—I think myself, Billy, that it won’t be long now …
—It’ll be great anyway, neighbour. Believe me, wait and see, you’ll know yourself …
—Do many people require spiritual assistance, Billy, or do they even say the Rosary?
—Didn’t I tell you often enough, Colm More’s daughter, didn’t I tell you often enough to leave heretical matters to me …
—Do you really think, Billy, that the prophecy is going to come true? …
—I think so, neighbour. That story will be …
—Do you think that John Kitty in Bally Donough believes it is going to come true? …
—The last time I was in Bally Donough they all gathered round—those of them that weren’t in England—they were all gathered around John Kitty under a bunch of nettles between the houses, and there he was prophesying away.
—Did he say that England would go up in a ball of flames and in a bunch of ashes right up to the sky?
—In a ball of flames and ashes! Ball of flame and ashes! He said that the priests would be just as hungry as the people. Hang on a minute, now … He said that you wouldn’t know a man from a woman. Wait now … He said more … He said that the pint would be only two pence again.
—Your women know fuck all about fuck nothing! Did he say that England would go up in a ball of flames? …
—He didn’t go that much into it actually, neighbour. He had only got to the bit where Tight Arse was woken up in the cellar, and that he’d flourish his sword to free Ireland. And then I pulled out income tax returns on their wills …
—John Kitty is right. Every single word of it is about to come true …
—… Did I hear you right, Billy, Eamon de Valera is winning …
—That’s all wrong! Billy said that Richard Mulcahy is the one who’s winning …
—Eamon de Valera and Richard Mulcahy were outside the church after Mass, just a month ago. It was a joint meeting …
—A joint meeting?
—A joint meeting?
—Had dad! A joint meeting? …
—Crikies! A joint meeting? …
—A joint meeting about the emergency services …
—Eamon de Valera spoke about the Republic?
—Richard Mulcahy spoke about the Treaty? …
—No, they didn’t say a word about the Republic, or about the Treaty … To make a long story short, they both said much the same thing: they were thanking the people …
—Ah, now I get it, Billy! That was a neat trick of Dev’s to fool the other crowd …
—That’s a lie! Every old stopped clock in the cemetery knows that it was a plan of Mulcahy’s to make de Valera go the other way. Would you agree with me, Billy?
—Watch it now, Billy! You have reached the age of reason and understanding, and remember we got you a pay rise and promotion. Remember now, that you were only “An Assistant Rural Postman” …
—My friends and companions! I am here today! …
—If you were here during the election …
—Just like me, Billy has no interest in politics …
—Ya knobber ya. Get back in under the bed …
—You witch! …
—Where are you, Paul? Your friend was out and around the country again this year …
—The Great Scholar! I don’t believe it! …
—He didn’t go near Peter the Publican one way or the other … You won’t make a total langer out of him there anymore. You just watch, but Peter the Publican’s daughter won’t be pulling the wool over anyone’s eyes any longer, neighbour! … Oh, every why for ever! The foxy fuzz catching her one Sunday here at the second Mass. There was nobody here from Shana Kill, Clogher Savvy, or Bally Donough who were home from England who weren’t inside in the boozer. They said that the Great Scholar tipped off the police to raid the place. He has a big job in the government …
—She won’t try her tricks in the parlour any more …
—She ripped me off …
—And me …
—I had nothing to be grateful to her about. Certainly not. After the second half-one it was four pence, and after the sixth it was eighteen. I tell you what now, the doctor from the Fancy City was right: it was only any good for the small gut, stout was what suited the bigger gut. Too much whiskey destroyed the small gut, and the big one shrivelled up with fever. There was no pain …
—… She needn’t have worried, good neighbour, if the only thing against her was that she opened on Sunday, but more people said that she watered down the whiskey …
—Will she lose the license? …
—Could happen, neighbour. Maybe so. But somehow I doubt it …
—Then what was it all about, what good was it? …
—Huckster Joan will certainly lose her license to do what she is doing. She’s being tried at the Military Tribunal … Tea on the black market. The sergeant nabbed her …
