Hi Margaret! … Do you hear me Margaret! … Hey, Margaret! … Did you hear what the old shrew had to say about me? … I’m going to burst! I’m going to burst! I’m going to burst! …
Interlude 4: THE GRINDING EARTH
1.
I am the Trumpet of the Graveyard. Hearken unto me! Hearken to what I have to say …
Here in the graveyard the monster of Unfeeling is chewing coffins, hacking cadavers, and kneading the refined flesh into one great oven of cold earth. He cares not for the sunlit cheek, or for blonde beauty, or for the flashy smile which is the pride of a young woman. Nor for the muscled limbs, the fleet of foot, the stout chest which defines the pride of the young hero. Nor the tongue which beguiled thousands with its sweet nothings, its mellifluous harmony. Nor the eyebrow which won the laurel crown for beauty. Nor the mind from whence shone the light of knowledge before every sailor on the wide sea of learning … As they are all necessary ingredients in the wedding cake which he is preparing for his children and their pards: the grub, the maggot, and the worm …
Aboveground the bog cotton is preening itself on every hillock of the moor. The meadow-sweet is a divine chemist along every wold. The seagull’s nestling gently brushes the wrack with soft wings. The young boy’s playful laugh is loud beside the cascade of ivy on the gable end of the house, the joyful ebullience of the bush in the hedgerow, the protecting canopy of trees in the copse. And the milkmaid’s spirited song from the pasture beside the shore is the sweet dulcet lullaby wafting its magic from the Land of Gold …
But the flakes of foam on the fringe of the surge of a stream are slurping in towards the shallows of the river where they slobber on the rough sand. The white ripples of the gurgling gullies are being trapped by the willing wind in the rotting mountain sedge. The murmurous hum of the bee fades to despair as it floats to its hive from the foxglove which has yielded up its treasure. The swallow is kissing the top of the barn with its feathers, but the whine of the wind can be heard in its visiting song across the bleak and desolate wastes. The mountain ash is curling itself up against the raw and ruddy wind …
The swagger of the youngster is fading away, the whistling of the cowherd is growing faint, and the reaper is laying aside his scythe in the swath which has yet to be cut …
The living must pay its dues to the graveyard …
I am the Trumpet of the Graveyard. Hearken to what I have to say! You must hearken unto my voice …
2.
What’s this then? Another corpse, bejaysus! My daughter-in-law, certainly, this time. You’d easily know it … A cheapo coffin too. I’m telling you if this is my daughter-in-law …
Breed Terry! But it can’t be. You should have been here a long time ago. You had the shakes and the snots and the searing heartburn as far as I can remember … You fell into the fire … And you hadn’t the strength to get up again. That wasn’t too bad, as it goes …
Come here, I want you, word in your ear? … Have you any news at all, Breed? Whatever you’re having yourself! … Oh, you want a bit of peace! That’s what they all want, bejaysus, when they come first …
You heard they will be putting up my cross soon, Breed. It’s already written? How long would that be, now? A fortnight? A month? … You haven’t a breeze, Breed? In all fairness, now, you never did have much of a clue about anything, now did you? …
Ah, sure, I know well. You said that already, you fell into the fire … There was nobody there looking after you. Ah well, that’s all that they’d want. For an old hag like you! There’s no harm at all in it, Breed. It might be better from now on … but you won’t fall here. Or if you do, you won’t have far to fall …
Listen now, Breed, just listen … Ah come on, Breed, have a bit of cop on and don’t make a moaning Minnie of yourself like that John Willy. He’s driven everyone mad in the graveyard yacking on about his rotten old heart … My daughter-in-law’s not too well all the time, is that what you’re saying? … She had another young one, did she now! Is that true? … And it didn’t carry her off! Well that’s a wonder of wonders. But she’ll never recover from this pregnancy … I’ll bet you anything, Breed, I’ll bet you she’ll be here with us the next time around … And it’s a girl … My God almighty, Breed … And they called her Nora … They called her after Toejam Nora! She heard that I wasn’t alive! …
My daughter-in-law and Little Kitty bitching about one another … Scalping the hair out of one another’s heads, is that what you are saying? Jumping Jaysus, now you’re talking! That’s it now, Breed! Nobody ever believed me that that strap of a thing had it in for me since she was forced into my house against my wishes, in from Gort Ribbuck! You can’t imagine the tea she served me! And the bedclothes I slept in, I had to wash them myself! She has to vent her savage spleen on somebody else now, as I’m not there anymore for her. Little Kate was a soft touch for her, I’m telling you …
It’s going to court, you’re saying. There’ll be a lot of gossip about that, I’m telling you, and it will cost a packet … Little Kate said that? She said that Maureen’s clothes were got from Jack Chape in the Fancy City! My daughter-in-law wasn’t half right then. How would Little Kate know anything then, except that her tongue is as long as a langer? And even if she did, what was that to her? She had no business sticking her nose into a young girl’s future going to college. It would be a long time before anyone related to her would ever be a schoolmistress. The law will take care of it, no doubt about it! I certainly hope that Pat Manning the Counsellor will take the case against her. He’s the one who would get it out of her …
Peace and quiet, is that what you want, you say? Don’t we all want that! Well, then you came to the wrong place looking for peace and quiet, Breed … That’s all the spuds my Patrick has set this year, the Turnip Field? But sure, there’s hardly half an acre in all of that … Nell has the two Meadows under spuds! … Well now, Breed, there’s a fair bit in those two fields but there’s hardly an acre and three-quarters, as you say …
What was that last thing you said, Breed? … Forget that falling into the fire, but just cop on and stop muttering … What did you say about Nell’s son? … He’s fine and dandy again! Ah … He’s doing odd bits of work, is it? … Holy Mackerel and Ababoona! I thought, if I could believe John Willy, that he’d never do another day’s work in his life! …
He was cured at Kill Eeney Well! Fat chance! Didn’t that strap of a mother of his know full well where to take him for a cure! That bitch knows a thing or two about life! But I’d never believe, not in a month of Sundays, that he was cured at Kill Eeney Well. Neither do I believe a bit of it, that there’s any cure of any kind at Kill Eeney Well. My own son’s wife wore out her kneecaps saying prayers and doing the rounds there. There’s hardly a well from our own one here to the Well at the End of the World that she hasn’t visited, for all the good it ever did her. Always a bit sick. She’ll be put to the pin of her collar at the next pregnancy, no doubt about it.
That’s another one of Nell’s tricks to take him to Kill Eeney Well, and then say he was cured there. That hag is well got with the priest! … God bless you anyway and your Kill Eeney Well, Breed! It was nothing like that. This is it. The priest. What else? He gave a copy of St. John’s Gospel to her son. That’s how he was cured, Breed. What else, like? The priest.
Somebody else is going to have to die instead of him now, though, as he was cured by John’s Gospel. Death will have its own. That’s what they always said …