Elephants' Graveyard

Declan Varley

Description

A rural Irish village is transfixed when anonymous lottery winner offers to fund the development of a long-delayed community centre. But the gathering of characters who are thrown together by this quirk of fortune reveal old sores that had never healed in the life of this Galway village.

Informations

• Publié par: Declan Varley
• Date de parution: 12 décembre 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781912022809
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Elephants’ Graveyard by Declan Varley

When we were young, we played in "the buildings"— an old cavalry barracks which was used by the English army when they were based in Kilreagh seventy or eighty years ago. They were only ivy-covered ruins, but we used to have games of hide 'n' seek in there until it got dark and then we'd be too scared to go in, just in case we saw a ghost in any of the rooms along the long corridor. We saw a fella kissing a girl in there once and he with his hand on her tit and she moaning like a banshee, and we told the rest of the lads that we saw them "doing it." And they believed us. And it was a handy place for having a piss, because it was halfway between the village and everywhere but when ya pissed against the ivy, it just splashed back at ya, soaking ya with an invisible mist of your own water. Then in the Seventies, they decided to pull it down because they said it was too dangerous, but we were growing out of it anyway, so we didn't mind. They said they were going to build a community centre there, where we could play indoor soccer and hold boring local heats of the Scor na n-Og, but after knocking "the buildings" and putting in the foundations for the Centre, the money ran out and the work stopped. After a while, the weeds started to grow so high around the foundation that you could no longer see it from the road when you were going to school. The tinkers from Limerick stopped there one summer when they were up selling carpets and the Sergeant told them to fuck off, but they took their time. My father said that he saw them dropping a nice roll of carpet into the Garda barracks a few weeks before they left. Eventually, we grew up and went away from Kilreagh without ever having had our Centre built, but they always promised it at election time, the bastards.

Chapter 1 The auld Joyce sisters heard it first on the local radio at nine o'clock. But they couldn't swear by it, as they were in the middle of getting the post office open and were only half-listening. The news had said that it was definitely won in Galway, the county not the city. At ten o'clock they turned up the volume and made sure they didn't miss the news, which said that it was won in Kilreagh. They nearly shat themselves. Delia Joyce had been on the phone to Niall Moloney to see if he could tell them who had won it, but he said that he still hadn't heard anything, so he told them to ring him later in the day, when he'd have something to tell them. Would he feck ring them back, the nosey pair of bitches? The radio station rang him a few minutes later and he told them too that he hadn't heard anything. He added ''no comment" for good measure and hung up. When he put down the phone, he wondered what it meant for him. The Lottery had been onto him at half-eleven the previous evening to tell him that one of the three winning combinations was bought in his shop. He'd heard that if you sold the winning ticket, you get a few bob too, but there were three or four winners, where is that paper? He fumbled across the counter and plucked out the Independent, opening page three where the numbers and winners were printed. There they were. 7,13,18,29,32,34 — three winners and one in the West. All sharing £832,457. He went in and made a cup of tea for himself and decided not to wake Yvonne yet. She was still in bed, and wasn't too responsive to her father's call in the morning. The call at eleven o'clock told him that he'd won over sixteen hundred pounds himself. If he'd had a wife, he'd have hugged her, so instead he just stood there and clenched his fist, raising it up to the sky and waving it, accompanied by some unmerciful whooping. That woke Yvonne. “Dad, what the fuck are ya shouting about,” she said as she came down the landing in her pyjamas, with a head on her like an explosion in a mattress factory. The news didn't take long to go around the village, so he decided not to bother ringing back the radio station to tell them. But somebody else had, and they were soon back on to him. "Somebody in Kilreagh is very very rich today," said a proud Niall on the one o'clock news. "But we don't know who it is yet. There is a lot of activity here this morning and the winner probably won't come forward until this has died down a bit. I'm still a bit mithered by it all, so you can imagine what state they're in." Fr. Molloy even mentioned it at the evening mass on Saturday night. "In our midst lies a person who has come unto riches. A great stroke of fortune has descended upon the village. And as he goes forth into the world ..." Mary Kinane was getting bored in her seat. She whispered to Marian Burke. "How does he know that it's a man who won it? He's saying 'he' all the time." “Maybe he won it himself,” said Marian. The lads from The Herald were out, quizzing up Niall to see if he had any clue who won, or was he just covering up for someone. Or was it even himself? He told them that it might be the syndicate of teachers down at the school. They used to come in every month and do four weeks ahead with their Lotto. Mad young fellas and young wans all planning summers overseas. Feck it, they had so many numbers, they probably hadn't checked them all yet. Probably too bloody busy talking about how they'd love to get a career break, if they were ever made full-time and that kind of shite. So The Herald got onto them, but it wasn't them either. And that was evident because when they went into the pub for sandwiches at lunchtimes, they

