—By the oak of this coffin, what I heard her say was: “The pack of women here are jealous that you talk to me, Jack,” says she. “But be very stern indeed with them, like a good man!” … Whatever shame she ever had she left above ground …
—“Muraed Phroinsiais,” says she to me, “the barb has been removed from my heart, and since Jack arrived I feel the time flying by as fast as a night of music.” “Have you auctioned off every last stitch of shame, Caitríona?” says I to her …
—Did you hear, Muraed, what she said to me? “Bríd Terry,” she said, “isn’t it great revenge on the pussface! ‘Jack is mine. Jack is mine.’ She hasn’t got Jack under her little rag of a shawl now, Bríd Terry …”
—I’ll speak to Jack the Scológ. And you’d speak to him too, you slut, if he’d speak to you. It’s not for want of trying on your part that he doesn’t speak to you, you little tight-arse …
—Spare me the lash of your tongue, Caitríona. Peace and quiet is what I want …
—More power to you, Caitríona! They badly need a dressing down like that! You’d think from this flock of women here that there’s no other man in the graveyard but Son of Scológ! I wouldn’t mind if they weren’t married women …
—But the Big Master admitted the other day that death dissolves marriage vows …
—What does he have against Billyboy the Post so?
—He said that: Death dissolves marriage vows! I was right to have my suspicions about him. He’s a heretic for certain …
—Will you hold on till you hear the full story! If Caitríona had only said that much I wouldn’t mind … “Bríd Terry,” she said, “there’s …” Decency forbids me to repeat what she said, with all the men listening …
—Whisper it, Bríd …
—Whisper it to me, Bríd! …
—To me, Bríd! …
—I’ll tell it to Nóra … Now, what do you think of that, Nóra? …
—Upon my word! I’m shocked! Who would ever think it of Jack! …
—I think we should warn Jack, on account of Nell not being here …
—I’ll speak to him …
—You don’t have the discretion a woman should have …
—Do you need any spiritual advice, Jack the Scológ?
—It’s very interfering of you, Big Colm’s daughter, to be poking your nose into the matter at all, and women here three times your age …
—Hey, Jack the Scológ! Jack the Scológ! … this is Muraed Phroinsiais … I have some advice to give you … After a while. You’ll sing a little song first, Jack …
—Do, please, Jack …
—The blessings of God on you, Jack, do!
—Jack, you can’t be discourteous to me. Bríd Terry here …
—Honest, Jack, that new refrain: Bunga Bunga Bunga8 …
—Bunga Bunga Bunga! By the docks, Bunga Bunga Bunga, Son of Scológ! …
—You won’t refuse me, Jack. Siúán the Shop here …
—May God forgive you all! … Why don’t you leave me alone! … I’ve told you already that I won’t sing a song.
—Oh Jack, my dearest Jack, this shoal of women are as voracious and persistent as porpoises after a sturgeon. Tell them, Jack, as you used to tell us long ago on the bogs, when we were young girls throwing clods at you: “I thought the fowling season didn’t open this early in the year …”
—God would punish us for saying anything untoward, Caitríona. But I implore God and His Blessed Mother to get the women of this graveyard off my back …
—Nóirín Filthy Feet, lying Cite, smiling Siúán, Bríd Terry. Oh, Jack sweetheart, I know these women better than you do. You were always far off from them, up there in the wilderness of the marsh. And I’m longer here than you are. Take care not to pay any attention to them! I wouldn’t mind, but asking you for songs!
—Every minute, Caitríona. But God would punish us for saying anything about our neighbour …
—These women would say about Good God Himself, Jack, that he came looking for a pound of money off them and didn’t pay it back! Oh, I’ve suffered life with themselves and their lies! Hey, Jack … You’ve been promising me for a long time, but you might as well sing a song now …
—Don’t ask me to, Caitríona …
—Just one verse, Jack! Just one verse! …
—Some other time, Caitríona. Some other time …
—Now, Jack. Now …
—How do I know my own old woman isn’t in the throes of death at home?
