—Oh, the robber! The swine-swiver! …
—She didn’t feel a bit like letting him go. When I was ready to pop off, she was talking to my father about it, and she said that if Billy went she’d drop down and die …
—The bog pig …
—She brought three doctors up from Dublin to look at him, Master …
—With my money! She never brought a doctor to see me, the whore … the twat twerp …
—De grâce, Master!
—… “Fireside Tom there, and he whoring to marry …”
—I had no intention of getting married. I’d have gone to England except that I took bad. The whole parishes of Derry Lough and Gort Ribbuck have gone …
—And Glen Booley and Derry Lough. I know just as well as you who have gone. But are any of the younger gang getting married? …
—There’s lots of talk about Fireside Tom getting married.
—They’ll still be talking about him, the nitwit. But who else? …
—The foxy cop with a nurse from the Fancy City. The Young Master also …
—Schoolteachers are really up for getting hooked. There must be another raise of pay in the offing.
—They don’t have it easy at times. You just heard the Old Master. But who’s the young one? …
—A lovely girl from the Fancy City. A fine thing, actually! That day when I was drawing pictures in the hope of going to England, I saw the two of them together. They went in to the Western Hotel.
—What kind of cut or shape of a woman was she?
—A long tall sally. Blondy hair dripping down along her back …
—Earrings?
—Of course …
—Dark eyes?
—I haven’t a clue what kind of eyes she had. I wasn’t thinking about them …
—A broad bright grin?
—She was gawping away at the Master all right. But she wasn’t gawping at me …
—Did you hear where she hangs out?
—No I didn’t. But she’s working in Barry’s Bookies, if there’s such a joint. The Derry Lough master and the priest’s sister are getting married next month. They say he’ll get the new school.
—The one with the pants?
—The very one.
—Isn’t that weird that she’d marry him?
—Why so? Isn’t he a fine-looking specimen, and he doesn’t touch a drop.
—But all the same. It’s not every man would want to marry a woman who wears the trousers. They’d be a bit more pernickety than other women …
—Ah, cop on and get an ounce of sense! My own son is married to a French one in England and you wouldn’t have the least clue on God’s earth what she was gabbling on about no more than the gobshite buried over there. Shouldn’t she be even more pernickity than any one that wears a pair of pants …
—God help you and your Frenchie one! My son is married to an Italian in England. Is that good enough for you?
—Forget about yourself and your Italian. My son is married in England to a black. Can you do better than that?
—A black! My son is married in England to a Jew. Can you credit that? To a slylock Jew. A Jew wouldn’t be happy to marry any old kind of man …
—And not every man would marry her either. Some of them wouldn’t fancy her …
—There’s many more than that who wouldn’t fancy the thing your son married. A black. For fuck’s sake! …
—The big boss is to marry some woman from Glen Booley. That youngfella of John Willy’s, he’s made the kip of a shack and all, and they say he’s sniffing around looking for a woman. The daughter of your man Tim Top of the Road sent him packing.
—Tim Top of the Road who spent all his time robbing my turf …
—And mine …
—And my hammer …
—Oh, I hope she chokes! Trying to sneak into my land …
—It was she who threatened me with the law to ruin me about the wrack. You’re telling me that John Willy’s boy wouldn’t marry her? …
—She’d be good enough for him. What was John Willy ever any good for? Periwinkles. And what is he any good for now? Perifucking-winkles …
—There was nothing much wrong with the periwinkles ever, there wasn’t really. Myself and the youngfella got most of what we needed to buy a colt. And now we have something that you don’t have: a fine big colt and a pen that only needed some covering. I told him that when the pen was finished he should get some bit of a thing of a woman for himself …
—The youngfella was sent packing as well from the house up above; and Rootey’s daughter in Bally Donough refused him, and the carpenter’s daughter in Gort Ribbuck …
—That youngfella is a totally useless git. Did he say that we nearly got the price of a colt from the periwinkles; that we had made a clean new pen; that we bought a fine new colt after Christmas? He’d never have managed it himself, I’m afraid. If I hadn’t gone so quickly myself …
—Hey, John Willy, that Rootey in Bally Donough is my cousin. He didn’t do half enough rejecting your son. I rejected you about my daughter. Do you remember the time you came looking for her?
