Then one December he bought a heifer from Jim Delaney, and, since he had no land, he sent the heifer to graze on Michael Derrane’s land at so much a month. The heifer was in calf when he bought her, and she was a good-looking, healthy beast of a dark red colour with a white patch underneath her stomach. “Now we’ll see how he gets on,” said the peasants, winking at one another.
The cow spent the winter in those fields Derrane had beneath the road half a mile west of the church and all through the winter she was the main topic of conversation among the peasants in the west of the island. People were always leaning over the fence on the roadside, looking at her. Every evening after closing the school the schoolmaster went to visit her. He drove her around the field, examined her droppings and the water-tub. Then he would stoop down and look at her udder to see if she was beginning to gather milk, fully three months before she was due to calve. He became unbearable in his conversation, boasting about the cow. “Look at her,” he would say. “I am a schoolmaster. I grow my own potatoes, cabbages, onions, and parsnips in my garden. Now I’m going to have my own milk. That’s what comes of being educated and being able to use the brains that the Lord gave me.” And he spent an amount of money on agricultural periodicals dealing with the breeding and treatment of cattle.
When the cow was due to calve he had relays of the schoolchildren watching her day by day, and he hired Tom Finnigan, the labourer, to watch her at night. Every evening he gave the cow a hot drink. “Phew,” said the peasants, “be Saint Michael that cow will beggar him. it’s a true story. Put a beggar on horseback.”
The cow went twelve days over her time, and then on a Friday night just before dawn she had a speckled calf. Tom Finnigan and the schoolmaster were there, and the schoolmaster was as proud as if the calf were his firstborn child instead of a little speckled beast that sprawled about on the grass, trying to stand up. “You wait, Tom,” said the schoolmaster, “that will be the best bullock in the island in two years’ time.” Then he went home to mix another drink for the cow and left Tom to watch her.
But in their excitement they had forgotten to empty the water-tub. Tom Finnigan had been up three nights, and overcome with weariness he fell asleep sitting under the fence, and in that condition the schoolmaster found him on his return. When Torn opened his eyes there was the schoolmaster showering blows on him and yelling like a madman. “Scoundrel, scoundrel, I’ll have the law on you.” “Yer honour,” began Tom, jumping to his feet. Then he stopped and opened his mouth. The cow was standing in the middle of the field with her neck stretched low to the ground and her open mouth in the air. One side of her was flat and the other side swollen like a bladder. She had emptied the watertub.
In a short while a crowd gathered and men offered advice, but the schoolmaster paid no heed to anyone. He kept roaring, “Scoundrel, scoundrel!” and in his shirt sleeves, with froth on his beard, he rubbed and rubbed at the cow’s expanded side until the red hair was coming off in handfuls. For all that, he might as well be rubbing a mountain in the hope of flattening it out. The cow began to bellow and stagger about.
At last the peasants got mad with him and said that if he didn’t let them treat the cow in the proper manner they would flay him within an inch of his life. “What good can you do her, you scoundrels?” yelled the schoomaster. “Give her whiskey,” roared the peasants. The schoolmaster was terrified out of his wits and told them to go and get whiskey. A lad brought a pint. They seized the cow and poured it down her throat. Soon she began to toss her head and run about breaking wind. That evening she was as well as ever.
But the schoolmaster sold her ard the calf a month later to Mick Grealish the blacksmith. Since then he never talks of cattle or farming. Neither does he give anybody advice. But the peasants have nicknamed him “The Bladder.”
Mackerel For Sale
There was a dark rim round the white disc of the sun. The sky was white, covered with a pale gauze. The sea was white, reflecting the colour of the sky. It was very hot and perfectly still.
The white water of the bay was spotless, except for a round black dot formed by a row-boat. The round, black row-boat lay still, casting no shadow. Not a bird. Not a ripple broke on the low shores, girdled with yellow sand and with grey-black rocks that looked sallow in all this whiteness. Beyond the shore the torrid earth was still, a silent mass of black earth covered with faded, yellow grass, grey rocks, grey stone fences, gleaming granite boulders strewn sparsely, white in the sun.