—Oh, if that’s all you’re worried about, Jack! She’s only complaining of rheumatism and that won’t bring her corpse to the graveyard for another twenty years!
—She’s not keeping well, Caitríona …
—She had no pain or sickness, Jack. May her corpse stay far from this graveyard! Sing the song. Like a good man, my dear little Jack! …
—She was a good woman, Caitríona, every day of her life, and I’m not telling you that just because she’s your sister …
—It doesn’t matter a jot what sisters do in this life, Jack. But sing the song …
—I don’t like to refuse you, Caitríona, but it’s no use going on at me. It’s strange the way things happen, Caitríona dear. The night before I was married, I was in the room in your house and a bunch of people were urging me to sing a song. Bríd Terry was there and Cite and Muraed Phroinsiais. May God forgive me for saying anything to anybody, but those three were going on at me very hard. My voice was as screechy as the lid of an old chest from singing songs for them all night. “Jack will never sing another song,” said Nell, jokingly, while sitting in my lap … “unless I ask him to …” Would you believe, Caitríona, that those were the words going through my head the following morning when I was on my knees at the altar-rails before the priest? May God not punish me for it! It was an awful sin for me! But it’s strange the way things are, Caitríona. Every time I’ve been asked to sing a song ever since, that was the first thing I thought of! …
—Ababúna búna búna! Oh, Jack! Jack the Scológ! I’ll explode! I’ll explode!
Interlude Ten
THE WHITE CLAY
1
—It’s hard for him to go …
—It’s a fair exchange for him …
—It’s painful for him …
—It’s a fair exchange for him …
—It’s dark for him …
—It’s a fair exchange for him …
—It’s dangerous for him …
—It’s a fair exchange for him …
—But …
—It’s a fair exchange for him …
2
—By the docks, you couldn’t hear Oscar’s flail1 up there, with all the hammering and the blasting. You could not, my friend …
—Was there any letter from young Brian? …
—Arrah! God bless your sense, my friend! Indeed, a young man who’s going to be a priest has more to do than writing letters to those swamp-holes up there. Making more journeys for postmen …
—Nell spent a while in bed, Tomás? …
—Rheumatism, my friend. Rheumatism. She got out of bed the evening I was laid low …
—She was always a kind woman, Tomás …
—I’ve always said, Jack, that she was more good-hearted than Caitríona …
—God would punish us for saying anything about our neighbour, Tomás …
—By the docks, don’t the neighbours have stinging tongues too, my friend! Only for she was more good-natured, she wouldn’t have offered to pay for Caitríona’s cross, and for putting three of Pádraig’s children through college. For that matter, aren’t they getting very grand, with their college education. Look at me! …
—There wasn’t a penny she ever laid hand on that she didn’t put to good use, Tomás …
—That’s true for you, my friend. Didn’t I often say to myself that if it were Nóra Sheáinín got that legacy, she wouldn’t be sober any day of the year …
—G
od would punish us for saying anything about our neighbour, Tomás. Not as much as a “don’t be silly” ever came between myself and Nell …
—By the docks, didn’t she cry a trunkful of big white handkerchiefs after you. She did indeed, my friend. Not to speak of all the Masses she offered up for your soul! People say she gave our own priest two hundred pounds into his hand in one go, not to mention all she sent to holy priests all over the country …
—Bloody tear and ’ounds, didn’t Big Brian say: “If the priests don’t place Son of Scológ on the high ladder, and give him a good push in the bottom onto that loft up there, I don’t know what it takes …”
—By the docks, Son of Blackleg, you don’t know the half of it! You couldn’t hear a finger in your ear up there, with all their talk about Masses. Masses for Jack’s soul, for Baba’s soul, for Caitríona’s soul …
—Mercy shared is not mercy spared, Tomás …
—That’s exactly what Nell used to say. “Aren’t you offering up an awful lot of Masses for the soul of Caitríona,” I used to say to her, like that. “Good against evil, Tomás Inside,” she’d say …
—God would punish us for saying anything about our neighbour, Tomás. Poor Caitríona can’t help it. The poor creature is tormented for want of a cross …
