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.