— 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! …
7.
— … 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 …”
“A round table, Caitriona?” I says. “But sure, nobody has a round table around here apart from rich people. Why wouldn’t he just eat from an Irish table just the same as every other priest we ever had?”
“The last time he was up with Nell,” she says, “she had a silver teapot that Blotchy Brian’s Maggie got in America. I’ll get a loan of a silver teapot from Huckster Joan, as I want to be every bit as good as her, and better as well. The uppity slut!”
I gave her the pound. She bought the round table. Things were cheap that time. She laid out the priest’s breakfast on it, and served tea in the silver teapot she got from Huckster Joan.
— By the oak of this coffin, I swear, Peter the Publican, that I gave Caitriona the pound, and I never saw one glimpse of it until the day I died, whatever Huckster Joan did with her teapot …
— You lied, you witch of the piddling potatoes. Don’t believe her, my dear Peter. I stuffed every brass farthing of it back into her fist when I sold the pigs at the next St. Brigid’s Day fair … What would you do with her? Your mother didn’t often tell the truth either … I died as pure as the crystal, thanks be to God … Let it never be said that Caitriona Paudeen went to her grave owing as much as a red cent to anybody. Not like you, stingy Kitty of the pissy piddling potatoes. Your family left a heap of debts stringing after them everywhere. Who are you to talk! You killed yourself and your family with your piddling pissy potatoes … Don’t believe her, Peter … Don’t believe her … I gave her every brass farthing into the palm of her hand …
I didn’t, you witch? … I didn’t, is that it? …
Hoora, Margaret! … Margaret…. Did you hear what Kitty said? I’ll burst! I’m going to burst! …
Interlude 3: THE SUCKING EARTH
1.
I am the Trumpet of the Graveyard. Hearken unto my voice to my voice. You must hearken to what I have to say …
For I am the voice that was, that is, and that ever will be. I was the first voice in the shapelessness of the universe. I am the last voice that will be heard in the scattering of the ultimate destruction. I was the gurgling voice in the first pregnancy in the first womb. When the corn is gathered in the barn, my voice will call the last harvester home from the Field of Time. For I am the son of the ancestor of Time and of Life and the governor of their household. I am the harvester, the stacker and the flail of Time. I am the keeper, the custodian and the key holder of Life. Listen to my voice! You have to listen …
There is neither time nor life in the Graveyard. Neither brightness nor darkness. There the sun does not go down, neither do floods roar, nor winds blow nor change bite. The day does not stretch out, nor are the Pleiades being hunted by Orion; neither does the living thing dress itself in the garb of Congratulations and Celebration. The glinting eyes of the child are not found there. Nor the simple blush of youth. Nor the rosy cheeks of the young girl. Nor the kind voice of the educated woman. Nor the innocent smile of the old person. Eyes, and blushes, and cheeks, and grins all get mashed into the one undifferentiated alembic mush of the clay. The flush of life does not have a voice there, nor does the voice have the flush of life, because there is neither flush nor life nor voice in the disinterested chemistry of the grave. There are only bones withering, flesh rotting and body parts that were once alive now putrefying. There is only this earthen cupboard and the tattered suit of life to be gnawed by moths …