The Dirty Dust

by Máirtín Ó Cadhain

  Then you rose up the third time: “That spade that Tommy’s daughter borrowed for the new potatoes, somebody better go and get it, seeing as they don’t have the common decency to return it. The devil fuck them! Make sure too that you get a summons served on Greedy Guts up there about his donkeys wandering about and destroying our oats. And if you don’t get any satisfaction in the court, the next time you catch any of them inside your fence, take a few horseshoe nails and drive them through their hoofs. The devil fuck them all! Don’t be either lazy or listless and remember to get up well before dawn to keep an eye on your turf, and if you ever catch that Tim Top of the Road …”

  —I thought it was the old one who did the stealing …

  —Neither himself nor his old one nor his four children ever failed to do the wrong thing …

  —… You were near enough to your last breath when I came in. I went down on my knees for the prayers. All the time you were saying, “Jack, Jack, Jack.” “Isn’t it great that the poor man is thinking all the time about Jack the Lad,” I says to Nell Paudeen, who was on her knees beside me. “They were always great pals.” “God give you some small bit of sense, Little Kitty!” Nell spluttered. “‘Black, black, black’ that’s what he’s really saying! The son …”

  —I heard it said, Kitty, the last warning that Caitriona gave her son was …

  —To bury her in the Pound Place …

  —Erect a cross of Connemara marble over her …

  —Ababoona! …

  —Go to Mannix the Counsellor to write a stiff letter about Baba’s will …

  —Let Fireside Tom’s house fall down …

  —Poison Nell …

  —Ababoona! Don’t believe any of that, Jack …

  —If Nora Johnny’s daughter doesn’t die at the next birth, to divorce her …

  —You are insulting the faith, you grabber. The Antichrist won’t be long coming now …

  —… Ara, it quickly turned into a riot up and down the town land:

  “Fell from a stack of oats.”

  “Fell from a stack of oats.”

  “Fell from a stack of oats, it’s what the man did.”

  I took off up to your house straightaway. I was dead certain I would find a nice clean corpse waiting for me. But instead of that you were there like the useless article you are gobbing away telling all and sundry how your left leg slipped …

  —But ’twas true, Kitty, I made junk and jibbets of my hip …

  —What good was that to me? I thought I’d have a nice clean corpse all ready …

  —But I did die, Kitty …

  —I never saw a twit as uncomfortable as you were in the bed. One leg hanging out …

  —I knew, Kitty, that I was on the way out, so I thought I’d go all the way and butcher the murderer. “Take two spoons of this bottle …”

  —Bloody tear and ’ounds anyway …

  —I poked away down your windpipe. “Where’s the bone that choked her?” I asks. “The doctor plucked it out,” your sister said. “May God’s mercy know no end!” I said. “Nobody should be a glutton. If that woman wasn’t gulping it down like a pig when she should have been eating, we wouldn’t be laying her out now …”

  “She hadn’t eaten a pick of meat since St. Martin’s Day,” your sister said …

  —Bloody tear and ’ounds anyway, isn’t that exactly what Blotchy Brian said, that she’d be alive and bitching today, if it wasn’t that she drove Caitriona Paudeen’s dog out of the house before dinner. “He was so raving and ravenous,” he said, “that he could have jumped down her thick throat and brought the bone back …”

  —Oh, Brian, the bastard!

  —… It was during the summer and the sweat was as thick as jam on your skin. “He must stink of sweat,” my mother said. “My lovely boy, he had always a bit missing, and all signs on it now. That journey he brought on himself all the way to Dublin on his old crock of a bike, and he slept out in the open all night! I hope God won’t punish him for it …”

  —If I had been alive a month later, I’d have seen Cannon beating seven kinds of crap out of Kerry …

  —In 1941, was it? If so …

  —… You made my head go grey, and Maggie Frances’s too. We scrubbed and scoured, and scoured and scrubbed you, but it didn’t make a toss of a difference. “They’re not dirt marks at all,” I said to Maggie at the end. “There’s five or six of them there,” Maggie said. “Some kind of symbols to do with Hitler,” your daughter said. My head is gone now, I can’t think of what he called them …

  —Tattoos.

