Graveyard Clay- Cré Na Cille
Page 15
—1941, was it? I tell you Kerry won. Surely you were at the final? …
—I wasn’t. I was not. How could I be? Don’t you think I would if I could? What sort of an eejit are you? That day after coming home from the semi-final wasn’t I taken ill! I got a cold from the sweat and sleeping in the open. It turned chronic straight away. Five days from that day I was here in the graveyard clay. How could I have been at the final? You’re an awful eejit …
—And what are you blathering about so, that they beat Kerry?
—It was no bother to them, of course …
—1941, was it? Maybe you’re thinking of some other year.
—1941. What else? They beat Kerry in the final …
—But I tell you they didn’t. Kerry beat them by a goal and a point. A goal and eight points for Kerry and seven points for Galway. The referee was unfair to the Galway men. And if he was, it wasn’t for the first time, either. But Kerry won the match …
—May God grant you an ounce of sense! How could Kerry win the match when Galway won it? …
—But you were dead. And I was watching the match. I lived for nine months after that. The match was no help at all to me. There wasn’t a day from that day on that I wasn’t ailing. Only for I was watching them getting beaten …
—For the love of God! You’re the greatest eejit I ever saw! If you’d watched them a hundred times Kerry didn’t beat Galway. Wasn’t I at the semi-final in Croke Park! If you’d seen them that day beating Cavan! Concannon! Oh, he was a powerful footballer! The only lease of life I wanted was to watch him beating Kerry a month from that day … Beating them was no bother to him, of course …
—The 1941 final, is it?
—Yes. What else? What sort of an eejit are you?
—But they didn’t beat them …
—They did so. They did so. Concannon would have beaten them on his own …
5
—… Hey, Muraed … Do you hear me? … Why aren’t you talking? Or what has come over you all recently? There’s not a squeak or a squawk out of any of you since the election. Bríd Terry will have peace now. May she not enjoy it, then! The little hag! Strife is better than solitude, after all …
Surely you’re not disappointed that Nóra Filthy-Feet was defeated in the election, Muraed. It’ll teach her not to be so full of herself in future. She’d lose the run of herself entirely if she’d got in …
I voted for Peadar the Pub, Muraed. Who else? Of course, you wouldn’t expect me to vote for Nóirín of the Sailors, the secret drinker. I have more respect for myself than that, Muraed. To vote for a woman who used to drink in secret, is it?
And the Master is very prickly with her these days, Muraed. It’s the devil of a job to keep him underground at all since Bríd Terry told him about his wife’s marriage. Do you know, Muraed, what he said to Mangy Nóirín the other day when she was all grumpy because he wouldn’t read a bit of a novelette to her? “Leave me alone, you bitch,” says he. “Leave me alone! You’re not fit company for man, beast or corpse …”
On my solemn oath he did, Muraed … What’s the use in arguing, Muraed? Didn’t I hear him?
But Muraed, you’re all very gloomy in this part of the graveyard, and you’re not talking like you used to be … Turning to clay, is it? … The writer’s tongue is decaying, is it? Cóilí won’t complain about that, I’d say. He had him demented … Oh, Cóilí himself is turning to clay, is he? Do you know what, Muraed, I’m sorry to hear it. That story he had about the hens was nice and homely. I used to make money on hens, not like the hussy I left behind me, my son’s wife … ’Tis God’s justice, Muraed, for him to have a worm in his throat, a man who drank two score and two pints …
Oh, so that fellow is totally decomposed, Muraed … The Half-Guinea crowd told you he was decomposed? I thought, Muraed, you didn’t speak to the Half-Guinea crowd? Arrah, how else could he be but decomposed? A corpse couldn’t be any other way down there: a Half-Guinea grave. Is it any wonder! It seems to me, Muraed, there’s a peculiar smell coming up from the Half-Guinea Plot now and again. If I were you, Muraed, I’d leave them well alone …
What’s that shouting, Muraed? … The Half-Guinea crowd … Celebrating the election of their candidate. They’ll deafen the graveyard. The beggars! Thieving ill-mannered rabble! Oh, do you hear the goings-on of them! God bless us and save us! It’s a poor plight to be in the same cemetery with them at all. But, by God, I’m better pleased to see the Half-Guinea man elected than Nóra Filthy-Feet. If there was no alternative I’d have voted for him myself, to spite her …
—… There was such a day, Peadar the Pub. Don’t deny it …
—… That awful murderer who gave me a bad bottle …
—… A white-faced mare. At the Fair of St. Bartholomew I bought her …
—I remember it well. I twisted my ankle …
—… Hitler! Hitler! Hitler! Hitler! Hitler! Hitler!
