—If I’d lived for another while …
—Why would you live anyway? …
—I’d have seen you buried, that much …
—If Fireside Tom had lived? …
—He’d have moved on …
—He’d have gone on the sauce again …
—He’d have kicked Patrick Caitriona’s cattle off his own patch of land …
—Nell’s cows, careful now!
—If Caitriona had lived …
—And buried that bitch before her …
—If I had lived, I would have dispensed spiritual assistance. Even if I had lived just another week I would have been able to tell Caitriona precisely what she needed to know …
—Hey, Colm More’s daughter, didn’t you used to be in at the Rosary just to eavesdrop and find out were all the neighbours saying their own Rosaries …
—I’d have gone to Croke Park to see Cannon …
—Billy the Postman saw your ghost after the final and there you were sobbing and sniffling and whining and whimpering …
—I’d have finished the pen and the colt would not have died …
—Didn’t everyone in the place see your ghost! …
—… I don’t believe, Redser Tom, that there’s any such thing as a ghost …
—Some people say there is. Other people say there isn’t. You’d want to be very wise …
—But, of course, there are ghosts. God forbid that I’d tell a lie about anyone, but I saw Curran driving the Guzzler’s donkey and Tim Top of the Road’s cows out of his corn, and he was dead a whole year! …
—Wasn’t the first thing that happened to Billy the Postman, wasn’t it that he saw the Old Master the day after he was buried rummaging around in the cupboard of his own kitchen? …
—… Easy up now, Master! … Oh, come on, take it easy, take it easy! … I never shaved myself with your razor. Go away with yourself now, Master, and just listen up a minute. Two dogs …
—Tim Top of the Road was seen …
—By the hokey, as you’d say yourself …
—But it could have happened! I have no doubt he was stealing my turf …
—Or mallets …
—They say, God help us, that a ghostly airplane is heard over Cala Lawr every night since the Frenchie was downed there …
—Not at all, that’s the regular airplane on its way to America from somewhere in the North, or from Shannon! …
—Are you saying I wouldn’t recognise a normal airplane! I heard it clear as a bell, when I was saving seaweed late at night …
—Maybe the night was dark …
—Come off it, what’s the point of dribbling shite talk! For Moses’ sake, what’s this about it not being a regular airplane. Any gobdaw would know a regular airplane …
—Mes amis …
—Let me speak! Let me get a word in, please! …
—When all is said and done, though, it looks like it. I never gave a petrified puke about ghosts until I heard about John Matthew who’s buried here, in the Half Guinea place. His own son told me about it. I’ve only fallen under the hatch since then myself. He was himself up in the land of the living at the time, but he’d never say his father was a liar. The last thing his father begged them to do, just when he was dying, to bury him here along with the rest of his people. “I’ll die happy,” he said, “if you can promise me that much.” They’re a shower of drippy dossers over there in Kin Teer. They threw some dust there just in front of the door. For the next month the son was pitching dried seaweed over by the shore. He told me straight out of his very own mouth. He saw the funeral coming out of the grave-yard. He told me it was a clear and present to his own eyes—the box, the people, the whole lot—as clear as the clutch of seaweed he was pitching on the heap. He moved over closer to them. He recognised some of the people, but he’d never even dream of calling them by their names, he said. He was a bit scared at first, but as he got nearer to them, he plucked up a bit of courage. “Whatever God has in store for me,” he said, “I’ll follow them.” He did. They moved along the shore, and he kept after them step by step, until they came to this graveyard, and they put the coffin down here, and buried it in the Half Guinea place. He recognised the coffin. He wouldn’t tell a lie about his own father …
—Where’s John Matthew? If he’s here, nobody heard a peep out of him …
—I wouldn’t know anything about that any more than I would about the Pope’s tooth, but just as his son said, and he wouldn’t tell a lie …
—The dead didn’t budge a bit. Call up the Half Guinea gang and they’ll tell you whether he’s there or not …
—Look it! Listen to those clack boxes!
