Inside, the house was packed. The atmosphere was thick with despair and indignation. They were furious about the fishing stand, they said. They said there was going to be murder about it. Especially Nobby Caslin, who said he had written to the council long ago about it being a hazard. But had anything been done? Not at all. He took out his pipe and lit it with a trembling hand. Someone said, ‘The bloody thing’s been rotten this past eighteen months or more. There’s not one in this town doesn’t know that. Not one!’ His cheeks reddened when he said that. Nobby nodded and said, ‘Isn’t that what I’m saying? Isn’t that exactly what I have been saying?’
It was a very sad occasion. Poor old Cissie was in a bad way. There was a mountain of Kleenex at her ankles and the tears were literally spewing out of her. ‘How will I manage without him?’ she wanted to know. ‘How will I manage without my Packie?’ When he heard that, Malachy felt like laughing. He had heard some good ones from her but this performance took some beating. The women told her it was going to be OK. God would look after her, they said. Then off they went and got more Kleenex. The cowman didn’t show until quite late, looking like something that had been dug up out of the bog and decked out in a Sunday coat. He turned his cap around in his hands and said it was a bad blow. The women said they would get some more sandwiches, which they did. They said, ‘Don’t worry. Time is a great healer.’ The widow dabbed her eyes and appeared to agree that what they were saying made perfect sense. Then, however, she went and burst into tears again. There was another knock at the door and in came Father Pat. He had been a great footballer in his youth, which explained why he was blathering away about some match or other after only five minutes in the house. Just as he was running up the field to bury the ball in the back of the net, away went the door again and in came Alec and all his buddies, shaking their heads and remarking how cruel life was. That provided the cue for yet another philosophical discussion on the brevity of existence and so on, some halfwit friend of the cowman’s observing wistfully, ‘When you think of all the happy times we had in this house when he was alive,’ a comment which, if it didn’t make Malachy burst out laughing right there and then on the spot, came perilously close. As far as everyone else was concerned, however, it obviously was just about the most poignant and pertinent statement ever made.
Then came the time for Nobby to address the company. When it came to funerals and sad occasions, there was no one to touch Nobby Caslin for the few words. He bided his time gravely until there was complete silence in the room, then he cleared his throat and began to speak. ‘It’s always sad when someone dies,’ he said. They all looked at each other when he said that and agreed that that was right. Oh, yes, there was no doubt about that. You just could not disagree with that, they said. Then he continued, going into a diatribe about the fishing stand and the state they had let it get into and by the time he was finished, it was all they could do not to march up en masse to the council offices and burn them to the ground right there and then. Which, of course, was the most hilarious yet, for as Malachy well knew, if there was anything in this world his father hated, it was the hobby of fishing, and if there was a reason he went out to the lake, it was one reason and one reason alone – to throw himself into the bloody thing. Not that it mattered to Nobby of course, for by now he was on to his pet subject – funerals. There was nothing this man didn’t know about funerals. Mainly because he had been to more or less every funeral that had taken place in the town over the past twenty years. ‘I might be sticking my neck out here,’ he said, clearing his throat, ‘but I would not be one bit surprised if he pulls in over five hundred. He was a well-respected man and there’s not one in this room or anywhere else can say different.’
Everyone agreed with that and Nobby’s speech would have been a good note on which to end the proceedings if some bollocks by the name of Peter from the mountain hadn’t gone and decided to try and liven things up with a bit of a joke. ‘Just so long as it doesn’t turn out like the McAdoo funeral!’ he snorted and had to hold his sides in case he’d break in two with the laughing. It was only when he looked up and saw the face of Nobby Caslin glaring at him along with ten or eleven others that he realized he’d gone and stuck his big size twelves right in it. Nobby gripped the bowl of his pipe until his knuckles turned white. ‘If I ever hear another word about that funeral,’ he hissed through his teeth. ‘If I ever so much as hear another fucking word about it—!’
For a minute or two it looked like he was about to collapse or something but then, almost inaudibly, he continued, ‘I swear to God as long as I live I never want to hear another word about it. Do you hear what I’m saying? It was one of the worst days I ever remember in this town. Every time I think of it I get sick to my stomach and that’s the truth. So maybe now, Peter, maybe just once in your life you’d do the right thing and shut up about it. Do you think you could do that, Peter – do you? Mm?’
Peter did think that. Of course he could shut up about it. As a matter of fact, not only could he shut up about it but he hadn’t the slightest intention of mentioning it ever again as long as he lived. Which was what he was about to say to Nobby before the latter pushed right past him and went off out the door without so much as another word.
After that, everybody started talking about something else just in case the subject of Mrs McAdoo and the funeral might somehow come up again. Which was interesting, thought Malachy, seeing as how not so very long ago, it was all anyone had ever wanted to talk about. You could hardly walk up the street then without someone mentioning Mrs McAdoo and what had happened in the graveyard that day. Now, by the looks of things, you daren’t open your trap, for if you did Nobby Caslin or his ilk would be halfway down your throat shouting, ‘Don’t talk to me! You and Mrs McAdoo! Do you think we’ve had no other funerals in this town, do you not? Shut up about it! We want to hear no more about her or her carry-on! Do you hear me now! Shut up you and her!’
