Boycott

by Colin Murphy

  Only Annie’s restraining hand had prevented him from using his, although he had screamed himself hoarse. Afterwards, Annie believed that Mary’s interest in Catholicism had been largely about opposing her father, purely for the sake of it. But all of this was but a prelude to the chapters of strife, torment and heartbreak that lay in the months ahead.

  Charles and Mary’s one shared interest was their love of horses. And for her seventeenth birthday, he went so far as to purchase her a beautiful chestnut mare. Annie cynically suspected it was an attempt to bribe her into returning to his narrow fold, but she also believed it had been the final act of outright love in his life, for to act with such generosity in the face of what had gone before was surely a monumental struggle. So taken with the beast had Mary been that she embraced her father with tears in her eyes.

  In the weeks after, all had gone exceedingly well and they had shared countless rides along Achill’s beaches and around the lower slopes of Croaghaun Mountain. But the demands of the estate had parted them and eventually Mary had taken to disappearing for long hours alone, which often left Annie deeply worried, as Mary was impetuous and given to following paths that hugged the precipitous drops to the churning Atlantic. Yet she believed that the recent dark days were finally being put behind them and could be filed away as mere manifestations of burgeoning youth.

  Such was Mary’s brightness and exuberance by the early summer that Annie’s suspicions were aroused, for surely the novelty of having her own horse had waned. Questioned, Mary seemed evasive, laughing away her mother’s concerns. The frequency of her absences from home was also a concern, although Charles had barely registered these. It troubled Annie sufficiently that she determined to discover if her worries were unfounded, or merely the concerns of a clucking hen for her chick.

  So she had told Charles she wished to freshen her own horsemanship skills and had followed Mary one day at a distance, her daughter’s fresh tracks easily discernible in the soft earth. As she rounded a rocky crag near Lough Accorymore, at the east face of Croaghaun Mountain, she spied her daughter’s horse grazing, but Mary absent. She dismounted and stole quietly up the hillside, peering into a small glade, where to her horror she saw Mary lying on a blanket locked in an embrace with a young man, who by his clothing she guessed could only be a peasant. The breath was stolen from her lungs as she surreptitiously observed their lips pressed together, the young man’s hand cupped about Mary’s breast. She prayed they had not submitted to the full temptations of lust – scandalous enough between those of the same class, beyond contemplation between people of such diverse breeding. She had returned distraught to her home, vistas of unimaginable terror opening up in her mind, for the truth would out sooner or later and there was no contemplating what Charles might do.

  Upon Mary’s return, with Charles absent, Annie had wasted no time confronting her daughter directly, doing what she had once prevented her husband from doing – slapping Mary forcefully across the face. Mary fell to the floor in shock and pain, clutching her scalded cheek, and lay there in tears as Annie revealed what she had witnessed. As soon as Mary recovered her composure, her defiance returned and she revealed the extent of the relationship.

  His name was Francis Ruane, aged nineteen and son of Patrick Ruane, a tenant who leased fifteen acres of arable land near Dooagh and a further thirty on the slopes of Croaghaun that was suitable only for sheep. Francis was the herdsman for the animals, which facilitated the couple’s trysts far from prying eyes. She had met him a couple of months previously when out riding.

  Annie was enormously relieved at Mary’s insistence that they had not had any sexual congress, at least none that would have consequences. Besides, they intended to marry, she’d brazenly revealed, after which it would be of no concern to anyone other than her and Francis.

  Annie almost lost her mind with her daughter’s blatancy, her naivety and her determination that her romance would continue. She loved Francis Ruane; it was as simple as that. Mary would not countenance any argument that they inhabited different worlds, cared little for the shame it would bring and was quite prepared to confront her father on the matter. As she put it, it was time someone in this household was prepared to confront him, a remark that earned her a further smack across the cheek.

  In the coming weeks Annie tried everything she could to prevent the affair continuing. She locked Mary in her room, threatened her, and told her husband to deny her the use of the horse on some other pretext, terrified he would discover her true reason. But, as usual, Charles paid little heed to the goings-on of his own household.

  Yet Mary had managed to escape to the hills on several occasions, returning footsore but happy and defiant. Knowing it was only a matter of time before the scandal escalated with a pregnancy, Annie began to consider the one remaining option. And one month after her discovery and at her wits’ end, she decided to tell her husband.

  All her pleas for him to remain calm fell on deaf ears. Her intention had been for Charles to warn the young man off, threatening his father with eviction or some such. What he had done was to first beat his daughter about their drawing room, leaving her face bruised and swollen and her back scarred by several frenzied attacks with his riding crop. With his daughter admonished, he’d located a pair of thugs and gone in pursuit of the young man, whereupon they had beaten him to within an inch of his life. Francis Ruane’s father had been informed that should his son ever come within a mile of Mary again, he, his wife and four children would be evicted.

  Mary was locked in her room for weeks and when allowed out confined to the house, the threats to her seemingly having effect. But though the swelling abated, her features never again regained their former beauty, for her smile was no more and her eyes harboured a deep hatred for her parents, especially for her mother, who she believed had so betrayed her.

