The Dirty Dust (10 page)

—Do you think I hadn't a clue about all of this already? …

—No, you hadn't a clue, no more than anyone else who were not their neighbours … But it was when he got really stocious—on a fair day, or a Friday, or whatever—that's when we heard the real fun. That's when he got horny to get married.

—For the love of God, do you think that I didn't often see him scuttered in Peter's Pub? …

—I saw him there once, and to tell you the truth, he was a howl. That's not more than five years ago: the year just before I died:

“I'm up for it to get married,” he said. “I have a nice patch of land, a pension of half a guinea, and I'm as fit as a spring chicken. I swear to Jaysus, I'll get married. I'm telling you truthfully, I'll get married yet … Give me that bottle of whisky, Peter”—Peter was alive then—“only the best now. I swear to Jaysus I'm off on the hunt.”

—I remember that day really well. That's when I twisted my ankle …

—Just then Caitriona's in the door and whispering in his ear:

“Come on away home with me now, Tom, and our Patrick will go out looking for a woman for you, but just put your heads together about it …”

Then Nell comes in and starts whispering in his other ear. “Come on away home with me, Tom my darling. I have a strip of steak and some whisky. As soon as you've had a bite to eat Peter will be off looking for a woman for you …”

Tom hightailed it off to Nora Johnny's joint in Gort Ribbuck. “Despite the fact that she's a widow,” he says to Nell and to Caitriona, “I'm telling you truthfully, there're no flies on her. She's young in spirit. Her daughter, the one married to your son Paddy, Caitriona, she's hardly thirty-two or thirty-three. No doubt about it, the daughter
is a fine strapping young one as far as I'm concerned …” He said that, no lie. Did you know that? …

—It's ridiculous that you think I didn't know …

—How would you have the least clue, as you're not in the same place as they are? … It was just as well for them that Tom only had a kip of a dive or they'd be totally ruined, no other house under God's sky got thatched more often. Paddy Caitriona covered the north side from end to end one year. He was an excellent thatcher. He slapped some straw on it. Not the worst of it either. That lovely roof never would have to be covered for another fourteen or fifteen years. The following year Nell's Peter comes along with his hammer and his mallet. Up he goes on the north side. What do you think he did to the roof that Paddy had put up just a year before? He gutted it all out from the roots and chucked it down on to the road. May I not leave this spot if I am telling you a word of a lie. There wasn't as much as a pick of Pat's thatch from end to end that he didn't yank out from the roots.

“That wouldn't have been long dripping down on you, Tom,” he said. I swear by all that's holy that I was listening to him! “The cover that went on last year was totally useless. I'm only surprised that it stopped any drop coming down. Half of it was only that soft heathery stuff. All the signs on it, anyway. Jaysus, he didn't cause himself too much hassle gathering it up, always avoiding anything that might cause a bit of effort. If you want to gather that stuff you have to go out into the deep sodden sedgy slobber and get your feet wet. Look at what I have, from out there in the middle of Aska Roe …”

He did the two sides of the house, but even so, 'twas a bit of a botched job. Actually, a really botched job! It didn't even last three years. It was a real pain …

—You'd think the way you're talking you didn't know that I knew all this …

—Nobody would have a clue about it, except those in the same place, neighbours …

Another time I saw the two of them at the house at the same time: Paddy Caitriona and Peter Nell. Paddy was up on the north side
with his ladder, his mallet and his strip of straw. Peter on the south of the house, with his ladder, his mallet, and his own strip of straw. You never saw work like it in your whole life: they were really at it. Fireside Tom lounging on his butt on the big boulder at the east end, puffing away at his pipe, and talking to the two of them at the same time. He was in exactly the right spot between the two ends of the house. I came along. I sat down on the boulder beside Tom. You couldn't hear yourself think because of the banging of the two mallets.