That, I am afraid, was what you could expect if you opened your gob about Mrs McAdoo. Which certainly made it clear in no uncertain terms just how important her forty years on earth had been.
Little Chubbies
What happened was she woke up in the middle of the night and heard her baby crying. Not just ordinary crying, but crying that would put you out of your mind. She wasn’t really sure what to do because little Thomas was her first baby and that was why at the crack of dawn she went up to the doctor. ‘Don’t you be worrying your head, Mrs,’ the doctor said, ‘babies – if they don’t get one thing they get another. You just make sure to give him this medicine and come tomorrow night he’ll be right as rain you’ll see.’
When she heard this she was as happy as Larry again and no matter who she met on her way down the street she said, ‘I’m a cod to be worrying my head. The doctor gave me a tonic and he says by tomorrow night he’ll be right as rain.’ By the time she got home she was so delighted with herself and so happy that she felt like having a party in the house to celebrate her son Thomas’s visit to the doctor. Which would have been premature because by the time tomorrow night came around, far from being right as rain, his crying was worse than ever and on top of that he was white as a ghost. When she saw that, a spike of fear went shooting through her. ‘My baby is going to die,’ she thought to herself. But she pulled herself together. ‘What am I talking about or what is wrong with me? Didn’t the doctor tell me there is nothing wrong with him. Nothing in the slightest. Run down – that’s what he is. I know what I’ll do. I’ll take another walk up to the surgery just to be on the safe side.’
Which is exactly what she did. The doctor gave her more medicine and no sooner had she said goodbye to him and gone off down the street than she was laughing and smiling away with the neighbours, just like old times. Wouldn’t it be absolutely wonderful to say that that evening saw little Thomas back to himself? He wasn’t however and the crying, bad as it had been before, was now very close to what you might describe as unbearable. So it wasn’t really surprising when
the neighbours said to Mrs McAdoo, ‘Would you not think of bringing him up to the Canon? Don’t you know that he can work miracles?’ ‘Very well then,’ she replied, ‘I will.’ Because the truth was by that time she would have done anything. If the neighbour women had told her to feed the baby wood shavings she would have been glad to do it.
She put him into the pram and wheeled him off up to the parochial house. She told the Canon that there was something wrong with her child, that he had some kind of disease. ‘I see,’ he said to her. ‘Right so – bring him out the back.’
Of all the women in the town there was no one holier than Mrs McAdoo. She most definitely wasn’t the kind who would speak back to the priests, especially not the Canon. But when he asked her to bring him round the back and put him down into the barrel of holy water she wasn’t so sure after all if she wanted a miracle performed. In fact, she was almost one hundred per cent certain that she didn’t and although she was a little bit afraid she did manage to speak up a bit. ‘But, Canon, what if any of it gets into his mouth? There’s all green stuff on the top of it there. It’s just that I’m afraid it might make him sick, Canon, if you know what I mean.’
When the Canon heard this he did not quite know whether to fall about the place laughing or just draw out there and then and hit her a skelp of his walking stick. He just couldn’t understand it. He could not for the life of him understand what was the matter with her. Fortunately for her in the end he just sighed and said, ‘Ah, daughter, will you come on now. Stop your cod-acting like a good girl and put him into the holy water, I have confessions at eight.’ When she started to sniffle a little bit, he said, somewhat more forcefully this time, ‘Mrs McAdoo, will you please put the baby in or what is wrong with you?’ So then at last she put him in and when she took him out she hesitated for a minute or two. She wasn’t so sure about putting him in the second time because he was, as she had said, all covered in the green slime. But the Canon was insistent that it had to be three times or nothing. He said the child was either to be immersed three times or the whole thing was a complete waste of time. So in went Thomas the third time and the Canon said, ‘There now – that wasn’t so hard, was it? Good girl yourself.’
Mrs McAdoo stuttered. Not very much. Just a little because she was confused. Then she composed herself and replied no Canon it wasn’t hard Canon thank you very much Canon I want to thank you very much. And the Canon said that there was no need to thank him. He said never mind thanking me Mrs I’m doing no more than my job that’s all I’m doing – no more no less. After that he said it was time for him to be off to his confessions.
On leaving the church grounds, Mrs McAdoo found herself in a state of near elation and as she carried Thomas all the way down the hill towards the town she felt she was cruising at least three feet above the ground. And if she was sure of one thing it was that that day which was an ordinary misty-wet day in September was the happiest day ever in her whole life so far and it seemed to her that nothing would bother her ever again as she said to Thomas, tweaking his cheek in the pram, ‘Isn’t that right, Thomas? Isn’t that right, little chubbies? It certainly is, my little man!’
And it definitely did seem at that moment that nothing would bother her ever again. And went on being like that until around half-past eight or nine when she went into the bedroom to see if he was awake or did he perhaps need another feed. She was still so happy she was singing a little song which went, ‘Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy!’ and the words of it seemed so silly she was going to say to Thomas, ‘Did you ever hear such silly billy words in your whole life – did you?’
