The Dirty Dust

by Máirtín Ó Cadhain

  —I’m telling you, that’s what she said: “I never thought she’d come as much as two or three …”

  —The Hillbillies weren’t there?

  —The Hillbillies! They heard nothing about it. Paddy was to tell them about it: “Ara,” Nell says, “why would you be dragging them making them walk all the way down here, the poor creatures.” I swear that’s what she said. The heart. A dicey heart …

  —Isn’t it a terrible pity that your heart wasn’t a poison lump stuck in Nell’s gob! Were the Glen Booley crowd there? …

  —Not as much as a toe of them.

  —The people from Derry Lough?

  —Huckster Joan’s cousin was being brought to the church the other day … You wouldn’t mind only we have that weather now for quite a while, and we were working away on the pen …

  —Chalky Steven wasn’t there, then? …

  —We bought a foal after Christmas …

  —May God be good to you, Johnny, but don’t let the people buried here think you haven’t a smidgen of sense more than that! … Was Chalky Steven there or not?

  —Not a bit of him, but Paddy said he was talking to him on the fair day, and he said to him: “Most certainly, Paddy Lydon,” he said, “I would have burst my gut to go to the funeral. I wouldn’t let it be said …”

  —“‘That I didn’t go to Caitriona Paudeen’s funeral, even if I had to crawl there on my two knees. But I never heard a hint of it until the night she was buried. A foal with …’”

  Chalky Steven, he’s a total crap artist! … What was my coffin like?

  —Ten pounds, Caitriona. A fine big altar.

  —Are you gabbling on about the coffin or the altar? Why don’t you just listen! … What price was my coffin? A coffin of …

  —The very best coffin from Tim’s place, three half-barrels of stout, and poteen flowing. Twice as much booze as was needed. Nell said that to him, but there was no talking to him, he had to have the three half-barrels. We were swimming in the stuff. Even if I was the oldfella there, I drank twelve mugs of it that night, not to mention the amount I had the night you were brought to the church, and the day of the funeral. To tell you the whole truth, Caitriona, despite all the respect and affection I have for you, there’s no way I would have drunk all that much if I knew that the heart was a bit dicey …

  —You didn’t hear that Patrick said anything about burying me somewhere else in the cemetery?

  —I got a little dart in my side, and it clean took my breath away. It was the heart, God help me …

  —You can keep that to yourself, Johnny. Listen to me. You didn’t hear that Patrick said anything about burying me …

  —You’d have been buried anyway, Caitriona, it didn’t matter how much was drunk. Even if I was the one with the dicey heart …

  —You are the most useless codger ever since Adam took a bite out of the apple. Did you or did you not hear that Patrick said anything at all about me being buried somewhere else in the cemetery?

  —Paddy was going to bury you in the Pound Place, but Nell said that the Fifteen Shilling Place was good enough for anyone, and that it was a real pity for a poor person to go into debt.

  —The harridan! She would say that, wouldn’t she! She was in the house, then?

  —A fine handsome foal we bought after Christmas. Ten pounds …

  —Did you pay ten pounds for the foal? You already said that ten pounds was paid for my altar …

  —Your altar got ten pounds certainly, Caitriona. Ten pounds, twelve shillings. That was it exactly. Blotchy Brian turned up just as the funeral was turning at the top of the road, and he was trying to give Paddy a shilling, but he wouldn’t take it. That would have been ten pounds thirteen, if he had taken it …

  —He was trying to stuff it down his craw. Blotchy Brian! If the ugly old duffer was looking for a woman, he wouldn’t be so slow … But listen to me, John Willy, listen to me … Good man! Was Nell at the house?

  —She didn’t leave it from the time you died until the time you went to the church. She was serving the women in the house the day of the funeral. I went into the back room to fill a few pipes of tobacco for the shower from Gort Ribbuck, they were far too wary to come in from the road. Myself and Nell started to talk:

  “Caitriona’s a lovely corpse, may God have mercy on her soul,” I says myself. “And you laid her out so beautifully …”

  Nell shoved me into the corner out of the way: “I don’t really want to say anything,” she said. “After all, she was my sister …”

  I swear, that’s what she said.