“Why don't you,” says I, “why doesn't one of you drop the thatching for a while and help the other, as Tom isn't helping either of you. Either that, or why don't you take turns helping and thatching …”

“Shut your mouth,” Tom said. “Can't you see that they're flying ahead one as good as the other now, God bless them! They're brilliant thatchers. I reckon that neither one of them is a hair's breadth or a nail shaving better than the other …”

—Easy to tell that you don't know that I realise all about it …

—But you don't know, you haven't the least clue …

—… “Nell knows all about building fences,

And Cathy's an expert on thatch and felt …”

—… “Fireside Tom was smirking broadly

At Cathy Paudeen who paid the rent …”

—No, she wasn't! I wasn't! It's not true, Margaret! Oh, Margaret! I'm going to burst! I'm going to burst! …

—… The Grave Ghoul! He is as big an eejit as you ever saw …

—It's a total disgrace, Caitriona, if he has the map, that he couldn't tell one grave from another …

—God help you and your stupid map! His stupid map makes as much sense as Eddie East Boss dividing up the land with a tongs, when they were divvying it up in strips long ago …

—For all that, Caitriona, I kept that stretch at the top of the fields despite your best efforts, seeing as there wasn't one of you who didn't want it. You couldn't do better than it to fatten up the cattle …

—Ho! Do you hear the cricket chirping again? …

—It's a disgrace, Caitriona, if the corpses are being put in the wrong graves that someone wouldn't charge him with treason: let the Government know, or at least tell the priest, or the Foxy Policeman …

—Ara, God bless the Government! Some Government, since Griffith's crowd were thrown out …

—You lied …

—You told a big black …

—Isn't that just what Blotchy Brian said: they are being chucked into any old hole in the graveyard now, just as if they were fish guts or leftover limpets …

—Oh, the dirty fucker! …

—If you don't have a proper cross on your grave now, and it well-marked, who knows what day it wouldn't be opened up …

—I'll have a cross on me shortly. A cross of the best Connemara marble just like Peter the Publican and Joan …

—A cross of Connemara marble, Caitriona …

—Wouldn't they let them put up a wooden cross, Caitriona?

—They'd be dumped out on the road the following day …

—Isn't that because of the people who make the other crosses? …

—Of course, what else? Everyone feathering his own nest. If you were allowed stick up wooden crosses or cement crosses, nobody would bother with their own. Everyone then could just make their own cross …

—I'd much prefer no cross at all than one made of wood or cement …

—True for you. I'd die of shame …

—It's this Government's fault. They get a tax on all the other crosses …

—You're a liar. That was the law before this Government …

—It's a terrible thing to dump one of your own down beside a stranger …

—The apple never falls far from the tree …

—That's the Government for you …

—You're a liar …

—I heard that they stuffed Tuney Mickle Tuney down on top of Tom the Tailor's son last year …

—Oh, didn't I up and kick off the murderer from on top of me! It was the other half of the treacherous Dog Eared mob who stabbed me …

—I was at Jude's funeral, Jude from our own place, last year. She was shagged down on top of Donal Weaver from Clogher Savvy. They never knew they were digging the wrong grave until they hit the coffin. The dogs on the street know that it's true, I was there, exactly there …

—Entirely true. Don't we know you're telling the truth. They dug four graves for the Poet, and in the end he was left down snug on top of Curran …

—The devil screw him! I'm driven demented with his trivial waffle. He can go and fuck himself as he didn't stay alive long enough until they put a cross on me …

—The little scut …

—It wouldn't matter only I had things on my mind, and I didn't realise it was my big farm of land that your one at home gave to the eldest son …

—What do you think of Michael Kitty from Bally Donough being clapped in on top of Huckster Joan? Joan didn't even have a cross that time …

—Ah, poor Joan …

—Poor Joan, you must have been totally in distress …

—I told her straight up to her puss without a word of a lie to leave me in the Half Guinea or the Fifteen Shilling place. The last thing I wanted was for that twit to be buried above me. She'd drive me into the next life with the stink of nettles …

