Máirtín Ó Cadhain - Graveyard Clay - Cré na Cille

— Oh! Oh! I’ll explode! I’ll explode!

5

— … I could have had the law on him for poisoning me. “Take two spoons of this bottle before going to bed, and again in the morning while fasting,” said the murderer. Oh! Fasting didn’t come into it! I had just lain down in the bed …

— Bloody tear and ’ounds , didn’t you lie down and die! …

—“Ha!” said he to me, as soon as he saw my tongue. “Siúán the Shop’s coffee …”

—“I never had an ache or a pain, my friend,” says I to him one day he was in Peadar the Pub’s. “Even if you didn’t, Tomás Inside,” says he, “you’re drinking too much porter. Porter doesn’t suit a man of your age. The odd small whiskey would be much better for you.” “By the docks, my friend, isn’t that what I used to drink all the time before now,” said I. “But it’s too scarce and too dear now.” “Peadar the Pub’s daughter here will give you the odd half-one,” says he. And indeed she did, and gave me all I asked for, but from the second drink on she charged me four fourpenny bits, and from the sixth one on, eighteen pence. The doctor Nell brought from Brightcity to see me said it was the whiskey shortened my life, but myself and Caitríona were of the opinion it was the priest …

— God would punish us for speaking ill of our neighbour …

— What he told the Big Master was: “You’re too good for this life …”

— Shut your mouth, you little prattler! …

— The doctor in the hospital put the bottle under my nose while I was stretched on the table. “What’s that, doctor?” said I. “A knick-knack,” said he …

— Bloody tear and ’ounds for a story, it would be a decent thing for a person to lie down on his bed and die, as Big Brian said, instead of lying down on a hospital table and not getting up again, as cut up as the free beef 5from the Sive’s Rocks butcher.

— … “The flaw is up here,” says I, “in there in the pit of my stomach.” “Faith then, it’s not up there,” said he, “but down below here, in the feet. Take off your boots and socks.” “There’s no need for that, doctor,” said I. “The flaw is up above. In there in the pit of my stomach.” He had no interest whatsoever in the pit of my stomach. “Take off your boots and socks,” he said. “There mightn’t be any need for that, doctor,” said I. “There’s nothing wrong with me down there …”

“If you don’t take off your boots and socks, and be quick about it,” he said, “I’ll put you where they’ll be taken off you … You could hardly have avoided contracting something,” says he. “Did you wash those feet of yours since you were born?” “Down by the shore, doctor, last summer twelve months …”

— Constipated I was. I was permanently bunged up. It’s not something you’d like to talk about. “I don’t like telling you, doctor,” said I. “It’s not a decent subject.”

— That’s how it goes, as you say. I awoke and sat up in bed. The man from Menlo 6was in the bed next to me, as he had been all along. “I thought they weren’t going to open you up for another two days,” says I … “Hey, wake up,” says I … “and don’t be lying there like a sand bag.” “Let him be,” said the nurse to me. “When you were brought down to the salting room his intestines became homesick. They got knotted up all of a sudden and he had to be sent for salting too. They didn’t put as much sugar on the knife for him as they did for you. That’s why he hasn’t woken up yet.” These nurses are a little indelicate, as you say.

—“Decency!” says he. “Arrah! what?” says he. “Decency with me! Did you kill a man, or what?” “The cross of Christ on us, doctor!” said I. “I did not!” “What’s wrong with you so?” says he. “Out with it.” “Musha, it’s not a decent subject,” I said. “Constipated I am …”

— Constipated, as you say. I didn’t get my appetite back for four or five days. “Hot oven bread,” said I to the nurse . “Arrah, to hell with you!” says she. “Do you think I have nothing to do but get hot oven bread for you?” That’s how the likes of them are, as you say. I asked the doctor for hot oven bread the following morning. “This decent man must get hot oven bread from now on,” said he to the nurse . Faith then, he did. The devil a word she could say …

— … “My ankle is twisted,” said I …

—“Constipated I am.” “Constipated,” said he. “Begging your pardon, doctor, yes,” said I. “Bunged up in my body.” “Oh, if that’s all that’s wrong with you!” says he. “I’ll cure that. I’ll make up a good bottle for you.” He mixed some white stuff with some red stuff. “This will wipe your slate clean,” said he …

— … “The poor Belgies are much to be pitied,” says I to Paitseach Sheáinín. “I wonder is this the War of the Two Foreigners? …”

— Wake up man. That war is over for the past thirty years …

— He said that, as you say. “You’d better make sure she gets cold bread for me,” said the Menlo Man to him. “What’s this?” said the doctor. “Isn’t the bread here cold enough for anybody?” “But hot bread is what I’m getting,” said the Menlo Man. “Oh, I remember you now,” said the doctor. “You gave a standing order for hot oven bread when you came in. The bread here was too cold for you.” He was grinding his teeth with rage. That’s how the likes of them are, as you say. “Not a bite of hot bread will touch my lips,” said the Menlo Man. “I’m paying my way here and I must get whatever suits me,” he said. Upon my soul he did. He was adamant. “But you thought cold bread didn’t suit you when you came in,” said the doctor. “You’re the one who should be doctor here!” “I believe a person’s stomach plays nasty tricks once it’s opened,” said the Menlo Man …

— … “It is. It’s my ankle that’s twisted,” says I.

—“This will wipe your slate clean, indeed,” he said. “The blessings of God on you, doctor!” said I. “This is a great bottle,” he said. “The components are expensive. Would you believe how much the full of that white bottle cost me in Brightcity?” “Quite a penny, I’d say, doctor,” said I. “Two pounds, five shillings,” said he.

— Faith then, that’s how it is, as you say. From that day on I couldn’t stomach cold bread, and it was like gall to the Menlo Man to be offered a bit of hot bread. If I was handed every penny I was ever owed for repairing chimneys I couldn’t touch the pipe since, after being so fond of it before that. And would you believe that the Menlo Man is now burning turf banks of tobacco, a man who never put a pipe in his mouth before going into hospital! …

—“Everything is gold since this ridiculous war began,” said he, “and I wouldn’t mind if things were available, even.” “Oh! Doctor,” said I, “the people are in a bad way. If it continues we won’t be able to survive at all, but for the grace of God …”

— Faith then, the people are in a bad way, as you say. “My intestines are completely scoured,” said the Menlo Man to me, as we were strolling up and down outside, a few days before we were sent home. “My intestines feel like trousers that are too tight for me, or something. After eating two mouthfuls I feel stuffed. Look at me now! … My poor belly is as prickly as a coil of barbed wire,” he said. He was a huge big mountain of a man. He was head and shoulders over me, and powerfully built as well. “Be damned to it, as you say,” says I, “but I feel my own intestines are not the best either. All the food in the hospital wouldn’t fill them. They gulp everything, as if they were a few sizes too big for me. If I make the slightest move, they’re like a cow’s udder, going from side to side …”