God bless you, Breed! As if Nell would be the one to die! It’s no wonder you fell into the fire, you’re so stupid. Not a chance in hell of Nell copping it! … Or Blotchy Brian’s daughter, either. Or anyone of her brood. Jack the Lad, he’s the one they’ll drive over the edge. You can be sure that she told the priest to have Jack die, as payment for saving her son. God help us all! She gave poor Jack a really hard time, the skank. She never looked after him. Remember what I’m telling you now, Breed, the finger is pointed at Jack and he’ll be here very soon. Nell or Blotchy Brian’s daughter couldn’t give a fart in a gale. Won’t they get a chunk of money from the insurance as a result! …
Is that so? The case is still going on, therefore … They’ll be going to Dublin in the autumn, is that it? … I’ll tell you something, going to Dublin isn’t in any way cheap, Breed … Oh, they say it might be put back next time yet again! That’ll bleed Nell dry at last, I hope it does! But, Breed, tell me now, if her son is fine again, then surely he won’t be getting any money … Oh, he only works on the sly, is that the way? … He has the crutches laid down beside him anywhere he goes to work! … He has statements from doctors saying that his hip will not really mend! He would. You wouldn’t mind but taking them out to the field and the bog with him as well! That’s more of Nell’s slyness. She was always twisted …
There’s talk of building a road in as far as her house now! The priest and the Gentry will be able to drive up to her door in their cars. Bad luck to that road, anyway! … Forget the road, Breed, there’ll never ever be a road there! Who’d shift all those boulders? …
Peace again, is that it? You’ll make a total eejit of yourself if you keep up that talk … Biddy Sarah’s pretty well fucked by now, is she? The kidneys as usual! Too bad for her! There’s not too many people, apart from Nell and my daughter-in-law, that I’d rather see here first … And Little Kitty’s back is at her again! I hope it gets worse! Another one … Blotchy Brian as sprightly as a spring donkey, you said. I wouldn’t doubt him! … He can go and collect the pension all the time? Some people have all the luck! He’s old enough to be my grandfather. God forbid, the poxy gowl! …
Listen, Breed, many people fell into the fire just as well as you. You’d lived your life anyway. What’s the problem, it was as well the house didn’t burn down too … Patrick lost two calves … With the black leg? God save us! … Isn’t it just as well that that’s how they had to die! … Nell fed her own the right stuff in time? That old cow is haunted lucky. And for all that, the black leg was most often on her land. The priest …
Patrick didn’t cut that much turf at all this year, you tell me? How could he cut turf while he is looking after that floozie of a wife? He should smother her under a pot like you’d do with a cat, as she won’t go and die herself … Five hens swiped in just one day. My God, that’s a massacre! … And he didn’t get even one of Nell’s. Didn’t the foxes always hide out on the rough ground around her place. Oh, she has a woman there — Blotchy Brian’s daughter — who can mind hens, not like Nora Johnny’s daughter from Gort Ribbuck. I think the fox is scared shitless to come near Nell’s hens. The priest …
Patrick hasn’t any pigs now, has he not? Oh, you mean when I went, Breed, the pigs went too. I’d get two lots of pigs ready every year … Nell got thirty-five pounds for her own lot! For fuck’s sake! … Your few pigs were better than hers, Breed, and you only got thirty-two pounds fifteen for them. Nell would get top dollar, whatever. The priest …
Do you think there was any news from Baba in America recently? … You didn’t hear any? … Blotchy Brian says Nell will get all of Baba’s money … “Who do you think that Baba would give her money to,” he says, “but to her only sister, Nell? Sure, like, he could hardly give it to a woman who was buried in a hole in the ground …”
That’s what he said, Breed? What else would he say, of course, isn’t his daughter married to Nell’s boy? …
You heard that Fireside Tom had his lad hanging out all the time to marry someone? The cunt! He should be saying his prayers … You think that Patrick doesn’t visit him as often as he did when I was alive? I nearly had to whip him to do anything for Tom. That’s the kind of guy Patrick was. He wouldn’t have kept any kind of decent house without me. Nell will butter him up … What’s that you tell me, Nell paid some jobber to cut Tom’s turf this year? Sweet jumping Jesus! What’s that you said, Breed? Don’t be muttering and mumbling, I tell you … Fireside Tom said that if he didn’t get married he’d leave his bit of land and shack to Nelclass="underline" “Caitriona didn’t have as good a heart as Nell,” he said. “No way, she didn’t. Caitriona only wanted my patch of land …” The cunt! The bollocks! The knacker! The fucker! Oh, yes, that’s Fireside Tom alright! …
Isn’t that a great story you have so, Breed Terry! All of Ireland knows that Nell’s land is rubbing up against Fireside Tom’s? Nobody would ever think the way you’re talking, Breed, that Nell deserved Tom’s land more than my Patrick … Don’t I know just as well as you, Breed, that Nell has only a few rocky scraggy bits? … Haven’t you some cheek to say that to me up to my face. What the fuck do you care who gets Fireside Tom’s land? What’s it to you anyway? …
Peace again! It’s what you deserve, you airhead … What’s that you said, Breed? … Move over in the grave to make way for you! You’d easily know it wasn’t your grave. Did you know that I’d paid my fifteen shillings for this a year before I croaked? Wouldn’t that be just it to have laid out next to me: a bitter woman. You never thought that you or your crowd up there would ever be buried in the Fifteen Shilling Place. Makes no difference now, easy for you. There are five people in your house drawing the dole …
I’ll give you peace! Piss off so! But you won’t sidle up to my side here. I had the best coffin in Tim’s shop, and three half-barrels of stout, and the priest threw the holy water …
Now, listen, you slag, if you carry on like that, I’ll tell the rest of the cemetery who you are … What’s that you said? …
“It is just as rare to saddle a cat as to have any of the Paudeens buried in the Fifteen Shilling Place! …”
Ah, come on, Breed, just look at who’s talking: one of the beggars. Didn’t I rear your father? Coming on over to me anytime it suited him, cadging a cup of tea when he was getting nothing but potatoes and a dry herring. Talk about speaking snottily and an inflated opinion! There’s no way that the dungheaps are getting bigger these days … What’s that you’re saying, you hag you? … I don’t have a cross over me yet as good as Nora Johnny’s … Get stuffed yourself, you sluttish slag!
3.
Breed Terry, the hag … Biddy Sarah the sponger … Kitty the small potatoes … Little Kate the gossip … Fireside Tom, the cunt … Blotchy Brian …
It’s easy enough for that muppet to have bragging rights again and his son-in-law doing OK. What was that John Willy the periwinkles said that he wouldn’t do a stroke of work ever again? He was cured at Kill Eeney Well! He was in my arse! Even if he was, it was because that harridan of a mother got John’s Gospel from the priest. Jack the Lad will pay for it. He’ll try some black magic now instead of John’s Gospel. He’ll be here soon. And I’m sure they never gave him either a hint or a warning. Great balls of fire! They don’t really give a toss!
The priest and Nell and Blotchy Brian’s young one gossiping away to one another in secret:
“The way it is,” Nell would say, “if anyone is going to plop his clogs, it’s likely to be old Jack. It won’t be long before he snuffs it. He hasn’t been well for ages. But, say nothing about it. It would only bug him. Nobody, really nobody likes to kick the old bucket …”