still looked as miserable as fuck, and depressed as they always did. No, it had to be someone who was keeping it to themselves and didn't want all the publicity. Niall wondered whether he'd get his seller's money even if nobody came forward. And if there would be a trip to Dublin to pick up the cheque and spill champagne and the likes. And if he'd get one of those big cardboard signs that say "I sold a winner." He'd have to move the cornflake boxes if he did and rearrange the window, but Yvonne would do it for him. 'Cos she has an eye for shite like that, he told someone once. The ladies in the ICA guild even discussed it at their meeting on Wednesday night, and they all decided to put a pound into a kitty and do two lines for that night's draw, but they didn't do any good. "It must have been a tourist passing through who won it," said Margaret Carey, to which Martina Moran replied "that's the only kind of tourist we ever get around here anyway, the passing through kind." But after a few minutes chatting about the Lotto winner, they got down to business and wondered if they should hire a bus to go to Tuam next week for the microwave demonstration. Or whether they should all make their own way in. And important shite like that. Delia Joyce in the post office was very annoyed that it wasn't won in her place, and because Niall hadn't rang her back she made up a yarn about how the winner had left the winning ticket in his trousers and sent it to the laundry and was now too embarrassed to tell anyone. Like, how the fuck would she know anything like that at this stage? But after a week, nobody had claimed it and after the Joyces had started dozens of rumours about who in the village could have won, they gave up and decided that it must have been a tourist after all. "Maybe some French or German fella on a bike," she said. "Ya know, them backy-packer crowd. He's probably gone home and forgotten all about it." And everyone nodded and scratched their balls. Those who had balls that is. And life went back to normal. But still they all wondered who had won it. *****

Chapter 2 Gorman looked at his watch. "We'll start." The four solicitors nodded in agreement, as they stood there shivering, their papers flapping in the wind. "Or will we wait another few minutes?" he said. "You'd never know who'd come yet." Everybody looked over at the two farmers as they pushed their bicycles into the hedge and threw them there, with the thistles sticking up between the spokes. They looked in at the bemused group inside the wall who were staring out at them, so they nodded and let on to be going about their business, even though there was nowhere else for them to go. Gorman looked at his watch again. He was getting a bit impatient, as the bank had told him that there would be a few down from Galway for the auction, a couple of their own brass to see that it went OK, and maybe the odd one out from Tuam. And what about the fellow from Loughrea who was meant to turn up? He wasn't here yet either. No, he'd give it a few more minutes and if they weren't here by half-eleven, then he was going ahead with it. He looked over at the two farmers who were still eyeing him suspiciously. It was the first time they'd seen so many people with suits walking over the Ludden farm. Apart from the day when half the village made the short journey with the family over the meadow to the field beside the church. But then again, there weren't as many suits that day. A small black and white cat hopped out from the window of the house, arching her body so as to squeeze out through the gap in the rotting plyboard, which had been put up there a few years back to stop the knackers getting in. But they still got in. And they shit in the room and pissed on the walls and tore out the cast iron fireplace which had been there since the house was built, which wasn't today or yesterday. Joe Gibbons remembered helping Jamesie Ludden to put that coat of blue paint on the house almost eleven years ago, on a hot summer's day, when they ended up drinking whiskey down in Moloney's. He thought then that Jamesie was over the worst of his problems and was getting back to normal, raising his family and trying to make a living out of the small farm. He smiled that night like he hadn't smiled in years and Joe was glad for that. He smiled like he did when they used to play football together back in the '50s. "He'd be turning in his grave today, if he was here to see this," said Tim Carton, before coughing up some of the phlegm which had been bothering him for the past few weeks, and spitting it out into the grass near where himself and Joe had thrown their bikes. Gorman had enough. "We'll start, definitely this time. Ahmm," he coughed. "Gentlemen. I don't think there are any ladies around to welcome this morning. Thank you for coming to the auction of this property, details of which are outlined in the document which I have given to you. Given the value of the property, bidding will start at £19,000 so if I can have an opening bid, we can proceed." A hand went up. “Nineteen thousand, do I have twenty?"| Silence. Then another hand. And another. A mist began to fall over the little house, but the group of solicitors and auctioneers were sheltered by the huge oak which stood at the back of the house, blocking off the cold east wind that blew in from the road to Tuam and the world outside.