—I had neither colt nor pen that time.
—Aren’t you so uppity to talk about Rootey from Bally Donough, no more than anyone else. You’d think he was some kind of a snooty snotty Earl or something, and my father rejecting his woman. “Do you think, Rootey tootey,” my father says, “that I’d condemn my daughter to live in Bally Donough to live on nettles and the chirping of crickets?”
—Your father refusing the Rootey! My mother also refused him a woman! “There’s forty pounds and a cow going with my daughter,” she says, “and there’s no way she’ll be living on the flea-ridden fastnesses of your place with her forty pounds.”
—Your mother refused him a woman! Your mother! My father tried to pawn her off on me, but I wouldn’t touch her. She was half blind. She had a mole under her ear. She only had a dowry of fifteen quid. I wouldn’t touch her …
—I wouldn’t marry Blotchy Brian. He asked me …
—I wouldn’t marry Blotchy Brian either. He asked me twice.
—Nor me neither. He asked me three times. I swear by the oak of this coffin. He nearly completely failed to get any woman at all. Caitriona Paudeen would have married him alright the time that Jack the Lad dumped her, but he never bothered coming looking for her …
—Holy cow! Abooboona! Kitty you dirty liar! Kitty the small potatoes! …
—… Honest, Dotie. No way was the place good enough. There was really no way that I would allow my daughter to go there with her sixty pounds dowry, unless I really had no choice in the matter. I was always possessed of a romantic streak and I couldn’t let inferior worldly affairs be an insurmountable obstacle to their unfulfilled love. Honest. If it wasn’t for that Dotie, do you think I would have allowed my daughter and her sixty pounds to go and live in Caitriona Paudeen’s pokey little hovel? …
—You little blabbering scum shit! You riffraff so-and-so! Don’t believe her! Don’t believe a word! Margaret! Margaret! Do you hear what Toejam Nora is saying? And Kitty the dirty liar? … I’m going to burst!
5.
—… Do you think that this is “The War of the Two Foreigners”?
—… The murdering bastard gave me a bad bottle …
—… There was every single tiny drop of the forty-two pints lining my stomach when I was tying up Tomasheen …
—I remember it well. I twisted my ankle …
—“The doh-og is drinking.” Qu’est-ce que c’est qu’ “the doh-og?”
… Qu’est-ce que c’est qu’ “the doh-og”? Doh-og. Doh-og.
—Bow wow! Bow wow!
—Un chien, n’est-ce pas? Doh-og. Bow wow. Doh-og.
—Dog! Dog! Dog! You headbanger!
—“The dog is drinking.” Le chien boit, n’est-ce pas? “The dog is drinking.” Mais non! “The doh-og is crying.”
—Like dogs cry all the time, you headbanger
! Maybe he was whining, or barking, or even drinking. But he wasn’t crying. Crying! I never ever saw a dog crying.
—“The doh-og is crying.”
—“The dog is whining. The dog is whining.”
—“The doh-og is crying.” “Crying: c—r—y—i—i—n—g”! “Crying.” Ces sont les mots qui se trouvent dans mon livre. “The doh-og is crying.” Pas “drinking.”
—Well, if he was crying let him cry away. We can’t do nothing about it, nor about the twit who put it in a book. Maybe the dog went on the drink and then he started to cry about the hangover he got and his empty pockets …
—Je ne comprends pas. Aprés quelques leçons peut-être … “The white cat is on the mat.” “Cat”: qu’est-ce qu’il veut dire? “Cat”? “Cat”?
—Mi-aw! Mi-aw!
—Mee-ou! Mee-ou! Chat! N’est-ce pas? Chatte.
