Máirtín Ó Cadhain - Graveyard Clay - Cré na Cille

— There was indeed, Master dear, and Billyboy the Post. To give him his due, he was most obliging that day. He tightened the bolts on the coffin and he was under the coffin leaving the house, and he lowered it into the grave. Faith, to give him his due, he was willing and able. He stripped off his jacket there and grabbed a shovel …

— The thief! The lusty lout!

— … There were five cars at my funeral …

— The car belonging to that clown in Wood of the Lake, who got the legacy, got stuck in the middle of the road and your funeral was delayed for an hour …

— There were as many as thirty cars at Peadar the Pub’s funeral. There were two hearses under him …

— Faith then, as you say, there was a hearse under me as well. The old lady wouldn’t be happy till she got one: “His poor guts would get too much of a shaking on people’s shoulders or an old cart,” she said …

— It was easy for her, Road-End Man, with my turf …

— And with my seaweed wrack.

— … With such an abundance of drink at Caitriona Pháídín’s funeral, there weren’t enough people fit to carry her coffin to the church. And even they began shouting and fighting among themselves. The corpse had to be set down twice, with the state they were in. Indeed it had: on the bare road …

— Ababúna!

— I’m telling you the bare truth, Caitríona dear. There were only six of us from Walsh’s Pub onward. The rest went into Walsh’s or they dropped out along the way. We thought we’d have to put women under the corpse …

— Ababúna! Don’t believe him, the sourpuss …

— That’s the honest truth, Caitríona. You were very heavy. You weren’t long bedridden or suffering from bedsores.

“The two old men will have to go under her,” said Peadar Nell when we reached the Sive’s Rocks Boreen. We were glad to have the old men, Caitríona. Peadar Nell himself was on crutches and Cite’s son and Bríd Terry’s son were snapping at one another again: each of them trying to blame the other for breaking the roundtable the night before. There’s nothing better than the truth, Caitríona dear. Faith, I wouldn’t have shouldered your coffin myself, nor would I have accompanied you one foot of the way, had I known at the time that the heart was so faulty …

— Bloated on periwinkle soup you were, you snarling sourpuss …

—“She wants to act the stubborn mule even now. My soul from the devil, whether she likes it or not, she’s going to the chapel and to the grave,” said Big Brian, as himself and myself and Cite’s son went under you, to carry you up the path to the chapel …

“Devil a word of a lie you said, father-in-law,” said Peadar Nell, as he threw away the crutches and thrust himself under you …

— Ababúna forever and ever! The son of the pussface under me! Big Brian under me! The bearded streak of misery. Of course the coffin was lopsided if that flat-footed round-shouldered slouch was under me. Ababúna búna! … Big Brian! Nell’s son! Muraed! Muraed! … If I’d known, Muraed, I’d explode. I’d explode there and then …

6

— … And do you tell me you can’t insure colts?

— An insurance agent like myself wouldn’t do it, Seáinín.

— You’d think you wouldn’t be taking any risk at all on a fine young colt. It would be a great help, if anything should happen to it, to get a fistful of money …

— I nearly got a fistful myself, Seáinín, in the crossword competition in the Sunday News . Five hundred pounds …

— Five hundred pounds! …

— Yes, indeed, Seáinín. I was only one letter out …

— I see …

— What they wanted was a four-letter word beginning with “j.” The clue said the meaning of the word was “prison.”

— I see.

— I immediately thought of the word “gaol,” but that begins with “g” …

— I see.

—“That’s not it,” says I. I spent a long time deliberating and hesitating. In the end I put down “jaol” …

— I see.

— And do you know, when the solution came out in the paper, the word was “jail”! Bad luck forever to the simplified spelling, 16Seáinín! If I had a gun handy I’d have done away with myself. That had a lot to do with shortening my life.

— I see what you mean now …

— … By the oak of this coffin, Sweet-talking Stiofán, I gave Caitríona the pound …

— … She had that sweet smile on her face …

— That sweet smile proved unfortunate for the Small Master! But for the grace of God he’ll end up like the Big Master. There’s a jinx on that school of ours that the masters are unlucky with their wives …

— … The advice I sent in a letter to Concannon after he won the All-Ireland semi-final for Galway:

“Concannon, my friend,” says I, “if you can’t hit the ball in the final against Kerry, hit something else! There must be a levelling of conditions. The referee will be on the side of Kerry anyhow. You’re the man to do it. You have the strength and the skill. Every time you hit something I’ll raise three shouts of triumph for you …”

— … Hitler is my darling! When he comes over to England! … I think he’ll shovel that same England down to hell altogether: he’ll sweep away that scuttering bloated pig of an England like the donkey that was carried away by the wind: he’ll place million-ton mines under her navel …

— May God save us! …

— Faith then, England is not to be condemned. There’s great employment there. What would the youth of Donagh’s Village do without her, or the people of Mangy Field, or Sive’s Rocks? …

— Or this old gadfly over here who has a patch of land at the top of the village that can’t be beaten for fattening cattle …

— … Après la fuite de Dunkerque et le bouleversement de Juin 1940, Monsieur Churchill a dit qu’il retournerait pour libérer la France, la terre sacrée …

— … You shouldn’t allow any black heretic to insult your religion like that, Peadar. Oh, Lord, I wish it had been me! I’d question him like this, Peadar: “Do you even know there is a God? Of course, you’re like a cow or a calf, or like … or like a puppy.” All a dog worries about is filling his belly. A dog would eat meat on a Friday 17too, so he would. Oh, he wouldn’t have the least aversion to it. But, all the same, it’s not every dog would do it … I had a bit of meat left over at home once. “I’ll put it aside till Saturday,” says I. “Tomorrow is ‘avoid-the-joint’ day.” After dinner-time on Friday I was coming in from the garden with a handful of potatoes when I saw the Protestant Minister passing by, on his way up the mountain after fowl. “You would, you black heretic,” said I. “You’ll not even let Friday pass without fresh meat. You’re like a cow or a calf … or like a puppy.” When I went in with my handful of potatoes, the staple was off the dresser door. Every scrap of the meat was gone! “A cat or a dog for certain,” said I. “When I catch hold of you, you won’t get away with it. To go eating meat on a Friday. It serves me right, for not putting them out and closing the door after me!” I found them at the back of the house. The Minister’s dog was gobbling the meat and my own dog barking at him, trying to stop him. I grabbed the pitchfork. “Easily known whose dog you are,” says I, “eating meat on a Friday.” I tried to bury the pitchfork up to the handle in him. The dirty thing managed to escape. I offered the meat to our own dog. May God forgive me! I shouldn’t be tempting him. He wouldn’t go next or near it. Devil a bit of him. Now, what do you think! He knew it wasn’t right … Why didn’t you tell him that, Peadar, and not allow him to insult your religion. Lord, if I’d been there! …