That was what she wanted to say to her little man and if she had, she would have expected Thomas to give one of his big wide baby grins that said back to her, ‘No, Mammy – I didn’t.’ But that’s not what happened unfortunately and there was only one reason for that and one reason alone, the fact that he was dead.
And when she saw that, all that Mrs McAdoo could do was let out a howl, a howl that saw all the babies of centuries past flowing in front of her like a white stream.
In the days that followed, no matter where you went you would hear one set of people saying this and another saying that and others who did not seem to know what to say. Our old friend Nobby the Funeral Expert was quite firm. ‘Look – everybody makes a mistake,’ he said. ‘Are you going to sit there and tell me there’s nobody in this town makes a mistake? I guarantee you this. For every ten tables knocked together above in the factory there’s one doesn’t come up to scratch. Am I right? And don’t tell me the doctors don’t drop the odd stitch either. There’s men buried up there on that hill would still be walking the streets of this town if the doctors and surgeons had been minding their p’s and q’s. Mistakes? We all make them. And the boys above in the parochial house are no different. Of course it’s very sad that the child was drowned. It’d be a hard-hearted class of a man that’d say different. For there’s no sweeter sight on this earth than the smile of a wee bonny baby in a pram. Of course it’s sad – there’s no heavier cross to be asked to bear. Poor Mrs McAdoo, Lord bless us and save us, God knows what it’ll do to her for what with her poor father passing away not two years back she wouldn’t now be the strongest class of a creature if you know what I mean. But let’s be honest now, when all’s said and done what can you do about it? We’re hardly going to go up to the parochial house and march the Canon down to McAdoo’s to make the child come alive again. Jesus Mary and Joseph sure we’re not going to do that. And if we’re not going to do it then what are we going to do? I’ll tell you what we’re going to do – we’re going to do damn all. Damn all, that’s what we’re going to do. Because there’s nothing we can do. And why? Because the Canon is a very nice man – the best of a fellow. A gentleman that’s what he is and no two ways about it. It’s just unfortunate that whatever happened this time things didn’t work out and I’m afraid when all’s said and done that’s all there is to it, no more, no less.’
When he had finished his monologue, the men who were sitting beside him on the seat couldn’t really think of much to offer by way of reply. They just sat there staring into the greasy bowls of their caps and dragging long and hard on pipes as they said aye and that’s the way and true for you Nobby true surely.
The funeral took place a couple of days later and Nobby was proved right again. He had estimated that there would be an attendance of one thousand and his forecast turned out to be absolutely right. ‘The baby you see! You can always be sure of a big draw when it’s a baby. Do you mind the McMahon child? Close on the same you’ll find,’ he said.
They put the small white coffin on trestles in the chapel for all to see and anybody who saw it could not stop the tears coming into their eyes. The chapel was filled with beautiful flowers. Taped to the lid of the coffin was a small card edged in black reading ‘Thomas aged six months we loved you so much’, with a photograph of the child on it. All the shops in town closed for the entire day as a mark of respect.
As the funeral cortège arrived at the cemetery everybody waited for the Canon to speak. Standing by the grave in his surplice holding his missal, he told the congregation that it was a sad occasion, and when he said that everybody bowed their heads and stared at the grass. Although it was a sad occasion, he continued, it was also a beautiful one. And that was because there was always something special about a pure white unblemished soul returning to the welcoming arms of Jesus. Then what he wanted to know was who could deny or ignore the feeling of peacefulness that now pervaded the cemetery, the peacefulness of a community united as one in grief. He raised his arms heavenward and proclaimed it wonderful that at times like this everyone who gathered together as members of a community could put aside the small differences which it had to be admitted occasionally came between them, such as the unreturned spade, the hasty word, the broken promise. Today, he said, Christ walks amongst us on this happy occasion. Then he closed his eyes and went a step further: no, on this happy,
happy occasion.
It was a great speech. It was a speech that had a marked effect on everyone present and there wasn’t one person who was not close to a state of blissful contentment thanks to the Canon’s beautiful, well-chosen words, words that effected a magnificent transformation on all present. Indeed, there would have been many happy, almost ecstatic people leaving the graveyard that day if the Canon had been allowed to continue in that vein and Mrs McAdoo had not thrown herself into the grave and begun to rant and rave like a madwoman. Not only that but tear away at the lid of the coffin with her nails shouting, ‘Thomas! Thomas, come back to me! I don’t want you to die! I don’t want you to go to limbo! I want you to come back to me so we can play building blocks!’
At first no one knew quite how to react. They hoped that she would somehow stop. She didn’t however and the longer she went on, the less they seemed to know what to do about it. All they could hear was the scraping on the wood of the coffin. They simply weren’t sure what they ought to do. The peaceful, harmonious, indeed almost magical atmosphere of togetherness and unity which the Canon had been talking about had all but disintegrated and they found themselves standing there trying not to hear, which was impossible because by this stage she wasn’t shouting, she was roaring. Behind Malachy someone said, ‘This is great carry-on. This is a grand how-do-you-do I must say. Or what in the hell is wrong with her? Jesus Mary and Joseph such a thing to happen on the day of a funeral.’
The Dead School Page 3