Máirtín Ó Cadhain - Graveyard Clay - Cré na Cille

— You were a crook, Peadar the Pub. You charged me four fourpenny bits for a half-glass of whiskey and I was so green I didn’t know what I should pay.

— Your wife would know. Many is the half-glass she drank in my pub. But that was another thing you didn’t know till now, it seems …

— You were a crook, Peadar the Pub. You were watering the whiskey.

— I was not.

— I say you were. Tomás Inside and myself went in to you on a Friday after collecting the pension. This was before the war. The country was awash with whiskey. As soon as you saw Tomás was a bit merry you started talking about women to him. “It’s a wonder you wouldn’t marry, Tomás,” you said. “A man who has a nice patch of land …”

“By the docks, but I have that, my friend,” says Tomás. “You might as well give me the daughter.”

“By God, there she is, and I’m not keeping her from you,” you said … There was such a day, Peadar. Don’t deny it …

Your daughter came into the pub at just the right moment. She took a crock of jam from the shelf. Do you think I don’t remember? “That’s her now,” says you. “She can do whatever she likes …”

“Will you marry me?” says Tomás, moving in close to her.

“Why wouldn’t I, Tomás?” says she. “You’ve a nice patch of land, and a half-guinea pension …”

We spent some time joking like that, but Tomás was half in earnest. Your daughter was wriggling about and fiddling with her neck-scarf … There was such a day, Peadar the Pub. Don’t deny it …

Your daughter went into the kitchen. In went Tomás after her, to light his pipe. She kept him in there. But soon she was back in the pub again getting another swig of whiskey for him. “That old eejit will soon be blind drunk, and he’s ours till morning then,” she says.

You took the glass she had in her hand. You put a good half of water into it from the jug. You filled it up with whiskey then … There was such a day, Peadar …

Do you think I didn’t see you at it? I knew well what was going on between you and your daughter behind the counter. Do you think I didn’t understand your whispering? Your daughter plied Tomás Inside with watered whiskey throughout the day. But he paid the price of whiskey for the water, and he was drunk in the evening all the same … Your daughter spent the day coaxing him. He soon began to order glasses of whiskey for her, and she only filling them with water. A lorry driver would have run into him that evening only for Nell Pháidín, Jack the Scológ’s wife, came in and brought him home with her … There was such a day, Peadar. Don’t deny it. You were a robber …

— You robbed me too, Peadar the Pub. Your daughter gave me change out of a ten-shilling note instead of a pound, and then she was ramming it down my throat that …

— You robbed me too, Peadar the Pub. Your daughter brought me into the parlour, letting on she was fond of me. She sat in my lap. A crowd of squireens 10from Brightcity came in and they were sent into the parlour along with me, and this fool was buying them drinks all night. The next day she did the same thing. But there was no squireen from Brightcity around. Instead, she gave the nod to the scroungers off the corner to come in; they were brought into the parlour, and this stupid fool had to stand them drinks …

— I remember it well. I twisted my ankle …

— until I didn’t have as much as a coin that would rattle on a flagstone. It was part of your roguery, Peadar the Pub: your daughter pretending to be fond of every knock-kneed fool who might have a couple of pounds, till they were spent …

— You robbed me like everybody else, Peadar the Pub. I was home on leave from England. I had a hundred and twenty pounds of my earnings in my breast pocket. Your daughter brought me into the parlour. She sat in my lap. Some infernal stuff was put into my drink. When I awoke from my drunkenness all I had left in Christendom was a two-shilling piece and a heap of halfpennies …

— You robbed me like the rest of them, Peadar the Pub. I had twenty-one pounds fifteen shillings I’d got for three lorryloads of turf that evening. We went in to you to seal the bargain with a drink. At half past ten or eleven o’clock I was on my own in the shop. What did you do but take yourself off. That was part of your cuteness: letting on you noticed nothing. I went into the parlour with your daughter. She sat in my lap. She put her arms around me under my oxters. Something that wasn’t right was put in my drink. When I came to my senses all I had left was the change out of a pound I got earlier, that was in the pocket of my trousers …

— You robbed me too, Peadar the Pub. No wonder your daughter had a big dowry when she married Siúán the Shop’s son. Straight out, Peadar, I wouldn’t give you my vote …

— I had intended from the beginning to conduct this Election in a decent manner on behalf of the Pound Party. But since you, the Fifteen-Shilling crowd, have brought up unsavoury personal matters — things I thought I would only have to reproach the Half-Guinea Party for — I am going to divulge information that is not very complimentary to Nóra Sheáinín, your own joint candidate. Nóra Sheáinín was a friend of mine. Although I oppose her politically, that doesn’t mean that I couldn’t respect her and be on cordial terms with her. For that reason, I hate to talk about this matter. I find it painful. I find it repugnant. I find it distasteful. But it was yourselves, the Fifteen-Shilling crowd, who started this incivility. Don’t be upset if I give you the stick you cut for yourselves. The bed you have made for yourselves, let you sleep in it now! I was a publican above ground. Nobody but a damned liar can say my pub was not a decent one. You are very proud of your joint candidate. She could hold her head up in any company for decency, honesty and virtue, if what you people are saying is true. But Nóra Sheáinín was a drunkard. Do you know that hardly a day went by without her coming in to me — especially on Fridays when Tomás Inside was in the pub — and drinking four or five pints of porter in the snug at the back of the shop.

— It’s not true! It’s not true!

— That’s a damned lie! That’s a damned lie, Peadar …

— You’re spouting lies! It’s not true! …

— It is true! Not only did she drink, she sponged for drink. I often gave her drink on credit. But it’s not often she paid me for it …

— She never took a drop of drink …

— It’s a damned lie …

— It’s not true, Peadar the Pub …

— It is true, Fellow Corpses! Nóra Sheáinín was a secret drinker. Usually when she had no business in any other shop in the village, she would come over by the old boreen, down through the little wood and in the back entrance. And she used to come on Sundays as well as weekdays, after closing time at night and before opening time in the morning.

— It’s not true! It’s not true! It’s not true!

— Hurrah for Nóra Sheáinín! …

— Hurrah for the Fifteen-Shilling Party! …

— Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah for Nóra Sheáinín! …

— May God save your health, Peadar the Pub! Let her have it where it hurts! Oh by God! And I never knew she was a secret drinker! What else would she be! Keeping company with sailors …

6

— … The heart! the heart, God help us …

— … God help us forever and ever … My friends and relations and my kith and kin would come and kneel at my grave. Kindred hearts would break into a blaze of prayer and sympathetic souls would compose an Ave . 11Dead clay would answer living clay, the dead heart would warm to the love of the living heart and the dead voice would comprehend the bold utterances of the living …