Down in the village, the Angelus pealed out midday, as the deal was done on the Ludden property. Afterwards, the besuited people gathered in Moloney's for coffee and sandwiches, before leaving Kilreagh to go back to their own world having done the bank's dirty work on the Ludden farm. Joe Gibbons wiped away a tear as he pulled the bike from the brambles and thistles and cycled home to tell Bridie the news that the Luddens were now finally gone. And some other cunts had bought the place. Though he didn't put it that way. *****

Chapter 3 Ten past one and still no sign of anybody. The Councillor looked out of the front door of the Kilconly Community Centre again. Up and down the road and not a sinner in sight. "Arragh, fuck it, I'm going home," he said to Maura, his wife. "Or for a walk. These shaggin' clinics are a waste of time." She nodded back at him, before shuffling the papers on the desk in front of her. Two years he'd been coming here, listening to fathers looking for college grants for their kids. And fellas wanting their hips done and hoping he'd get them moved up the waiting list. And farmers wondering about their Area Aid and headage forms, all of them like himself, clapped-out ex-Sugar Factory workers who didn't really know what life was like until the Tuam plant closed six years ago. Sometimes local politics was a load of shite, and after a while, the glamour of being Kilreagh's first County Councillor wore off. "Look Tim," she said, holding up a sheet of paper. "There's a letter from a farmer in Kilbannon who is complaining about the rates he pays over an annual basis and see, he has annual spelt a-n-a-l." The Councillor just looked and laughed, adding "maybe that's because he feels he's payin' through his hole for it." Maura didn't mind the work. At least it kept him on the dry and gave him something to do outside the farm and all of those spare hours he'd had since the factory closed. "And as for these bloody things," she said, pushing towards him a load of old tickets for the community draw to finish the Centre. "We haven't got rid of any and the meeting is only a few weeks away." "Don't worry, agra. We'll hardly be alone on that one. There's no shaggin' money around for wasting on such things. That place will never be built. The money just isn't there." He lit a fag, sat down and asked himself what in the name of Jaysus had happened him in the past two years. Now he was even sounding like all those Fianna Fail politicians who try to defend the indefensible with their promises and bullshit answers when they don't deliver. It was almost two years now since the local elections and despite all his own blowing of "elect Kilreagh's own councillor and I'll get you the funds to finish the Centre," the shaggin' foundation was still an eyesore down past the church on the Tuam road. The Community Council had started it all one summer after a rush of blood to the head, when they said that if they didn't get any Council money, then they'd go ahead and build it themselves. But after a wet Summer and some dodgy builders, the cash ran out and all that has stood there for the past fifteen years is the foundations and about three feet of the walls. And the Community Council had organised another bloody draw to try and get the project started again, as if there weren't enough bloody draws. "I don't know why in the name o'God I'm here every Saturday morning, and the bastards don't call down half the time, but if ya missed a day, that's when they'd call, the fuckers. They hate us over here. Jaysus, sure I got damn all number ones at this hall. This is real Paul Connaughton country, and ya can't bate that, ya know." Maura nodded and picked up all the files and carried them out to the car. She'd heard it all before. *****

