Máirtín Ó Cadhain - Graveyard Clay - Cré na Cille

— The One-Ear Breed were known for stabbing people cleanly! …

— … A white-faced mare … She was the best …

— … By the oak of this coffin, Siúán the Shop, I gave Caitríona Pháidín the pound …

— … I left it at that. Went up to the bookie’s around three o’clock. “‘Golden Apple,’” I said. “It could win,” putting my hand in my pocket and turning it out. Not a farthing in it …

The clock struck three. The race was run. “Golden Apple” won: a hundred to one. Drew my five pounds. The young girl gave me that smile again: a bright smile from a young heart without guile. That meant more to me than the five pounds. “I’ll buy you sweets, or I’ll take you to the pictures or a dance … or would you prefer …” I felt embarrassed and didn’t finish the sentence. “I’ll meet you outside the Plaza at a quarter past seven,” said I.

Went home. Shaved, cleaned, washed, preened myself. Didn’t even have a celebratory drop. I had too much respect for that sweet smile from a young heart without guile …

Went to the Plaza at seven. Broke my five pounds buying her a box of chocolates. The chocolates would bring more joy to that young heart without guile, and her smile would be like a rose in the first virginal sunrays of morning. What a shame I’m such a tough myself! …

— Hold on now till I read you the Declaration issued by Éamon de Valera to the people of Ireland: “People of Ireland …”

— Hold on yourself till I read you the Declaration issued by Arthur Griffith to the people of Ireland: “People of Ireland …”

— … I drank two score pints and two that night, one after the other. And I walked home afterwards as straight as a Spanish reed … as straight as a Spanish reed, I tell you. I pulled a calf out of the speckled cow, that had been stuck between its bones for a couple of hours. I drove the old donkey out of Curraoin’s oats … and it was me who tied Tomáisín. I had taken off my boots on the hearth and I was just going on my knees to say a smattering of prayers, when in comes the little girl. There wasn’t a puff of breath in her. “My Mammy says you’re to come over straight away,” she says, “the madness has struck Daddy again.”

“The devil take his madness, doesn’t he pick the right time for it,” says I, “and me just about to say my prayers. What the hell is wrong with him this time?”

“Poteen whiskey,” says she.

I went over. He was stark raving, and the whole lot of them not able to tie him. A spineless lot, it has to be said.

“Come on!” says I. “Get me the rope quickly before he grabs the hatchet. Can’t you see he’s got his eye on it …”

— I remember it well. I twisted my ankle …

— The game was ours.

— It mightn’t have been. Only for the mine flattened the house …

— … “I washed my face with the dew,

And the comb I had was the wind …”

It’s still not right, Curraoin. There’s a limp in that line. Hold on now:

“I washed my face with the dew …”

That much is beautiful, Curraoin. I used it before in The Golden Stars . Hold on now … Listen now, Curraoin:

“I washed my face with the dew,

And I combed my hair with the wind …”

That’s perfect. I knew I’d get it right in the end, Curraoin … Are you listening now?

“I washed my face with the dew,

And I combed my hair with the wind …

The rainbow was a lace in my shoe …”

Hold on, Curraoin … hold on … Eureka! …

“And the Pleiads held up my trews …”

I knew I’d get it, Curraoin. Listen to the whole verse now …

— May the devil pierce you and don’t be annoying the people! You have me demented with your trivial verses for the past two years. I have other things on my mind, though if it’s God’s will I shouldn’t complain: my eldest son is keeping company with Road-End’s daughter, and that wife of mine at home could be on the point of handing over the big holding to him. And, for all I know, Glutton’s donkey or Road-End’s cattle could be in my oats at this very moment.

—’Tis true for you, Curraoin. Why in the name of God didn’t they bury the dirty scoundrel in the east cemetery. That’s where Maidhc Ó Dónaill is buried, the man who made “The Song of the Turnip” and “The Chicken’s Contention with the Grain of Oats” …

— And Big Micil Ó Conaola, who made “The Song of Caitríona” and “The Song of Tomás Inside” …

— And “The Lay of the Cats.” “The Lay of the Cats” is a fine piece of work. You wouldn’t be capable of composing it, you impudent brat …

— … Eight times six, forty-eight; eight times seven, fifty-four … You’re not listening at all, Master. Your mind is wandering these days … I’m making no progress! … Is that what you said, Master? It’s no wonder, Master, and the way you’re neglecting me … Tell me this … How many tables are there, Master? … Is that all? Oh, if that’s all, then! Arrah, I thought they went up to a hundred … to a thousand … to a million … to a quadrillion … We have plenty of time to learn them in any case, Master. I’ve always heard it said that we owe the clay many a day. He who made Time made plenty of it …

— … God help us! A pity they didn’t take my earthly remains east of Brightcity and lay me down with my own people in Temple Brennan on the fair plains of East Galway! The clay is gentle 1and welcoming there; the clay is crumbly and smooth there; the clay is friendly and tender there; the clay is protective and cosy there. The decay of the grave would not be decay there; corruption of the flesh would not be corruption there. But clay would receive clay; clay would kiss and caress clay; clay would coalesce with clay …

— She’s having another attack of “sentimentality” …

— You never saw anyone so full of life till this foolishness comes over her …

— Her nature, God help us! Caitríona is much worse, once she starts talking about Nell and Nóra Sheáinín …

— Arrah, Caitríona is completely out of order. Big Brian was right when he called her a jennet 2…

— Big Brian was not right. Honest , indeed he was not …

— What’s this? Have you turned against the streak of misery too, Nóra? …

— Honest , he was not right. The jennet is a very cultured animal. Honest , it is. The Redheads in Donagh’s Village had a jennet when I was going to school long ago, and he used to eat raisin bread out of the palm of my hand …

— Going to school long ago! Nóra Filthy-Feet going to school! Raisin bread in Mangy Field! O woe, woe forever! Muraed, did you hear what Nóra Filthy-Feet, daughter of Seáinín Robin, said? Oh, I’ll explode …

2

… Hey! Nóra Sheáinín! … Nóra Sheáinín! … Nóra Filthy-Feet! … You weren’t content to leave the nasty habit of telling lies above ground but you brought it underground with you too. Indeed, the whole graveyard knows that the devil himself — we renounce him! — gave you the loan of his tongue when you were on your mother’s breast and you’ve used it so well ever since that he never asked for it back …

As for giving a hundred and twenty pounds of dowry to that little scold of a daughter of yours … Well! Well! … A woman who didn’t have a stitch of clothes to cover herself with on her wedding day, until I bought an outfit for her … A hundred and twenty pounds from Nóra Filthy-Feet … There wasn’t ever a hundred and twenty pounds in the whole of Mangy Field. Mangy Field of the Puddles. I suppose you’re too posh now to milk the ducks … A hundred and twenty pounds … A hundred and twenty fleas! No, more likely a hundred thousand fleas. That was the most plentiful livestock the Filthy-Feet Breed ever had. Indeed then, Nóirín, if fleas were dowry that stupid little fool who married your daughter would have so many lambs he would have been knighted nine times over. She brought a good flock of them into my house with her …