  A number of months passed without incident, but the approaching cold of winter was little beside that of the bitter chill that lingered in their household. In September, Charles received his offer to take up residence at Lough Mask and had been overjoyed. He saw it not only as an opportunity to advance his ambitions, but to extricate them from the place that had almost brought scandal upon their heads. He believed that Mary would soon forget about the affair when she was far away on the mainland, near to towns and railways and exposure to proper society. Annie had her doubts, which were confirmed when she discovered a box of letters beneath Mary’s bed, many delivered within the previous few weeks, probably left on her window ledge by a sympathetic acquaintance of Francis Ruane. Another confrontation followed, but she was careful to avoid Charles having any knowledge of it. Mary told her mother she had no intention of leaving Achill, unless it was on a ship bound for America with her lover – her father would have to kill her to prevent it. Once again Annie found herself distraught, now suffering in silence for fear of the violence that might ensue. As it happened, she didn’t need to confide in her husband, as one evening Mary stole from the house with a bag of clothes and her horse. She would never return.

  Now desperate she would lose Mary forever, she had encouraged Charles to end the relationship with Ruane by whatever means, but begged him not to harm Mary. His first port of call, in the company of four burly transient labourers, was Patrick Ruane’s cottage. Neither Mary nor her lover were present and the tenant swore he had no idea of his son’s whereabouts, that he was equally opposed to the relationship, but that his son was infatuated. Despite his earnest pleas for mercy, they ransacked the cottage’s three rooms, terrifying Ruane’s wife and younger children. The following day Charles evicted the Ruanes, although he had no legal right to do so as Patrick Ruane had never failed to pay his rent. But her husband had means of circumventing the legalities and the family were abandoned to the whims of nature.

  Two days of inquiries had led them to an isolated cottage beyond the village of Keel, where Francis Ruane’s closest friend lived. Candles burned in both of the dwelling’s windows. On her husband’s instructi
on the men had shouldered the door open, the friend was bundled aside without debate and the door to the second room kicked in. And there Charles found Francis Ruane clutching a pole for protection with Mary standing at his shoulder, still defiant in the face of hopeless odds.

  Ruane was quickly overpowered, thrown to the ground and subjected to a rain of blows and kicks. When Mary tried to interfere, she too suffered a number of strikes from her father’s open hand before she was pinioned by one of the men. With her lover reduced to a bloody heap, obscenities spewed from her mouth and she swore that she would die before she ever again set foot beneath the same roof as Charles Boycott. When her captor’s grip relaxed, she managed to wriggle free and grasp a knife, which she swept in a wide arc towards her father, clipping his arm and drawing blood. He struck out again instinctively, fiercely, and Mary collapsed in a corner, a tooth dislodged from her mouth, blood dripping from her chin, sobbing in utter despair.

  The knife had severed the last bonds between them. She told him again through a mouthful of blood and a faltering, tear-laden voice that he would have to kill her to force her to leave and that if he didn’t, every day that was left to her would be spent in contemplation of killing him. Charles Boycott had spat at her, told her she could have her peasant filth and that she would never set eyes on him or her mother again. He had aimed a final kick at the prone Ruane and left.

  When he returned that night he had given Annie a complete account of what had transpired. His telling of the tale seemed in keeping with her daughter’s character and he had not omitted any detail of his own behaviour. There was little reason to doubt anything he’d reported. When he was finished, he proclaimed that no word was ever to be spoken of the girl and her name was never to be heard aloud again under their roof. She had brought disgrace on his family, on her religion and her nation. She was a harlot, a whore no better than the painted women who haunted the docklands of Dublin, selling their sex for money. There was no end to the foul epithets he used. As far as he was concerned, his daughter was not just dead, she had never existed. He instructed Annie to wipe all trace of Mary from her memory, as though such a thing might really be possible. Neither of them would ever see or speak of her again. They would soon move to the mainland where none would have any knowledge of Mary’s existence.

  Soon afterwards he wrote to their relations informing them that their daughter had died from an unnamed malady. He said that it was too painful to speak of the matter further, did not wish to engage in any correspondence, and would be grateful if they respected his wishes. He removed the lone photograph of her from the frame on the mantle and cast it into the turf fire. He burned all her possessions, even the bed she had slept in. And then he threw himself into the running of his business, his treatment of the tenants on Achill in those last months bordering on brutality, yet remaining just on the correct side of the law.

  Annie was in despair during those appalling months, her heartbreak accentuated by their departure from Achill. As the ferry crossed the narrow channel of Achill Sound, she felt that the cold Atlantic waters were the final, most impassable barrier that her husband had created against any hope of reconciliation.

  And finally she had begun to let it go, to accept the inevitability of it all. She began to think of Mary as though lost to death, existing only in memory and in God’s embrace. As the months drifted by she thought less and less about her and on occasion felt shame for having neglected her memory. But she had no choice but to live on and hope that her daughter too would survive and find a life of her own, separate from the woman who had brought her into the world and nurtured her with an intense love.

  On the last day of October in the year 1875, two years since that terrible night, Annie Boycott received a letter at Lough Mask House. The letter was from Mary.

