— See where he’s buried …
— The Great Professor of Futurology of the Western World is dead and his prophetic skull is laid down at Bandy Bartley’s feet …
— Bloody tear and ’ounds, his skull could do with an extra pillow alright.
— Tell us now, John Kitty, what do you think of the old life now, or do you think that the prophecies will come true? …
— I’ll keen for you now, John Kitty, as is only right and proper for your calling and for your fame … Ochone and Ochone Oh!
— … Ara, get up the yard, John Kitty! All that bullshit talk about Red Ball O’Donnell! Will England get blasted to bits and be blown away in a storm of ashes in this war? Is that in your prophecy? Hey, Black Bandy, Give him a jab of your toe in his prophetic skull …
— Oh Billy my dearest! … I’m going to have no peace here six feet under in the dirty dust …
— Don’t let it bother you, Caitriona. The priest has arranged to make a completely new map of the graveyard. Top of the Road’s old one was bitching away recently. “Weren’t things bad enough for the twattish twerps of Clogher Savvy,” she says, “but now they have to go and put their rotting legs across the sensitive stomach of the old boy himself …”
— I’m telling you, no coffin or blanket will last too long on that corpse! See the way he stole my mallet! …
— … But Caitriona dear, you’ll have the cross up over you anyway …
— I wish they’d hurry it up, Billy! I wish they’d hurry it up before the witch herself is dead …
— It will have been worth waiting for, Caitriona. Everyone who has seen it says it is absolutely beautiful. The priest himself came hot foot to look at it, and the Junior Master was there, and my … the
Mistress, they were all there the same Saturday having a good gawk at the inscription in Irish …
— Did you say that Billy, did you tell that to Nora Johnny and Kitty and Redser Tom? … Oh, Billy dear, if it’s not on me …
— It will be, Caitriona. Don’t let that bother you one bit, my good neighbour. It’s been ready for ages, but they were just waiting to stick your own one and Jack the Lad’s up together …
— My cross and Jack the Lad’s cross going up together …
— Fireside Tom’s cross is holding them up now …
— My cross and Jack the Lad’s …
— Everyone says, Caitriona, that your one is much nicer than Kitty’s, or Nora Johnny’s, or even Huckster Joan’s …
— My cross and Jack the Lad’s …
— It’s nicer than Jack the Lad’s too, Caitriona. My … the Mistress says she’d prefer it to Peter the Publican’s …
— It’s of Connemara marble so, Billy?
— I couldn’t say that for sure, neighbour. It was bought in McCormack’s yard in the Fancy City anyway.
— Bloody tear and ’ounds, how could that gom know anything seeing as that he couldn’t raise his head from his pillow for yonks past? …
— If it’s not Connemara marble, Billy, it won’t be worth a tinker’s curse or a gypsy’s grunt as far as I’m concerned …
— I thought that all the Connemara marble was all used up …
— Shut your hole, you grabber!
— It’s of Connemara marble!
— It’s not of Connemara marble!
— I’m telling you it is of Connemara marble!
— I’m telling you it’s not of Connemara marble!
— McCormack’s never have Connemara marble. Only Moran’s have it now …
— Ara, away out of that, what’s the point of going on about it? Didn’t Nora Johnny’s and Kitty’s come from there, and weren’t they all of Connemara marble! …
— And Breed Terry’s …
— And Huckster Joan’s …
— I certainly did hear, Caitriona, neighbour, that Nell had ordered a cross of Connemara marble for herself …
— The Big Butcher from the Fancy City came to my funeral. He often said he had plenty of time for me because his father had plenty of time for my father …
— … Nora Johnny’s cross is of Connemara marble …
— … I was twenty and I played the ace of hearts …
— … Kitty’s cross …
— … La liberation …
— … Breed Terry’s cross … Huckster Joan’s cross …
— I was the first corpse in the graveyard. Don’t you think that the oldest resident in the place should have something to say? Let me speak! Let me speak! Let me sp—…!
— Let him speak!
— Go on ya good thing! Off you go! …
— … Nell’s cross …
— Go on! …
— Go on, you headbanger! …
— … Is not Connemara marble …
— … After you nearly bursting your guts for thirty-one years getting permission to speak …
— … Too true for you, Master! Now you’re talking! Two dogs …
— … Neither my cross nor your cross, Jack the Lad …
— … You’re allowed to talk now, but it seems you’re happier to keep your gob shut …
— … Neither my cross nor your cross is Connemara marble …
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MÁIRTÍN Ó CADHAIN was born in an Cnocán Glas, Cois Fharraige, Connemara, in 1906. He was educated locally, and a scholarship allowed him to become a National School teacher. On graduating from St. Patrick’s College, Drumcondra, Dublin, he returned to Connemara, where he taught in local schools, including Camas and, later, Carnmore. During the Second World War he was interned in the Curragh camp in Kildare for membership in the proscribed Irish Republican Army (IRA). He subsequently became a translator in Dáil Éireann, and Trinity College Dublin appointed him lecturer in Irish in 1956, naming him professor in 1969. He died in 1970. He is best known for his novel Cré na Cille (1949); his short story collections include Idir Shúgradh agus Dáiríre (1939), An Braon Broghach (1948), Cois Caoláire (1953), An tSraith ar Lár (1967), An tSraith Dhá Tógáil (1970), and An tSraith Tógtha (1977). Another novel, Athnuachan (1997), and a piece of continuous imaginative prose, Barbed Wire (2002), were published posthumously.
Born in Cork in 1947, ALAN TITLEY is a writer and scholar. He is a member of the Royal Irish Academy and Professor Emeritus of Modern Irish in UCC, and former head of the Irish Department at St. Patrick’s College, DCU. Apart from his scholarly work, he is the author of seven novels, four collections of short stories, numerous plays, one collection of poetry, and several film scripts on literary and historical topics for television.
NOTES
* Máirtín Ó Cadhain may seem difficult to pronounce to anybody without knowledge of the Irish language. His name has never been Anglicised and we are not going to do it here. But for the sake of pronunciation it might be rendered as something like Marteen O’Kine.
* Just in case of ambiguity, “Irish” here refers to the Irish language, and “Irish literature” refers to writing in the Irish language, just as “English literature” generally refers to that which is written in English, or “Spanish literature” to that which is written in Spanish. The term is linguistic and not geographical. “Irish” is sometimes erroneously referred to as “Gaelic.” The Irish language should never be referred to as “Gaelic” because doing so is historically, socially, formally, and linguistically wrong. “Gaelic” is now correctly applied to the principal historical language of Scotland, although it also was referred to (in English) as “Irish” for most of its history. The distinction is not subtle: “Irish” refers to the native language of Ireland, and “Gaelic” refers to the major native language of Scotland, although the term came into common usage only in the past two hundred years, or less.