Máirtín Ó Cadhain - Graveyard Clay - Cré na Cille

5

— … But Cóilí, Cóilí …

— Let me finish my story, my good man:

“‘There’s nobody can inform me about this case now,’ says Daniel O’Connell, 6‘but one person — Biddy Early — and she’s seven hundred miles from here, working charms for distillers whose poteen is being robbed of all its powers by the fairies, in a town they call Bones of the Horse 7in the County of Galway back in Ireland. Saddle and bridle the best horse in my stable till I go and fetch her to London in England riding pillion behind me …’

“Off he went. ‘Miss Debonaire,’ says he to her … ‘How dare any son of a hag take liberties with my name?’ says she …”

— … Now then, Siúán the Shop! Looking for votes for Peadar the Pub! Why wouldn’t you? Your son is married to his daughter above ground. And even if he weren’t, yourself and Peadar would be as thick as any pair of thieves …

— This is the thanks I get now. You’d have died years before your time only for I gave you credit. Running into me begging each day: “For the honour of God and His Blessed Mother give me a grain of flour till I sell the pigs …”

— I paid dearly and direly for that same flour, my sharp little Siúán. All the people were saying: “Siúán the Shop is good and charitable. She gives credit.” You did, Siúán, because you knew you’d get paid, and if the odd person wouldn’t pay you, a hundred others would …

— The same basic principle applies in insurance …

— I’d get a bag of flour for a pound if I paid on the nail. If I waited till fairday or sold before the fair, it cost me one pound, three shillings. If I wasn’t able to pay for six or nine months, it cost me one pound, seven shillings. You were smooth and sweet to the big shot. You were cruel and contemptuous to the person who didn’t have his penny in the palm of his hand. Thanks be to God the day has come that we’re not afraid to say it to your face …

— Arrah, Siúán, you little toady — toadying to the well-off — you little toady Siúán, it was you who killed me four score years before my time. For want of fags 8… I saw you giving them to the sergeant, who didn’t shop with you at all but in Brightcity. I saw you giving them to a lorry driver that nobody knew where the devil he came from, and that you never made a penny on. You kept them under the counter. “Just the one,” says I. “I’ll make do with that for now and maybe they’ll be more plentiful from tomorrow, the beginning of the month …”

“Where would I get fags? ” says you. “Don’t you know I don’t make them! …”

“If I could afford four or five shillings a box for them,” says I … “Keep them!”

I went home.

“You should gather up that scattering of seaweed you left down there and spread it on the field over here,” says my mother.

“Seaweed!” says I. “My seaweed spreading is over, mother.”

I threw out a spit. It was as stiff as a male briar. May I not leave this spot if it wasn’t. There was a kitten on the hearth. He began to lick at the spittle. He took a fit of coughing. May I not leave this spot if he didn’t.

“This doesn’t look good,” says I. I took to my bed. I didn’t get up any more. For the want of fags . My death is on your head, toady Siúán, toadying to the well-off …

— And so is my death! Your clogs were my killer, you cheating Siúán. I handed out my two pounds, five shillings into your hand. It was in the blackest depths of winter, and us building the road in Donagh’s Village. Drawing stones 9on a hand-barrow I was, in that wet hollow to the south. May the same hollow smother and drown forever and ever! It was there I was fated to die. I put on the clogs . Oh, the devil as much as one drop did they keep out after the second day …

I rested the barrow.

“What’s wrong with you?” says my workmate.

“There’s plenty wrong with me,” says I. I sat down in the fork of the barrow and I pulled my drawers up above my ankle. The small of my foot was as blue as Glutton’s nose. By Heavens, it was.

“What’s wrong with you?” says the big boss when he came by.

“There’s plenty wrong with me,” says I.

“There’s plenty wrong with you, I’m afraid,” says he.

“Siúán the Shop’s clogs ,” says I.

“May they smother and drown forever,” says he. “If she lives much longer I won’t have a road-worker left who isn’t in the cemetery.”

I went home. I lay down on the bed. The doctor was sent for that night.

“You’re finished,” he says. “The feet …”

“I’m finished indeed,” says I. “The feet … clogs …”

“Siúán the Shop’s clogs indeed,” says he. “As long as she lives I won’t be idle …”

The priest was sent for the following morning. “You’re finished,” he says. “The feet …”

“Finished indeed,” says I. “The feet … Clogs …”

“Siúán the Shop’s clogs indeed,” says he. “As long as she lives I won’t be idle. But you’re finished anyhow …”

And of course I was. A week from that day I was laid out. Your clogs , you cheating Siúán. My death is on your head …

— My death is on your head, you ugly Siúán. Your coffee. Oh, your damned coffee! Your jam. Oh, your damned jam, you ugly Siúán. Your coffee instead of tea: your jam instead of butter.

It was the sorry day for me — if only I could have helped it — the day I left my coupons with you, you ugly Siúán:

“No tea came this week. I don’t know what’s wrong with them that they didn’t send me any.”

“No tea came, Siúán?”

“Devil a grain, then.”

“And the people can’t get any tea this week, Siúán?”

“They can’t indeed. But you’ll get two weeks’ rations next week.”

“But you said that often before, Siúán, and we were never compensated for the weeks it didn’t come … For the honour of God and His Blessed Mother, a grain of tea, Siúán. A little grain. As much as would cover a fingernail, even … The coffee has me poisoned …”

“Don’t you know it’s not me that manufactures tea. If you’re not satisfied you can take your coupons to …”

And you knew right well I couldn’t, you ugly Siúán. Saving up the tea for those who could pay you three times the price for it: houses that kept Irish-language learners, tourists, big shots and so on. You gave it to the Priest’s housekeeper in front of my two eyes, and you gave a quarter of a pound to the sergeant’s wife. Trying to get the priest not to denounce your roguery from the altar; trying to get the sergeant not to denounce your roguery in court …

I brought the coffee home with me. The old woman put down a dash of it.

“I won’t drink it,” said I. “The blessings of God on you …”

“You’ll have to take something soon,” she says. “You haven’t taken a thing since yesterday morning.”

“Let it be,” said I. I got up a lump of phlegm. It was like leather, begging the graveyard’s pardon. The dog began sniffing around it. But not for long. He took off and wasn’t seen again for two days.

“My stomach juices are not what they should be,” I said. “I might as well die right now. I’ll die if I drink that scour of a coffee, and I’ll die if I don’t …”

And I did die. I wouldn’t have a word of speech now only for I sweated the stuff out of me while I was laid out … your coffee was the cause of my death, you ugly Siúán. My death is on your head.

— And my death!

— And my death!

— And my death!

— … I won’t vote for you, Peadar. You let a black heretic insult the faith inside your public house. You had no blood in your veins. If it had been me …