The tiny fishing-town of Bailenaleice lay in the angle of the bay, facing the bay with its back to the sun. Its hundred houses were scattered round the little square that ended at the pier. To the left of the pier there were a number of fishing hookers, moored side by side, high and dry, with sea grime on their black dry sides.
Ech! The little town was very idle. There had been no fish for a month. What weather!
It was just on the stroke of noon. A small crowd was loafing round the monument, watching the row-boat in silence. They were all drowsy with the heat and their enforced idleness. Here in the square they were at peace, away from their wives who nagged them for their idleness. At a distance, here and there, drowsy voices could be heard, talking aimlessly. Stray dogs rambled about, gambolling in a subdued manner.
There was absolutely no sign of life in the town. The courthouse, the post office, the police barracks, the tiny rail-head where a solitary goods waggon was perched on an eminence like a derelict, the drapery shop, the parochial house, where the priest was sitting in his library with his feet on a table reading G. B. Shaw’s plays, were all closed, silent and weatherbeaten. In the square itself, the door of the yellow-painted Grand Hotel was closed, and the proprietress, Mrs. Timoney, was leaning on her bare fat elbows at the window of an upper room. The only open door was that of the public-house and grocery shop owned by Mr. Mullally. In the open doorway, Mr. Mullally was sitting on the stone threshold, with his blue waistcoat open on his rotund stomach, half asleep.
Suddenly an enormous man marched down the town towards the pier, striking the earth fiercely with his heavy boots and swinging his arms in an exaggerated manner. The loafers round the monument jerked their heads around to look at him. Mr. Mullally also tried to turn his head, but his neck was so fat that he could not do so. He grunted and dropped his chin once more. The enormous man approached, shouting as he did so.
“Now ye divil ye,” whispered one of the loafers in a tired voice, “what ails the fellah?”
The man who approached was Bartly Tight, a farmer. He was dressed in grey frieze from head to foot. His limbs were enormous, but in spite of their size his coat and trousers were too large for him. His coat hung loose about his body and reached down his thighs. His trousers were wide and doubled up two or three times at the bottoms. He wore a very small grey cap at the top of his skull. His head was large, square and beautifully shaped. His complexion was tanned dark brown, so that he was almost the same colour as the grey land about him. A wonderfully handsome giant; so handsome that all the women in the little town and in the surrounding districts were madly in love with him.
But Bartly Tight was a fanatic and paid no heed to women. He was a socialist. He had lately returned to the district from America, after his father’s death. Since then he had been trying to convert the inhabitants to the socialist religion.
“Hey!” he cried, when he reached the square and caught sight of the loafers. “Here’s a damn’ story for you fellahs. Call yourselves Christians, do ye? Why, I’m the only damn’ Christian in this blasted town, and I’m an atheist. Search me, fellahs, there’s a lot o’ bums in this town. Yeh. Know what I’m goin’ to tell ye? Ye go to Mass every Sunday an’ then rob one another for the rest o’ the week.”
“Tell them the old, old story,” cried a loafer, in a singsong voice, imitating a street preacher.
The others laughed in low voices. Mullally suddenly woke up and he began to giggle. He was so fat and good-natured that he shook all over when he giggled. His li
ttle humorous eyes were almost completely hidden behind the layers of flesh on his cheeks. It was very good to look at him laughing. He made no sound. And his great mass of jet black hair shook when he laughed. Tight saw him laughing. He clenched his fist and menaced Mullally with it.
“Yeh,” he cried. “You can laugh, Mr. Mullally, But you can’t put anything over on me. I got your number.”
“Hey, Bartly,” cried a lean man, with a black wart on his face, “what did ye swally for breakfast that’s gone agin yer breath?”
There was another laugh. Bartly looked at the lean man angrily.
The lean man stared very solemnly at Bartly. The tail of his ragged black coat was immersed in the water of the horse trough, on the edge of which he was sitting. Somebody had told him about it an hour before, but he was too lazy to remove it.
“Yeh!” said Bartly to the lean man. “You’re a helluva wit, aren’t ye, Micky Degatty. But yer house needs a roof an’ ye haven’t done a stroke o’ work for a year, an’ yer wife is-”
“Aw! What odds, Bartly?” yawned Micky Degatty. “Won’t we be all dead some day?”
