great amusement.

  ‘He’s pure cracked!’ He’d say to his wife Kitty. ‘Wait till you hear what he was on about this time!’

  And he’d go on about some remark old Jim had passed on the weather, or the cattle. He’d go red in the face recounting the incident, knocking great merriment out of it. Kitty usually smiled and would say something like: ‘Ah, go on, you shouldn’t be drawing him … you’re a terror.’

  But she was often silently hurt by his remarks on her father. After all, he had handed on the farm to her while the only brother, Jimmy, was off at sea working on big liners as a radio officer with no wish to come home and settle. The father had given him his choice and there was no bitterness but she always felt a great debt to her father on that account. To hear Tadhg mock him was hurtful and highly ungrateful. Old Mosseen, Tadhg’s father, you can be sure wouldn’t be so fair. Him with his big well-drained farm beyond in Reenbeg. All left to Dan, the oldest. The only thing Tadhg got from the same Mosseen was the mad fit for work. Couldn’t leave a sod unturned.

  For all that, she had great regard for her husband who never put her down and always tried to be kindly. She just wished he wouldn’t go on about her father. She often hoped, in those moments after going to bed, when they’d chat back on the day, that he’d say some good things … Acknowledge the debt they owed her father … Say how glad he was to have got the farm … But she never cajoled it out of him.

  And the wish grew deeper in her for an acknowledgement as time passed and she could see her father grow old. The articles on Irishmen that appeared in the Sunday papers from time to time were of little consolation. ‘The Irish male is reticent when it comes to declaring hi
s love …’ or maybe ‘Irishmen leave a lot unspoken, hoping the undercurrents will be picked up …’ She’d ponder over such telling sentences there at the kitchen table and for a while those articles had appeased her, but not lately. Damn it, he was her father; Tadhg had fallen in for all of this so easily …

  Arriving in the farmyard, the old man delayed before opening the door.

  ‘I don’t know, Tadhg, but that field was always slow to save. Whatever kind of grass is in it, it was slower than any other field. There could be rain before evening you know …’

  Tadhg gave his easy laugh, opening out his door.

  ‘Come on, we’ll have a cup of tea.’

  They just had the bare cup, nothing with it. The dinner would be on the table at one o’clock (Tadhg had brought that routine with him). No dilly-dallying. Often in the old days they’d start at something and not eat until it suited the rhythm of the work. There was never any great rush.

  Tadhg explained to Kitty how at the Office he’d got all he needed to know on draining the fort field and clearing up the place. He’d make it into a fine spread, suitable for silage next year. She wanted to know if they’d said anything about the fort.

  ‘Sure what do they care?’

  He winked to hush her, as he saw her father coming back in having been out watching the sky again.

  ‘Will we take a walk up to look?’

  As if looking at it will do any good, Tadhg thought to himself. But he set on up partly to humour the old lad and anyway he wanted to sharpen his appetite for the dinner. They had a half hour to kill.

  Sure enough he was an entertaining old devil for as they passed the little pig house that led to the fields they disturbed a dry cow-pa and out scurried a black beetle.

  ‘A bad sign when you see them boys out, Tadhg, mark my words.’

  That tickled Tadhg enormously. Then he mentioned the big fair in town long ago and the day he walked the full twelve miles with two heifers (this one Tadhg had heard a few times before), two of the maddest little bitches that ever was calved for they took him up every wrong boreen on the way so that by the time he took his stand at the fair he wasn’t worth tuppence.

  Jim laughed to himself, knocking great merriment out of the recollection.

  ‘You know ’twas a day very like today, the same sort of heaviness. And when we put our heads outside the Central in the Square – we were after a good few at that stage, mind – well, it was coming down in torrents. It was there running in floods down the street. Tim Buick was with us – the man who took the heifers – red with rage he was, he had hay down, poor man!

  ‘We ended up having to stay the night, those of us that had a distance to travel. We had Tadhgeen Flynn singing – your father would have known him.

  ‘It was still at it the next morning so lump it or like it we had to set off. Of course the men who had bought cattle were in the worst position but I could make headway.

  ‘I’ll never forget the floods at Coolanoran Bridge. I had to wade through with the water up to my waist. Man the things people did those times! And talking to people afterwards there was a good few witnessed wynds of hay carried along with the flood …’

  Tadhg looked at his watch when they got to the hayfield. It was nearly time to turn for dinner what with all the old man’s chat and stopping every now and then at certain points of the story. Tadhg kicked up a few sops, saying it would be fit for the baler around six. He imagined a nice level field of silage. Next year, he thought.

  Old Jim was over near the scrub of hazel and blackthorn that covered the fort, handling swaths of hay at various points. He’ll go on about starting straight into making a few hay wynds now, thought Tadhg, but I’ll have to draw him on the fort.

  ‘God, if you wanted now Tadhg, we could make up a few here near the fort.’

  ‘Yerra no,’ cutting him off, ‘no point in killing ourselves like that. We’ll have the baler run around in the evening. Mind you, we’d have more air going through if the hedges were cut back and that place cleaned …’ indicating towards the fort.

  The old man hesitated.

