Máirtín Ó Cadhain - Graveyard Clay - Cré na Cille

— How do I know my own old woman isn’t in the throes of death at home?

— Oh, if that’s all you’re worried about, Jack! She’s only complaining of rheumatism and that won’t bring her corpse to the graveyard for another twenty years!

— She’s not keeping well, Caitríona …

— She had no pain or sickness, Jack. May her corpse stay far from this graveyard! Sing the song. Like a good man, my dear little Jack! …

— She was a good woman, Caitríona, every day of her life, and I’m not telling you that just because she’s your sister …

— It doesn’t matter a jot what sisters do in this life, Jack. But sing the song …

— I don’t like to refuse you, Caitríona, but it’s no use going on at me. It’s strange the way things happen, Caitríona dear. The night before I was married, I was in the room in your house and a bunch of people were urging me to sing a song. Bríd Terry was there and Cite and Muraed Phroinsiais. May God forgive me for saying anything to anybody, but those three were going on at me very hard. My voice was as screechy as the lid of an old chest from singing songs for them all night. “Jack will never sing another song,” said Nell, jokingly, while sitting in my lap … “unless I ask him to …” Would you believe, Caitríona, that those were the words going through my head the following morning when I was on my knees at the altar-rails before the priest? May God not punish me for it! It was an awful sin for me! But it’s strange the way things are, Caitríona. Every time I’ve been asked to sing a song ever since, that was the first thing I thought of! …

— Ababúna búna búna! Oh, Jack! Jack the Scológ! I’ll explode! I’ll explode!

1

— It’s hard for him to go …

— It’s a fair exchange for him …

— It’s painful for him …

— It’s a fair exchange for him …

— It’s dark for him …

— It’s a fair exchange for him …

— It’s dangerous for him …

— It’s a fair exchange for him …

— But …

— It’s a fair exchange for him …

2

— By the docks, you couldn’t hear Oscar’s flail 1up there, with all the hammering and the blasting. You could not, my friend …

— Was there any letter from young Brian? …

— Arrah! God bless your sense, my friend! Indeed, a young man who’s going to be a priest has more to do than writing letters to those swamp-holes up there. Making more journeys for postmen …

— Nell spent a while in bed, Tomás? …

— Rheumatism, my friend. Rheumatism. She got out of bed the evening I was laid low …

— She was always a kind woman, Tomás …

— I’ve always said, Jack, that she was more good-hearted than Caitríona …

— God would punish us for saying anything about our neighbour, Tomás …

— By the docks, don’t the neighbours have stinging tongues too, my friend! Only for she was more good-natured, she wouldn’t have offered to pay for Caitríona’s cross, and for putting three of Pádraig’s children through college. For that matter, aren’t they getting very grand, with their college education. Look at me! …

— There wasn’t a penny she ever laid hand on that she didn’t put to good use, Tomás …

— That’s true for you, my friend. Didn’t I often say to myself that if it were Nóra Sheáinín got that legacy, she wouldn’t be sober any day of the year …

— God would punish us for saying anything about our neighbour, Tomás. Not as much as a “don’t be silly” ever came between myself and Nell …

— By the docks, didn’t she cry a trunkful of big white handkerchiefs after you. She did indeed, my friend. Not to speak of all the Masses she offered up for your soul! People say she gave our own priest two hundred pounds into his hand in one go, not to mention all she sent to holy priests all over the country …

— Bloody tear and ’ounds , didn’t Big Brian say: “If the priests don’t place Son of Scológ on the high ladder, and give him a good push in the bottom onto that loft up there, I don’t know what it takes …”

— By the docks, Son of Blackleg, you don’t know the half of it! You couldn’t hear a finger in your ear up there, with all their talk about Masses. Masses for Jack’s soul, for Baba’s soul, for Caitríona’s soul …

— Mercy shared is not mercy spared, Tomás …

— That’s exactly what Nell used to say. “Aren’t you offering up an awful lot of Masses for the soul of Caitríona,” I used to say to her, like that. “Good against evil, Tomás Inside,” she’d say …

— God would punish us for saying anything about our neighbour, Tomás. Poor Caitríona can’t help it. The poor creature is tormented for want of a cross …

— By the docks, my friend. You couldn’t hear a finger in your ear up there, with all their chattering about crosses. Caitríona’s cross was ready and paid for, but when you died Nell and Pádraig said they’d leave Caitríona’s cross until hers and yours could be put up together …

— Bloody tear and ’ounds , didn’t Big Brian say it was no wonder the world was in a mess, with all that fine money wasted on old stones …

— By the docks, Son of Blackleg, you didn’t hear the half of it. Damned if I know if all that chatter about crosses did me any good at all. Crosses from morning till sunset and from night till morning. A person couldn’t enjoy his drop of porter in peace without crosses being dragged in. A man couldn’t walk his patch of land without imagining crosses in every field. I took myself off down to Pádraig Chaitríona’s, where there wasn’t half as much talk about crosses. Aren’t they getting very grand …

— … Qu’il retournerait pour libérer la France …

— … Over again. Back again. Not a day passed that I didn’t drink twenty pints at least …

— God help yourself and your twenty pints! I drank two score pints and two …

— Faith then, my friend, the doctor Nell brought from Brightcity to see me said it was Peadar the Pub’s whiskey hastened my death. He did indeed, my friend. “Faith then, my friend,” said I, “it was the doctor told me to drink it.” “What doctor?” he said. “Our own doctor, God spare him!’ said I. “Faith then, he did, my friend. Peadar the Pub’s daughter was listening to him. If you don’t believe me, go in to her on your way over. I’m not blaming the doctor at all, my friend. I’d been drinking it all my life and it never did me any harm. By my soul I blame the priest, my friend. By the docks, I think he was no help at all to me …”

— Could I give you any spiritual assistance, Tomás Inside? …

— Gug-goog, Big Colm’s daughter. Gug-goog! A cosy little conversation …

— Seeing as it failed the priest …

— It did not fail the priest. Nothing fails the priest. You’re a heretic …

— … By the oak of this coffin, Jack the Scológ, I gave the pound to …

— God would punish us, Cite …

— … Legacies! Only for Baba Pháidín’s legacy, Tomás Inside wouldn’t have got his walking-papers so soon …

— He can blame himself! The drink would remain where it was, only that Tomás brought his little belly the length of it. A legacy brought no misfortune on Nell. She bought a motor car with it and a hat with peacock’s feathers …

— Oh! Oh! …

— We’ve seen all this before, of course! It was legacies kept the people of Donagh’s Village alive down the ages. It wasn’t nettles anyway. We’ve seen women who were down on their uppers today, all dressed up in hats and frills tomorrow. Signs on them: the hens would soon be laying in the hats …