— Bloody tear and ’ounds, Nóra! … Bloody tear and ’ounds, Caitríona! …
— For the life of you don’t tell, Beartla! …
— Honest to God, Bartly! …
5
— … True for you, Jack the Scológ. God would punish anybody for saying I’d be a lover to that ugly streak of misery …
— … You fell off a stack of oats … Did you ever hear of the Battle of the Sheaves? … I’ll tell you. “Cormac Mac Art5 Mac Conn Mac Tréanmhór Ó Baoiscne was building a stack of oats one day in Tara of the Hosts. Tufty Mouth6 was throwing the sheaves to him. The Seven Battalions of Learning and the Seven Battalions of Common-Learning and the Battalion of Minor Freemen came …”
— … There’s great talk of transferring him. A lot of talk …
— But transferring him would be no satisfaction, unless he’s dismissed, and killed or drowned, or hanged, or given the cat’s death afterwards. This graveyard is bursting at the seams as a result of those mercenaries who are billeted on us, Billyboy. “Take two spoonfuls of this bottle,” said the murderer …
— Maybe, neighbour, he’ll be dismissed. I think he might be, too, after the trouncing he gave to a man from Donagh’s Village the other day for handing him a red ticket. But I don’t think he’ll be put to death …
— Arrah, what’s the use, so! That’s what should be done to him: to smother him under a pot. Look at me, he gave me poison! …
— By the docks, didn’t he tell me to drink whiskey? He did indeed, my friend. The blackguard! I wouldn’t mind but I never had an ache or a pain! …
— Galway have a good football team this year, Billyboy? …
— A great team entirely, neighbour. Everybody says that even if they played on crutches they’d win the All-Ireland. Green Flag said it the other day …
— Concannon will make paste of backsides that day …
— Concannon is only a substitute!
— A substitute! A substitute! What are you talking about so? They won’t win! They won’t win! They won’t …
— They have great young players. The very best. They will win, neighbour. You’ll see they’ll win.
— Arrah, shut your mouth! What’s the use in talking rubbish? I’m telling you your young players aren’t worth a bullock’s slime7 without Concannon! I wouldn’t mind but for all this “They’ll win,” “They’ll win”! …
— Begging your pardon, neighbour, one would think you’d prefer them to be defeated with Concannon on the team than to win without him! A taste of revenge would be sweet, neighbour. Concannon was blamed by many in 1941. I never felt so cross as I did that day in Croke Park …
— That’s the truth, Billyboy …
— Billyboy was always very obliging …
— It gladdened his heart to bring you good news …
— And even if it was bad news his grin was like a safety-belt …
— Who laid out Tomás Inside, Billyboy? …
— Nell and Big Brian’s daughter and Tomáisín’s wife did, Cáit …
— And who keened him, Billyboy? …
— Nell and the village women did, Bid. But yourself and Little Cáit were greatly missed. Everybody was saying: “May the Lord have mercy on Little Cáit, the poor thing, and Bid Shorcha, the creature! Weren’t they great at stretching and keening a man! There won’t be the likes of them again …”
— May God spare your health, Billyboy! …
— Bloody tear and ’ounds, what does it matter who stretches or keens a person! …
— … Hitler is still knocking soft eggs out of them, God bless him! …
— He’s doing fairly well, neighbour, fairly well …
— What do you mean, fairly well! Shouldn’t he be into England by now! …
— Not at all, neighbour. But the British and the Yanks are back into French territory again …
— Arrah, what! You’re spouting lies, Billyboy the Post! We’re not making small-talk about sport now, you know …
— It’s nine months now, neighbour, since I’ve been able to read a newspaper, and I don’t know exactly how they’re faring. At that time, everybody was saying that the British and the Yanks wouldn’t be able to make a stand in France on D-Day …
— Arrah, Billyboy dear, why would they? And they were pitched to hell out into the sea again like a heap of dead blennies …
— Faith then, I suppose so, neighbour …
— And Hitler followed them this time — which he should have done at the time of Dunkirk — and he’s into England by now! Der Tag! I think there’s nothing left of England now …
— Non! Non, mon ami! C’est la libération qu’on a promise. La libération! Les Gaullistes et Monsieur Churchill avaient raison …
— Oh! You windbag, you stumbler, you blind fumbler …
— C’est la libération! Vive la France! Vive la République Française! Vive la patrie! La patrie sacrée! Vive de Gaulle! …
— Frenchman, my neighbour, did you hear about the newspaper report that you were awarded the Cross for your valour …
— Ce n’est rien, mon ami. C’est sans importance. Ce qui compte, c’est la libération. Vive la France! La France! La France! La patrie sacrée! …
— Oh, do you hear the racket the little scutterer is raising! He’s worse than the Big Master …
— Musha, Billyboy, you didn’t hear any talk of our getting the English market back? …
— Do you hear the gadfly again? …
— The English market will be fine, neighbour …
— Do you think it will, Billyboy? …
— It will, neighbour. Don’t worry. I’m telling you the English market will be fine …
— May God save you, Billyboy! You’ve plucked the bitter thorn from my heart with those words. You seriously think it will be fine? I’ve a patch of land at the top of the village …
— … It has indeed been published, your book of poetry …
— The Yellow Stars! Oh! Billyboy, my dearest friend, you’re not serious? …
— I didn’t see it myself, but the Postmistress’s daughter told me so … Don’t worry, neighbour. Your own book will soon be published too …
— Do you think it will, Billyboy? …
— I’m certain it will, neighbour …
— You have secret information so, Billyboy? …
— Musha, I used to hear a little tattle, neighbour. I used to be very friendly with people here and there. The Postmistress’s daughter … Oh! Master, calm down, calm down! …
— Have a bit more manners, Master! …
— There’s great money to be earned in England still, Billyboy? …
— It’s not as good as it was, neighbour. The food is awful. The Woody Hillside, Sive’s Rocks and Donagh’s Village crowd have come home …
— A holiday among the nobly bred nettles of Donagh’s Village will do them good …
— … Your son, his wife and their two children are home …
— Ah! You’re having me on, Billyboy! …
— God forbid, neighbour! By the holy little finger! …
— And the black wife is home with him? …
— She is, bedad, and the two children …
— Listen here to me, Billyboy. Tell me the honest truth. Are they as black as they say? As black as the Earl’s little black? …
— Don’t worry, neighbour. Far from it …
— Are they as black as Road-End Man after being up a sooty chimney? …