“‘A great wedding,’ said Billy the Postman,” she said. “That’s how he’d love it himself, God bless him!”
“‘I am absolutely certain that if he knew, that if the Old Master knew, Billy, that I was going to marry again,’ I says myself, Breed, I says, ‘that’s exactly what he’d say to me, to have a great wedding. And, he’d be happy for the neighbours. And, of course, he’d be happy for me also.’ No, he wouldn’t either, Breed …
“Feck me anyway, Mistress,” I says — I didn’t really know what I was saying at all, Master, only the words slipped out—“I swear really, Mistress, but I swear I thought you’d never marry again.”
“Ah, sure, Breed dear,” she says, “I wouldn’t have either if it wasn’t for what the Old Master said to me a few days before he died. I was sitting on the edge of his bed. I took his hand:
“‘What will I do at all,’ I says, ‘if anything happens to you?’
“He let out a great guffaw, Breed.
“‘What will you do?’ he says. ‘What would a fine young strap of a woman like you do — but get married again?’
“I started sobbing, Breed: ‘You shouldn’t say something like that,’ I tells him.
“‘Something like that,’ he said, and he was really serious this time, Breed.
“‘Something like that,’ he said, ‘is nothing but the truth. I won’t rest easy in my grave unless you promise me that you’ll marry again.’
“That’s what he said, I swear he did, Breed,” she said.
— The hussy …
— God forbid that I’d say she told a lie, Master. That’s what she said.
“It’s going to cost you a lot, Mistress,” I says. “You have enough money, and the postboy isn’t too badly off either, may God let you enjoy it,” I says, “but there’s no doubt that a wedding can cost an arm and a leg these days.”
“If it wasn’t for what he had stashed away before he died, and the insurance money I got from his death, I wouldn’t have a chance to afford it, Breed,” she says. “The Old Master was very careful with his money, may God bless him,” she says. “He neither drank nor went on the tear. He had a nice little nest egg put away, Breed …”
— The hussy! The bitch! She wouldn’t put a cross over me half as good …
— But, sure, didn’t I say as much to her, Master:
“You shouldn’t do anything at all, Mistress, until you have erected a cross on the Old Master first.”
“It’s just as well for the Old Master,” she says. “The poor Old Master is gone the way of all flesh, and as he has, and as he will be like that, he’s not bothered about crosses. And I’m absolutely certain, Breed, that if he knew how myself and Billy are getting along now, he’d say to hell with the cross, but to enjoy ourselves as much as we could. No doubt the Old Master was a good man,” she says, “he had a good heart and a good …”
That’s exactly what she said, Master …
— The tramp! The dirty tramp! …
— … Fell from a stack of barley …
— … The heart! The heart, may God help us! …
— … I’m telling you, for Christ’s sake, Galway won the All-Ireland football …
— In 1941, is that it? If you’re talking about 1941, they didn’t …
— 1941, I’m telling you. And they have Kenny to thank for it. Never saw anything like him as a footballer. He clocked, knocked, houghed and ploughed his way through the Cavan team. He was some lad, some footballer, and beautiful to watch. I was looking at him that day in Croke Park in the All-Ireland semifinal …
— They won the semifinal against Cavan, but they never won the final …
— O they did, certainly! Kenny won it on his own …
— In 1941, you’re saying? Well, I’m telling you, they didn’t win the All-Ireland. They beat Cavan by eight points, but Kerry beat them by a flukey goal and a point in the final …
— Ara, God help you, how could they? Wasn’t I in Dublin looking at the semifinal against Cavan! Three of us went there on our bikes. I’m not telling you a word of a lie: on our bikes the whole way. It was midnight when we got there. We slept outside that night. We didn’t even manage to get a drink. You could have squeezed the sweat out of our clothes. After the match we were in like a flash to meet the players. I, myself, shook hands with Kenny.
“You great ballocks of a boyo, you!” I said. “You’re the greatest footballer I ever saw in my entire life. Can’t wait for the final in a month’s time. I’ll be here again looking at you beating the crap out of Kerry …” But unfortunately …
— 1941, you’re saying? If so, then Galway didn’t beat Kerry, but Kerry beat them …
— Ara, God be good to you! Tell that to some twit. “Kerry beat them.” You’d easily know you’re trying to make a total eejit of me! …
— 1941, you’re saying? Were you even looking at the match?
— I wasn’t. Of course I wasn’t. But I was at the semifinal against Cavan, I’m telling you. What kind of an eejit are you that you don’t understand what I’m saying? We came back again on the Sunday evening on our bikes. We were parched and starved. Our guts were hanging out with the hunger! But still and nonetheless we shouted “Up Galway” in every town we passed through. It was nice and shiny bright on Monday morning when we reached home. I got off the bike at the top of the road. “If it’s our good fortune,” I said to the other two, “that we come around after this hunger and thirst in a month’s time, by Jaysus, we’ll go again. I’d love to see Kenny beating seven kinds of shite out of Kerry …” And he did, of course. No bother to him …
— 1941, you’re saying? I’m telling you that Kerry won. Were you not at the final? …
— I wasn’t. I was not. How could I be? Do you think that if I could’ve I wouldn’t? What kind of an eejit are you at all? That day after coming back from the semifinal, didn’t I come down sick! I got a cold from all the sweat and from sleeping outside in the air. It went through me straightaway. Five days after that I was here in the dirty dust. How could I have been at the match? You’re a terrible eejit altogether …
— So what kind of rubbishy crap are you on about so, that they beat Kerry?
— It was no bother to them, no bother …
— 1941 you’re saying. Maybe you’re thinking about another year! …
— 1941. What else. They whacked Kerry in the final …
— But I’m telling you that they didn’t. Kerry beat them by a goal and a point. A goal and eight points for Kerry, and seven points for Galway. The referee robbed Galway blind. But it wasn’t the first time. But the gutty boys from Kerry won the match …
— May God grant you an ounce of sense! How could Kerry win it, when Galway did? …
— But you were dead. And I was looking at the match. I lived nine more months after that. The game didn’t help me one bit. Every day after that I was fading away! If it wasn’t for that I was watching them getting thrashed …
— God help you! You are the biggest fucking eejit I ever met! Even if you saw it a hundred times, Kerry didn’t beat Galway, no way. Wasn’t I there, wasn’t I there at the semifinal in Croke Park. If only you had seen them that day crushing the bejaysus out of Cavan. It was Kenny! He was the footballer for you! I never wished for even one more day’s life when I saw him taking Kerry apart just a month ago … No bother to him, none at all! …
— The final of 1941, is that it? …
— Yes, of course, what else? … Yes, of course, what kind of bollocks, are you anyway?
— But they didn’t beat them. They …
— Oh, yes they did. They did. Kenny would have beaten the whole lot together …