—… A pity they wouldn’t bring my earthly remains …
—… It’s true for you. She’s the most cheerful woman in the graveyard till that silliness takes over …
—She had always intended to go back to the Plains of East Galway …
—She knew the cat-o’-nine-tails9 was waiting for her. Having put a gash in a poor old man’s head with the fire-crane …
—Maybe he deserved it. She says herself that he didn’t give her a moment’s peace since the day she married his son …
—… Permission to speak! …
—… But the funniest of all was to see them thatching the house for him.
—… That bright smile was on her face …
—May the devil pierce yourself and herself! On the devil’s hoofprints to hell with her! What use is her bright smile to me? You’re every bit as boring as this cheeky poet here. Bright smile! Doesn’t Road-End’s daughter have the same bright smile? May the devil pierce her, hasn’t she led my eldest son into temptation? She has his eyes bewildered or some damned thing. Totally bewildered! She’s in the Freemasons or some cursed thing. Trying to get a foot in on my big holding …
—… Wait till I tell you how I sold the Big Master the books … I went into Peadar the Pub’s. The Big Master wasn’t long in the place at the time. I made discreet inquiries about him. They weren’t particularly fond of him in Peadar’s. He only went in there once in a blue moon. He was a stingy fellow. But he was crazy about the Schoolmistress.
“I have it,” said I, “I have the bait to hook you, my boyo.”
“The World’s Finest Love-Stories,” says I to him. He went at them as greedily as a hungry suckler at the teat. “Five guineas for the set,” says I. “They’re very expensive,” says he. “What do you mean, expensive?” says I. “A half-guinea on the nail, and instalments to suit yourself. It’s a substantial set. You’ll never be ashamed to have them in your personal bookcase. Look at the paper! And they’re the top class of love-story. Have a look here at the contents: Helen and the Trojan War; Tristan and Isolde; The Fate of the Sons of Uisneach; Dante and Beatrice … You’re not married? … You’re not! … You’ve reached the age you are and never read these love-stories: about Helen, ‘the face that launched a thousand ships and burnt the topless towers of Ilium,’ and The Only Jealousy of Deirdre:10
‘As Scotland’s nobles drank one day
With the Sons of Uisneach in friendly bliss,
From the daughter of Lord Bravesfort
Naoise stole a secret kiss …’
“Picture yourself, man … Down there in a creek by Galway Bay, a golden beauty in your arms and you not able to tell her one of the world’s finest love-stories …”
He began to waver. I tightened my grip. But the devil a bit of good that did. “They’re too dear for the likes of me,” says he. “Don’t you have any second-hand books?”
“We are a reputable company,” says I. “We wouldn’t put the health of our travellers or our clients at risk. Who knows but they might infect yourself or your wife? … I see
. You’re not married. But you will be, please God, and that’s when you’ll realise what a set like this is worth. Sitting up late, the wind howling outside, yourself and the wife cosy by the fireside …”
Wasting my words I was …
I called in at the barracks. No one there but the Red-haired Policeman. “Books!” says he. “I’ve a roomful of them up there. I’ll have to burn them soon if someone doesn’t come looking for scrap paper.”
“What sort are they?” says I.