Chapter 4 Robbie hated togging out in the car. There was never enough room to stretch your legs to get your trousers off, so you had to open the door and stick your legs out, giving Peter Joyce's fiancee a good gawk at your jocks. Bitch. She went everywhere with him. To every social. To every game. Even this one, on a Saturday night, when she should be at home washing her hair or ironing her Sunday blouse. But no, she had to come and gawk. Yes, that was another thing, Saturday night matches. Bloody unnatural, it was. Not in the spirit of the GAA at all, wasting valuable drinking time. Especially when it was only a feckin' challenge game against Kilconly. When they were kids, it was the local derby they all used to get excited about. Now they barely had a fuckin' team. Even Peter Joyce was getting a game. And so would auld Patteen Maguire if he had brought boots. Maguire had played on the 1958 team and was supposed to have scored two points with the one kick. He had turned up for every game since. And he was here tonight, sitting at the side of the pitch, away from the rest of them, who wouldn't go near him because of the smell of dogs piss and drink. "'Tis a shame how he let himself go," Robbie's mother would say now and again, as if he was feckin' George Best or someone. "And he was the grandest lad you could meet when he was younger. That's drink for ya," she'd say trying to be subtle about her maternal warning. Far from George Best he was, wearing that stinking coat with drink and vomit stains down the front, and dirt around the pockets where he used to wipe his hands before slipping them in out of the cold. "Stick to them like shit to a blanket, let the coonts know you're there" he'd roar out at them at the start of every game, before settling down on the hillock and watching the remnants of the club which had given him the proudest moments in his life. Even though the sun was shining, it was cold in Kilconly. Robbie was beaten to the first ball, but Mattie Jordan had saved him by creeling your man a few seconds later. "Knee them into the side of the leg," he said slapping his thigh. "It takes them fuckin' out of the game and gives them a dead leg for the day." Robbie said he would, but knew he wouldn't. Tom Moran was happy at half-time. "We've got the breeze lads and make use of it." Robbie was shagged, but he knew he couldn't be taken off because they hadn't any subs. Three points down, but it felt worse, like they'd been pulled and dragged all over the place. And now Murphy wanted to play him at full-back, just because Joe Burns wanted to move upfield to get a swipe at Turlough Malone who was mouthing and hitting slaps off the young lads in the forward lines. "Give me the chance at him." Ten minutes later, they were down to fourteen men. Bums togged in alone at his own car and stuck his tongue out at Peter Joyce's bird who was still gawking over at him using the rear-view mirror. The next ball flew out of Robbie's hands as well, as he fell backwards. It was in the net before