—By the docks, my friend. You couldn’t hear a finger in your ear up there, with all their chattering about crosses. Caitríona’s cross was ready and paid for, but when you died Nell and Pádraig said they’d leave Caitríona’s cross until hers and yours could be put up together …
—Bloody tear and ’ounds, didn’t Big Brian say it was no wonder the world was in a mess, with all that fine money wasted on old stones …
—By the docks, Son of Blackleg, you didn’t hear the half of it. Damned if I know if all that chatter about crosses did me any good at all. Crosses from morning till sunset and from night till morning. A person couldn’t enjoy his drop of porter in peace without crosses being dragged in. A man couldn’t walk his patch of land without imagining crosses in every field. I took myself off down to Pádraig Chaitríona’s, where there wasn’t half as much talk about crosses. Aren’t they getting very grand …
—… Qu’il retournerait pour libérer la France …
—… Over again. Back again. Not a day passed that I didn’t drink twenty pints at least …
—God help yourself and your twenty pints! I drank two score pints and two …
—Faith then, my friend, the doctor Nell brought from Brightcity to see me said it was Peadar the Pub’s whiskey hastened my death. He did indeed, my friend. “Faith then, my friend,” said I, “it was the doctor told me to drink it.” “What doctor?” he said. “Our own doctor, God spare him!’ said I. “Faith then, he did, my friend. Peadar the Pub’s daughter was listening to him. If you don’t believe me, go in to her on your way over. I’m not blaming the doctor at all, my friend. I’d been drinking it all my life and it never did me any harm. By my soul I blame the priest, my friend. By the docks, I think he was no help at all to me …”
—Could I give you any spiritual assistance, Tomás Inside? …
—Gug-goog, Big Colm’s daughter. Gug-goog! A cosy little conversation …
—Seeing as it failed the priest …
—It did not fail the priest. Nothing fails the priest. You’re a heretic …
—… By the oak of this coffin, Jack the Scológ, I gave the pound to …
—God would punish us, Cite …
—… Legacies! Only for Baba Pháidín’s legacy, Tomás Inside wouldn’t have got his walking-papers so soon …
—He can blame himself! The drink would remain where it was, only that Tomás brought his little belly the length of it. A legacy brought no misfortune on Nell. She bought a motor car with it and a hat with peacock’s feathers …
—Oh! Oh! …
—We’ve seen all this before, of course! It was legacies kept the people of Donagh’s Village alive down the ages. It wasn’t nettles anyway. We’ve seen women who were down on their uppers today, all dressed up in hats and frills tomorrow. Signs on them: the hens would soon be laying in the hats …
—The people of Donagh’s Village had the persistence to travel to the very hunkers of the sun, to the boundary wall of hell itself, in search of legacies. If the wretches of your village left their hillocks, they’d be homesick for the fleas …
—What do you say to the man from our village who was buried with as little as a shilling! …
—A man from our village was buried with much more than a shilling, but it would have been a happy day for him if he hadn’t. He was a fine down-to-earth fellow till he got the big money. Neither God nor man has seen him since except standing around on every corner with his stupid face bashed in. Isn’t that so? I’ll bet you’ve never seen him without his face bashed in …
—Having your face bashed in is not too bad, but look at that young fellow from Sive’s Rocks—a relation of my own—who got a small fortune, and nothing would do him but to go and break his neck. That’s the only way to put it: the devil another thing in the world would please him but to go and break his neck …
—Oh, look at that greasy clown from Wood of the Lake! Some old hag in America left him a few thousand. Siúán the Shop’s tea-ration had barely settled in his paunch when he was up in Dublin buying a monster of a motor car. He met a flimsy little thing straying around up there, and didn’t he bring her home with him! She wasn’t long with him, though. The rattle of the car was upsetting her stomach. And she went back to straying around up there again. The motor car was nicknamed Knotted Bottom. May I not leave this spot if he could get it to move an inch without having to call out a gang of louts from the end of some boreen to push it!
