by Anne Griffin
‘Get out to blazes, ya pup.’
He pulled at me until there was nothing left in my grip of the leg of the bed and I gave way. I stood crying in my nightshirt. Screaming the odds, telling them I wouldn’t go back. My mother had to dress me with me holding my body as stiff as I could. I refused to take a crumb of food and went to school defiant and starving.
Day after day, Tony walked by my side still trying to encourage me. While my parents had long given up coaxing and pushing me out the door, Tony never stopped telling me I was full of greatness. People didn’t really do that back then, encourage and support. You were threatened into being who you were supposed to be. But it was because of Tony’s words that I made that journey to school every day and suffered through the darkness, when my brain felt exhausted from not knowing the answers. I didn’t want to let him down, you see. Couldn’t let him know that I knew I was totally and utterly thick.
Even after he’d left school, Tony walked by my side every day to the door, enduring my silence. It was the only way I’d go. It had been his idea that for as long as our father could spare him the twenty minutes, he’d walk the road every morning. In the classroom I never raised my hand or heard the sound of my own voice. I would sink so low in my seat that I was sure if you were standing at the back of the room you’d think no one sat there at all.
It took three more years before the master decided to walk the road to our farm. It was after school and I was already home, busy with the chickens. When I saw him in the yard I hid behind the coop. My mother came out, wiping her hands in her apron, looking worried. They spoke briefly before she pointed towards the lower field to where my father and Tony were working and off he went. Tony came up not long after.
‘What does he want?’ I asked, coming out from behind the coop and running alongside him as he made a steady pace towards the back door of the house.
‘I’ve no idea. I was told to go back up to the house for tea.’
‘For tea? It’s not that time. It’s about me, isn’t it?’
‘I told you, Maurice, nobody told me anything. I’m starving. Listen, I’ll be out in a minute. Go on you back to the coop.’
I did as I was told and returned to lean up against the wooden slats, to brood my way through all kinds of possibilities. The worst of which involved me being shipped off to some home for people who couldn’t read one line of a book without breaking into a sweat. I walked in circles around and around the coop, kicking at the chickens whenever one ventured out and got in my way.
‘Don’t worry, Big Man, it’ll all be OK,’ Tony said, coming out after a bit, the remnants of my mother’s soda bread still lingering around his mouth. But his eyes couldn’t hide his concern, no matter how much he smiled.
‘Whatever he says, Maurice, it’ll be OK, you know that. We’ll figure this all out together, right?’
I kicked at the straw, not able to raise my eyes to him.
‘Big Man, come on now. What is it I always say to you?’
I kicked again, refusing to be shaken from my silence.
‘You and me against the world. Isn’t that it? Come on, say it, Big Man. Let me hear you.’
‘You and me…’ I mumbled, my head still down, the sole of my shoe scuffing the earth, not wanting to repeat his bloody refrain any more. Because the truth of it was, there was no ‘him and me’ in this war, it was just me and my stupidity.
‘… AGAINST THE WORLD,’ he chanted, ‘that’s it.’ He gave me an encouraging puck to the shoulder.
We stayed in the coop until my father and the master came into view, walking slowly up the hill, deep in serious conversation. They stopped at the haggard wall to finish whatever it was occupied them. Then my father nodded, tipped his cap and watched him leave the yard. He looked over at Tony then, and beckoned him with the tilt of his head. He didn’t look at me, but simply turned back down to the field with my fate in tow. Tony laid his hand on my shoulder and whispered:
‘Remember what I said, me and you,’ then fell in behind my father.
An hour later, the whole family sat around the long kitchen table for our tea, Tony showing no signs of distress at having to go through it all again.
‘Master Duggan thinks you might be best working the land, Maurice,’ my father announced, ‘says you’ve grown grand and strong and that you’d make a fine farmer, like your big brother here. Well, what do you think? You’re not one for the books anyway. Am I wrong?’
I let the seconds slip by, swallowing the bread in my mouth, imagining it slipping down my throat sinking into the pit of my stomach.
