“Why don’t you,” says I, “why doesn’t one of you drop the thatching for a while and help the other, as Tom isn’t helping either of you. Either that, or why don’t you take turns helping and thatching …”
“Shut your mouth,” Tom said. “Can’t you see that they’re flying ahead one as good as the other now, God bless them! They’re brilliant thatchers. I reckon that neither one of them is a hair’s breadth or a nail shaving better than the other …”
—Easy to tell that you don’t know that I realise all about it …
—But you don’t know, you haven’t the least clue …
—… “Nell knows all about building fences,
And Cathy’s an expert on thatch and felt …”
—… “Fireside Tom was smirking broadly
At Cathy Paudeen who paid the rent …”
—No, she wasn’t! I wasn’t! It’s not true, Margaret! Oh, Margaret! I’m going to burst! I’m going to burst! …
6.
—… The Grave Ghoul! He is as big an eejit as you ever saw …
—It’s a total disgrace, Caitriona, if he has the map, that he couldn’t tell one grave from another …
—God help you and your stupid map! His stupid map makes as much sense as Eddie East Boss dividing up the land with a tongs, when they were divvying it up in strips long ago …
—For all that, Caitriona, I kept that stretch at the top of the fields despite your best efforts, seeing as there wasn’t one of you who didn’t want it. You couldn’t do better than it to fatten up the cattle …
—Ho! Do you hear the cricket chirping again? …
—It’s a disgrace, Caitriona, if the corpses are being put in the wrong graves that someone wouldn’t charge him with treason: let the Government know, or at least tell the priest, or the Foxy Policeman …
—Ara, God bless the Government! Some Government, since Griffith’s crowd were thrown out …
—You lied …
—You told a big black …
—Isn’t that just what Blotchy Brian said: they are being chucked into any old hole in the graveyard now, just as if they were fish guts or leftover limpets …
—Oh, the dirty fucker! …
—If you don’t have a proper cross on your grave now, and it well-marked, who knows what day it wouldn’t be opened up …
—I’ll have a cross on me shortly. A cross of the best Connemara marble just like Peter the Publican and Joan …
—A cross of Connemara marble, Caitriona …
—Wouldn’t they let them put up a wooden cross, Caitriona?
—They’d be dumped out on the road the following day …
—Isn’t that because of the people who make the other crosses? …
—Of course, what else? Everyone feathering his own nest. If you were allowed stick up wooden crosses or cement crosses, nobody would bother with their own. Everyone then could just make their own cross …
—I’d much prefer no cross at all than one made of wood or cement …
—True for you. I’d die of shame …
—It’s this Government’s fault. They get a tax on all the other crosses …
—You’re a liar. That was the law before this Government …
—It’s a terrible thing to dump one of your own down beside a stranger …
—The apple never falls far from the tree …
—That’s the Government for you …
—You’re a liar …
—I heard that they stuffed Tuney Mickle Tuney down on top of Tom the Tailor’s son last year …
—Oh, didn’t I up and kick off the murderer from on top of me! It was the other half of the treacherous Dog Eared mob who stabbed me …
—I was at Jude’s funeral, Jude from our own place, last year. She was shagged down on top of Donal Weaver from Clogher Savvy. They never knew they were digging the wrong grave until they hit the coffin. The dogs on the street know that it’s true, I was there, exactly there …
—Entirely true. Don’t we know you’re telling the truth. They dug four graves for the Poet, and in the end he was left down snug on top of Curran …
—The devil screw him! I’m driven demented with his trivial waffle. He can go and fuck himself as he didn’t stay alive long enough until they put a cross on me …
—The little scut …
—It wouldn’t matter only I had things on my mind, and I didn’t realise it was my big farm of land that your one at home gave to the eldest son …
—What do you think of Michael Kitty from Bally Donough being clapped in on top of Huckster Joan? Joan didn’t even have a cross that time …
—Ah, poor Joan …
—Poor Joan, you must have been totally in distress …
—I told her straight up to her puss without a word of a lie to leave me in the Half Guinea or the Fifteen Shilling place. The last thing I wanted was for that twit to be buried above me. She’d drive me into the next life with the stink of nettles …
—Didn’t they try to stuff someone in on top of you also, Kitty? …
—Some little wretch from Clogher Savvy that I never knew, nor knew anything about her family. By the oak of this coffin, I swear, I got rid of her with a flea in her ear. “I’m really in a bad way if I’m laid out with the beggars of Clogher Savvy in the cemetery clay,” I said …
—Honest. They had dug my grave also. Some old woman from Shanakill. “Ugh,” I said, “to put that rough diamond from Shanakill down in the same place as me! I wouldn’t mind if she had some culture! …”
—Hoora! Do you hear that slattern from Gort Ribbuck of the puddles throwing insults as Shanakill? Listen to me! I’m going to burst! …
7.