—The sergeant, imagine that, and she used to give him tea and fags on the side! …
—You killed me, lousy ugly Joan! …
—The Dog Eared crowd was it, neighbour? The youngest one of them has fecked off with a tailor in England …
—Good man, Billy! Good man! …
—He sliced Rootey’s youngfella from Bally Donough …
—Oh, yes, the same sneaky kidney stabbing that the Dog Eared crowd did on me! They’ll hang him yet …
—They say he’ll be locked up …
—He’ll be hanged …
—They say, neighbour, that it’s easy enough to hang somebody in England, alright. But I don’t think he’ll be hanged all the same. He’ll get a couple of years in prison, maybe …
—A couple of years in prison! Fuck that for a brass monkey of a prison! If they don’t hang him …
—They say that the Postmistress’s daughter will get eighteen months, or even a couple of years … Letters that had money in them, neighbour, but the bloodhounds from the Head Office smelled a rat when it was about letters from the Great Scholar …
—My goodness me! After I spent twenty years teaching her …
—I swear now, Postmistress, believe me now, neighbour, I wouldn’t like anything to happen to your daughter … Easy now, dear Master, easy! … I swear by the blessed finger that I never once opened one of your letters! … Oh, maybe she did, Master, but I never helped her …
—My eldest lad, Billy, is he hanging out all the time with Top of the Road’s daughter? …
—I think so, neighbour. Himself and Top of the Road’s two daughters will be at the next court. They say that that other son of yours …
—Tom …
—They say that himself and Tommy’s son caught them rolling in the hay in the morning early …
—The second son, and Tommy’s son caught the eldest boy swiping turf from Top of the Road’s snotty sooty shower! …
—I haven’t actually a clue, neighbour, I only know he has a summons …
—The gammy teeth of the devil ride him! He’s just a little brush in the huge sweep of Tim Top of the Road’s filching fingers! …
—Your wife has given them another summons, this time about their cows trespassing on your land …
—Yes, of course! Overnight! Good for her! She’ll do the job now, I’m telling you! Isn’t it a pity that the eldest guy hasn’t been thrown out on his head to the four winds, and some class of a young thing hauled in by the second boy to look after all the land! Do you think, Billy, that Tommy gave back the spade that he borrowed to lift the feed of new spuds? …
—I couldn’t tell you that now, neighbour … To make a long story short now, neighbour, the Top of the Roads are whacked with the law these days. To tell the truth, I thought that the priest was like somebody whose lapdog had taken a bite out of him last Sunday. He was up early in the morning, and he caught a gang snitching his own turf. They say it was the Top of the Road’s gang what done it …
—Even though they were licking his eyebrows …
> —I don’t actually think, neighbour, that the priest would take the trouble to put an umbrella between the Top of the Road’s gang and a drop of rain, especially now that the son got six months in prison …
—Tim Top of the Road’s son? …
—Tim Top of the Road’s son, seriously! You’re spouting lies? …
—And they nearly gave another six months to Tim Top of the Road’s old one for receiving stolen goods …
—My seaweed on the shore, certainly! …
—No, it wasn’t that this time, neighbour, but he cleaned out Lord Cockton’s car, the whole lot, fishing gear, his gun and stuff. He broke into the Earl’s house in the middle of the night and made off with his dinner jacket, tennis shorts, gold watches, and ornamental cigarette cases. And then a couple of thousand fags from Huckster Joan’s, and he sold them for three pence each to the young straps from Bally Donough. They were pissed off with the clay pipes …
—More bad luck to Huckster Joan’s daughter! …
—And the Earl! …
—And the young ones from Bally Donough! …
—And Tim Top of the Road’s son, the clot. Son of a gun, I’ll tell you the truth, I’ve always been saying he deserves it! He has had it nice and easy with his …
—He stole the priest’s sister’s pants too, but nobody said anything about that. John Willy’s son and some of the young scuts from Shana Kill saw Top of the Road’s daughter wearing them on the bog, but she had some kind of a skirt over it …
—That sack slapper that my son is knocking around with … That’s her! She’ll be sewn into those pants now so as to get a rise out of the older guy …
—The priest’s sister, Billy, it upset her that Tim Top of the Road’s son was sent to prison, didn’t it?