‘No,’ I mumbled in reply, not lifting my eyes from the plate. My head nearly stuck in it, I was hunched that low.
‘Well, good, that’s that then. Your mother will make enquiries at the Dollards’ farm and see if they’re in need of an extra pair of hands. No school tomorrow so. You’ll work with us ’til something sorts itself out.’
My embarrassment hovered in the air between us, circling the teapot, the milk jug and the bowl of hardboiled eggs. I found it hard to swallow any further. Closing my eyes, I gulped at my tea, wolfing down my shame.
‘Big Man,’ Tony whispered later in bed, as we lay in the dark, ‘this is a good thing. School’s not for everyone. The land now, that’s a whole different story. See those hands of yours, that’s what they’re made for.’
I lifted my hands to my eyes, trying to examine them in the pitch dark. I knew he was right this time, but still I’d wanted to be so much more, for him most of all.
* * *
People used to say the Dollard house was beautiful, not that my mother ever did, though. She worked there too, you see, in the kitchen. To a ten-year-old boy, on his first day at work it was nothing but creepy. My mother walked me over, she talked at me all the way. I was too distracted by the chestnuts that littered our path through the fields to take much notice. More specifically it was the conkers inside waiting to be cracked open. Huge, perfect beasts for thrashing Joe Brady’s meagre offerings. I caught some of her words, though: ‘manners’ and ‘respect’. But the reality of the life ahead didn’t hit home until I was stuck under the watchful eye of the farm manager, Richard Berk. A stern man, a man well trusted by Hugh Dollard, the head of the house. Over my six years under his care, I often saw the two of them huddled together, heads almost touching, whispering. At ten, I had grown tall and was nearly as big as Mam, five foot two. I was broad and as strong as Tony. Berk hadn’t hesitated in taking me.
My mother worked in the mornings, helping the cook with the baking. Ten loaves of bread a day, mainly for the staff. For the Dollards, she made apple tarts and scones and much fancier affairs when they had guests. On our way across the fields, my mother always sang a tune: ‘Goodnight Irene’ was her favourite. I sang along with her. She loved to hear me sing, she said. A couple of years before, she’d signed me up for Father Molloy’s choir. I was put standing on the altar with the other recruits, all girls. Not a note came out of my mouth. Petrified I was, at the very thought of any kind of public performance. I was sent home never to return. It didn’t stop me from singing along with my mother whenever we were together, though. I knew them all: ‘Boolavogue,’ ‘I’ll Tell Me Ma,’ ‘McNamara’s Band.’ In later years, I dazzled Sadie with my talent. I even sang you to sleep once or twice when she was at her wits’ end. I’d stroke your forehead and off you’d go. Nowadays, I sing into the wind at the foot of her grave.
My mother was softly spoken. What words she said were to the point. Nothing wasted. Neither was she one for smiling. I remember her laughter because it was rare. Sweet and quiet, embarrassed for intruding almost. My uncle John, my mother’s brother, brought home a banana from London on a visit, once. We’d never seen one before. He placed it on one of her willow plates, remember them? I think we still had some when you were little. Anyhow, there it was, placed right in the middle of the table like some precious jewel. My mother looked at it and laughed. Clear and melodious it was, like a song thrush. As eac
h member of the family arrived to see the peculiar-looking fruit, my mother’s laugh started up once more. I willed others to come so she wouldn’t stop. I moved as close to her as I could, to taste and feel her happiness. I remember my head pushed in against the material of her apron, closing my eyes to hear her joy and feel her body vibrate. Irresistible. But, whatever chance I had of hearing her laugh at home there was no hope of it at work.
The Dollards were not kind to each other let alone to those who worked for them. My father was convinced it was their gradual demise in wealth and power over the previous fifty years that did it.
‘It’s the rent he misses. None of them can abide the fact we have our own land now.’
Their house hung heavy with the disappointment of the small farmer winning the right to own holdings, however limited, under the Land Commission. Inside especially, from the bits I could see anyway. Red was about as colourful as it got and, even then, it seemed to be the darkest shade possible. But it was the family portraits that were the worst. Massive paintings of unhappy people, dressed in blacks and browns, with grey-black backgrounds that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a funeral home. I worried for my mother being exposed to that six mornings a week.