“You put yer finger on the trigger that time all right,” said a dapper little man with a pointed beard, who was leaning his buttocks on a stick. “Yes. Heh. There’s a long rest in the grave for us so we … heh … we might as well get used to resting. Eh?”
“That be damned,” said Bartly Tight, stamping on the road. “It’s idleness is … but that’s another story. What I want to know is this. Who knocked the gap in the wall o’ my clover field? There’s been two donkeys feedin’ there all night. ’Twas done deliberate. Who done it?”
“Ha!” said somebody. “That was a dirty trick.”
“Aw! Begob! A clover field. Was it the red meadow?”
“Ate to the ground,” bellowed Bartly Tight. “There’s Christians for ye. It’s not an accident. It’s an old gag in this town. Takin’ their cattle around in the middle o’ the night to feed on their neighbour’s land. What? Christians!”
He spat with great vehemence. Everybody began to discuss the matter with some heat, deprecating the conduct of the culprit, or culprits, whoever he or they were. But they soon tired of their interest. The day was too hot.
“Well,” said an old man at last. “It’s ate now anyway. What’s the use talkin’ about it? That won’t make the grass grow again.”
“There ye are again!” cried Tight, waving his arms. “What’s the use? What’s the use? That’s all ye can say. Let everything go slide. Idleness, ignorance, immorality. That’s what lets ye be a prey to the whole gang of idle parasites is drinkin’ yer body’s blood. Priests, gombeen men, shopkeepers, police, lawyers. Yah. Why the hell don’t ye wake up and take some interest in social affairs?”
Nobody answered. A dog yawned. Mr. Mullally, for the first time, uttered an audible sound. Tight turned towards him. Mullally was laughing with tears flowing down his fat cheeks. Everybody began to titter.
“Hah!” yelled Tight. “There he is. The pug-nosed badger. It’s easy for him to laugh. He came here a few years ago from God knows where, with his few pounds o’ tay in a bag, leavin’ them at people’s door-steps. A tay man. Then he buys a little house an’ sets up a shop. Now he’s got ye all in his debt. He’s got money in the bank, He’s livin’ on ye. What’s he done for the town? Nothing. He ain’t a producer. Laugh away, dam ye. Foo!”
Tight was exhausted and he sat down. Nobody took any notice of him. Mullally just went on laughing. When Tight came to the town first after his return, people got vexed when he ranted like this. But a few daring fellows, who took umbrage at his words and fought him, got such a drubbing from the giant that now nobody dared to contradict him or answer him back. And, anyway, he was a gay, humorous fellow, industrious, clean-living, and the best of good companions, except on occasions like this, when a little indiscretion on the part of a thieving neighbour “got his goat.”
He sat down. He took out his pipe. He filled it with tobacco from his pouch. He noticed the row-boat, which was now moving hurriedly towards the pier, after having been motionless for at least four hours.
“Who’s that?” he grumbled, waving his tobacco pouch towards the boat.
“That’s Tameen Maloney,” murmured a listless voice.
“What’s he been doin’?” grumbled Tight.
“Fishin’,” said another listless voice.
Somebody cleared his throat. The dog yawned again and then snapped at a flea. A man who was sitting with wide open mouth suddenly shut his mouth and sat up. He began to cough violently. A fly had entered his wide open mouth.
“Fishin’!” cried Bartly Tight. “Ha! What’s he fishin’ for?”
“Mackerel,” said a fat man in a blue sweater, getting to his feet and stretching his hands above his head. “Give us a pipe-full, Bartly.”
“Go to hell,” said Tight, putting his tobacco in his pocket. “Go an’ earn it. Yer always cadging something. I don’t believe in charity. Tobacco is a luxury. I’ll give ye a meal if yer hungry, but tobacco -”
“Aw! For God’s sake …” grumbled the fat man as he shuffled along towards Mullally’s shop. “Hey! Mr. Mullally,” he cried to the shopkeeper in a sullen voice, “give us a chew.”
Bartly looked angrily at Mr. Mullally. Mr. Mullally glanced at Tight, as he took a knife and a square block of tobacco from his pocket. He cut off a piece of the tobacco and handed it to the fat man.