—… Fell from a haystack …
—… God help us all! It’s a disaster they didn’t bring my bones east of the Fancy City … Sunset would not slink slidingly down there. Morning would not break like a strange gypsy woman wandering the byroads of hill and the cliff paths ashamed to face the first begging of the day. The moon itself would not have to shine on innumerable stocks of stone, and ribs of rock, and cursed coves when she chose to come to kiss me. The broad expanse of meadow would be spread before her in a multicoloured tapestry. Rain would not arrive suddenly like the sudden bullet of a sneaky sniper from a smudgy spot, but rather like unto the glorious and majestic appearance of a queen bringing laws and prosperity to her people …
—Dotie! Sentimentality!
—That girlish stupidity again …
—… Look at me, the murderer gave me a lousy bottle …
—… Went to the Plaza at seven … She comes along … That lovely smile again. Takes the chocolates. A film … There was a film in the Plaza—she had seen all the films in the town already. Go for a walk or go to a dance … She had been on her feet in the betting office all day … Tea … She had only just had one. The Western Hotel … Certainly, a short break would do her no harm …
“Wine,” I said to the waiter.
“Whiskey,” she said.
“Two double whiskeys,” I said …
“Two more double whiskeys,” I said …
“I have no more whiskey,” the waiter said. “Do you know how much whiskey you have already drunk since seven o’clock: twelve double whiskeys each! Whiskey is scarce …”
“Stout,” I said.
“Brandy,” she said.
“Two large brandies,” I said …
“Do you not realise,” said the waiter, “that it’s well past one o’clock, and even if this is The Western Hotel you still have to be careful. A police raid, maybe …”
“I’ll walk you home, as far as your door,” I said, just as the waiter was closing the door of the hotel after us.
“You walk me home to my door!” she said, “The way you are it looks more likely that I have to walk you home. Straighten up a bit or you’ll fall through that window. You can’t hold your drink, can you? I have my head together, despite the fact I have guzzled more
brandy than you! You wouldn’t know I touched a drop … Watch that pole for chrissake … Walk straight. I’ll hold your arm, and I’ll take you as far as your door. Maybe we’d get another few scoops in Simon Halloran’s place on the way up. It’s an all-night joint, and never closes ’til morning …”
I managed to cadge a look at her in the dim street light. She had a broad smirk on her face. But when I stuck my hand in my pocket and emptied it out, I discovered I only had one shilling left.
—You airhead …
—… My God almighty, as you say yourself …
—… I’m telling you God’s honest truth, Peter the Publican. Caitriona Paudeen came in to see me. I remember it well. Sometime around November. That was the year when we really gave Garry Abbey’s field a proper going over. Mickle was spreading seaweed the same day. I was expecting the kids home from school any minute and I had just turned over the potatoes in the embers for them. Then I sat down in the corner mending the heel of a sock.
“God bless all her,” she said. “Same to you,” I said. “You’re very welcome Caitriona, sit yourself down.”