‘We need the money, Maurice,’ was all she’d say on the matter.
I remember this one time, I must’ve been about twelve, no more than thirteen, I’d say, I was helping Pat Cullinane carry in logs for the fireplaces into the back hallway. I could hear a bit of lively banter going on in the kitchen.
‘You want to make sure his Lordship doesn’t catch you at that,’ Pat called in.
‘He’s away off,’ the cook replied, coming over to lean against the door frame.
‘When the cat’s away, is that it?’
‘Well, it’s not often we get the chance. Are you coming to join us?’
Pat had begun to wipe his feet on the mat when a fist pounded on the far door that led to the main part of the house, slamming it back against the wall.
‘I don’t pay you to laugh,’ it said, loud and scary enough that I froze to the spot with a pile of logs in my arms.
It was Dollard himself, most definitely not away and most definitely blind drunk. Swaying in the doorway until his arm clutched the frame and propelled him into the room. Everyone was quiet, keeping their eyes on the floor. Pat and me, hidden in the hallway, had a small chance of escape. But when Pat took a step backwards bumping into me, didn’t I drop the bloody logs. Dollard turned our way. And like he was a fit young lad and not the old overweight mountain he appeared, he charged across the room. I caught the fear in my mother’s eye as she tried to move but was halted by the cook’s floured fingers gripping at her elbow. Dollard’s slap stung hard and loud against my cheek, knocking me back on to the woodpile.
‘Useless boy.’
Dazed though I was, it was the cook’s white hands holding my mother back that I looked for. Through Dollard’s swaying legs, I saw my mother’s hand rise to her mouth. But thankfully, she didn’t move. I lowered my head and rubbed where Dollard had struck, as his weight still loomed. And then from out behind the man’s bulk, stepped a boy no older than me. I knew him to see, of course, he was the son and heir of the throne, Thomas Dollard, but this was my first ever interaction with him.
‘Pick them up. Now!’ he roared, pointing at the logs.
His spit fell on my hands and face as his words still shook inside my head. By now, I was one big petrified mess. I moved to stand, but the terror meant I fell forward on to his feet. He kicked away at me, one right in my ribs.
‘You cretin. Move.’
I stood and steadied myself as best I could. I began to pull together the fallen logs, piling them with the others. I took my chances and glanced towards my mother and saw the cook turn her back to the sink.
‘Next time I see you damage my father’s property, you’ll know all about it.’
‘Thomas!’ Dollard slurred, ‘I’m master here. You run along and play with those dolls you like so much. I’ll deal with this, thank you very much.’
‘They’re not dolls, Father. They’re soldiers,’ Thomas’s voice shook, his eyes wide at the insult from his father.
‘They look like dolls to me.’
Thomas blinked. Long, hurt, hypnotic blinks. I was so taken by them, that I hadn’t realised he’d turned his attention back to me. His eyes, steady now, staring. I braced myself for another blow. But he simply turned and left, disappearing through the kitchen. Dollard senior, catching my relief, grabbed me by the neck and hoisted me high – my face now level with his, my legs dangling mid-air. I shut my eyes against his rank breath. But next thing, didn’t the fecker drop me. I looked up to see him wobbling and shaking. One hand covering his eyes, the other reaching for the steadiness of the wall. Blinking rapidly, staring in at the kitchen then back at me, like he was unsure of his surroundings. Still on the ground, I looked away from his embarrassment. Seconds later, I heard him stumble across the kitchen, knocking some pots as he went. The door beyond banged shut. Everything was dead quiet for a second and then my mother was standing over me in a panic.
‘Maurice, Maurice, would you look at me?’ She was on the floor, my face in her hands, examining the damage.
‘Stop Mam. I’m grand. Sure he barely got me,’ I said, getting up.
But I was put on a chair in the kitchen and mollycoddled, nevertheless, until Pat had had enough:
‘He’s grand now. Come on, let’s get this mess cleared up out here.’