  —But what did she say? Spit it out …

  —When I was lowering it down going through the town, I got a little dart in my side. Took my breath away, didn’t have a puff left. Not even a puff! The heart …

  —Sweet Jesus help us! Yourself and Nell were ensconced in the corner and she said something like: “I wouldn’t really like to say anything, John Willy. After all, she was my sister …”

  —I swear that’s what she said. May I never leave this place if that is not what she said: “Caitriona was some whore of a worker,” she said, “but she wasn’t really as clean, may God have mercy on her soul, as everybody else. If she was, she would have been laid out beautifully. Just see how dirty this shroud now is, Johnny. Look at the smudges on it. Aren’t they a disgrace. Wouldn’t you think she could have had her laying out clothes scrubbed and ready, and set aside. If she had been laid up for a long time, I wouldn’t mind. Everyone is noticing those splotches on the shroud. Cleanliness is very important, Johnny …”

  —Glory be to God! Jesus, Mary and Joseph! I left them as clean as crystal in the corner of the coffin. My daughter-in-law or the boys mucked it up. Or the gang who laid me out. Who laid me out anyway, Johnny?

  —Nora Johnny’s one and Nell. They looked for Little Kitty, but she wouldn’t come … The heart, God help us all …

  —Some heart! Wasn’t it her back that was bugging her? Do you think, just because your own heart was fucked, that everyone else’s heart was fucked too? Why in God’s name could Little Kitty not come? …

  —Paddy sent his eldest daughter to get her. I can’t remember what her name is. I should remember, I should. But I went too fast. The heart …

  —She’s called Maureen.

  —That’s it. Maureen. Maureen certainly …

  —Patrick sent Maureen to get Little Kitty, is that it? And what did she say? …

  —“I won’t go next nor near that town land ever again,” she said. “I’m done with it. The journey is far too long now, considering my heart …”

  —It wasn’t her heart, it was her back I’m telling you. Who keened me?

  —The pen was ready apart from the roof. Even if I wasn’t able to give much help to the youngfella …

  —You won’t be able to give him that much anyway from now on … But listen now Johnny. Good man! Who keened me? …

  —Everyone said it was a great pity that Biddy Sarah didn’t come, because when she got her gut full of porter …

  —Holy cow! Shag that for a game of soldiers! Why the fuck was Biddy Sarah not there to keen me?

  —The heart.

  —The heart! Why was it the heart? The kidneys, it was Biddy Sarah’s kidneys were bollixed, like my own. Why didn’t she come? …

  —When somebody went looking for her she said: “No way, not across the sludge. I keened my eyes out for them, and what do they think of me? I’ll tell you: ‘Biddy Sarah is always on the bum. On the bum scrounging for something to drink. I swear you won’t hear a bleep or a squeal out of her until she is stuffed up to the oxter. She’ll keen sweetly then like the choirs of hell.’ They can keen her away now, for all I care. I’ll keen who I choose from now on.” I swear, that’s what she said …

  —A bitch down to her bum, that’s Biddy Sarah. She’ll know all about it when she gets here … Was Nell cosying up to the priest at the funeral?

  —The priest wasn’t there at all. He was off at
a funeral for some cousin of Huckster Joan, as she was very near him. But he lit eight candles …

  —There were never that many on any corpse before this, Johnny.

  —Only that one of them went out, Caitriona. It was just smouldering …

  —Smoulder my arse!

  —And he said no end of prayers and he threw holy water five times on the coffin, something that was never seen before … Nell said that he was actually blessing the two corpses together, but I don’t really believe that …

  —Ara, Johnny, and why would that be? God love him and give him health. That would just suit Nell down to the ground. How is her son, Peter? …

  —Miserable enough. Miserable enough. The heart …

  —Ara, get away out of that! Why are you blabbing on about his heart? Wasn’t it his hip that was bugging him. Or did it get him in the heart in the meantime? That would be even better …

  —The hip, Caitriona, certainly. The hip. They say it will be in court in Dublin in the autumn. Everyone says it will be thrown out, and Nell won’t be left with as much as a tosser, nor Blotchy Brian’s one neither …

  —So be it! With God’s help … What did you say about Fireside Tom?

