—That’s very cultured, alright, Nora …
—About tribes who worship the devil, and about gods who lust after milking maids …
—That’s very cultured too, Nora …
—And about his own adventures in Marseilles, in Port Said, in Singapore …
—Cultural adventures, undoubtedly …
—Oh, I would have given him the last drop of my blood, Dotie. I’d have gone with him as his sex slave to Marseilles, Port Said, Singapore …
—But you broke up nevertheless …
—We didn’t know one another that long then. Just an ordinary true lovers’ tiff. That’s all. He was sitting next to me on the couch. “You are beautiful, Norita,” he said. “Your hair gleams more brightly than each rosy dawn of sunrise on the snow-topped peaks of Iceland.” Honest, he said that, Dotie. “The sparkle in your eyes, Norita,” he said, “shines more brightly than the North Star peeping out from the horizon to the lonesome sailor as he crosses the equator.” Honest, Dotie, he said that. “Your features are more beautiful, Norita,” he said, “than the white waves on the smooth beaches of Hawaii.” Honest, Dotie, that’s what he said. “Your posture is more stately, Norita,” he said “than the palm trees that grace the seraglio walls in Java.” That’s what he said, Dotie, honest, no word of a lie. “Your unsullied body is more gentle, Norita,” he said, “than the lighthouse which smoothly guides the sailor to the shores of the Fancy City and that calls me to give a warm and loving hug to my precious Norita.” Honest, Dotie, he said all that. He kissed me, Dotie. His lips were on fire … On fire …
“Your legs are more shapely, Norita,” he said, “than the moon which appears as a bridge of silver over San Francisco Bay.” Then he dropped his hand down on my leg, on the calf of my leg …
—He grabbed the calf of your leg, Nora. You’re away now! …
—Honest, he did, Dotie. “De grâce,” I said, “Don’t touch my leg.” “The curve of your legs is more beautiful, Norita,” he said, “than the graceful swoop of seagulls in the wake of a ship.” He grabbed my leg again. “De grâce,” I said, “hands off my leg.” “Your legs, Norita,” he said, “are more splendid than the rainbow cast on its back away beyond the oozy ocean.” “De grâce,” I said, “but you better take your hand off my leg.” I grabbed a book I was reading off the window shelf and I clobbered him with the back of it on his arm …
—But you told me, Nora, that you hit him with the handle of a pot, just as I did …
—Dotie! Dotie! …
—But that’s what you told me, Nora …
—De grâce, Dotie …
—But then, he pulled a knife on you, Nora, and tried to stab you; and then he apologised and said that was how they did it in his country, if somebody fancied somebody else, they put their hands on her leg …
—De grâce, Dotie, de grâce …
—But that you hooked up together again after that, and he wouldn’t as much as sniff his snot rag anytime his ship came in to the Fancy City, before he’d be hot foot after you …
—De grâce, Dotie. “Sniff his snot rag.” That’s very crude and uncultured.
