|
|
Teen
Mag
Short Stories
THE CHURCHYARD
GATE
By Mattie Lennon
Eighty-seven WW five- one-eight. The front numberplate
appeared around Dillon's corner. Shafts of weak sunlight
filtered through Birches and the gleaming exterior of
Cleary's new hearse became...Quite a kaleidoscope. Gestures
were made towards hats and caps, as hands darted vaguely
towards foreheads shoulders and breasts with unison and
varying degrees of sleight-of-hand, No interruption was
evident in the conversation by Templebennet Cemetery gate at
the approach of the cortege. The crowd, waiting, in groups,
outnumbered those following the hearse. Such is the custom
around Glengowna that it is not perceived, (as in other
places,) a display of half-hearted homage and does not in
any way diminish the respect for the deceased, or the
next-of-kin, to meet the funeral at the graveyard rather
than accompanying it from the Church. The assembly
represented sections of the community as diverse as their
transport, which only included one bicycle. Both sides of
the road were taken up with vehicles ranging from an old
Ford van, straw peeping under it's rear doors, and a canine
as a captive occupant, to a LHD Yellow Convertible saloon
bearing Californian licence plates. The owner of the former,
shearing champion, Herbert Connell, commented on the driver
of the latter; how he had negotiated the deceptive hairpin,
at Larkhall Chapel, the previous evening, "wud wan lock"; an
unusual feat for a stranger. The subject of the
complimentary comment middle-aged, with a pleasant, tanned
face, was standing across the road exchanging the odd remark
with a couple of less- than-articulate locals. He was
staying, for a few days, at the small Chesterfield Arms
Hotel in Ballycorrig, and this morning he had informed
residents and staff that he was ; "going to a real Irish
funeral". 'Though words like "Mortician" and "Necropolis"
were now being uttered with a Montery drawl, the unlit
Havana was not held ostentatiously; rather he was toying
with it and flicking what appeared to be a cigar-cutter,
with the other hand. A stonecutter, an inquisitive
individual, (recently nicknamed Paddy Brasswings, after the
character in Seamus Murphy's " Stone Mad"), who had the
talent of being able to eavesdrop on a number of
conversations simultaneously while at the same time
interrogating the person nearest to him now spoke. " yer
man...the Yank...he must be the first outsider ever, not to
pass remarks about the Indian design of the parapets of
Templebennett Bridge".
The bridge, which stands about a hundred yards to the
South of the graveyard was built as a Relief Scheme by local
Landlord, Col. Smith, who had served with the East India
Company. The kindness of the landlord and the Relief Scheme
were discussed now, as they always were when Templebennett
Bridge came up as a topic. On this occasion one of the
listeners paying attention, with toothless, abandon was a "
harmless lad",from Knockstook, John Norman , whose habit it
was to express agreement with all comment, ,by replying in
the affirmative, having called on his Creator to sanction
it. Now, when it was said that the Relief Scheme was a great
help to the people of the area, John replied;": Be God, it
was .....sure they would have died wud the hunger around
here on'y for the Famine". An event which took place a
century after Black Forty Seven was being discussed, by the
little bands, as the hearse inched its way down the Pay Bank
towards the entrance which had admitted the Faithful for a
Millennium and a half. When Publican, Liz O 'Byrne's kind
comments, about the deceased, were answered in a undertone,
by Joe, "the poet", Donovan, she didn't see it as dismissal.
Liz knew "the poet" well enough to perceive that he was
daydreaming.
Joe had read somewhere that every word spoken is
recorded, somewhere in the universe. And he was now thinking
that if, through an astral as yet intangible dimension, the
tangle of murmuring voices around him could be recalled, the
full story of the corpse under discussion would emerge.
Fr.Martin, red-faced, and new to the parish waited. Had he
moved close to any of the small clusters, the conversation
would cease, or at least change. Some would fear being
branded scandalmongers but most would feel they lacked the
sophistication to impart a tale so delicate to the Lords
Anointed. One person who did not share the peasant feelings
of the majority - superficially at any rate- was James O'
Connor. James was honest, a plumber by trade, but would be
seen as someone who considered himself "a step above
buttermilk". The ability to comment on classical music,
justify, every aspect of his own life and his moderate
success in shedding the Glengowna accent, placed him apart.
He walked with assurance which he, no doubt, saw as dignity.
He was always referred to, by children as Mr. O 'Connor and
by a good proportion of adults as "that bollix". He now
stood, well dressed, sporting a soft hat with the Priest,
traces of pipe-jointing compound, on his hands the only
tell-tale sign that he was working class. With rounded
vowels and eloquence he was imparting to the Clergyman, what
perhaps a hundred others were ruminating in the countryside.
When the hearse wheels came to rest on the grass, Fr. Martin
began to unroll his Stol. His body inclined forward, but his
feet, for a couple of seconds, seemed reluctant to follow.
