Máirtín Ó Cadhain: Graveyard Clay: Cré na Cille

I was two years older than Nell, anyway … Baba, then me, then Nell. A year last Michaelmas I got the pension. But I got it before my time. Baba is bordering on seventy-three. She’s close to death now, for all her efforts. Our people weren’t long-lived. When she gets word of my death she’ll know she hasn’t long left herself, and she’ll make her will for certain … She’ll leave every single penny she has to Nell. The pussface got the better of me after all. She has milked Baba well. But if I’d lived till Baba had made her will I’d say she’d have given me half the money in spite of Nell. Baba is fickle-minded. I was the one she wrote to most, these last three years since she moved out from Big Brian’s people in Norwood and went to Boston. It’s a great relief that she parted company with that nest of vipers at any rate …

But she never forgave Pádraig for marrying that scold from Mangy Field and turning his back on Big Brian’s daughter Mag. She wouldn’t have gone next or near Nell’s house, that time she was home from America, if Nell’s son hadn’t married Big Brian’s Mag. Why would she! … A little hovel of a house. And a filthy little hovel at that. Not a house fit for a Yank at any rate. I don’t know how she put up with it at all, after our house and those grand American houses. But she didn’t stay there long before taking off over again …

She won’t come to Ireland again in her lifetime. She’s done with that now. But who knows, she might get itchy feet again when this war is over, if she’s still among the living. As for Nell, she’d charm the honey from a hive, she’s so sly and cunning. Blast Baba for an old hag! Even though she parted from Big Brian’s family in Norwood, she still has a great regard for his daughter Mag … Wasn’t my Pádraig the silly little fool not to take her advice and marry the ugly wretch’s daughter. “It’s no use going on at me,” said the little fool. “I wouldn’t marry Big Brian’s Mag if she was the last woman in Ireland.” Baba went off up to Nell’s as if she’d got a slap in the face, and she never came near our house again, except to step in for a moment the day she was going back to America.

— … Hitler is my darling. He’s the man for them …

— If England is beaten this country will be in bad shape. We’ve already lost the market …

— … You Breed of the One-Eared Tailor, it’s you who left me here fifty years before my time. The One-Ear Breed were always ready with the foul blow. Knives, stones, bottles. You wouldn’t fight like a man, instead of stabbing me …

— … Permission to speak! Permission to speak …

— Jesus, Mary and Joseph! — Am I alive or am I dead? Are these here alive or dead? They’re all giving out as much as they did above ground! I thought that once I was laid in the grave, free from chores and household cares and fear of wind or weather, there’d be some peace in store for me … but why all this squabbling in the graveyard clay? …

2

— … Who are you? Are you long here? Do you hear me? Don’t be shy. Feel as free here as you would at home. I’m Muraed Phroinsiais.

— For God’s sake! Muraed Phroinsiais who lived next door to me all my life. I’m Caitríona. Caitríona Pháidín. Do you remember me, Muraed, or do you lose all memory of life here? I haven’t lost mine yet at any rate …

— And you won’t. Life’s the same here, Caitríona, as it was in the “ould country,” except that all we see is the grave we’re in and we can’t leave the coffin. You won’t hear the living either, or know what’s happening to them, apart from what the newly buried dead will tell you. But we’re neighbours once again, Caitríona. Are you long here? I didn’t hear you coming.

— I don’t know if it was on St. Patrick’s Day I died or the day after, Muraed. I was too worn out. And I don’t know how long I’m here either. Not very long anyway … You’re a good while buried yourself, Muraed … You’re right. Four years come Easter. Spreading a bit of manure for Pádraig in the Hollow Field I was, when a young girl of Tomáisín’s came down for me. “Muraed Phroinsiais is in the throes of death,” she says. And then, believe it or not, wasn’t Little Cáit already going in the door of the house by the time I got to the top of the haggard! 8You had just expired. It was I closed your eyelids with my own two thumbs. Myself and Little Cáit laid you out. And indeed, everyone said you looked lovely. No one had call to grumble. Everyone who saw you said you made a beautiful corpse. There wasn’t so much as a hair out of place on you. You were laid out as smoothly as if you’d been ironed onto the board …

… I didn’t linger long, Muraed. My kidneys had been failing for a long time. A blockage. I got a terrible pain there five or six weeks ago, and I caught a cold on top of that. The pain went into my belly and from there up into my chest. I only lasted about a week … I wasn’t that old at all, Muraed. I was only seventy-one. But my life was nothing but hardship. It was, God knows, and the signs are on me. When it hit me it hit me hard. There was no fight left in me …

You can say that indeed, Muraed. That hussy from Mangy Field didn’t help matters at all. What possessed my Pádraig to marry her in the first place? … God bless your innocence, Muraed dear, you don’t know the half of it, for not a word of it ever passed my lips. It’s three long months now since she as much as lifted a finger … Another child. She only just pulled through. She’ll never survive the next one, I’d say … There was a clutch of children, and not an ounce of sense between them, apart from Máirín, the eldest girl, and she was at school every day. I used to potter around as best I could myself, washing them and keeping them away from the fire and giving them a bite to eat … You’re right, Muraed. Pádraig will have no house left, now that I’m gone. Certainly that hussy isn’t fit to keep a house, a woman who spends every second day in bed … Now you’ve said it, my friend! Pádraig and the children are to be pitied …

I had indeed. I had everything left ready, Muraed, shroud, scapular mantle and all … Honestly, Muraed, there were eight candles over me in the chapel, and that’s the truth … I went into the best coffin in Tadhg’s. I’d say it cost every penny of fifteen pounds … But there are three plaques on this one, Muraed, not just two … And you’d think each one of them was the big mirror in the priest’s parlour …

Pádraig told me he’ll put a cross of Island limestone 9over me like the one over Peadar the Pub, and an inscription in Irish: “Caitríona Bean Sheáin Uí Loideáin …” Pádraig himself said that straight out, Muraed … I wouldn’t have dreamed of asking him, Muraed … And he said he’d put a railing round the grave like the one round Siúán the Shop, and that he’d plant flowers over me — damned if I can remember what they’re called — the sort the Schoolmistress had on her black outfit after the Big Master died. “It’s the least we could do for you,” said Pádraig, “after all the hardship you endured for us …”

But tell me this, Muraed, what part of the graveyard is this? … Upon my soul you’re right, it’s the Fifteen-Shilling Plot … Now, Muraed, you know in your heart I wouldn’t expect to be buried in the Pound Plot. If they did bury me there I could do nothing about it, but as for asking them to …

Nell, is it? … By Dad, I nearly buried her before me. If only I’d lived just a little longer I’d have done it … Her son Peadar’s accident set her back a lot … A lorry knocked him down, back at the Strand, a year or a year and a half ago, and made pulp of his hip. They didn’t know for a week in the hospital whether he was coming or going …