—But that’s exactly the way you described it, Nora. You also said that he’d write to you from San Francisco, Honolulu, Batavia, Singapore, Port Said, and Marseilles. And that you were pining and whining when no letter came, until another sailor told you that he had snuffed it, some guy had stuck a knife in him in a bistro in Marseilles …
—Ah no, no! Dotie. You know I am a very sensitive soul. It would really upset me if someone heard that story. Honest, it would. You are my friend, Dotie. What you said just now would ruin my reputation. That he’d pull a knife on me! That I would do anything as uncultured as to hit somebody with the handle of a pot! Ah, come on! …
—That’s what you told me a good while ago, Nora, but you didn’t have as much culture then as you have now …
—Hum, and ha, Dotie. It’s only an ignorant crude person like Caitriona Paudeen would do something like that. You heard Maggie Frances saying that she threw boiling water at Blotchy Brian. She must be a right terror. Honest! …
—It’s a shame to God Almighty that he didn’t stick the knife right into your guts, you sailors’ bicycle! Where was that place you said he sat down next to you? Lord God, his luck had run completely out. You’d easily tell he was going to be stabbed in the end, anyone who’d sit down next to the One of the Toejam tribe. He got a lovely present leaving you, though: a nest of nits …
—Don’t let on you’ve heard her at all, Nora …
—Redser Tom, now, for God’s sake listen to me. I’m screaming at you for the last hour and you take no notice of me no more than if I was a slobber of frog spawn. What’s up that you won’t take any notice of me? Wasn’t I one of your palsy-walsies up above? …
—One of your palsy-walsies, Master. One of your palsy-walsies, like …
—Redser Tom, just one question. Is Billy the Postman in a bad way? …
—Billy the Postman? Billy the Postman, is that it? Billy the Postman. Billy the Postman, bejaysus. There’s a Billy the Postman there, I’d swear, Master. Billy the Postman is there, no doubt about it …
—Ara, fuck Billy the Postman, and I hope he’ll wallow on the deathbed of Alexander Borgia, and roast in the hot house of the devils and the demons! I know full well that he’s there! Do you for a moment think, you Redser Tom, that I don’t know about Billy the Postman? Is he in a bad way, the foam-lipped little prick? …
—Some say he is, Master, and some say he isn’t. They say a lot of stuff that’s neither here nor there nor anywhere at all. But he could be bad all the same, he certainly could. No doubt about it, certainly? It would be a wise …
—I’m humbly asking you, Redser Tom, is Billy the Postman in a bad way …
—Oh, he might be Master. He might be, certainly. It could be, Master. Definitely, certainly. Ah, sure, I wouldn’t know myself …
—I am asking you in the ancient name of neighbourly gossip to please tell me is Billy the Postman in a bad way … That’s it, Redser Tom! … Fair play to you, Redser Tom! You’re my golden boy, Redser Tom, but please tell me is Billy the Postman in a bad way, or is he going to die soon?
—Only a wise man would know that …
—I’m begging you, Redser Tom, as someone who always said the right thing about women—just like myself—to please tell me, is Billy the Postman in a bad way …
—He could be …
—I love you, Redser Tom, you are the apple of my eye, my rippling rill, my saviour of life … Do you not believe in private property at all, at all? … In the holy name of everybody to preserve the natural state of marriage, I am begging you to tell me, please Redser Tom, is Billy the Postman in a bad way …
—If I was to say anything, Master, I’d tell you before anybody, but I won’t say nothing, Master. You’d be well advised to keep your trap shut in a place like this, Master. It’s not the kind of place for someone to be blabbing and blathering. Even the graves have ears …
—May you be seven thousand times cursed tonight and tomorrow and a year from tomorrow, you Communist you, you Fascist, Nazi, atheist, spawn of the red Antichrists, you perfect pustule of the plebeian pricks, you dirty dregs of the dingy damned, you fester of fever, you fly’s fart, you maggot’s mickey, you earthworm’s slime, you belching bollocks that even frightened death himself so he had to send you a disease in the end, you muck muppet, you clap of crap, you rusty wreck of a useless git! …
—De grâce, dear Master! Keep a grip on yourself. Remember that you are an upright noble living Christian. If you hang on, you’ll soon be able to have all the hassle in the world with that wretch, Caitriona Paudeen herself …
—Answer her, Master, come on, Master, answer her. You are educated, Master. Answer her. Answer Noreen …
—Pretend nothing, Master, pretend you don’t hear that so-and-so at all …
—So-and-so! So-and-so! Noreen Johnny is calling me a so-and-s
o! I’m going to burst! I’m about to burst …
5.