—Ara, you know full well that it did, Breed! …
—Listen, Breed, my good neighbour, it never even darkened the slightest furrow on her brow. “What good is a man in prison to me?” she asks. “Top of the Road’s son is an old impotent worrywart …”
—She’ll marry the Master from Derry Lough now, so? …
—The Master from Derry Lough is just another one of her exes for a long while. She’s hooked up with some Scottish dude in Shana Kill now, and she spends her time drawing pictures. He wears a bit of a kilt …
—How’s that for you! A bit of a kilt. And tell me now, Billy, confidentially like, does she wear the pants when she’s out with him? …
—Not at all, Breed Terry, just a skirt. Top of the Road’s son stole the best pants she had—the stripy one …
—The pants that Fireside Tom snotted the spit on? …
—While we’re talking about Fireside Tom, the Postmistress’s daughter told me that Paddy Caitriona … Easy now, Master! Cool down, Master! … Back off, Master! … I never ever opened one of your letters, Master … Listen to me, Master. Two dogs f …
—A bit of balance, now Master. What was that she said about my Patrick, Billy? …
—That he got the insurance money on Fireside Tom, and that Nell got a nice little nest egg from Jack …
—Good for you, Billy, my comrade in arms! If you’d believe Nora Johnny’s viperous tongue you’d think that Patrick never paid that insurance after I died! Since I came here, I’m the receptacle for every single spit she squirts out of her slobby gob. Do you hear that, sponger Johnny? God be good to you Billy, tell her that—tell swamp slut Johnny—tell her that Patrick got …
6.
—God would punish us for saying something like that, Caitriona …
—But it’s the truth, Jack …
—Not so, Caitriona. I was very poorly for years. She brought me to every single doctor who was any good in the Fancy City. An English doctor who used to come fishing down our way about eight years ago told me to the day exactly how long I would live. “You’ll live until,” he said …
—… “Yea,” I says myself. “Locked up in my body …”
—… “My ankle is gone again,” he says, “By the hairy balls of Galen …”
—… You’d never really believe, Caitriona, my good neighbour, how much I owe to your Paddy. Not a single Sunday would pass but himself and his wife would come to visit me …
—The Toejam trotter crowd …
—Howandever, Caitriona, neighbour, there isn’t any bit of earth that doesn’t have some kind of weed. Look at the change that came over the Old Master there! You wouldn’t have met a nicer man on the pilgrimage to Knock than him …
—But did you see the way that she and that suet brain Nell got me, Billy? They got St. John’s Gospel from the priest and I got dumped down into this casket thirty years too soon. They did the same dirty trick on poor Jack …
—God will not forgive us …
—That’s only all old guff, Caitriona. If I was you I wouldn’t believe a word of it …
—Believe it, Billy, even if it’s all only old guff, as you say. The priest is able to …
—I believed a lot of that stuff too, Caitriona, neighbour. I did really, even though you mightn’t think it. But I asked a priest once—he was a very learned priest—and do you know what he said to me? He told me something I should have known ages ago only that the old guff was still stuck in my mind. “All the St. John Gospels in the whole wide world wouldn’t keep you alive, Billy the Postman,” he said, “when it’s God’s will to call you home.”