  —Swastikas …

  —By all that’s holy, that’s it! We had used up three pots of boiling water on you already, four pounds of soap, two boxes of Rinso, a mountain of Monkey Brand, two buckets of sand, but there was no trace of them coming off. You wouldn’t mind, but you weren’t the least bit grateful after all our sweating and scrubbing! …

  —You’d have got more only for the Graf Spee, otherwise I’d have branded every single screed of my skin. It’s only what Hitler deserved …

  —“Ara, let him go to blazes! Leave them be,” said Maggie. “You couldn’t let him off like that, the state of him,” I says. “He’s all over the place like a stray letter! Put another pot on the fire, for God’s sake.”

  Blotchy Brian was there at the same time. “It looks to me that you intend to scrub the poor man like you’d scrub a swine,” he says …

  —He was the scrubber all right, and an ugly scrubber at that! …

  —… Just like the other one, I was worn to bits trying to clean you. There wasn’t a pinch of your flesh that wasn’t covered in ink. “Just like somebody that was dipped in an ink trough,” I said. “It’s exactly the same as if he was,” your sister said. “The ink shortened his life. Sucking it into his lungs from morning ’til evening, and from night until morning …”

  —Writer’s cramp from scribbling away, according to himself …

  —It doesn’t matter anyway what got him. He was a dirty heretic. He should never have been buried in consecrated ground. It’s a wonder God didn’t make an example of him …

  —… I copped it as soon as I came into your room. “Did anyone spill any booze or something here?” I asked Curran’s wife who was there. “I couldn’t really tell if they did or didn’t,” she said …

  —It wouldn’t do him much harm: a man who could down forty-two pints no problem …

  —There wasn’t as much as a drop of booze in my stomach the day I died. Not as much as a drop! …

  —It’s true for you. Not a drop. All because of Little Kitty, the dirty gossip. She was gagging for a drink when she said that to Curran’s wife …

  —… But that’s what it was, Little Kitty. It rotted my guts, Huckster Joan’s coffee.

  —… Your feet were as brittle as wood that was going to break into sawdust, big black lumps on them, and they were clattering away like a cow on spindly sticks …

  —Huckster Joan’s clogs, of course …

  —I don’t suppose you ever made it as far as Gort Ribbuck, Little Kitty. If you only caught a glimpse of Nora Johnny’s feet who never wore clogs! That is, if what Caitriona says is true …

  —Shut up your mouth, you grabber! …

  —… As soon as I came to the door, I got the whiff of the small potatoes in the dregs of the fire, Kitty. “Serve up these few spuds,” I says, “until the corpse is all ready.” “There are no potatoes ready,” Mickey says. “And unfortunately, there wasn’t since morning either. She guzzled too many of those small potatoes. They were too hard on the heart. They crushed her stomach …”

  —Bloody tear and ’ounds I’ve never heard the like, Kitty floored, flahed out, as if there wasn’t a drop left in her …

  —… They did nothing to you until you had gone cold. You were bundled up there, four of us around you, and not a clue between us. “Why doesn’t one of you go and get your man’s mallet,” Blotchy Brian says, “and then you’ll see how I�
�ll straighten out the knees …” “Bloody tear and ’ounds, anyway,” the Son of the Bandy Bollux said, “didn’t Tim Top of the Road steal it from him! …”

  —He certainly did, no doubt about it. A lovely mallet …

  —… The mark of the creel of potatoes, John Willy, that you hauled from the Partick Field was etched on your back …

  —When I was easing it off in the house the strap unravelled and it came down arseways. I got a little dart in my side. The dresser started to dance. The clock on the wall went up the chimney, the chimney came through the door, the colt out there in front of me in Garry Tee took off into the air, and deep down the path and away up the road. “The colt!” I screamed and headed for the door out after him. My heart, though …

  —I got the stink of the bed from you straightaway, Guzzeye Martin …

  —Too true, the bedsores done for me in the end …

  —I don’t really want to spread it around, but you, as a poet, you were covered with a crispy crust of crud from the knob of your noggin down to the thick of your toes …