After that, Thomas, the son, never left me alone. Beat the living daylights out of me. I took years of that shite from him. He taunted the other lads for sure, ordered them around like he was the man. Once, he made Mickie Dwyer move bales of hay from one side of the yard to the other and back again for the whole afternoon. Even Berk had enough of him that day and read him the riot act. But because I had witnessed his shaming at the hands of his father, I received special treatment. Being the youngest of the workers didn’t help either. But to be truthful, I could’ve taken him with one blow, but I never fought him, never rose to his taunts. I let his fists fly unanswered, knowing not to risk our jobs or my mother’s safety – it was her I worried most about.
It was of little consolation to me that Dollard senior beat him. We all knew it, everyone who moved in that place knew. I often passed a window and heard him going at it. I couldn’t stand the sound of Thomas’s pleas. That upset me more than his father’s violence. Pitiful. A thing I was sure I’d never have done. Sometimes I’d hear Rachel, the little sister, trying to intervene and every now and again succeeding on his behalf.
‘No, Daddy. Stop it!’
I imagined her swinging from Dollard’s tree trunk of an arm as he swiped at Thomas. Sometimes but not often, as I recall, the mother, Amelia, even tried.
‘Hugh! Please let him go. This isn’t fair, and you know it,’ she begged, on the day I got this scar, right here just below my eye. I was fifteen. I was passing alongside one of the open downstairs windows. As the lace curtains billowed out into the summer breeze, I caught a glimpse of Thomas’s face. Red it was. Lips pulled back, his teeth jammed together. Dollard had a good tight hold of him in a headlock. The mother stood a little ways off, her hands twisting.
‘Don’t talk to me about fair, Amelia,’ Dollard shouted at her, ‘don’t you dare lecture me about what’s fair!’
I’d seen and heard enough to scarper. I might’ve managed it had Berk not blocked my escape, sending me to the milking sheds to muck out. I may as well’ve stood in the middle of the yard and called for Thomas to come get me. Quicker than I’d thought possible, Thomas was there at my back, a hunting crop in his hand. As I turned he struck me with it, the metal end slicing into my cheek. When I fell to the ground holding my face, he kicked my stomach again and again and again. Kicked like he’d never done before and with a strength that felt new. I endured every strike, every drop of his spit. Not a moan left my lips.
‘Thomas, stop it!’
&n
bsp; I heard Rachel’s pleas as she stood at the shed door.
Curled up, I was, one hand on my face, the other trying to shield my body, not daring to look at him. I could hear his exhausted breaths heaving above me. His blood dripped on to my hand from the wounds inflicted by his father. I waited. She waited. But no further blow came. I watched his boots turn and walk back to the door, to his sister. His bloodied hand took hers. She looked at him like he was some stranger, a man she was not sure it was safe to go with. They left but not before she glanced back at me. After, I stretched my hand out to the straw and wiped what I could of his spit and blood away.
Berk administered the stitches. No anaesthetic, no disinfectant. Sat where I had fallen with a needle threading my face. He sent me home. A whole two hours off in compensation for having the shit kicked out of me and a scar: a memento of how lucky I was not to lose an eye. My mother bathed the wound, cleaning it as best she could. Later, as I lay on my bed in the lower room, I listened to the hushed voices of my parents in the kitchen, knowing they were talking about me. Tony stood at the foot of the bed, leaning against the closed door.
‘He’s nothing but a gobshite, Maurice,’ he said, ‘if I could get my hands on him I’d knock him into next week.’
‘Ah, Tony, don’t go doing anything now. There’s the jobs to think of—’
‘Feck the jobs, Maurice. No one has the right to do this to you.’
My father’s knock came to the bedroom door. Tony stood away to let him through.
He stepped in and looked at us both. His face drawn and serious.
‘There’ll be enough of that kind of talk,’ he said finally, his eyes firmly on Tony. All the while Tony’s refused to lift from the ground, knowing full well that he could curse and threaten all he liked but nothing would change with the likes of the Dollards. And true to form, I got up the next morning with half my head bandaged and went across the fields as normal.