  —Just after I went to get the pension, I had a sup of tea, and I moseyed down to the Common Field …

  —Don’t worry about it. You’ll never go there again with your spindly legs … Listen! Listen to me! Fireside Tom.

  —Fireside Tom. Wheezing away. His hovel was about to cave in, no roof. Nell wasn’t long getting on to your Paddy:

  “It’s a holy disgrace to leave that old man get soaked with rain,” she said. “If it wasn’t for what happened to my Peter …”

  —But the poxy runt gave in to that cute hoor …

  —He was busy, but he said he’d throw a few straws over the worst bits until he got a chance to do the whole lot … The heart …

  —True for you. The heart. Patrick has a good heart. Too good … Did you hear anything about the cross they were to put over me?

  —A fine new clean cross of the best Connemara marble, Caitriona …

  —Recently?

  —Recently, certainly …

  —And my daughter-in-law? …

  —My daughter-in-law? … My son isn’t married at all, Caitriona. I told him that when the colt’s pen was ready, that the best thing a fine strapping lad like him could do would be …

  —To go to the doctor about his heart, Johnny, in case he took the weakness from you. My daughter-in-law? My son, Patrick. Nora Johnny’s One. Do you get it now? …

  —Oh, I do. Nora Johnny’s One. A bit sick. The heart …

  —You’re a filthy liar. It’s not her heart, just sick …

  —Just a bit sick, Caitriona …

  —Go away with yourself! I knew that much already. I thought she’d be throwing shapes to get into this place. She’ll be here at her next birth, certainly. Did you hear anything about Baba?

  —Your crowd’s Baba, in America? She wrote to Paddy sympathising with him about your death. She sent him a fiver. She hasn’t made a will yet. He told me that the eldest one he has—what’s that her name is? I forget. I should remember it, but I went too quickly …

  —Patrick’s eldest one. Maureen.

  —That’s it, Maureen. There’s a shower of nuns down the country somewhere want to take her away and turn her into a schoolteacher, just as soon as she has enough learning …

  —Maureen is going to be a schoolteacher! Good luck to her! She was always gawping at the books. That’ll be one up on Nell anyway …

  —… The joint candidate we have in this Election …

  —Jesus, come down from the cross! Don’t tell me, Caitriona, that there are elections here also. There was one above just the other day.

  —How did our people vote …

  —I got a little stitch in my side. The heart …

  —He’s away with the fairies again. Shut up! How did our people vote? …

  —Same as ever. What did you expect? Everyone in the town land voted exactly the same way as always, except for Nell’s family. Her whole crowd went over to this new gang …

  —Bad luck to her, the strap! They would, wouldn’t they? She’d always stab you in the back …

  —They say that this new gang promised her a new road up to the house … To hell with it anyway, there’s no flies on her anyway. She’s getting younger. I never saw her looking better in all my life than the day you were buried, Caitriona …

  —You can go and fuck off, you old bags. No one of yours ever had a good word to say, ever … Shag off, this is not your grave anyway … The graveyard must be all over the bleedin’ gaff if they put you into the same grave as me. Shag off to the Half Guinea Place. That’s where you should be. Did you hear about the altar I had? Did you hear what the priest said about me? Your coffin never went beyond five pounds. You can go and fuck off. Yourself and your old heart. You have a cheek! … No one of your lot ever had a good word to say. Fuck off as fast as you can! …

  3.