As duty dragged him away from the words of James O 'Connor,
heads were bared and the Sign of the Cross was made by all,
slowly and devoutly. When Martin Cleary, and his son, slid
out the coffin, as burly men offered assistance, the
Breastplate, inscribed with MARY DALY AGED 92 seemed to
produce a light of it's own. The hum of a half century's
reminisces lowered a few decibels but, for the most part,
continued in intensity.
*****
On an April evening in 1947 as 15 year old Johnny O 'Shea
was chopping firewood in Daly's haggard he felt.....looked
down......and.....saw.....half of his left index finger on
the ground. A year earlier, on leaving Knocknacarrig
National School, he came to work for old Pat Daly and his 42
year old only, daughter Mary. When Pat, like many others in
the Parish went to his reward in the bad Winter of 1947
Johnny remained to look after Mary's forty- five mountainy
acres * Predictions of litigation were delivered with the
certainty of all fireside law by neighbours; "They'll put
her out on the road..."........." an' him a class of a
citeog as well ....ambi....whatsomever you call it". All
forecasts proved inaccurate....the O'Sheas did not sue.
Despite the fact that Johnny was nicknamed "The Ramrod" by
some patrons of De Vesey's Barn-Cinema his new found
responsibility was not arrogance. He was young and the
slight over-usage of the personal pronoun- when occasionally
referring to the stock and crops as "mine" was allowed. When
he sold 4 two-year old Shorthorns, in the October fair of
Ballycorrig, his ashplant was held with quite confidence. A
pair of red boots (the authentic trademark of the
farmer-cum- jobber) drew the odd wry comment Complements
about his bargaining powers, for one so young were shrugged
off without trace of haughtiness and neighbours who
inquired.:.....why didn't yous Winter them?" got evasive
answers. As the veil of night crept down from Church
Mountain, farmers who were out once a year told each other;
" You didn't go home yet". Crude forestry-pole barriers were
removed from pub doors, and cow-dung was hosed and converted
into slurry ('though the word would not be coined for
another two decades). Johnny O'Shea was seen boarding Dukes
cattle-lorry bound for Dublin. Mary Daly had not authorised,
agreed to or received any proceeds from the sale. For most
of the Winter, the seed, breed and generation of the O'Sheas
-maternal and paternal,- were analysed around fires in
Glengowna and surrounding townlands; where great emphasis
was put on pedigree. In this case the consensus was that;
"......it's not in his race to do such a thing".
Through December the cattle
incident slowly descended the list of conversation
priorities. On Christmas morning a woman from across the
hill, in Larkhall for her Christmas Duty, commiserated with
Mary, only to be told; " I hope he took enough". A search of
her eyes for sarcasm or bitterness proved fruitless.
February told a tale. The most innocent remark, about
anything, took on a double meaning in Glengowna. The
practice of locating sheep buried in snow-drifts, by probing
with a rod (a method known a "Poleing") provided a welcome
double- entendre for the punsters. "She won't die like a
mule, anyway"....."It won't spoil her growth" and such
clichés were the order of the day, and any mention of
Johnny O'She would be met with some variation of; "It was
only his finger he got". On a March evening, with Slieve
Airgead showing all the signs of a favourable Spring,
Martins hackney car collected Mary. The neighbours
looked after her farm for three weeks and children were told
she was ;".....gone to stay with a cousin one side o' the
Curragh". Uncharacteristically, for Glengowna, feeling
dictated that events of that year would be put firmly in
oblivion, or as firmly as is possible, in such cases. Years
later when a stranger, a schoolmaster, referred to Mary's
"tragedy " he was let know he was talking out of turn and
using the word out of it's capacity. Ration-books went and
electric-light came.Glengowna moved with the times ,like
everywhere else except in the area of charity, where it
remained rooted in the past. An old fashioned kindness
prevailed to the extent that any farmer would leave his own
work undone to give Mary Daly a hand. And he would not even
be subjected to the customary slagging for doing so. And so
1947 was merely a milestone; A milestone on a road that was
to wind through disappointment and contentment for four
decades.
*****
In the hope of getting his Kapp-and-Peterson filled
(ready for the post-funeral "blast outa th'oul pipe"), 89
year old Tom Lawless vigorously ground Potamac plug tobacco
with trembling hands. He spat at intervals, each time adding
to the build-up of saliva on his lapel. Now, he stepped
forward, as if symbolically breaking ranks. Shuffling his
feet he gave a nervous laugh, accompanied by the clank of
ill-fitting dentures. With a glance to each side to
establish that he had commanded enough attention, he gave
his throat a final clearing, which said; "I'm now taking
centre stage". He then said, indicating the Yank's
cigar-cutter; "......Begob that's a dangerous looking
weapon......but it was hardly wud that that he cut the top
off his finger ".
|
|