—Didn't they try to stuff someone in on top of you also, Kitty? …

—Some little wretch from Clogher Savvy that I never knew, nor knew anything about her family. By the oak of this coffin, I swear, I got rid of her with a flea in her ear. “I'm really in a bad way if I'm laid out with the beggars of Clogher Savvy in the cemetery clay,” I said …

—Honest. They had dug my grave also. Some old woman from
Shanakill. “Ugh,” I said, “to put that rough diamond from Shanakill down in the same place as me! I wouldn't mind if she had some culture! …”

—Hoora! Do you hear that slattern from Gort Ribbuck of the puddles throwing insults as Shanakill? Listen to me! I'm going to burst! …

—… Fell from a haystack …

—… God help us all! It's a disaster they didn't bring my bones east of the Fancy City … Sunset would not slink slidingly down there. Morning would not break like a strange gypsy woman wandering the byroads of hill and the cliff paths ashamed to face the first begging of the day. The moon itself would not have to shine on innumerable stocks of stone, and ribs of rock, and cursed coves when she chose to come to kiss me. The broad expanse of meadow would be spread before her in a multicoloured tapestry. Rain would not arrive suddenly like the sudden bullet of a sneaky sniper from a smudgy spot, but rather like unto the glorious and majestic appearance of a queen bringing laws and prosperity to her people …

—Dotie! Sentimentality!

—That girlish stupidity again …

—… Look at me, the murderer gave me a lousy bottle …

—… Went to the Plaza at seven … She comes along … That lovely smile again. Takes the chocolates. A film … There was a film in the Plaza—she had seen all the films in the town already. Go for a walk or go to a dance … She had been on her feet in the betting office all day … Tea … She had only just had one. The Western Hotel … Certainly, a short break would do her no harm …

“Wine,” I said to the waiter.

“Whiskey,” she said.

“Two double whiskeys,” I said …

“Two more double whiskeys,” I said …

“I have no more whiskey,” the waiter said. “Do you know how
much whiskey you have already drunk since seven o'clock: twelve double whiskeys each! Whiskey is scarce …”

“Stout,” I said.

“Brandy,” she said.

“Two large brandies,” I said …

“Do you not realise,” said the waiter, “that it's well past one o'clock, and even if this is The Western Hotel you still have to be careful. A police raid, maybe …”

“I'll walk you home, as far as your door,” I said, just as the waiter was closing the door of the hotel after us.

“You walk me home to my door!” she said, “The way you are it looks more likely that I have to walk you home. Straighten up a bit or you'll fall through that window. You can't hold your drink, can you? I have my head together, despite the fact I have guzzled more brandy than you! You wouldn't know I touched a drop … Watch that pole for chrissake … Walk straight. I'll hold your arm, and I'll take you as far as your door. Maybe we'd get another few scoops in Simon Halloran's place on the way up. It's an all-night joint, and never closes 'til morning …”

I managed to cadge a look at her in the dim street light. She had a broad smirk on her face. But when I stuck my hand in my pocket and emptied it out, I discovered I only had one shilling left.

—You airhead …

—… My God almighty, as you say yourself …

—… I'm telling you God's honest truth, Peter the Publican. Caitriona Paudeen came in to see me. I remember it well. Sometime around November. That was the year when we really gave Garry Abbey's field a proper going over. Mickle was spreading seaweed the same day. I was expecting the kids home from school any minute and I had just turned over the potatoes in the embers for them. Then I sat down in the corner mending the heel of a sock.

“God bless all her,” she said. “Same to you,” I said. “You're very welcome Caitriona, sit yourself down.”

“I can't really stay,” she said. “I have my work cut out getting ready for the priest. He'll be in on top of me in about nine or ten
days. There's no point in me beating about the bush, Kitty. You sold the pigs at the last fair. Ours won't be ready until St. Brigid's Day, if God spares them … I know it's a big favour to ask, Kitty, but I wonder could you loan me a pound until next St. Brigid's Day fair, I would be really extremely grateful to you if you could give me that pound. I have to do something about the chimney, and I've decided to buy a round table for the priest's breakfast. I have two pounds myself …”