  —… His “holy ashes.” The devil fuck him, the little latchiko! He never washed himself once …

  —Myself and one of your aunts pointed it out, when it was only like a pimple on your butt. It nearly had us beaten. “There’s a hard lump of dirt stuck in here,” I says to your aunt. “Buckets of boiling water and sand.” Your mother was out and about trying to get the shroud. She came back just then. “That’s a birthmark,” she announced. “Whenever my lovely boy felt the urge to write poetry, he’d scratch himself right there, and the words would pour out of him …”

  —He was always easy to manage, a big softie, a lump of lard. We had a job to do and business to finish one way or the other …

  —I never met a corpse whose eyes were as difficult to close as Tim Top of the Road’s. I had my thumb pressed down on one of his eyes, while his old one had hers jammed on the other, but as soon as I closed mine the other one would just pop up open …

  —Just to see could he spot a mallet which had gone astray …

  —Or summer seaweed …

  —I never ever smelled a smell as sweet as that from the Postmistress …

  —That was the smell of the stuff she used to open and close the letters. The back room of her place was like a chemist’s shop …

  —Not at all! The kettle did the business. The perfumes in the bath. I had a bath myself just before I died …

  —True for you, Postmistress. There was never any need to bathe your body one way or the other …

  —I have no idea, Little Kitty, whether that’s necessary or not. Gosh, like! If you came next or near my corpse the Minister for Posts and Telegraphs would have sued you …

  —… Whoever laid you out, anyway, I’d say he got the smell of nettles from Bally Donough from you …

  —A bit better than the smell from you …

  —I never encountered a cleaner corpse than Jack the Lad’s. The throes of death didn’t leave a mark on him. He was like unto a posy of flowers. His skin was as smooth as silk, you might say. You’d think he was just lying back and relaxing … What matter, but every stitch he had on him was like the white “flour” that they threw on the earl at the door of the chapel when he was getting married! Of course, they’d never have been in Nell Paudeen’s house if it wasn’t otherwise …

  —The sly slut! The cock piss artist! …

  —They say, Kitty, that Caitriona’s corpse …

  —Caitriona’s corpse! That thing! They called me, but I wouldn’t go next nor near it …

  —Ababoona! …

  —It would have disgusted me …

  —Ababoona! Little Kitty, the gabbler! Little Kitty, the gabbler! I’ll burst! I’m about to burst! …

  6.

  There’s no God up there but he’ll avenge the two of them! You’d easily know. I had no particular pain. The doctors said that the kidneys wouldn’t kill me for a while yet. But that whore from Hell Nell cajoled St. John’s Gospel from the priest for Nora Johnny’s daughter, and they bought a single ticket for me to this place, just like Jack the Lad, the poor old codger. Wasn’t it clear to a wedge of wood, if there wasn’t some kind of jiggery pokery involved, that Nora Johnny’s young one would be here at her next birth! Instead of that she hadn’t a sign of a pain or an ache …

  Too bad, there were no flies on that bitch! She knew right well as long as I had a flea’s fart of breath left in me that I’d keep at her about Baba’s will and Fireside Tom’s bit of land. But she can pull the wool over Patrick’s eyes, anytime she likes …

  Two thousand pounds. A slate roof on the house. A car. A hat … The Son of the Black Bandy Bartley said that Patrick would get a fistful of the readies, but that’s not much of a consolation when he won’t get the whole lot! It was an injustice to God that your one over there didn’t leave every greasy grimy halfpenny that she had to some priest! …

  Jack the Lad had an altar worth twenty-three pounds! And he never allowed a shilling leave his own house to be sent to any funeral! … A High Mass. Priests. The Earl. Lord Cockton. Four half-barrels of stout. Whiskey. Cold meats … And, of course, it was no bother to that bush pig to light twelve candles for him in the church. Just to have one over on me. What else? I wouldn’t begrudge poor Jack anything, but for that bitch making his corpse look so garish, the old cow. Easy for her—the tricks of a tart …

  Jack the Lad wouldn’t sing a song that last day. All the heart had gone out of him. It doesn’t matter to him now having spent his life with that slag. And the only respect she had for him in the end was to fetch St. John’s Gospel so he could die! …

