When All Is Said(12)

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 each 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.