—Didn’t I twist my ankle! …
—The gang would push it to the nearest pub. It would stay there till day-break, and then they’d push it back again. Its wheels and body finished up at Road-End. It had an almighty horn! …
—So has Nell Pháidín’s motor car …
—Going up and down past Caitríona’s house …
—Ababúna! …
—Faith then, for a legacy car, it trundles along fairly merrily …
—Maybe, with the help of God, Hitler will be here soon …
—Not a glint of the Woody Hillside legacy ever came out of Mannion the Counsellor’s Office. He told me so, the day I was in with him to bring the law on Road-End Man about my little lump-hammer …
—… “The bottom will fall out of Wall Street, as happened before,” he said, with his eye sneaking over to the hatchet. “It will fall out of its groove and I’ll lose another legacy as I did before …”
“The devil would I care, Tomáisín,” says Caitríona who was present, “if it fell like mud out of it, as long as it fell like thunder out of Nell’s legacy too …”
—Road-End’s old woman got a dodgy legacy …
—That’s what left her with the fancy house …
—Oh no, it was not; it was my turf …
—I brought off a great insurance coup there at the time. Road-End Man himself and his eldest daughter …
—I sold a full set of The Complete Carpenter and Mechanic to his son …
—Faith then, as you say …
—Your man over here had got a legacy the time Peadar the Pub’s daughter brought him into the parlour …
—The Big Master got a legacy …
—Billyboy won’t be short of doctors so …
—Oh, the thief! The tufted prickle-stick!2 …
—… You’re a liar! It wasn’t over a legacy that the One-Ear meat-carver stabbed me …
—… That fellow couldn’t afford to pay for forty-two pints! A man who had so little land that only the hind legs of his donkey could fit on it! The two front legs had to be on Curraoin’s land beside it … That was him! Pushing the motor car for the Wood of the Lake eejit is how he got it …
—Curraoin too, it was a legacy left him the big h
olding, where his eldest son wants to bring in Road-End’s daughter …
—Oh! The devil pierce her! I swear to God, if the old woman at home lets her in! …
—Road-End’s daughter is insured …
—… If that’s how things are, Caitríona was lucky she didn’t get the legacy. If she had …
—She’d build two slate-roofed houses …
—She’d buy two motor cars …
—She’d put two crosses over herself …
—And two hats …
—You’d never know but she might even wear trousers …
—Bloody tear and ’ounds, didn’t Big Brian say, when his own daughter’s son went to college to be a priest: “If that ruminating bess back there were alive,” he said, “she wouldn’t stop till she’d make her Pádraig put aside his wife and become a priest himself …”
—If you tell me, Caitríona, how much money there was in the legacy, I’ll tot up the interest for you:
Isn’t that right, Master? …
—It would be enough anyway to repay Cite’s pound …
—And Road-End Man for the chimney …
—And Nóra Sheáinín for the silver spoons and knives …
—Oh, Holy Mother of God! Silver spoons in Mangy Field! Silver spoons! Oh, Jack! Jack the Scológ! Silver spoons in Mangy Field! I’ll explode! I’ll explode! …
3
—… She said that, Master? …
—She did, Máirtín Pockface. She told me …
—… “The flaw is up above,” says I …
—… “By the devil,” said Caitríona, “it’s a fine pig for scalding …”
—… “Mártan Sheáin Mhóir had a daughter …”
—When will she marry again, do you think? …
—Musha, Cite, neighbour, I don’t know …
—She can easily get a man, of course, if she intends to get married again. She’s a strong, active woman, God bless her! …
—That’s true for you, Muraed, neighbour! …
Graveyard Clay- Cré Na Cille Page 32