  When I told him that the other day he said neither yea nor nay, nothing except “God might punish us …” I’d say he’s like a red raging bull now because of the way she messed him around … And the muppet didn’t know a thing about it. There was never any harm in him. If there was he’d have known that that blowrag Nell was making a fool of him when she asked him to marry her. “I have Jack,” she said triumphantly. “We’ll leave Blotchy Brian to you now, Caitriona” … But I’m cosying up to Jack more closely now than she is. I can speak to him anytime I like …

  If Patrick hadn’t listened to Nora Johnny’s waffle I’d be right up next to him now in the Pound Place. That other wench, Huckster Joan, is right beside him. She has only a bad word for me too. She’s told him a bellyful of lies about me already. That’s why he’s so cagey …

  I wouldn’t mind only that Toejam thing trying to entice him into her Rotary! And Biddy Sarah and Little Kitty endlessly groaning and moaning about the funeral. You’d easily know it wasn’t the poor guy that killed them off. Go away with yourselves now, sure, but they never stop boasting and prattling on about the way they put that bitch sitting up on her bed …

  All their tongues are worn out praising Nell too, Maggie Frances, Kitty Small Potatoes, Breed Terry, John Willy, the Foxy Cunt and Guzzeye Martin. But they won’t say anything up to my face, as I would have nothing good to say about her …

  Say anything or nothing. You’d think they were trying to avoid me. I love somebody who comes straight out and tells you brazenly to your face … This graveyard is worse now than those places the Frenchie was yacking on about the other day: Belsen, Buchenwald, and Dachau …

  —… If I was alive, I’m telling you, Jack the Lad, I’d have been at your funeral. I wouldn’t be found wanting …

  —… Come here to me now, my good man. Did you ever hear the nickname that Conan had for Oscar? …

  —I swear by the oak of this coffin, Biddy Sarah, I gave her the pound, I gave Caitriona the pound, and I never saw a penny of it ever again …

  —You’re spouting lies, you itchy arse bum! Margaret! Margaret! Do you hear what the Slut of the Small Spuds is saying again? … Hey, Margaret, I’m talking to you! Hello, Margaret! Why are you taking no notice of me? … Margaret, for Jayz sake! … Why won’t you say something? Because I’m a loudmouth, is that it! … All I’m
good at is causing trouble … There was peace in the graveyard until I came along, is that what you’re saying? You should be thoroughly ashamed of yourself, Margaret, trying to ruin somebody’s reputation like that! … The place is like Bricriu’s Feast with all my lies! Ah, come off it, Margaret! You don’t have to go that far from your own hovel to find a pack of liars. I never told lies or spread rumours around, thanks be to God for that! …

  Hello, Margaret! Do you hear me? It was your Pack who were the Pack of Liars … You’re going to pay no heed to my piping from now on, is that it? Piping, forfucksake! And it was always the whole truth and nothing but the truth! … Hey, Margaret! Margaret! … Mother of God, not a word. Hi Hi Hi, Margaret! … Why don’t you give your tongue a wakeup call? …

  Hello, Little Kitty! … Little Kitty! … It’s not about neighbourliness, Kitty … John Willy! … Do you hear me John Willy? … Not a peep! …

  Hey Breed Terry? … Are you out there, Breed Terry? … Tell me Breed Terry, what did I ever do on you? …

  Guzzeye Martin! … Guzzeye Martin! … Kitty! … Kitty! … It’s Caitriona. Caitriona Paudeen … Ah come on Kitty, for God’s sake …

  Jack! Jack! … Jack the Lad! … Hello, Jack the Lad, it’s me Caitriona Paudeen … Hey, you in the Pound Place, call Jack the Lad! Tell him that Caitriona Paudeen wants him! … Jesus, Mary and Holy St. Joseph, Jack! … Huckster gombeen Joan, Joan! May God give you every blessing, Joan, but please call up Jack the Lad He’s right there beside you … Joan! … Jack! … Jack! Jack! I’ll burst, I’m going to burst, I’m about to burst, burst, I swear I’ll burst …

  Interlude 9