  Dear Mother,

  I am certain that you hate me and I understand why you might feel so, though before you throw away these words, please hear me when I say to you that I never intended to hurt you or to bring shame upon you. Nor was this my intention for my father, whom I always treated with respect until our falling out, and whom I always loved, as he did me, I believe.

  Whatever you and Father choose to believe, my love for Francis was genuine, as was his for me. It was not some youthful flirtation and not pursued for lustful ends, but came from both our hearts, and it was our belief that because it was pure, it was therefore blessed by God.

  After you departed, we were left almost alone in the world. Francis’s father and his family were ultimately forced to seek shelter in Westport workhouse. Mr Ruane caught a fever there and died last year. I don’t know what became of the others. But worse than that, as Father had rejected me, Mr Ruane rejected Francis, his first-born son, for the opprobrium and ruin he said that Francis had brought on the family. This was terribly hard on Francis as he had loved his father dearly and he never saw him again, and also I think there’s a bond between fathers and sons that is seen almost as an eternal link through the generations. Perhaps it would have been better had I been born a boy and none of this would have transpired.

  When Francis recovered from the injuries inflicted (I myself bear the constant reminder of a missing front tooth), he found a job as a labourer and I as a cleaning girl. Our intention was to marry and then travel to America in search of a new life.

  This next part may be hard for you to bear (I am certain it would kill my father), but last May I converted to Catholicism. I know you may think this is just some foolish act of defiance, but that is not so, for it is a faith I have come to admire deeply, one that allows me find a greater spiritual connection with God than I ever did within the rigidity of my past faith.

  We planned to marry in September and to commence our life together as man and wife. Even as I write these words, my heart is filled with lead and I feel tears rush to my eyes, for a terrible tragedy befell us. Francis left early for his labouring work just two months past and when he failed to return at night I became concerned. The following day a group of men went in search of him and found his body at the foot of a sea cliff near Moyteoge Head. No one knows what happened – perhaps he simply went there to stare across the ocean and dream of a better life in America or some silliness, and slipped on the soft earth. You know how dangerous that area is.

  Oh Mother, I have been absent from my letter now for the past hour as the tears came freely when I recalled Francis’ death, for I loved him so deeply, and in a way that is rarely seen in this world. Our love transcended all boundaries and bore no conditions; it was not an arrangement made for monetary or any other gain, or done because of social acceptance, but was given freely of our hearts, nothing more. I hope you can understand this, but I fear the conventions of society will prevent your ability to grasp it, and by that I mean no insult, merely a sadness that you have never known a love this pure.

  My tale does not end there, for an even greater sadness is that Francis went to his grave unaware that come the spring, he would have been a father. My feelings now are terribly confused (perhaps that is why I got the notion in my head to write to you), for I am at once overjoyed at the thought of this new life springing up inside me and equally I am in despair that Francis will never see it except through the eyes of heaven, and also that I am terribly alone, more so than ever before in my life. I hear the women say that being with child plays tricks with a woman’s mind and heart and perhaps that explains this pitiless aloneness that I feel, and perhaps the awfulness of it will pass. But I fear not.

  Although the people here have been a great comfort to me and, despite their poverty, unfailing in their generosity and with their sympathies, I fear that when it becomes apparent that I am carrying a child, their compassion will wane under the weight of the shame they perceive. This too weighs heavily on my mind, as the road ahead seems so utterly empty of people, with no forks to offer me an alternative route.

  Yet I don’t write to ask for money or assistance of any kind. I beg only one thing from you, Mother, and it would
be sufficient to bear me up as I journey along that long road. It is this. If you could see it in your heart to send me a note telling me you forgive me all the heartbreak I brought upon you, it would be sufficient a thought to carry me through. This is all I ask of you.

  I never had the opportunity even to embrace you one last time before we parted and I know that was mostly my doing, but somehow I foolishly believed that it would all work out and we would be reconciled to each other in the end. In that regard you were right and I was naive in the extreme.

  I know Father will never forgive me, and to be honest, I can never in my heart bring myself to forgive many of his actions, although I can understand his motivations to some degree. Therefore I do not ask his forgiveness, as it would be a fruitless gesture. But I have never forgotten the tenderness and attention he showered upon me when I was a child and for that he has my love, unrequited though it may be.

  Please weigh my words carefully and believe me that everything I did was from the purest of motives, but the rules of this world dictated that that was not sufficient.

  Take care of yourself,

  Your eternally loving and respectful daughter,

  Mary

  A smudge stained the edge of the page, the words there faded to a paler blue where a tear had fallen from her daughter’s eyes, and in the margin was a small print where Mary had inadvertently pressed her thumb against the fusion of ink and her own solitary teardrop. Annie touched the imprint and felt a tangible connection to her daughter, so long banished from their lives. Her own handkerchief was, by the letter’s end, near to sodden.

  What was she to do? Had it been her choice alone she would have immediately set out for Achill, galloping the car until the horse dropped dead if need be, not stopping until she found Mary and embraced her, swallowing her whole in her love and forgiveness.