“Novels,” says he. “Rubbish … The dregs … But they kill the time for me all the same, in this flea-bitten place …”
We went upstairs. There was the world of books there. The dregs, as he said. The sort of trashy romances silly young girls devour. To tell the truth, most of them bore the name and surname of a nurse of my acquaintance in Brightcity. I took the best of them—the cleanest-looking ones—and I cut the front page out of each one of them. I did a tour of the other schools in the area and in a few days’ time I came back to the Big Master. I was sorry by now that I’d been so disparaging about second-hand books.
“I’m travelling away back west today, Master,” says I, “and I thought I might as well call on you again. I’ve a collection of romantic novels here. Second-hand. I bought them specially from a friend of mine in Brightcity who was selling his library, in the hope that they might suit you. They’ve been disinfected.”
The gaudy covers appealed to him, and the romantic titles: The Red-Hot Kiss, Two Men and a Powder-puff, Sunset Tresses …
“Two pounds, ten shillings to you, Master,” says I. “That’s exactly what I paid for them myself. There’s no profit for me in it, as they’re not company books. If you turn them down I’ll be out of pocket …”
The haggling began. He wanted to push me to the very limit. Eventually I told him to take it or leave it but that I wouldn’t part with them for less than two pounds. I got that much out of him, if only just. Of course they weren’t worth a damn …
—You knew the tricks of the trade, you boy you. But I knew them too. I never told you about this coup:
There were two sisters living near me. One of them was called Nell Pháidín. The other was called Caitríona. She’s here now. The two of them hated each other … Oh, you heard the story before? The devil a bit of me but headed off up to Nell’s one day. Her son’s wife was there too. I lectured them on insurance for children: that they would get so much money when they’d be of such an age, and so on. You know the tricks. The two of them were very suspicious. I showed them forms some of the neighbours had filled in. It was no good. “There’s no sharp practice in this,” said I, “but there’s a lot to be gained by it. Ask the priest …”
And so they did. Within two weeks I got the insurance on two children out of them. Then I held forth on insurance for the elderly: cost of funerals and so on. The old woman was willing to pay for her husband, Jack the Scológ … I came down to the other sister, Caitríona. She was on her own in the house.
“Look,” says I, “these forms were filled in by the woman up there, for her two children and the old man. I told her I was coming in here on my way down, but she made me promise not to …”
“What did she say? What did she say?” says Caitríona.
“Ah, I wouldn’t like to be talking about it,” says I. “You’re neighbours …”
“Neighbours! We’re sisters,” she says. “Didn’t you know that? … You’re a stranger. Yes indeed, sisters. But even if we are, may no corpse go to the graveyard ahead of her! What did she say?”
“Ah, it’s difficult to talk about,” says I. “Only for my tongue was too long I wouldn’t have mentioned it at all.”
“What did she say?” says she. “Out of this house you will not go till you tell me.”
“Have it your way,” says I. “She said I’d only be wasting my time coming in here; that you couldn’t afford to pay insurance in this house …”
“The pussface! The bitch! …” says she. “It would be a sorry day indeed that we wouldn’t be able to pay it as well as Nell. And we will pay it. You’ll see that we’ll pay it …”
Her son and his wife came in. The arguing began. Herself trying to take out insurance on two of the children; the married couple bitterly opposing her. “I’m in a hurry,” I said. “I’ll leave you to it. Maybe you’ll have a definite word for me the day after tomorrow: I’ll be going back up to Nell’s again. She told me to come back and that she’ll take out insurance on the old man who’s living on his own up there …”
“Tomás Inside!” says she. “Ababúna! Tomás Inside. Another of her schemes to get his land away from us. Could we take out insurance on him? … I’ll pay for it myself out of my half-guinea of a pension …”
It was truly the Battle of the Sheaves11 now. They began to spin around each other all over the house as if they were dancing a three-hand reel. The son and his wife would have liked to break my neck outside on the street. But Caitríona protected me and kept me inside till the papers were filled out … And filled out they were. She had to have her way in the end. It was the greatest danger I was ever in during all my time in insurance.