—Shat. Yes, of course. Shat. What else?
—“The wo-od is go-od. The ha-at is a-pt. The ha-at is tall on Paul. T— …”
—You’re a dirty liar! I never wore a tall hat. It was too low for me anyway. Do you think that I was a bishop? …
—Je ne comprends pas. “Young Paul is not …”
—You’re a liar. I was still only a youngster. I’d have been only twenty-eight by the next Peter and Paul’s day.
—Je ne comprends pas. Paul is not drinking …
—He’s not drinking now because he is not thinking, but he drank what he had before this, and that wasn’t much.
—Je ne comprends pas.
—Au revoir! Au revoir! De grâce! De grâce! …
—He’ll never have a word of Irish as long as he lives.
—Nevertheless, he shouldn’t be that long getting the hang of it. There was a guy learning Irish around here the year I died. He hadn’t the least clue from Adam, but he was picking up bits and pieces from those small learning books, the same as your man. He’d be there in the kitchen every morning a full hour before I got up and he’d have made a rat’s nest of the whole place:
“This is a cat. This is a sack. The cat is on the sack. This is a dog. This is a stool. The dog is on the stool.”
He went on like that all day long. He had my mother driven completely round the twist.
“For Jaysus’ sake, Paul, take him away over and into the field,” she’d say to me.
I was cutting hay in the meadow down by the shore at that time exactly. I hauled him along with me. We were barely there when it was time to come back again for dinner as he read the lesson to everyone we met on the way.
Up and away again after dinner. I tried to teach him some small words: “scythe,” “grass,” “ditch,” “rick,” and little bits like that. It was a very hot day. It was a blistering hot day and he couldn’t get his tongue around the words. He spat out a few knotty snots. He asked me how would you say “pint” in Irish.
I said “Pionta.”
He said “Pionta” and nodded to me …
We moseyed off along the shore to Peter’s Pub. He bought two pints.
Then back to the field.
I gave him another word.
“Pionta,” he said.
“Pionta,” I said.
Off we went again. Two more pints. Back again to the field. I gave him another word again.
Off again. Back again.
Over and back like that all day long. It was a pint for a word, and a word for a pint …
—… Fell from a rick of hay, bejaysus …
—Do you think that I was raised in a cabbage patch and never saw a film? …
—An oldfella like you?
—An oldfella like me? But, I wasn’t always old, you know.
—They’re absolutely beautiful. I saw magnificent things like them. Big houses just like the Earl’s …
—And I saw they had fine big crosses, and I’d say they were made of Connemara marble …
—I saw lots of women wearing pants …
—And black women …
—And cultured people, and nightclubs, and down by the quays, and sailing boats and sailors with multicoloured skins. Honest …
—And the occasional nasty bitch …
—And women with sly slippery smiles just like Huckster Joan when she refused you a fag or two …
—And women giving you the “come-here-I-wantcha,” just like Peter the Publican’s young one standing in the door trying to lure some new sucker into her parlour …
—You’d see some fine frisky colts there, I’m telling you! …
—And games of football. Up the yard, boy! Cannon would make shite and onions of any footballer’s arse …
—You’d never see any wrack that came in there …
—Or two thatchers on either side of the house …
—Or nettles like there was in Bally Donough.
—Or flea-ridden kips like in your town land …
—I’d prefer Mae West to the whole lot of them. I’d give anything to see her again. She’d be a great one for the young bucks, I’d say. Myself and the youngfella were in the Fancy City the night before the fair. We downed a few pints.
“That’s enough now,” I said. “If we went the whole hog we’d soon make a hole in the price of the colt.”
“It’s too early to go to bed now,” he said. “Come on, let’s go to the pictures.”
“I was never there,” I said.
“So what?” he said. “Mae West is on tonight.”
“In that case, so,” I said, “it’s alright with me.”
We went.
A woman came out. A fine strap of a thing, and she started leering at me.
I leered back at her.
“Is that her?” I said.