  ‘Well, there’s that in it too … Maybe the hedges could take a trimming. I remember cleaning those dykes out …’

  Before he could get started on that Tadhg drew him back to the fort.

  ‘There’s a sight of bushes in there blocking up the place …’

  ‘Ay, the middle could be cleaned up. I remember my father ploughing inside in it. But, of course, he’d never touch the ring.’

  The mention of his father and the sudden thought of those gone before him fortified the old man.

  ‘No, nor I wouldn’t ever touch it. There’s plenty land besides. None before us interfered with it. No luck, you know, Tadhg. Only bad luck to follow.’

  It would take more softening, Tadhg thought, before he would win him over. In the meantime he’d convince Kitty. One way or another …

  ‘God, look at the time,’ said Tadhg, and they headed back to the yard.

  On the way, it came down again about the fair day long ago and Tadhg amused himself at the absurdity of walking all those miles, wasting two days for the profit on two head of cattle. Pure cracked, he thought, pure catmalogin cracked!

  While Kitty was clearing off the table they listened to the end of the news. (Old Jim had to have the news and Tadhg would be half listening, mad to be back out.) This day, lo and behold, who should be interviewed only John Mc Awley, the school caretaker in the town and renowned for his knowledge of local lore and all the good fishing holes along the Deel. Another case of pollution and a three-mile stretch wiped out.

  ‘The students inside in that school,’ announced the caretaker/fisherman, sounding as if trying to hold back tears, ‘have a book by George Orwell called Animal Farm. Well, would Orwell have predicted that in this year of 1984 – that other book of his – for all his predictions, that we would have our rivers killed off, the fish, the waterhen, are they all to go? Is it to be production at all costs and let the rest of us go whistle?’

  ‘Will you listen to the auld codger!’ – Tadhg.

  ‘Whist, whist up,’ said Old Jim. And when the news had finished: ‘You’d have to feel sad for the old bucko. Sure he loves his fishin’.’

  ‘He’ll be full of himself now – being on the radio,’ said Tadhg. ‘Those townies, some of them, have plenty time on their hands – out fishing when they could be at a bit of work!’

  It blossomed up into a pet day. Jim gave up on talk of wynds; went to clean out the little piggery. He had commissioned two nice ten-week-olds from a neighbour, which he’d fatten for the end of November. It was the one area over which he retained control. (Tadhg didn’t care a hoot for pigs anyway. He was all into dairying.) And of course the hens. He helped Kitty with the hens. Ever since his wife Bridie passed away, father and daughter would mind the hens and Jim cleaned the henhouse.

  As for Tadhg, he was out in the front field trimming the hedge by the road. While he was hacking away it was the thought of silage and flat, level fields that was going through his head. The short chat he had had after dinner with Kitty wasn’t satisfactory. They had waited for the old man to go out to the piggery and of course Tadhg put his foot in it by gibing about that. He had noticed lately she got her back up easily when he remarked about the father. But he was only joking. No good, it was a bad way to start.

  ‘He’s off to his chores! We’ll hear nothing but pigs when them two arrive.’

  Kitty gave a faint smile.

  ‘You were saying what went on at the Office. Does Berty know about the old fort?’

  ‘Yerra of course. “Mind,” says he, “you don’t bring bad luck on yourself!” And he giving a big scort of a laugh – you can imagine Berty! But he agreed ’twould make a great job of the field. And we’d be eligible for the grant. Berty’d see to it.’

  ‘Aren’t they supposed to report on a place like the fort …?’

  ‘God, you’re as bad as the auld people for the fairies! Sure
what good is it anyhow, a clump of bushes. And didn’t Ryan go over it with the metal detector. A donkey shoe was all he found! I’d say something if there was a chance of anything in it.’

  ‘Oh I don’t know, Tadhg …’ She braced herself: ‘Dad would go mad, you know. He never let anyone touch it.’

  She found herself getting a bit fiery.

  ‘Oh let’s not talk of it now, Tadhg.’ And she switched to the hay. Shouldn’t he hurry up and bale it?

  Almost to defy them, he was now out with the briar-hook letting the day pass. Look at the lovely day! Himself and the beetles! He tried to jollify himself. But the feeling of confrontation had beset him. Flattened ’twould be and a fine field of silage would grow there next year. Then they’d see he was right. The place was his. They’d not best a Murphy. He hacked madly at briars and nettles.

  That evening the baler arrived and the hay was made up. Some of it, especially near the fort, was hardly fully fit for baling.

  ‘Carry on, Bill,’ he said to the contractor, ‘take it all in. Some of that will do for bedding.’

  And with his great energy he was stooking the bales almost as fast as they bounced onto the field out of the machine. Next year, he was thinking.

  At supper time he couldn’t resist a few gibes about the weather.

  ‘Well, the bales are stooked now and it can rain if it likes. Maybe ’twas a funeral them crows were gathering for Jim, what!’

  ‘It’s great to see it all made up, Tadhg,’ Old Jim conceded. ‘I hope them stooks are well settled though. The way the midges are biting outside we’ll get a deluge …’

  ‘Ay, them little fellows know better than the crows all right! The father often spoke of them, right enough.’ He broke off with a chuckle.