Máirtín Ó Cadhain - Graveyard Clay - Cré na Cille

— You’re right. Don’t we know you’re right. They dug up four graves for the Poet, and in the end they sneaked him in beside Curraoin …

— May the devil pierce him! He has me demented with his silly verses. May he roast in hell; couldn’t he have stayed alive another while till I had a cross over me …

— Oho! The cheeky brat …

— I wouldn’t mind but I was worried that my wife at home would have given my fine big holding to the eldest son …

— Did you hear about Micil Chite’s wife from Donagh’s Village, who was nearly buried on top of Siúán the Shop. There was no cross over Siúán at the time …

— Oh! Siúán, you poor thing …

— Poor Siúán, you must have been in torment …

— I shouted up at her, straight out, to get away from me into the Half-Guinea Plot or the Fifteen-Shilling Plot. The last thing I needed was that lazy lump laid on top of me. The smell of nettles off her would have killed me …

— Didn’t they try to bury someone on top of you too, Cite? …

— Some insignificant little thing from Sive’s Rocks whom I’d never known, nor her parents either. By the oak of this coffin, I made her take herself off in a hurry! “I was badly got if the beggars of Sive’s Rocks are going to be my companions in the graveyard clay in the end,” said I …

— Honest . They had my grave dug up too. Some woman from Hillside Wood. “Ugh!” I said, “to put that coarse-grained barbarian from Hillside Wood down alongside me! Now, if it was someone with a bit of culture! …”

— Oh! Do you hear the little bitch from Mangy Field of the Puddles belittling Hillside Wood? Oh, don’t talk to me! I’ll explode! …

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— … I fell off a stack of oats …

— … God help us forever and ever! If only they’d taken my earthly remains back east of Brightcity … The setting sun there would not have to slink and slant in order to reach me. The rising sun would not appear like a poor woman of the roads on her first begging mission, ashamed to venture beyond the obscure tracks of hill and cliff. The moon would not have to watch its step on an impossible tangle of hill, hummock and harbour when she desired to come and kiss me. I would have the vast expanse of the plain spread out like a multicoloured carpet before her. The rain would not come darting down like shots from a rambling ruffian blazing away on rough mountainy paths, but like the stately triumph of a queen whose presence among her people confirms the rule of law and prosperity …

— Dotie! “Sentimentality”!

— That foolishness again …

— … Look at me! The murderer gave me a bad bottle …

— … Went to the Plaza at seven … She came. That bright smile again. Accepted the chocolates. A flick … She’d already seen the flick at the Plaza — seen all the flicks in town. A stroll or a dance … She’d been on her feet in the Bookie’s since morning … Tea … She’d just got up from her tea … The Western Hotel … Certainly, a short rest would do her good …

“Wine,” says I to the waiter.

“Whiskey,” says she.

“Two large whiskeys,” says I …

“Two more large whiskeys,” says I …

“I’ve no more whiskey,” says the waiter. “Do you know how many whiskeys you’ve drunk since seven o’clock: twelve large ones each! Whiskey is scarce …”

“Stout,” says I.

“Brandy,” says she.

“Two large brandies,” says I …

“Do you know,” says the waiter, “that it’s away past one o’clock, and even though you’re in the Western Hotel we still have to keep an eye out. There might be a police raid …”

“I’ll escort you home,” says I, as the waiter closed the door of the Western Hotel behind us.

“Escort me home?” says she. “By the look of you it’s me will have to escort you. Smarten yourself up there or you’ll fall in through that window. You can’t take it, is that how it is? Look how sober I am, and I had a large brandy more than you! You wouldn’t think I had a drop taken, would you? … Mind you don’t bump into that pole … Come on, walk. Let me take your arm and I’ll escort you to your own door. We might get a few more drinks in Simon O’Halloran’s on the way up. It’s pay-night and he won’t close till morning …”

I managed to get a look at her in the half-light of the street. She had that bright smile on her face. But I was putting my hand into my pocket and turning it out. Down to the one shilling …

— You silly fool …

— … Faith then, as you say …

— … I’m telling you the truth, Peadar the Pub. Caitríona Pháidín came in to me. I remember it well. It was late in the year, in November. It was the year we put winter manure on the Rape Field. Micil was spreading seaweed the same day. I was expecting the youngsters home from school any minute, and I turned the batch of potatoes I had roasting in the ashes for them. Then I sat down in the chimney-corner turning the heel on a stocking.

“God bless all here,” she says. “Well, the same to you,” says I. “You’re welcome, Caitríona. Sit down.”

“I can’t stay for a proper visit,” says she. “I’m up to my eyes preparing for the priest. It’s only nine or ten days now till he’ll be in on top of me. I won’t beat about the bush, Cite,” says she. “You sold the pigs last fairday. Ours won’t be ready for selling till the Feast of St. Brigid, 12if the Lord spares them … It’s a lot to ask for, Cite, but if you can spare it till St. Brigid’s Fairday, you would do me a great favour if you could give me a pound of money. I’m getting the chimney fixed and I’m thinking of buying a roundtable 13for the priest’s 14breakfast. I have two pounds of my own …”

“A roundtable , Caitríona?” says I. “Nobody around here has a roundtable for the priest, except the big shots of course. Wouldn’t he eat just as well off an ordinary table, as we’ve always seen the priests do?”

“The last time he was in our Nell’s,” says she, “she had a silver teapot Big Brian’s Mag brought home from America. I’ll get the loan of Siúán the Shop’s silver teapot, Cite, because I’d like to keep neck and neck with Nell and even a nose ahead of her. The brazen upstart!”

I gave her the pound. She bought the roundtable . Things were cheap at the time. She laid out the priest’s breakfast on it, and she made his tea in Siúán the Shop’s silver teapot.

By the oak of this coffin I gave her the pound, Peadar the Pub, and I never got another sight of it from that day to the day I died, whatever Siúán the Shop did about the teapot …

— You’re a liar, you Hag of the Ash-Potatoes. Don’t believe her, Peadar dear. I gave every single penny of it back to her, into the palm of her hand, when I sold the pigs the following Feast of St. Brigid … It’s in your nature, of course! It wasn’t often your own mother told the truth … I died as clean as crystal, thanks be to God … Nobody can ever say Caitríona Pháidín owed as much as a red farthing when she died, which is more than can be said about you, stingy Cite of the Ash-Potatoes … Yourself and your people before you always left a heap of debt behind you wherever you went. You have a nerve to talk! You killed your family and yourself with your ash-baked potatoes … Oh, don’t believe her, Peadar … Don’t believe her … I gave her every red penny of it into the palm of her hand …

I didn’t, you old hag? … I didn’t, you say?

Hey, Muraed! … Muraed! … Did you hear what Cite said? … I’ll explode! I’ll explode! …

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