Fourfront Read online

  First Published 1998

  © Cló Iar-Chonnachta 1998

  ISBN 1 902420 01 2

  Cover Artwork: Pádraig Reaney

  Cover Design: Johan Hofsteenge

  Design: CIC

  Cló Iar-Chonnachta receives financial assistance from The Arts Council

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including the condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Publisher: Cló Iar-Chonnachta, Indreabhán, Conamara

  Tel: 091-593307 Fax: 091-593362 e-mail: [email protected]

  Printing: Clódóirí Lurgan, Indreabhán, Conamara

  Tel: 091-593251/593157

  Introduction

  The short story has flourished as a literary form in those places where a vibrant oral culture has been challenged by the onset of a tradition of written literature. The American Midwest produced Mark Twain, Sherwood Anderson and Ernest Hemingway in direct succession, just as Russia came up with a Chekhov and Normandy with a Maupassant. Many of the finest works by these otherwise disparate authors take for theme that very clash between ancient and modern standards in their peripheral communities, a clash which may indeed have made the very development of the genre possible.

  Ireland has produced many great short story writers from George Moore to Mary Lavin, but also, and uncharacteristically, a set of theories with which the form might be interpreted. Two gifted exponents, Sean O’Faolain and Frank O’Connor, wrote treatises on it which are still cited by experts in schools of writing: The Short Story and The Lonely Voice respectively. Perhaps this was simply a reflection of the intensity with which the genre has been discussed and studied among the broad community. For every decade of the past century, it has been arguably the most popular of all literary forms with Irish writers and, just as important, readers.

  Broadsheet newspapers (notably The Irish Press and Sunday Tribune on a weekly basis, but also The Irish Times in summer) have printed stories on an entire page – sometimes to announce a new talent, otherwise to publish a scoop by an established favourite. This tradition goes back a long time, to the days when George Russell published an early story of James Joyce in the Irish Homestead. The national radio station has broadcast stories weekly and has energised aspiring writers with wellpublicised, much-contested awards. Even the other official genres pay homage to the form: the plays of a Brian Friel or Tom Murphy often can seem like dramatised collections of stories, just as the movies of a Jim Sheridan or a Neil Jordan have that same episodic quality which has led many readers of Ulysses to conclude that it is really a sequence of short stories in the drag of an experimental novel.

  So popular, even healthily vulgar, has the form become that two decades ago one of the foremost Irish-language novelists of the younger generation protested against the fetishising of the short story as a “quintessentially Irish” form. He called his essay “The Disease of the Irish Short Story” and he urged a moratorium, while writers applied themselves to the more arduous task of constructing good novels. That uncompromising critic, Alan Titley, is none the less represented in this collection by four striking testimonials to the persistence of the shorter form.

  In the earlier decades of the twentieth century, the short story was well calibrated to capture the nature of an emergent new society. If the novel chronicled a made society, the story better captured one still in the making: and it did this, as O’Faolain insisted, by concentrating on unconventional individuals who carried in their original way of looking at things the promise of a new dispensation. If the great Anglo-Irish artists like Yeats, Gregory and Synge excelled in poetry and drama, the short story seemed mainly the preserve of the “risen people”, the O’Flahertys and the MacMahons, the Os and the Macs. These were authors who in growing up read the classics of English literature but who were also still able to listen to old story-tellers who had honed their skills in oral narrative in the age-old tradition. Of its very nature, the short story as a genre was well suited to registering the upheavals of a society as it shed its ancient traditions. Frank O’Connor has observed that without the concept of a normal society, the novel is impossible: but he has added that the short story is especially appropriate to the place in which constant upheavals have shattered the very idea of community.

  This may be a major reason for the persistence of the form in postmodern Ireland, a country which has to undergo in the past century the sort of changes which in other parts of western Europe have been more gradually implemented over, say, three centuries. O’Connor believed that the short story provided a “lonely voice” for members of submerged population groups, for vulnerable minorities faced with the catastrophic onset of modernity and all the possibilities and pitfalls which that implied. There could hardly be a better description of the world inhabited by the dissidents and rebels of Micheál Ó Conghaile’s stories, protagonists who find themselves suddenly revealed as “errata” in someone else’s master-narrative. Even as the Irish nation-state took on an inexorable form, in the very desire of its leaders to impose a sense of normality after centuries of turbulence it helped to create the conditions for individual dissent and, thus, for new versions of the short story. The only difference was that where once the “submerged population group” might be a flying column of revolutionary gunmen, in later decades it was more likely to be a wounded group of homosexual persons or a lonely bunch of eccentrics.