“Who, so?” the youngfella said.
Another babe came out just after that. She kind of ran her hand along his hip. Then she threw a face and started grinning at us. They all started grinning too.
“That’s her now,” the youngfella said.
“Off you go,” I said. “She’d be a great one for the young bucks, I’d say. As soon as the pen is ready, I’m telling you now, but you couldn’t do much worse than to get hitched up with a little slip of a thing. But for God’s sake, don’t get caught up with the likes of her. She’d be a great one for the young bucks alright, but nonetheless …”
“But, but, nonetheless what?” the youngfella asked.
Just then another busty broad came out, just like the floozie that is always up for it in Jack the Lad’s house, and he was talking to the two of them. He started waxing the air with his hands. Some lickspittle comes out. The cut of your man who goes fishing in Nell Paudeen’s place—Lord Cockton. Mae West said something to him. I swear to God that the youngfella told me what it was, but there’s no way I can remember it now …
The little fart pulled a face as if his cheeks were swollen up. He dropped the hand down along his sides. He was a filthy fucker, and he knew what he wanted. I’d say he had a dicey ticker too, the poor hoor! …
—… Just the once Kitty. That’s the only time I was ever ever at the pictures. More than anything I’d give anything to see them again. That was the time my daughter was about to deliver, the one who is married in the Fancy City. I spent a week looking after her. She was coming around after the birth that time. Her husband came in after work. He gobbled down his dinner and done himself up.
“Breed Terry,” he says, “were you ever at the pictures?”
“What are they?” I says.
“All those pictures that they’re showing up in that place?”
“In the church?” I says.
“Ah no,” he says, “just pictures.”
“Pictures of Jesus and the Blessed Virgin and St. Patrick and Joseph, is that it?” I said.
“Ah, not at all,” he said, “but pictures of foreign places and wild beasts and whacky weirdos.”
“Foreign places and wild beasts and whacky weirdos,” I says to myself. “I don’t think I’d like to go there at all. Who knows, God
save us from all harm! …”
“You have a crude culchie mind,” he said, pissing himself laughing. “They’re only pictures. They won’t do you any harm.”
“Wild beasts and whacky weirdos,” I says. “What’s that all about? …”
“It’s a picture about America tonight,” he said.
“America,” I exclaimed. “Is there a chance that I’d see my lovely Breed and Noreen—God love them!—and Anna Liam? …”
“You’ll see people like them,” he said. “You’ll see America.”
And of course I did. You never saw anything like it! It’s more the pity I couldn’t do anything about them? That bloody fire that destroyed my mind completely! … But I’m telling you Kitty, everything was as clear as if I was there myself. There was an old woman with a rag wiping the door with a face on her just like Caitriona Paudeen when she’d see Nell and Jack the Lad going on past her coming from the fair …
—Holy shite! Abooboona! …
—And there was a big spacious room with a round table, just like that one Kitty, that you gave the pound to Caitriona to buy, that time she never gave it back to you …
—You’re a filthy liar! …
—And a silver teapot, like the one in Nell’s house, laid out on it.
And then this guy, all dressed in black, except for his golden buttons opened the door. I thought it was the Foxy Cop, but then I remembered that it was in America. Then another man came in with a cap on his head like a messenger boy and himself and the first guy started ballocking one another. Himself and the guy with the golden buttons grabbed the man and shagged him down the stairs. I thought he was going to be completely mangled as they chucked him down three or four flights. Then they kicked him headfirst out the door and nearly bowled the old woman over. I swear Kitty, I really felt sorry for her. My head was all fuzzy.
And then the man looked back and shook his fist at the guy who chucked him out. I thought he was the Old Master—the little button nose and the bitty beady eyes—and Billy the Postman threw him out, but then I remembered it was all in America. And I realised whatever about the Old Master being in America there’s no way that Billy could be there as he had to deliver the post every day …
—The crook! The sneaky lowlife slime sucker! The …
The Dirty Dust Page 16
