Máirtín Ó Cadhain - Graveyard Clay - Cré na Cille

— May God forbid that I’d tell a lie about her, Master. That’s what she said. “You’re going to great expense, Mistress,” says I. “You’re in the way of money, and of course the postboy isn’t badly paid, may God spare you both to earn it,” says I, “but faith a wedding’s an expensive undertaking nowadays, Mistress.”

“Only for what he had put aside himself before he died, and the insurance I got on him, I wouldn’t have a hope of doing it,” says she. “The Big Master was a thrifty man, may God be good to him,” says she. “He wasn’t given to drink or debauchery. There was a pretty penny in his purse, Bríd …”

— The harlot! The harlot! She wouldn’t spend half as much on putting a cross over me …

— Isn’t that what I told her, Master: “But you shouldn’t do anything till you’ve put a cross over the Big Master first.”

“It’s a better place the Big Master is in, the poor man,” says she. “The Big Master is on the path of truth, and seeing that he is, it’s not crosses he’ll be worrying about. But I’m sure, Bríd, if he knew about myself and Billyboy the Post, who are still on the path of untruth, he’d tell us not to bother with a cross, but to give ourselves every comfort we can. It was no lie to call him the Big Master, Bríd,” says she. “He was big in his heart and in everything.” Upon my soul that’s exactly what she had to say, Master …

— The harlot! The thieving harlot! …

— … I fell off a stack of oats …

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

— … I’m absolutely certain it was Galway won the All-Ireland football final …

— In 1941, is it? If you mean 1941, they didn’t …

— In 1941 is what I’m saying. But they can thank Concannon. The devil his like of a footballer was ever seen. He smashed and he thrashed and he bashed and he gashed the Cavan players one after another. He was a powerful footballer and a stylish one! I was watching him that day in Croke Park in the semi-final …

— They won the semi-final against Cavan, but they didn’t win the final …

— Oh indeed they did! Concannon won it on his own …

— Do you mean in 1941? Because if you do, Galway didn’t win the All-Ireland final. They beat Cavan by eight points, but Kerry beat them by a goal and a point in the final.

— Oh, for the love of God, how could they? Wasn’t I in Dublin watching the semi-final against Cavan! Three of us went up on the bicycles. I’m not telling you a word of a lie: on the bicycles every bit of the way. It was midnight when we got there. We slept in the open that night. We didn’t even get a drink. You could have wrung the sweat out of our clothes. After the match we nipped in to the footballers. I shook hands with Concannon myself. “My life on you,” says I. “You’re the greatest footballer I’ve ever seen. Wait till the final a month from today. I’ll be here again, with the help of God, watching you beat Kerry,” … and of course they did …

— 1941, is it? If it is, Galway didn’t beat Kerry but Kerry beat Galway …

— For the love of God! Tell that to a supporter. “Kerry beat Galway.” What sort of an eejit do you take me for? …

— In 1941, was it? Were you watching the final?

— I wasn’t, so I wasn’t. But I was watching the semi-final against Cavan, I tell you. What sort of an eejit are you that you don’t understand me? We came home again that Sunday evening on the bicycles. We were hungry and thirsty. There was never such hunger! Devil a town we passed through that we didn’t shout “Up Galway!” It was broad daylight on Monday morning when we got home. I came down off the bike at the head of the boreen. “If it turns out,” says I to the other two, “that we’ve recovered from our hunger and thirst in a month’s time, by God we’ll go up again. I’d love to be watching Concannon beat Kerry.” And of course he did. It was no bother to him …

— 1941, was it? I tell you Kerry won. Surely you were at the final? …

— I wasn’t. I was not. How could I be? Don’t you think I would if I could? What sort of an eejit are you? That day after coming home from the semi-final wasn’t I taken ill! I got a cold from the sweat and sleeping in the open. It turned chronic straight away. Five days from that day I was here in the graveyard clay. How could I have been at the final? You’re an awful eejit …

— And what are you blathering about so, that they beat Kerry?

— It was no bother to them, of course …

— 1941, was it? Maybe you’re thinking of some other year.

— 1941. What else? They beat Kerry in the final …

— But I tell you they didn’t. Kerry beat them by a goal and a point. A goal and eight points for Kerry and seven points for Galway. The referee was unfair to the Galway men. And if he was, it wasn’t for the first time, either. But Kerry won the match …

— May God grant you an ounce of sense! How could Kerry win the match when Galway won it? …

— But you were dead. And I was watching the match. I lived for nine months after that. The match was no help at all to me. There wasn’t a day from that day on that I wasn’t ailing. Only for I was watching them getting beaten …

— For the love of God! You’re the greatest eejit I ever saw! If you’d watched them a hundred times Kerry didn’t beat Galway. Wasn’t I at the semi-final in Croke Park! If you’d seen them that day beating Cavan! Concannon! Oh, he was a powerful footballer! The only lease of life I wanted was to watch him beating Kerry a month from that day … Beating them was no bother to him, of course …

— The 1941 final, is it?

— Yes. What else? What sort of an eejit are you?

— But they didn’t beat them …

— They did so. They did so. Concannon would have beaten them on his own …

5

— … Hey, Muraed … Do you hear me? … Why aren’t you talking? Or what has come over you all recently? There’s not a squeak or a squawk out of any of you since the election. Bríd Terry will have peace now. May she not enjoy it, then! The little hag! Strife is better than solitude, after all …

Surely you’re not disappointed that Nóra Filthy-Feet was defeated in the election, Muraed. It’ll teach her not to be so full of herself in future. She’d lose the run of herself entirely if she’d got in …

I voted for Peadar the Pub, Muraed. Who else? Of course, you wouldn’t expect me to vote for Nóirín of the Sailors, the secret drinker. I have more respect for myself than that, Muraed. To vote for a woman who used to drink in secret, is it?

And the Master is very prickly with her these days, Muraed. It’s the devil of a job to keep him underground at all since Bríd Terry told him about his wife’s marriage. Do you know, Muraed, what he said to Mangy Nóirín the other day when she was all grumpy because he wouldn’t read a bit of a novelette to her? “Leave me alone, you bitch,” says he. “Leave me alone! You’re not fit company for man, beast or corpse …”

On my solemn oath he did, Muraed … What’s the use in arguing, Muraed? Didn’t I hear him?

But Muraed, you’re all very gloomy in this part of the graveyard, and you’re not talking like you used to be … Turning to clay, is it? … The writer’s tongue is decaying, is it? Cóilí won’t complain about that, I’d say. He had him demented … Oh, Cóilí himself is turning to clay, is he? Do you know what, Muraed, I’m sorry to hear it. That story he had about the hens was nice and homely. I used to make money on hens, not like the hussy I left behind me, my son’s wife … ’Tis God’s justice, Muraed, for him to have a worm in his throat, a man who drank two score and two pints …