“I can’t really stay,” she said. “I have my work cut out getting ready for the priest. He’ll be in on top of me in about nine or ten days. There’s no point in me beating about the bush, Kitty. You sold the pigs at the last fair. Ours won’t be ready until St. Brigid’s Day, if God spares them … I know it’s a big favour to ask, Kitty, but I wonder could you loan me a pound until next St. Brigid’s Day fair, I would be really extremely grateful to you if you could give me that pound. I have to do something about the chimney, and I’ve decided to buy a round table for the priest’s breakfast. I have two pounds myself …”
“A round table, Caitriona?” I says. “But sure, nobody has a round table around here apart from rich people. Why wouldn’t he just eat from an Irish table just the same as every other priest we ever had?”
“The last time he was up with Nell,” she says, “she had a silver teapot that Blotchy Brian’s Maggie got in America. I’ll get a loan of a silver teapot from Huckster Joan, as I want to be every bit as good as her, and better as well. The uppity slut!”
I gave her the pound. She bought the round table. Things were cheap that time. She laid out the priest’s breakfast on it, and served tea in the silver teapot she got from Huckster Joan.
—By the oak of this coffin, I swear, Peter the Publican, that I gave Caitriona the pound, and I never saw one glimpse of it until the day I died, whatever Huckster Joan did with her teapot …
—You lied, you witch of the piddling potatoes. Don’t believe her, my dear Peter. I stuffed every brass farthing of it back into her fist when I sold the pigs at the next St. Brigid’s Day fair … What would you do with her? Your mother didn’t often tell the truth either … I died as pure as the crystal, thanks be to God … Let it never be said that Caitriona Paudeen went to her grave owing as much as a red cent to anybody. Not like you, stingy Kitty of the pissy piddling potatoes. Your family left a heap of debts stringing after them everywhere. Who are you to talk! You killed yourself and your family with your piddling pissy potatoes … Don’t believe her, Peter … Don’t believe her … I gave her every brass farthing into the palm of her hand …
I didn’t, you witch? … I didn’t, is that it? …
Hoora, Margaret! … Margaret… . Did you hear what Kitty said? I’ll burst! I’m going to burst! …
Interlude 3
THE SUCKING EARTH
1.
I am the Trumpet of the Graveyard. Hearken unto my voice to my voice. You must hearken to what I have to say …
For I am the voice that was, that is, and that ever will be. I was the first voice in the shapelessness of the universe. I am the last voice that will be heard in the scattering of the ultimate destruction. I was the gurgling voice in the first pregnancy in the first womb. When the corn is gathered in the barn, my voice will call the last harvester home from the Field of Time. For I am the son of the ancestor of Time and of Life and the governor of their household. I am the harvester, the stacker and the flail of Time. I am the keeper, the custodian and the key holder of Life. Listen to my voice! You have to listen …
There is neither time nor life in the Graveyard. Neither brightness nor darkness. There the sun does not go down, neither do floods roar, nor winds blow nor change bite. The day does not stretch out, nor are the Pleiades being hunted by Orion; neither does the living thing dress itself in the garb of Congratulations and Celebration. The glinting eyes of the child are not found there. Nor the simple blush of youth. Nor the rosy cheeks of the young girl. Nor the kind voice of the educated woman. Nor the innocent smile of the old person. Eyes, and blushes, and cheeks, and grins all get mashed into the one undifferentiated alembic mush of the clay. The flush of life does not have a voice there, nor does the voice have the flush of life, because there is neither flush nor life nor voice in the disinterested chemistry of the grave. There are only bones withering, flesh rotting and body parts that were once alive now putrefying. There is only this earthen cupboard and the tattered suit of life to be gnawed by moths …
But above the ground there is the light and lively lissom lap of air. The full tide is begotten with gusto in the pulse of the shore. The grass of the meadow is like unto that which had a vessel of fresh milk poured upon it. Every bush and clump and field is like a royal serving girl gently practising her curtsey before she came into the presence of the King. The bird gives voice to his soft melancholy music in the garden. The eyes of the children are magicked by the toys that fall out of the wondrous garden of innocence. The torch of the revival of hope appears in the cheeks of the courageous young. The foxgloves which could be picked in the meadows of eternity light up in the shy cheeks of the young girls. The singular flower of the bright bush blooms in the gentle face of the mother. The youngsters with their ringing laughter are playing hide and go seek in the barnyards, while their high-pitched joy seeks to reach the summit of Jacob’s ladder and return by it from Paradise. And the muttering murmur of lovers seeps out from the corners of the backroads like the waiflike whinnying of the wind through flower beds of cowslips in the land of youth.