“There ye are!” cried Tight. “I suppose ye think now ye’re a decent fellah. Eh? But ye-know yer robbin’ that man of his sense of decency. He’s just a hanger-on. Bribery an’ corruption. That’s how ye get them in yer clutches. Put that down on the slate now, Mr. Mullally.”
Mullally giggled again. Suddenly Bartly Tight struck his thigh a violent blow and began to laugh himself.
“Well! I’ll be damned,” he cried. “We’re all fools. Eh? It’s a funny world. Search me if it ain’t. An’… after all… what were we put into this world for anyway?”
“To save our immortal souls,” said the dapper little man, who was leaning on the stick.
Tight looked at the man keenly, with a merry twinkle in his eyes. The others laughed, knowing that Tight was a bitter opponent of the Church, and expecting him to say something bitter. But Tight just laughed. The heat was overcoming him and with the heat, the laziness engendered by it and the peace of nature, his sense of humour was becoming acute.
“Well,” said another man, “they say Julius Caesar, God rest his soul if he had one, couldn’t whistle an’ chew meal at the same time. So …”
“So what?” said Tight.
“I forgot,” said the man, with a long yawn.
They lapsed into silence again, watching the incoming boat. After a while Bartly Tight spoke again.
“That fellah Tameen Maloney ud make his fortune in a civilized country. Out all mornin’ on a day like this. An’ all you bums loafin’. Social energy fellah. Eh? That man is a good citizen. Christ! I hope he catches something. I been eatin’ salt hash for a month. Not a bite o’ fresh stuff in the town, only rotten mutton. Give my two eyes for a roast mackerel off the tongs,”
“Foo!” said the dapper man, sucking his lips and moving towards the pier. “I can hear the salt cracklin’ off its back. My eyes are waterin’ for it already.”
“Lashins o’ butter on it,” said another man, getting to his feet, “an’ it’s food for a bishop.”
“To hell with the bishops,” said Tight, also getting to his feet. “They should be fed on bad poison.”
They all laughed. Everybody strolled down to the pier. Even Mullally got to his feet and ambled down to the pier. Now it was obvious that he had once been a policeman, because of the way he walked and his splendid black moustaches, that reached out like long thorns on either side of his mouth.
They hailed the boat while it was still a long way off. The boatman did not reply. They watched his bobbing poll, as it rose and fell with the movements of his measured rowing,
flush, trup, r-rip, flush. Then he turned round his head and they saw Tameen Maloney’s drunken face, all yellow creases, with smuts of grease on the sallow cheeks and shaving scars on his thin jaws. He grounded his boat on the sand to the left of the pier and they saw fish in the boat.
“Bravo, Tameen!” they cried. “Ye got them.”
“Yuh,” grunted Tameen, getting to his feet in the boat, “I-I-uh-go-gogotalittle-a-uh-fe-fe-few.”
It was almost impossible to understand a word he said on account of the stoppage in his speech. He had the fish in a little basket, and without mooring the boat he slung the basket on his shoulder and walked up the sand with it hurriedly, on to the pier. Some small boys hauled up the boat for him.
On the pier he went up to Mr. Mullally with the fish.
“Uh-Uh-a-uh-hunerd,” he mumbled.
“Right,” said Mr. Mullally, curtly, “come along.”
Mr. Mullally had suddenly become a very energetic man. His face had hardened. He was twirling the tips of his moustaches with his fingers and watching the fish greedily.
“Hold on there now,” said Tight, gripping Maloney by the shoulder. “Lay down that basket. D’ye want to sell yer fish? Eh? If ye do we’ll buy it from ye. We don’t want any middleman to conduct a transaction.”
“Let him go,” cried Mullally, seizing Maloney by the other shoulder. “Who’s talking about a transaction? The fish is sold to me.”
Little Tameen Maloney began to stutter. The poor, dirty, ragged, little fellow, gripped by the two giants, was trembling and looked very pitiful. Tight loosed his hold with an oath. Then a very interesting state of affairs was disclosed to the crowd.
It appeared that Tameen Maloney had recently been receiving an occasional drink on credit from Mullally, on the understanding that whatever fish he caught would be handed over to Mullally and that Mullally was to pay whatever he thought fit. Maloney was a confirmed tippler, and he would sell his soul for money if he could find a buyer for it.
Irish Portraits Page 6