—… It was a bad bottle, I’m telling you. A bad bottle. A bad bottle …
—… There was another time and I saw the two of them at the house, Paddy Caitriona and Peter Nell …
—Do you think I don’t know about that? …
—Well, certainly, Breed Terry, if I could have helped it I’d have been at your funeral. It would not have been right for me not to go to Breed’s funeral …
—Chalky Steven bullshitting away again, or is it? God knows it’s hard to get ahold of any story here. I spit on all that useless lying gossip! The best place for it is to go through one ear and out the other! This latest wafted over from Maggie Frances’s grave. That place is rife with gossip. Even so, Maggie took it up, no problem. She had a filthy place aboveground anyway. Her floor covered in dirt as tall as a ship’s mast, and grime stuck to every piece of furniture in her house. It’s no wonder she’s perfectly at home in the muck here. You wouldn’t mind, but she’s worse herself! You could grow potatoes in her ears, and she never gave her shoes a lick going to Mass. You’d recognise the streaks of soil she got in the gutter that she left on the floor of the church. And then, she’d never rest easy until she had slid in beside Huckster Joan and Nell next to the altar—the sneaky sow! If Maggie had married Blotchy, they’d have been well matched. He never washed himself either, unless the midwife did it when he was born. They say that cleanliness is a virtue, but I’m not too sure of that. The dirty shower seems to prosper nonetheless. I kept a clean house all the time. Every single Saturday night without exception I cleaned and washed and scrubbed myself underneath the roof of my own house. If I hadn’t enough strength left in me to swat a fly, I still did it. And what did I get for it in the end, nothing, only it shortened my life …
What’s this? What kind of a racket is this? Even though my ears are stuffed up, it still goes through them … Another corpse. The rotten dose … The coffin is only like an old hen box. Just about, like. They’d chuck a tinker down on top of me if they could …
Who are you anyway? … Damn and blast you, will you speak up! My ears are stuffed up … They said they’d put you in this grave beside your mother. I don’t recognise your voice, though. But you’re a woman. A young one … You were only twenty-two. I think you have it all arse ways. If you could turn your shroud inside out, you might make some sense. All my daughters are dead a long time … Why the fuck don’t you speak out and tell me who you are! … Do I need any spiritual assistance! … What are you on about, spiritual assistance? … What the hell is spiritual assistance? …
Big Colm’s daughter, bejaysus! Blotchy Brian is your uncle! You have little enough sense to try and scrounge your way into the same grave as me. There are far too many of your lot rubbing up against me here. You’re not related to me in any way, and I don’t want to have anything to do with you. Toddle off down to your mother over there. I heard her sniffling and snuffling just a while ago. I caught my death coming from her funeral. It was pissing rain from high heaven all day …
Shit! Stay away from me! The bad dose of Letter Eeckur. Stay away from me, if you have any sense. It was a bad idea to try and sneak in beside your uncle, Blotchy Brian …
What’s that you said now? … You knew full well it was a bad idea! … You were against it all the time … You never darkened his door for the last year. That did you no harm at all, I can tell you, my dear … You can say that again, my dear! Isn’t that exactly what I said a minute ago. Not a drop of water touched any part of his body since he was born … Do you know what, you’re right there: your father was a very clean man. You’d never think he was related to that other bastard. Your father took after your mother. He was a very mild and kind man … You visited Blotchy Brian about a year ago … You asked him if you could give him any spiritual assistance. How was it any of your business to be offering the old ugly bastard any kind of assistance at all? … Oh, I see, you went there on behalf of the Legion of Mary … Too true again, he never said a rosary since the day he slimed into the world … That’s what he told you … He told you to stuff your spiritual assistance … He said that the Legion were a shower of jennets! And he’s a guy who doesn’t give a snail’s shite for God or for his Holy Mother …
The old bastard is coughing and spluttering at last. Bad luck to him, it’s about time … That’s what he said:
“I think I’ll take a trip over thereabouts any day now … And be sure and be certain that it’ll be the right time to dip into those holes … If Paudeen’s mules are …” Are you sure now he didn’t finish what he was saying? …
Didn’t I tell you already that I don’t need … what’s that you call it? … spiritual assistance … Nell is talking about building a new house with a slate roof … They’re breaking up stones for it already. I don’t believe it! … That’s what the little hunchback runt says: it would be just right now, and the road all the way up to the door. The little twat! … “Won’t be long now before we have a priest in the family, God help us all!” The mouldy bitch! … Her legs are giving up. It would serve her right if she could never walk on the new road … All that stuff you know nothing about now, you’ll know plenty about it in another week’s time … But everyone was too afraid to go near you in your house …