—I won’t listen, no way will I listen. Hey, you over there, you in the Half Guinea place! …
—… Bridey Matthew is here …
—And Colie Matthew …
—And Paddy Matthew …
—And Billy Matthew …
—And Matthew himself …
—Johnny Matthew is buried over in the cemetery at Kin Teer. He was married over there …
—He never told a lie about his own father! …
—It’s not as easy to switch around like that like it is to go from one political party to another. If that were the case, Dotie would have shifted a long time ago to the bright shiny meadows of the Smooth Fields …
—And the Frenchie … But maybe it’s only his ghost is here …
—It’s not any weirder a yarn than what Billy the Postman spun me: that Fireside Tom is often seen shooing the cows off of his own patch. Paddy Caitriona and Nell chopped it in two between them, but neither of them is happy about it. Every second week either Paddy or one of Nell’s sees him. If one house sees him one week, the other doesn’t. Nell hauled the priest in and got him to walk the land and say a whole protective wall of prayers, not to mention St. John’s Gospel, or so he said.
—She’d do that alright, the old biddy. God grant she’ll never make a single rotten fucking penny out of it! My Patrick has lashings of land without that …
—It’s mouthed about, Caitriona, that you haven’t given Jack the Lad a second’s peace since you died …
—God would punish us …
—Nell told Fireside Tom that you made a right sucker out of him …
—Wasn’t she mooning after Blotchy Brian? …
—Oh, Jesus Christ Almighty and his blessed mother! After Blotchy Brian! …
—Bloody tear and ’ounds, isn’t that exactly what he said …
—“O row there Mary, with your bags and your belts …”
—What did he say? …
—What did he say, Black Bandy Bartley, boy? …
—What did he say, Bartley?
—The same Blotchy Brian says the most ridiculous things …
—“O row there Mary …”
—What did he say, Bartley?
—Bloody tear and ’ounds, Caitriona, it won’t do you the least bit of good …
—It would do me good, Bartley. Spit it out …
—That’s the dote, Bartley! Let us have it …
—Hey, do you hear scrunty Johnny. Don’t put a tooth in it, Bartley …
—You’re a dote, Bartley. Spill the beans …
—Don’t say it, Bartley! Don’t breathe a word! …
—Honest to God, Bartley, you’ll be a right meanie if you don’t tell us now. Did he say that every time he opens his eyes her ghost is hovering above him? …
—If you dare tell it to Johnny Sparrow’s sow, Bartley! …
—Honest to God, Bartley, you are awfully mean! I should cut off all cultural relations with you. Let me see now. Did he say that because he wouldn’t marry her when she was alive that her ghost is his phantom lover now? …
—Ababoona! A phantom lover to that ugly maggot! Watch it, Bartley!
—On the level, Bartley. Did Caitriona’s ghost tell him to go and shave his jowls, have a shower, shite, shampoo, and a scratch
, or to wash himself, or to pay a visit to some shoulder and shank specialist? …
—Bloody tear and ’ounds, Nora! … Bloody tear and ’ounds, Caitriona! …
—The skin off your nose if you breathe a word, Bartley! …
—Honest to God, Bartley!
5.