  In fact, Irish speakers and writers in that language now form just one of the many minority groupings clustered within the larger national narrative. Officially esteemed by the state in theory, they have often felt marginalised in daily practice, being treated as at once a national treasure and a practical nuisance. Moreover, within the Irish-speaking movement, creative writers have tended to represent its radical, subversive side rather than its more strait-laced element. Some, like Titley, have voiced their own reservations about the po-face of official Ireland with a linguistic virtuosity that verges on the carnivalesque: proof, if proof were needed, that a loquacious wordplay is not the sole preserve of Irish writers of English, but an intrinsic part of Gaelic tradition, which always prized the phrase-maker and alliterator. Others, such as Pádraic Breathnach, have placed their central focus on isolated individuals whose struggle with inherited authority-structures may tell us more than any sociologist about the destiny of community. And all, like Dara Ó Conaola, have written on the understanding that the short story’s real generic affinities are with that other favoured form of Gaelic tradition, the lyric poem. In almost every one of the following stories, there comes a moment of revelation, when the actual surfaces of things take on a wider symbolic meaning, as in a moment of poetry. This is surely the ultimate answer to those who contend that the short story is an “easy” form: for at its best it has the intensity and lyric power of a symbolist poem. Perhaps it was something of that kind which Liam O’Flaherty had in mind when he mischievously suggested that if you could describe a chicken crossing a road, then you were a real writer.

  Of necessity, something is lost in a translation to English, a language which an earlier nationalist generation often believed to be utterly alien to the Gaelic mind (whatever that is). But much is also gained: a fairly literal translation recalls for readers that rich, rural English, still vibran
t in some places but always in danger of being homogenised by television (which seems to have little space for dialect, for quirkiness, for the individual genius i.e. those very forces which the short story exists to defend).

  The language of these versions is often like that of the countrymen and women who impressed the poet Yeats by their capacity to think still in Irish while using English words. (This is the very reverse of the process, painfully obvious to all who have sat in Ireland’s classrooms, whereby so many people have to think in English while using Irish words.) And there is a lesson here: that those who translate a tradition, including those who attack it in that very act of translation, may ultimately do more to defend and develop it than those who put the relics of a “folk past” into glass cases for the approval of antiquarians and tourists. Here, on the contrary, is a book which demonstrates that the example of Kafka has been as fully assimilated as that of Leabhar Sheáin Í Chonail. The mingled, gloriously impure nature of our world is well expressed in this most hybrid of literary forms.

  Declan Kiberd

  Dublin: July 1998

  MICHEÁL Ó CONGHAILE

  Born in 1962, a native of the Connemara Gaeltacht. One of Ireland’s foremost contemporary Irish-language prose writers. Also a publisher.

  Has written several books, including a social history of Connemara and the Aran Islands: Conamara agus Árainn 1880 – 1980: Gnéithe den Stair Shóisialta. Two short-story collections published, Mac an tSagairt and An Fear a Phléasc, and first novel, Sna Fir, to be published shortly. Has won many national literary awards, particularly for his short stories, including the Butler Literary Award in 1997. He also won the Hennessy Award for Literature in 1997 and was nominated New Irish Writer of the Year.

  Death at a Funeral

  It would have been ridiculous for Eamon Bartley to stay ensconced in his coffin any longer. He couldn’t anyway. He was far too good to have died. Every one of the merry mourners at the funeral was praising him – praising him up and down and back to front and top to bottom and arse to elbow – even those who hated his guts once upon a time; those who had it in for him due to some old dispute; those who cursed him roundly and fucked him from a height; those who didn’t talk to him for yonks; those who crossed the road to avoid him, or looked right when he was on the left, or who stared at the ground if he was all around them. Every man jack of them praising him with gusto now. They were mourning him and mourning him and mourning him, they sure were.

  “Eamon was all right you know, the poor fucker.”

  “The whole town will miss him.”

  “You could depend on Eamon, a sound man.”

  “The poor soul, God love him.”

  “He was kind and helpful to everybody.”

  “He was all of that and more, even if he wasn’t the full shilling.”

  “Too true.”

  “You never said a more honest word.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Eamon suddenly began to think that he’d be a proper fool to remain dead in his coffin any longer. Not one minute longer. Neither right nor proper nor appropriate. Besides it would be wrong to these good heartbroken people gathered around him. Maybe I’m confused, he thought to himself, or maybe I’m not the same person I was . . . in which case it wasn’t me who knocked up Micil Bawn’s young one at all; or broke into Mary Andy’s shop and made off with two thousand pounds, or nicked the sugar lumps from the priest’s tea the day he was around for the stations, or who crashed into Martin More’s nice new car without tax or insurance, or who firebombed the co-op’s offices when they sacked me, or who broke into the police station looking for my hooch which the bastards swiped . . .

  With one vicious smash he crashed up through the brown coffin lid. Sat up. Straightened himself. As straight as a bamboo cane in a teacher’s hand.

  The mourners woke up in consternation from muttering their prayers. Some of them jumped out of their skins – and into others. A few of them gawped. Others seemed to run off in four directions at once as if they were doing a set dance mixed up with a waltz. The rest of them froze like icicles on a cold March day.

  Eamon Bartley Coolan looked around him. And then looked slowly around him again in silence from person to person. His head and shoulders were barely up over the edge of the grave. He was grinning all over. A grin that grew until it went from ear to ear. A big, broad, stupid, crescent grin.