he could pick himself up. He found it hard to keep tabs on the full-forward — a big bastard with a beer-belly and flailing elbows. Another goal went in. Patteen was roaring from the sideline. "Stick to him like..." Robbie's mind was racing. The full-forward was loving it and could sense the fear in the young fella. Another goal. "Knee him," said Mattie Jordan, but Robbie's knee just came back off the tough surface of the full-forward's thigh. "Like this," said Jordan, bringing the colossus down as he raced in on the goalie. Penalty. Another goal. "Fuckin' hell lads, get yerselves together," roared Moran. The final whistle. Five fourteen to one eight. And the Kilconly lads gave them the finger. And Tommy Moran flashed his lad at Peter Joyce's bird and she looked away and then looked back. Patteen followed them when they trooped back to their cars. "Ye were unlucky lads." "Shagg off Patteen." He turned to go and made his way over to Robbie. "Ye didn't stick to them, ye didn't." Robbie nodded, not wanting to be seen to be paying too much heed to him, in case the lads thought he was a bit soft, which they did anyway, but you know how it is. "How's yer father?" Robbie could tell that Patteen wanted something, so he just said "Fine," and pulled on his tee- shirt. Patteen headed over to Jarlath Murphy again. "Ja, any chance of..." "The ride is it?" "No, no, I was just wondering if you'd drop me a few quid until Friday." "No way." "But Ja, I haven't eaten for two days..." "Well haven't ya great fuckin' willpower," replied Murphy, looking around to the other lads for their guffaws. Robbie decided not to tog in fully, just pull on a tracksuit top and have a shower back home, but he had to drop Patteen home first. "Plank yerself down over there." Robbie moved the pile of old stinking milk cartons and sat on the chair beside the empty grate. Patteen's house was much as Robbie had expected- a hole! The cat that sat on the other hob had a look of contentment about him that is only found on felines whose appetite for mice and rats is well satisfied. And this fella looked like he'd had afters. The dog smelt worse. He looked fat and lethargic, not even batting an eyelid when the cat hopped down and walked by him. "Will ya have a cuppa?" "Naw, Pat. I'd better be away now. I want to get home and go down to Moloney's to see the Eurovision, just the end of it like. The songs are shite." "Yeah, but there's great little girls on it, isn't there?" grinned Pat, showing all his rotten teeth. He rooted under the sink and pulled out a tin teapot that had seen better days, its sides full of little dents here and there as if it had been smashed up by a car. "How's the father?" Robbie sat on the arm of the chair opposite the cat. "Oh, good now Pat. Ya asked me that already."

"Is the politics suiting him? I gave him the number one, ya know. He was always sound. Will ya tell him that?" "I will, Pat." He ran two cups under the cold tap, before leaving them down and going over to the dresser and pulling out one of the drawers. He put it onto the table, pushing aside the sugar bag and rifling through the papers and envelopes and old calendars before finding what he was looking for, and thrusting it forward for Robbie to take. "There. Do ya recognise anyone there? Do ya?" Robbie looked at the newspaper cutting. The Tuam Herald, September 5th 1961. It was a photograph of a football team. The Kilreagh team and they were 3-12 to 1-08 winners over Kilconly in the intermediate championship. "That's a team for ya, young fella," said Patteen, leaning across and jabbing a dirty fingernail at the two fellas in the back row with their arms folded. "That's me. I had more hair in them days, and there, that's your father." He recognised his father from a similar picture back in the house, the one where he was pictured shaking hands with Sean Purcell and Frank Stockwell and they smiling at him. He was proud of that picture. Robbie's concentration was broken by the loud moan that Patteen let out of him before he broke into a fit of weeping. Robbie had never seen a man cry like that before, or indeed see a man cry at all, apart from Martin Mullins the time they were coming home from the pub on that holiday in Spain a few years back. Martin had said something to a dog across the road in the little village near Alicante and the dog had hopped down off the wall and started to make his way over, when a car came along and killed him. Martin broke down crying that night even though Robbie tried his best to console him, by telling him that the dog was a Spanish dog and probably hadn't a fucking clue what "come here" meant. But now Patteen was bawling and there weren't any dead Spanish mongrels around. Robbie didn't know what to do. He tried to move closer to pat him on the back, but the combined smell of sweat and rain coming off Pat's old coat held him back. "Pat, what's wrong?" Patteen's eyes were full of tears and every time he opened his mouth, you could see all the rotten teeth in his head. Snots came down his nose as he tried to speak, but the instinct to bawl prevented him from speaking. Instead, he just thumped the table and put his head into his hands, before shouting "why, why, why?" "Why what Pat? What's wrong with ya?" "Get out, get out of my house. You're just like them all, aren't ya. Just like them all." Robbie reached over the table, picked up the keys of the car and headed out the door, ignoring the roaring as he went out. "Stupid bollocks," he said, as he pulled the door after him and ran across the boreen to the car. A light mist was beginning to fall over Kilreagh and Bosnia Herzegovina had just sang their song in Millstreet. *****