—… That’s true for you, Fireside Tom. God would be fierce angry at anyone who’d suggest that that ugly string of misery would be my lover …
—… You fell from a stack of oats … Did you ever hear of the Battle of the Sheaves? … I’ll tell you that one. “Cormac MacAirt Mac Conn Mac Bulging Muscles Baskin was one day making a stack of oats in Tara of the Assemblies. Gabby Clump was chucking them up to him. Then came the Seven Battles of Learning, and the Seven Battles of Everyday Knowledge and the Battle of the Small Fry …”
—… There’s a lot of talk about moving him. A lot of talk …
—But what’s the point of moving him, unless he was going to be smashed up, or killed, or drowned or hanged, or squashed like a cat after that. This cemetery is in a mess because of that sponging squatter, Billy. “Take two teaspoons of this bottle,” the murderer said …
—Maybe, yet, neighbours, he might be smashed up. It could happen yet after he beat seven kinds of crap out of a man from Bally Donough who offered him a red ticket. But I don’t think he’ll be executed …
—Ah, sure, that’s no good then! I’ll tell you what should be done with him: he should be suffocated under a pisspot. Look at me, he gave me poison! …
—By the holy souls, didn’t he tell me to drink whiskey? That’s what he said, exactly. The bastard! What harm, but I never had a pain, not a day sick in my life! …
—Galway have a good football team this year, Billy? …
—They have a fantastic team. Everybody says that even if they were hobbling around on crutches, they’d win the All-Ireland. Green Flag said as much the other day …
—Cannon will bite their arses that day …
—Cannon is only a sub!
—A sub! A sub! If that’s the case what are you on about? They’ll never win. They won’t win. They …
—They have a brilliant bunch of young players. The best. They’ll win, I’m telling you. Wait and see yourself …
—Come on, put a cork in it! What’s the point in blabbing on about it? I’m telling you that those young players aren’t worth frog spawn without Cannon! What’s the point of screaming “They’ll win! They’ll win!” …
—Listen now, neighbour, in all fairness, you’d think that you’d prefer that they’d be beaten with Cannon than to win without him! Being right is a great thing. Cannon was to blame for most of it in 1941. I was never as pissed off leaving Croke Park as I was that day …
—That’s the truth, Billy …
—Billy was always obliging …
—He’d always be thrilled to bring you some good news …
—And even if it was bad news, I swear that all his gabble and chatter was a kind of a safety belt …
—Who laid Fireside Tom out, Billy? …
—Nell and Blotchy Brian’s daughter, and Tommy’s wife, Kate …
—And who keened him, Billy? …
—Nell and all the local women, Biddy. But yourself and Little Kitty were sorely missed. Everyone was saying: “May God have mercy on Little Kitty and Biddy Sarah, the poor creature. Didn’t they just love to lay a man out and to keen him! We’ll never see the likes of them again …”
—Your good health, Billy! …
—Bloody tear and ’ounds, who gives a toss who lays you out or keens you! …
—… Hitler is still hammering them to bits, good on him!
—Easy now, neighbour, easy …
—What do you mean, easy! Shouldn’t he be landed in England by now! …
—Not so, neighbour, but the English and the Yanks are both back in France …
—They are, yea! You’re just spouting lies, Billy the Postman! This is not just bullshitting about sport, you know …
—It’s months now, neighbour, since I had a chance to read a newspaper, so I can’t tell you exactly how things are. Everyone said that time that the English and the Yanks would never get a toehold in France on D-Day …
—Why Billy, dear, why do you think that they would? They were driven back leaving heaps of skulls on the beach, driven into the balls of the devil, into the sea …
—I suppose that was it, neighbour …
—And Hitler pursued them this time—something he should have done that time at Dunkerque—and he’s in England now! Der Tag! I think there’s isn’t a single Englishman left there now …
—Non! Non, mon ami! C’est la liberation qu’on a promise. La liberation! Les Gaullistes et Monsieur Churchill avaient raison …
—Hoora, you gutty, you plonker, you blind bollix!
—C’est la liberation! Vive la France! Vive la République Française! Vive la patrie! La patrie sacrée! Vive de Gaulle! …
—I suppose you heard, Frenchie, my neighbour, about the stuff that was in the papers about your heroics: you were presented with the Cross …
—Ça n’est rien, mon ami. C’est sans importance. Ce qui compte, c’est la liberation. Vive la France! La France! La patrie sacrée! …
—Hoora, do you see how the little shit is all over the place! He’s even better than the Old Master …
—Come here, I want you, Billy, was there any talk at all that we’d get the English market back?
—Do you hear again the midget mewling?
—The English market will be fine, neighbour …
—Do you think so, Billy?
