Máirtín Ó Cadhain - Graveyard Clay - Cré na Cille

Believe you me, Muraed, those few words hurt me more than all the other wrongs she did me put together. That remark was like a plague of weasels snarling back and forth through my mind and spitting venom. I didn’t get it out of my head till the day I died. I didn’t, Muraed. Every time I’d see Big Brian I’d think of that night, of the room at home, of that mocking grin on Nell’s face in the arms of Jack the Scológ. Every time I’d see a son or daughter of Big Brian’s I’d think of that night. Every time anyone mentioned Big Brian I’d think of it … the room … the grin … Nell in the arms of Jack the Scológ! … in the arms of Jack the Scológ …

Big Brian asked me twice, Muraed. I never told you that … What’s this you said Nóra Sheáinín calls it? The eternal triangle … the eternal triangle … That’s like her stupid grin all right … But, Muraed, I didn’t tell you … You’re mistaken. I’m not that sort of person, Muraed. I’m no gossip. One thing about me, anything I saw or heard, I carried it into the graveyard clay with me. But it’s no harm to talk about it now that we’re on the way of eternal truth 25… He asked me twice, indeed. The first time he came I was no more than twenty. My father wanted me to move in there. “Big Brian is a good hard-working man with a warm house and a fat purse,” he says.

“I wouldn’t marry him,” says I, “if I had to get the loan of the shawl from Nell and stand in the middle of the fair.”

“Why not?” says my father.

“The ugly streak of misery,” says I. “Look at the goaty beard on him. Look at the buckteeth. Look at the stopped-up nose. Look at the club-foot. Look at his dirty little hovel of a house. Look at the layers of filth on him. He’s three times my age. He could be my grandfather.”

It was true for me. He was nearing fifty then. He’s nearing the hundred now, and still above ground, without a day’s illness, apart from the odd twinge of rheumatism. He was going for the pension every Friday when I was still above ground. The ugly streak of misery! …

“The wilful child will follow his own counsel!” says my father, and he said no more about it.

It wasn’t long after Nell got married when he came in again. I was just going to make a drop of tea before nightfall. I remember it well. I had set the teapot down on the hearth while I was raking out a bed of embers to put under it. This man comes barging in on top of me before I had a chance to see who it was. “Will you marry me, Caitríona?” he says, not beating about the bush. “I’ve earned you well, having to come twice. But since I’m not getting my health for want of a strong lump of a woman …”

Upon my soul, that’s exactly what he said.

“I wouldn’t marry you, you ugly streak of misery, if I was covered in green scum for the want of a man,” says I …

I’d laid down the tongs and I had the kettle of boiling water in my hand. Without a moment’s wavering, Muraed, I ran at him in the middle of the floor. But he had made it out the door.

I’d have you know, Muraed, I was hard to please when it came to men. I was good-looking and I had a good dowry … To marry Big Brian, Muraed, after what Nell had said …

— … “It could win,” says I, putting my hand in my pocket and turning it out. “It’s all or nothing now!” says I, collecting the ticket from the girl. She smiled at me: an innocent smile from a young heart without guile. “If ‘Golden Apple’ wins,” says I, “I’ll buy you sweets and I’ll take you to the cinema … or would you prefer a caper of a dance … or a couple of drinks in the privacy of the lounge bar in the Western Hotel? …”

— … Qu’est-ce que vous dites? Quelle drôle de langue! N’y a-t-il pas là quelque professeur ou étudiant qui parle français?

— Au revoir. Au revoir .

— Pardon! Pardon!

— Shut your mouth, sourpuss!

— If I could get over as far as that drake I’d shut him up! Either that or make him talk like a Christian. Every time Hitler is mentioned he starts spluttering, with a torrent of talk coming out of him. If one could understand him, I think he’s not at all grateful to Hitler.

— Don’t you hear, every time Hitler’s name comes up he says “meirdreach” 26on the spot. He’s picked up that much Irish anyway …

— Oh, if I could only reach as far as him! High for Hitler! High for Hitler! High for Hitler! High for Hitler! …

— Je ne vous comprends pas, monsieur …

— Who is that, Muraed?

— That’s your man who was killed out of the aeroplane, don’t you remember? Your man who fell into the Middle Harbour. You were alive at the time.

— Oh, didn’t I see him laid out, Muraed … He had a fine funeral. They say he was some sort of a hero …

— He keeps on babbling like that. The Master says he’s a Frenchman and that he could understand him if only his tongue weren’t sluggish from being so long in the salt water …

— So the Master doesn’t understand him, Muraed?

— The devil a bit of him then, Caitríona.

— I always knew, Muraed, that the Big Master had no learning. Don’t heed him if he doesn’t understand a Frenchman! I should have known that a long time ago …

— Nóra Sheáinín understands him better than anyone else in the graveyard. Did you hear her answering him a while ago …

— Oh, have a bit of sense, Muraed Phroinsiais. You mean Nóirín Filthy-Feet? …

— Ils m’ennuient. On espère toujours trouver la paix dans la mort, mais la tombe ne semble pas encore être la mort. On ne trouve ici en tout cas, que de l’ennui …

— Au revoir. Au revoir. De grâce. De grâce .

— … Six times six, forty-six; six times seven, fifty-two; six times eight, fifty-eight … Now amn’t I good, Master! I know my tables as far as six. If I’d gone to school as a child there’d be no stopping me. I’ll say the tables for you from the beginning now, Master. Two times one … Why don’t you want to hear them, Master? You’ve been neglecting me this last while, since Caitríona Pháidín told you about your wife …

— … By the oak of this coffin, Curraoin, I gave Caitríona Pháidín the pound and I haven’t seen sight of it since …

— Ababúna! That’s a lie, you old hag …

— … Honest , Dotie. You wouldn’t understand: a stranger from the plains of East Galway. This is the truth, the honest truth, Dotie. I was going to say “By the blessed little finger,” but that’s tramps’ talk. I’ll say “Cross my heart” instead, Dotie. Muraed told you about herself and Nell, but she didn’t tell you what dowry I gave my daughter when she married into Caitríona’s house. You should know that now, Dotie. The rest of them here already know it. One hundred and twenty pounds, Dotie. Honest! One hundred and twenty pounds, in golden guineas …

— Ababúna! Muraed! Muraed! Do you hear? I’ll explode! I’ll explode, Muraed! I’ll explode, Muraed! Nóra Sheáinín’s daughter … one hundred and twenty … dowry … into my house … I’ll explode! I’ll explode! Oh, I’ll explode! I’ll expl. I’ll exp. I’ll ex …

1

You were asking for it. If I hadn’t stabbed you someone else would have, and isn’t the fool as good as his servant? If you were to be stabbed, it was better for a neighbour to do it than a stranger. The stranger would be buried far away from you, on the fair plains of East Galway maybe, or up in Dublin, or even the North. What would you do then? Look at the satisfaction you get scolding me here. And if it was a stranger buried beside you, you’d be in a bad way not knowing what to throw in his face, since you wouldn’t know his people for seven generations back. Have sense my good man! I wouldn’t mind, but I stabbed you cleanly …