  … So I only had ten miserable pounds worth of an altar, despite the fact that I shitted bricks chasing every old skanger and scum bucket putting money on their altars. It’s not anybody’s time, dead or alive … And the Hillbillies didn’t come to my funeral … Or the shower from Glen Booley or Derry Lough … And Chalky Steven didn’t come, the gobshite. They’ll get their comeuppance someday. They’ll come here too …

  What chance had any of them to come to my funeral when that old tramp Nell was worming her way into Patrick’s confidence, and she insisting that nobody should be told that I died. And there she was, laying me out, and dispensing and doling out drink at my funeral. She heard I wasn’t alive, she heard that much. The dead can do nothing at all about it …

  Who would give a toss, only for Little Kitty and Biddy Sarah. They’ll get it rough yet. I wouldn’t be in the least surprised if Nell put it in their heads and suggested they didn’t go near the house, one way or the other. She’d do it, the old bag! Any woman who’d say that I didn’t have my clothes properly laid out to be buried in … May not one other corpse come to the grave before her! …

  But Baba sent a fiver to Patrick. He’s certainly worth that much. He’ll surely hook up now with that slag, Nora Johnny’s daughter. She won’t be able to say then that she is not responsible for my cross. But that’s not a bad sign either. Baba is writing to us … If I had only lived for another few years so that she, the wrinkly whore Nell, was buried before me …

  That’s great news that Maureen is going to be a schoolteacher. That’ll really piss Nell off and Blotchy Brian’s Maggie: we’ll have a schoolteacher in our family, and they’ll have no schoolteacher at all in theirs. A schoolmistress makes a lot, I believe. I’ll have to ask the Old Master what did his wife get. Who knows, maybe Maureen might get a job as a schoolteacher in our own school, especially if the Old Master’s wife fecked off, or if anything happened to her? Then Nell would know all about it. Think about it, Maureen strutting up through the church every Sunday in her hat and gloves and parasol, her prayer book as big as a creel of turf tucked neatly under her oxter, strolling with the priest’s sister as far as the gallery, and playing the piano. Nell and Blotchy Brian’s Maggie would have been gobsmacked—if they were alive. Anyway, they say it’s the priest who fixes up the schoolmistresses. If that’s the case, I haven’t a clue what my best guess would be, as Nell is very friendly with him … And who knows what that’s about? Maybe he might be transferred soon, or he might even die …

  And that wench of a wife of Patrick’s is still a bit sick … It’s a feckin’ wonder that she’s still alive. But, no doubt about it, she will be here at the next birth …

  Isn’t it an awful pity I didn’t ask John Willy about the turf, and the planting, the pigs, the calves, and what’s up with the fox these days? It was the only thing that was bugging me, if the truth be told … But what chance has anyone saying anything to him while he was yapping away about his old h
eart? It should be easy to get a chance to talk to him in a while. He was stuffed down here right next to me …

  —Patience, Coley, patience. Listen to me. I am a writer …

  —Wait now, my good man, wait ’til I finish my story:

  “… ‘Ho-row, the chancer!’ Fionn said. ‘There was no way that he was going to leave Niamh of the Golden Locks with his poor father, even if he was on his own every night since that fast thing Grania the daughter of Cormac Quinn eloped with Muckey More Dooley from the Wild Woods of the Fianna’ …”

  —… The most awkward and cunning person I ever had to deal with about insurance, was the Old Master. I tried every trick in the book. I came at him from behind and from the front and from every angle. I sailed towards him on sunny seas and from the frozen wastes. From the eye of the storm and on the flat of the plain. I came at him in a pincers movement, encircled him, pummelled him, jabbed him and atom bombed him. I was a fawning dog, and a thief in the night. I filled him with the fleets of human charity and jeered him with the jibes of satire. I flooded him with invitations to the princess of Peter’s Pub. I fed him with cigarettes for sweet fanny all, and fobbed him off with rides in the car for nothing. I followed him with the sweetest gossip about the intentions of inspectors, and the latest news about the rows between the Master and the Schoolmistress from Barna Townee. I told him fancy stories about young women …

  But it was completely useless. He thought if he bought an insurance policy from me it would be the worst thing he could do. Even as the head of a family he wouldn’t part with a bean …

  —But I did …

  —You did, and me too. Hang on a minute. He was the biggest miser in creation. He was so mean he could steal mice at a crossroads, as they say. He never splashed out except that one time when he went to London, the time the teachers got the raise …

  —That’s when he was in the nightclub.

  —That was it. He spent the rest of his life telling me all about it, and warning me never to open my big mouth. “If the priest or the Schoolmistress heard about it,” he’d say …

  He married her: the Schoolmistress.