  “Aren’t you all happy that I’m alive and kicking again?” he said, buddy-like and upbeat. Then he stopped, expecting someone to say something, anything, even a stutter. But there was no answer, not a word. He broke the silence again. “Look, even though I liked the other life better than this miserable vale of tears, I just couldn’t not come back, you missed me so much. You are all so nice, so straight. Too straight and honest really. I was really touched the way you guys all said nice things about me, praising me to the skies. Every single one of you. And I felt such pity for you. Your wailing and weeping would make the stones themselves burst into tears . . . and that’s why I, that’s why . . . hold on a minute . . . something wrong? . . . why are you all so quiet and gawking at me with your big wide eyes . . . do I detect some misgivings or what, now that I’ve thrown away the shroud . . . I mean, come on, it’s a bit early for me to die again, isn’t it . . . but on the other hand, of course, I wouldn’t like to create difficulties for any of you lot. Begging your pardon then, my friends and companions and brothers in Christ, but am I all owed to stay just a little bit longer, to live just a little bit more? Am I?”

  Nobody answered him at first. Nobody spoke. They stood around like statues, like telephone poles, like stiffened stalagmites. The priest. The undertaker. The doctor. The workers. His widow. The local petty politician who turned up at every funeral with his wet handshake. Relations of all kinds. Some who had never been heard of, others who denied having anything to do with him. Toddlers and ragged urchins. Teenagers. Neighbours. People from the town. From the hills. The odd person that nobody knew . . .

  – I drank fifteen pints at his wake. I’m tellin’ ya. Fifteen bloody pints. I never sank my moustache into so many creamy pints, the very best of pints, for the sake of a scrounger who never spent one penny on a drink in his life, nor on anything else either until he died. Don’t let him spoil our day’s boozing now . . . Believe me, he doesn’t deserve to live.

  –I was certain he was dead. Absolutely sure. Didn’t I feel his pulse? I put my hand on his pulse three or four times, and I felt his heart, his . . . No sign of life whatsoever. One hundred per cent sure. I’d be able to recognize a dead man rather than a live one any day before anyone else . . . I have years of practice . . . Think of my reputation, my good name, my professional record . . . I’m telling you, he doesn’t deserve to live . . .

  – The coffin is ruined anyway. Whoever heard of a second-hand coffin? And it smells. His name and date of death finely and clearly engraved on its brass plate, all arrangements on the news and in the papers. It’s not as if it could be used again. You couldn’t flog a pine overcoat that somebody had already worn. It would be unlucky, unhealthy. Think of the risk. Even a live person wouldn’t be happy to sit into a second-hand coffin, never mind a second-corpse coffin, never mind a dead person . . . For God’s sake, he doesn’t deserve to live . . .

  – He never voted for me. Never. Not once. The Bartleys always stuck with the other crowd, they didn’t change over when some did the time of that bother about the pot-holes and the water. When I think of all the cars we sent to bring him to the polling booth on election day. Total waste of time. Election after election. And he never once voted for me after all I did for him. And I don’t suppose he’s going to change his mind now with another election coming . . . On mature reflection, he doesn’t deserve to live . . .

  – He was a nasty bastard anyway. Frightening the shite out of me on the road coming home from school. Trying to scare me. Acting the eejit. Talking about ghosts, and hobgoblins, and fairies, all those silly things that aren’t there any mor
e. Telling stupid stories. Acting the real prick. He bullied me often enough . . . I used to dirty the bed, not sleep at night, and have nightmares because of him . . . When you think about it he doesn’t deserve to live . . .

  – I put ten pounds offering on his altar. Ten pounds, boy. I did, I’m telling you. I sweated blood and tears for those ten pounds, and yet I gladly offered them up to the Divine Lord because he answered my prayers . . . that I wouldn’t see him sneaking past my door again. . . he was a right one . . . and may God grant that he never comes snooping around again. If I had to offer another ten pounds on his altar I’d be completely bust. No way . . . If you ask me, he doesn’t deserve to live.

  – He was a liar. A consummate irredeemable liar. Pretending he had snuffed it. Making fools of people. Drawing attention to himself. Throwing shapes. Acting the big cheese. Trying to show the world that we in this town are only stupid pig-ignorant blubberbrains. Well, he has another think coming, he doesn’t deserve to live . . .

  – I came all of seventy miles to be here at his funeral. Seventy long Irish miles neither give nor take an inch or a half-inch. My health isn’t good, you know. I’m ailing myself. I’ve put my life in danger by coming all the way here just to see him laid out. So I could see him stone-dead before my very own eyes. I just had to. OK, so I had a face on me and we weren’t talking for a long time, but I wouldn’t give the satisfaction of not coming to his funeral. Seventy miles, despite my bad health . . . my rheumatism, varicose veins, blood-pressure, weak heart . . . despite my . . . ah, what the hell, he doesn’t deserve to live . . .

  – I’d put a bet on with the bookie. Quite simple really. Five thousand pounds. Five thousand pounds that he wouldn’t make it to the end of the week. Jaysus, I’d lose everything. My house, my car, my ex-wife, the whole bleedin lot . . . Keep the final curtain down until next week and I’ll have claimed my money, and I’ll have made it sing . . . No doubt about it, he doesn’t deserve to live . . .