But the shake of the old man is taking its toll. The young man’s bones are stiffening. The grey wisps are blending with the gold in the hair of the woman. A paleness like of serpent’s slime is invading the clarity of the child’s eye. Questions and querulousness nibble at joy and the carefree spirit. Weakness is beginning to banish strength. Despair is overwhelming love. The shroud is being woven by the baby blanket, and the grave is being prepared instead of the cradle. Life is paying its dues to death …
I am the Trumpet of the Graveyard. Hearken unto my voice! You must hearken to what I have to say …
2.
—… Hoora! Who is that? Who are you? Are you my son’s wife? Didn’t I tell you she’d be here at her next birth? …
—John Willy, no less—unless they have to christen me again in this dive—that’s what they called me in the place I came from. The heart …
—John Willy. Oh my God. They’re putting you down in the wrong grave, Johnny. This is Caitriona Paudeen’s grave …
—Isn’t that how it is in this graveyard, my dear Caitriona. But, I can’t talk to the living. There’s something at me. My heart …
—What kind of funeral did I have, John Willy?
—Funeral? The heart, Caitriona! The heart! I was going to get the pension. I didn’t hear a whisper. I drank a sup of tea. I toddled down to the Common Field to get a basket of potatoes. When I was letting them down when I got home the strap ripped and it came down arseways. It gave me a jolt in my side. I was left completely breathless …
—What kind of funeral did I have, is what I’m asking?
—The heart, may God help us! The heart was weak, Caitriona. I had a dodgy heart …
—Fuck you and your heart! You have to forget about that shite here …
—I know but the heart is a poor thing Caitriona. W
e were making a new pen for the colt that we bought just after Christmas. We were nearly finished except for the last bit. I myself wasn’t able to give that much help to the youngfella, but nonetheless, he’d appreciate it. You wouldn’t give a damn, only the weather was great for the last while …
—Weather! Last while! They’re two things you won’t have to worry about here, John Willy. You were always a bit of a lazy layabout. Tell me this much! Why are you not taking a blind bit of notice of me? Did I have a big funeral? …
—A fine big funeral!
—A fine big funeral, John Willy, did you say? …
—A fine big funeral. The heart …
—Listen, get stuffed and forget your heart unless it was going to do you some good. Do you hear me? You have to give up that old guff. Nobody will listen to that kind of crap here. How was my altar?
—A fine big funeral …
—I know that, but what about the altar? …
—A fine big altar …
—What altar, I’m asking. Don’t be such a dour puss all the time. What altar?
—Peter the Publican had a big altar, and Huckster Joan, and Maggie Frances, and Kitty …
Don’t I know it! And that’s what I’m asking you. Wasn’t I aboveground myself that time? But what altar did I have, me, Caitriona Paudeen? Altar! Seventeen pounds, or sixteen pounds, or fourteen pounds? …
—Ten pounds twelve.
—Ten pounds! Ten pounds! Now Johnny, are you certain it was ten pounds, not eleven pounds, or twelve pounds, or …
—Ten pounds, Caitriona! Ten pounds! A fine big altar, by God. Not a word of a lie, it was a fine big altar. Everyone said it was. I was talking to your sister Nell: “Caitriona had a fine big altar,” she says. “I never thought she’d come as much as two or three pounds close to it, or four either.” The heart …
—Bugger and blast your heart! Give it over, Johnny, for chrissake! … Were the Hillbillies there? …
The Dirty Dust Page 8
