Máirtín Ó Cadhain - Graveyard Clay - Cré na Cille

— Wouldn’t you think, Billyboy, if there’s a shower of banknotes blowing their way, that some one of them would think of paying back the pound I gave to Caitríona …

— You little mangy arse!

— … The Postmistress’s daughter told me … Take it easy there, Master! … That’s a damn lie, Master … I didn’t open any letter …

— … Don’t pay any heed to his rudeness, Nóra. Remember he was a non-commissioned officer in the Murder Machine 9… I don’t have time now to read you The Setting Sun again, Nóra. I’m too busy with my new draft of The Piglet-Moon . I got the idea from Cóilí. His grandfather was able to trace his family tree back to the moon. He’d spend three hours a night looking up at it, according to the ancient custom of our ancestors. With the coming of the new moon, his nostrils would produce three sorts of snot: one of gold, one of silver, and the old gaelic snot …

— … What she told me, Caitríona, was that Baba said you were her favourite of all the sisters she ever had, and that you’d be thankful to her, only for you died …

— I did my damnedest, Billyboy, but I failed to bury Nell before me …

— Musha, Caitríona, neighbour, it might be all for the best. Pádraig told myself and my … the Schoolmistress, that Nell left him a good few little extras that weren’t due to him at all according to the will. She’d only accept the half of Tomás Inside’s land from him, and believe you me when I tell you that hardly a Sunday goes by that the priest doesn’t announce a Mass for the souls of yourself and Jack the Scológ …

— For the souls of myself and Jack the Scológ …

— Bloody tear and ’ounds , didn’t Big Brian say …

— And of Baba, and …

— … “The best comparison I can think of for Páidín’s daughters,” he said, “are two scabby young dogs I saw observing a mule in the throes of death in Donagh’s Village. One of them was barking, trying to keep the other one away. In the end it strained itself so much with yelping that it burst into a mush. As soon as the second dog saw he had the dead mule all to himself, what did he do but slink away and leave it there for the dead dog …”

— Angry that he’d dropped that stitch off his knitting needle! He thought his own family would coax every little pinch of the will to themselves! … For my own soul …

— Faith then, Caitríona, neighbour, himself and his daughter aren’t fawning on Nell as much as they used to be …

— She won’t be any the worse for that … for my own soul and for the soul of Jack the Scológ …

— He’s between two minds as to whether he’ll come or stay, Caitríona. He was anointed the other day …

— He won’t do it any younger! He’s twice my age …

— My … the Schoolmistress took a trip up to see him. Guess what message he sent down to me with her? …

— A mouthful of bile, if he hasn’t changed … For my soul …

— My poor uncle hasn’t received any spiritual assistance since I was tending to him, or do you think, Billyboy, he says the Family Rosary? …

— Bloody tear and ’ounds , didn’t he say …

— What he said to the Schoolmistress was: “You’ll tell Billyboy the Post,” he said, “if he hoists sail ahead of me, to tell them all back there I’ll be easing my sails in their direction any minute. Let him tell Red-haired Tom that I’ll knock the blockage out of his gut, in the event that he didn’t heed my advice …”

— Neither she nor anyone else was any the wiser for anything I said, Billyboy. And I may tell you also that the graves are riddled with holes …

— … “Let him tell Son of Blackleg to strike up a verse of a song when he hears me coming …”

— “Hoh-roh, Mary, your wares and your bags and belts …”

— “Mártan Sheáin Mhóir had a daughter

And she was as broad as any man …”

— … “And let him tell that pint-swilling Glutton that I’ll cut him in strips like a sally-rod for having his old wagon of a donkey permanently parked in my field of oats, since that wife of Curraoin’s began her pilgrimages to the courts …”

— Bloody tear and ’ounds , Billyboy, finish it …

— … For my own soul and for …

— That’s all he said, neighbour. Or if he did, my … the Schoolmistress didn’t tell me …

— Bloody tear and ’ounds , what’s the use of making a Red-haired Tom of yourself! If there’s going to be ructions let there be ructions! “And let him tell my own darling Caitríona,” he said, “that they had to send for the fire brigade’s long hoses to extinguish me after the scalding I got in the geyser in Dublin, so I have no fear of her boiling water now …”

— Ababúna! Ababúna! Beartla Blackleg! Billyboy dear! Who’s to know but that ugly … stop-nosed … blundering … slouch … might be stuffed down beside me … Oh, Billyboy dear, I don’t believe he washed himself in Dublin … To bury him beside me! Ugh! Ugh! … The room … the grimace … “You can have Big Brian, Caitríona …” Oh! Billyboy, I’d explode, I’d explode, I’d explode …

— Oh, there’s no danger, Caitríona, my neighbour. That will all be fine …

— But look at where they buried yourself, Billyboy …

— The poor creature didn’t know what she was doing … Easy on, Master! Easy on! Don’t worry, Caitríona. That hardy annual is still as healthy as ivy …

— His likes don’t last long at all in the end. Holy Mother of God tonight. I would have less aversion to the Earl’s little black! … What’s this, Billyboy? Another corpse! Oh, woe forever, Billyboy my dearest friend, if it’s him. Listen! …

— Hi, lads! Seán Chite from Donagh’s Village has arrived …

— The place he’s buried is …

— The great Prophecy Professor of the Western World is laid low and his prophetic skull laid at Beartla’s feet …

— Bloody tear and ’ounds , what better pillow for his old skull?

— Seán Chite, what’s your opinion of the world now, or do you think the prophecy is coming true? …

— I’ll keen you now, Seán Chite, as befits your profession and fame … Alas and woe! Alas and woe! …

— … Arrah, to hell with it, Seán Chite! Quit your foolish talk about Redspot O’Donnell. 10Will England be blasted to hell into the air in a squall of ashes in this war? Is that in your prophecy? Hi! Son of Blackleg, give him a crack of your clumsy foot on his prophetic skull …

— Oh! Billyboy, darling! … I won’t rest easy in the graveyard clay …

— Don’t be worried, Caitríona. The priest has ordered a brand-new map of the graveyard to be made. Road-End’s old lady was complaining recently. “Weren’t the soggy lumps from Sive’s Rocks hard up for space,” she said, “when they laid the legs of the corpse across the delicate guts of my old man …”

— Oh! That’s the corpse that won’t have a coffin or a sheet for long! See how he stole my little lump-hammer! …

— … Caitríona my dear, the cross will be put over you in any case …

— Oh! If only they would speed it up, Billyboy. If they’d speed it up before the old scold dies …

— It was worth waiting for, Caitríona. Everybody who saw it says it’s beautiful. The priest himself went in right away to look at it, and the Small Master and my … the Schoolmistress, were in there the other Saturday, to scrutinize the inscription in Irish.

— Did you tell that, Billyboy, to Nóra Sheáinín and to Cite and to Red-haired Tom? … Oh! Billyboy dear, if it’s not put over me …

— It will be, Caitríona. Don’t be worried, neighbour. It’s been ready for a long time, but they were waiting to put up yours and Jack the Scológ’s together …