What’s that you’re on about now? … Jack the Lad is very sick. That’s it now, the death sickness. St. John’s Gospel. Nell and Blotchy Brian’s young one will get another pile of money … You never heard about St. John’s Gospel … You didn’t know that Jack needed any spiritual assistance. He needs all the help he can get now, the poor creature …
Black Bandy Bartley was anointed … Little Kitty and Biddy Sarah are also very poorly you say … They never stir out of the house one way or the other now. They’ll neither sleep nor weep that much anymore now, so …
Guzzeye Martin’s cross went up the other day … and Redser Tom’s too. That foxy bollocks is no time here … You heard that: Nell advised my Patrick not to erect a cross of the best Connemara marble over me … You’d have known for certain in another week. That’s fucking great! … Oh be damn sure, my lovely, that it’s the whole truth. She’d say that all right—the whore—and Blotchy Brian’s young one and Nora Johnny’s young thing urging her on … Blotchy Brian said:
“If I was Paddy, I’d give that demented hag enough of Connemara marble to last her a lifetime … Dig her up from her hole … Shunt her over to the Island … Straddle her up on the highest spike there … Like your man on top of the big column in Dublin …” That is really appalling, even though he is on the verge of death, God’s breath does not decorate his mouth … Look, I’m telling you, I don’t need and I don’t want any spiritual assistance …
So Nora Johnny and Blotchy Brian’s young ones, and Nell are all talking again. You’d easily know it. Hardly likely there’d be any fighting one way or the other if it wasn’t for that little grabber of Paddy Larry’s … That’s it too, my lovely. A load of hot air, all their squabbling. They’re a bunch of tinkers … You’d have known it all in about a week, yea, right …
So, a letter came, did it? … She didn’t say who’d she leave the money to … Oh, OK, she wrote to Patrick also … Wasn’t she the cheeky cunt writing to Blotchy Brian’s house, and she has no relation or connection with him! … You’re sure now, she said that he was bad … And she had made her will. By dad! … And she has a tomb ready and waiting and all written up in the Boston cemetery. Think about it, a tomb! Just like the Earl has. Our Baba has a tomb! May she rot in Hell if she’s gone and got herself a tomb … She put money in the bank so that the tomb would be looked after for ever and ever! By the holy hokey! … And money for Masses … Two and a half thousand pounds for Masses! The will is only diddly squat now. Blotchy Brian’s family in America will suck the rest of it up. In fact, I don’t give a toss any more. Nell won’t get that much one way or the other. She won’t be crooning “Eleanor Aroon” as she is strutting up and down outside ou
r house …
You think that Patrick never wrote back to Baba. He’s a proper thicko if he didn’t! … Will you shut your gob about the definite knowledge you’d have in a week! What use is it to me what you might know next week? … The Young Master doesn’t write letters for anybody anymore … Far too busy … What was he doing, did you say? … Studying the form … That is, studying the form. That’s a weird thing to say … Betting on racehorses. Oh, tell me more! … He doesn’t do a stroke in school, only read about them and study the form … The priest is very against it. I thought the two of them used to be off going for walks together. Or is that a lie? You can’t believe anything at all here … He gave a sermon about it … As true as a bull has balls, everyone knew who he was talking about, no need for any names or to spell it out … “Dissipating their money on gambling and cavorting with drunken loose women in the Fancy City,” he said … “I heard about a certain man in this parish who drank forty-two pints, and about girlish guzzlers who could down a cask of brandy without losing as much as a puff of the powder on their cheeks …” My God, if he only knew about Nora Johnny! … They say there’s a chance that he’ll fire the Junior Master … Oh, here we go again! You’d have known in another week … You’ll know a lot more in a week’s time, I’m telling you, my little darling! …
Up the yard! Ababoona! The letters for America that the Junior Master wrote for Patrick, he forgot completely to post them in the letter box … And when he changed his digs, Mrs. Keady found them stuck in some old clothes he had left after him … I don’t believe it! She told Nell everything that was in them …
There’s something wrong with Patrick: why could he not have taken them himself and stuck them in the post? Do you think that I ever left my letters behind to be posted by the Old or the Junior Master? Schoolteachers are a weird lot. I always copped on that there was something else going on in their heads apart from my few letters. Didn’t I see the Old Master over and back from the table to the window as restless as fleas in an armpit just to see if could he get a gawk at the Schoolmistress strolling on the road! …
The Dirty Dust Page 22