—I find it hard to believe that now, Billy …
—Another priest said the exact same thing to my wife—to the Schoolmistress—Caitriona. He’s a very holy priest, Caitriona, the two eyes in his head are bursting out of him with holiness. The Mistress did every single pattern and pilgrimage in Ireland and Aran for me … Take it easy, now Master! Back off a minute! … Stop making that racket! What could I have done about it? … “You should make the pilgrimages,” he said, “but you never know when God is ready to perform a miracle …”
—But a pilgrimage isn’t the same as St. John’s Gospel, Billy …
—I know that, Caitriona, but wouldn’t St. John’s Gospel be a miracle too? And if God wanted to keep someone alive, why would he have to take another in his place? You don’t think for a minute that God in his heaven has as much red tape as the Post Office, do you? …
—Bloody tear and ’ounds, anyway, isn’t that exactly what Blotchy Brian said …
—… “Do you think this is ‘The War of the Two Foreigners’?” is what I ask myself …
—Get your act together now, man …
—… It was my wife who filled in the papers for Paddy Caitriona … Cool down for feck’s sake, Master! Back off, will ya! … Grand so, Master, if you say so. I know she was your wife … Hang on there, Master! Patience now! Like two dogs …
—… There were days like that, Peter the Publican. Don’t try to deny it …
—… Paper under the roof, Caitriona. But Paddy is putting a slate roof on the house! … That’s it, a two-storey house, Caitriona, bay windows and all and a windmill up on the hill for electricity … If you saw the government bull that he bought, Caitriona! All of ninety pounds. The cattle dealers are very happy. All the bulls around the place were a posse of pansies …
—Bloody tear and ’ounds, isn’t that exactly what Blotchy Brian said: “The bulls have gone awful quiet since England put a stop to de Valera’s cattle and since the Massacre of the Innocents …”
—And he has plans to buy a lorry to deliver turf. We could do with it badly in our own hole of a backwater. We don’t have sign or sight of a lorry since Paudeen’s was taken from him … I’m telling you, neighbour, five or six hundred pounds …
—Five or six hundred pounds! Anybody’s pocket would be very lonely if that much was removed from it, Billy. Nearly as much as Nell got that time in the court …
—His pocket wasn’t lonely at all, Caitriona, especially since he got the will …
—But Nell got the big fat wad of notes all the same …
—Bloody tear and ’ounds,
didn’t Blotchy Brian say that Paddy Caitriona wouldn’t recognise paper money any more than Fireside Tom would recognise the sweat of his brow, or …
—Wouldn’t you think, Billy, with a whirlwind of notes like that flying around the place that somebody would remember to pay back the pound that I loaned to Caitriona …
—You little drizzling shit! …
—… The Postmistress’s daughter told me as much … Calm down, Master! … It’s a dirty lie, Master … I never opened any letter …
—Don’t take a blind bit of notice of his ranting, Nora. Remember always that he was a noncommissioned officer in the Murder Machine … I won’t have the opportunity to read any more of “The Sunset” to you again, Nora. I am far too busy with my new draft, “The Piglet Moon.” I got the idea from Coley. His grandfather could trace his family tree back as far as the moon. He spent three hours every night staring up at it, just like our ancestors. When the new moon rose his nostrils developed three different kinds of snot: one golden, one silver, and the good old dependable genuine solid Irish snot …
—… She told me, Caitriona, that Baba said that you were her favourite sister ever, and that you would have been grateful to her too, only that you died first …
—I did my best and I did my worst, Billy, but I failed to bury Nell …
—Be japers, Caitriona, neighbour, maybe it made no difference one way or the other. Paddy himself told me, and told the … the Mistress, that Nell left him a lot of bits and pieces that were never in the will. She’d only take half of Fireside Tom’s land from him, and believe you me, Caitriona, not a Sunday passes without the priest saying a Mass for your soul and Jack the Lad’s …
—For my soul, and Jack the Lad’s …
—Bloody tear and ’ounds, didn’t Blotchy Brian say that …
—For my soul, and Jack the Lad’s …
—And Baba, and …
—… “The only comparison you could ever make with the gang of Paudeen’s daughters,” he said, “is that they’re like the two scabby pups that I saw once with their eyes glued to a nag of a mule that was in the throes of death over in Bally Donough. One of them was yapping and yowling trying to keep the other away. It stressed him so much that he burst his whole guts out in a glob of gunk. No bother to the other dog, as soon as he saw that the mule was dead and had him all to himself, didn’t he just up and away and left him there for the dead dog …”
The Dirty Dust Page 34