That’s how I fooled Caitríona. I couldn’t help it. Tricks of the trade …
—That’s a damned lie! That’s a damned lie! You didn’t fool me! If you did, you fooled Nell too …
—Nell never mentioned yourself or Tomás Inside. The tricks of the trade, Caitríona dear …
—Hey, Muraed … Do you hear me? … I’ll explode! …
6
… That same Peadar the Pub is a stiff-lipped fellow too. Even though I went against the current in voting for him, he never thanked me for it or anything. If he was any way civil he could have easily spoken to me and said: “Caitríona Pháidín, I’m grateful to you for giving me your vote. You were a woman of courage, to defy all the Fifteen-Shilling crowd. We did well against Nóra Filthy-Feet …” But he didn’t. He should have ignored the fact—especially during an election—that I’m still without a cross.
I should have told Siúán the Shop a long time ago that I’m going to get the cross. Why should I be concerned about her? It’s ages since I was at the mercy of her credit. I might as well tell her, now that the excitement of the Election is over …
Hi, Siúán. Siúán the Shop … Are you there? … Siúán, are you there? … Do you hear me, you Pound crowd? … You can’t all be asleep? … I’m looking for Siúán the Shop … It’s me, Caitriona Pháidín, Seán Thomáis Uí Loideáin’s wife. Siúán, I’m getting a cross of Island limestone put up over me in a … in a very short time. A cross like the one on Peadar the Pub, and railings round my grave like there are on yours, Siúán …
Don’t be annoying you—is that what you said, Siúán? I thought you’d be pleased to hear about it, Siúán … You don’t want to have anything to do with the Fifteen-Shilling people from now on? I voted for Peadar the Pub, Siúán. I drew the wrath of all the Fifteen-Shilling crowd down on me by doing so … You’d prefer to do without my vote? Ababúna! You’d prefer to do without my vote! … Propriety forbids the people in the Pound Plot to talk to Fifteen-Shilling people! Now, what do you know? … I can wear my tongue out talking, you say, but you won’t pay any heed to me … You’re not willing to talk to a chatterbox like me any more? … A chatterbox, Siúán! You’re not willing to talk to a chatterbox like me any more! …
Have it your way so, you wretch. You’ll speak to me a long time before I’ll say a word to you again. You’ve no cause to be stuck-up, if you only knew it! … Just because you had a little shop above ground, and were destroying the country with your clogs … I know well what’s irritating you, you wretch! I voted for Peadar the Pub in the election. I wish I hadn’t! Yourself and himself begrudge me a cross and railings as fine as the ones on yourselves. I’ll be as good as you then …
That wretch Siúán. By Dad, how the world has changed …
—… “Tomás Inside was there with his britches to-orn
&nbs
p; But aid was fo-orth-coming on either si-ide …”
—… Nóra! Nóra Sheáinín! …
—Hoy! How are tricks? Are you over election exhaustion yet? I feel a bit worn-out myself.
—You’ll forgive me, Nóra …
—Arrah, Peadar dear, why wouldn’t I? A word to the wise is sufficient. There was a rumpus—a stink, as people of culture would say—between us, but that doesn’t matter. “For the small-minded, to forgive a wrong is a heroic deed. For the noble-minded it is only a passing need,” as Jinks said in Sunset Tresses. Honest …
—Ababúna! Peadar the Pub is talking to Nóra Sheáinín again, even though he vowed and he swore during the Election that he’d never speak another word to her. Oh, what’s the use in talking! …
What was it he called her? … Bitch and harlot and hussy! Nóirín Filthy-Feet. Nóirín of the Sailors. The Drunkard from Mangy Field of the Puddles and Ducks. He said she was drinking secretly in his snug; that she often had to be carried home; that she began to sing at the top of her voice when Tiúnaí Mhicil Tiúnaí’s funeral was passing his door; that she robbed a cattle-jobber12 from down the country inside in his parlour; that she drank porter from the black butler the Earl used to keep; that she began to throw bottles when she was drunk; that she brought Seán Choilm’s big puck goat into the shop in a drunken bout, got it in behind the counter, perched it up on top of a tapped half-barrel and started combing its beard and plying it with porter; that she used to be hugging Tomás Inside …