—No doubt about it, my neighbour. No hassle. I’m telling you that the English market will be hunky dory again …
—God be good to you, Billy! You have taken the bitter dart out of my heart with your beautiful talk. You’re certain it will be alright? I have a bit of land up on the top of the town …
—… It’s published, you know, your book of poetry …
—The Yellow Stars! Oh, Billy, my dear Billy, it can’t be true …
—I didn’t see it myself, but the Postmistress’s daughter told me as much … Don’t worry about it, neighbour. Your book will be published soon too, before too long …
—But do you think it might, Billy? …
—I’m certain it will, neighbour.
—You know something the rest of us don’t, so, Billy?
—Ah, sure, I’d hear bits and pieces, you know the way it is, neighbour. I got to know a lot of people round aboutish. The Postmistresses’s daughter … Ah, come off it Master, cool it now! Take it easy! … Master, please! …
—Have a bit more manners than that, Master! …
—There’s lots and loads of money to be made in England still, Billy, isn’t there? …
—Not as much as before, good neighbour. Scraping through can be hard enough. The crowd from Shana Kill, Clogher Savvy, and Bally Donough are all back home …
—Taking their ease in the superior nettles of Bally Donough will do them the power of good …
—… Your own son, his wife, and two children, they’re back at home also …
—Now you’re telling it, Billy!
—Well done and good for you, neighbour! By the holy finger itself! …
—And did he bring a black wife home with him?
—Yes, of course, and two children too …
—But, come on now, Billy! Tell me the pure unadulterated truth. Are they as black as they say? Are they as black as the Earl’s own little house black?
—Don’t worry about that, neighbour. Not a bit like that …
—Are they as black as Top of the Road after he’s been stuck up a sooty chimney? …
—Ah no, really, nothing as bad as that.
—As black as Big Nob Knobbly Knacker? …
—Don’t worry about it, neighbour, nothing like that …
—As black as Baba Paudeen’s fur coat after she visited Caitri
ona? …
—Shut your hole, you grabber!
—As black as Blotchy Brian sweating stew after a night’s pissup? …
—Blotchy Brian was as happy as a pig in shit coming up before the judge after he went to see the geyser in Dublin, as happy as one of those saints you see in the window of the church …
—Blotchy Brian sweating after a night’s piss-up. About as black as that, yes …
—Well, in that case, they’re hardly niggers at all …
—The kids aren’t as black as the mother, then …
—Did they have to call on the priest for the grandmother? …
—Too true, neighbour, she was in a bad way. She didn’t want to let them into the house at all, at all. All the neighbours gathered around, and many of them wanted to stone them and to drive them away. But anyway, to make a long story short, they were brought over to the priest who splattered them with holy water and dipped them into the font, and the granny was happy after that … She has great fun with them now. She even brings them to Mass every Sunday …
—If that’s the way it is, Billy, then I’m not really dead at all. I thought her heart would break into little bits …
—Come here, like, have you any news at all about that youngfella of mine, Billy? …
—John Willy, that youngfella of yours is a real cute hoor and knows which side his bread is buttered on. He bought a colt the other day …
—That’s great news, Billy! If he only had a bit of a thing of a woman now …
—Don’t worry about that, Johnny. From what I hear, it won’t be long now. Someone from over by Kin Teer who was in England. A woman of substance, or so they say. The Postmistress’s daughter says that the Junior Master will get married any day now … That’s her. The one in Barry’s Bookies in the Fancy City … The priest says nothing about it now, neighbour. She took the pledge a little while ago … Don’t worry about it. You’re always going on about what you did. Some people saying you did it, and others saying that you’d have to burst …
—Explode or burst or whatever, Billy! That’s the truth as clear as the dew. I drank forty-two pints …
—Do you think that Antichrist will come soon, Billy? …
—Don’t worry about it, neighbour. I don’t think he will. I reckon that he won’t. To make a long story short, my considered opinion is that it is unlikely that he will …
The Dirty Dust Page 33
