When All Is Said(13)

‘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!’

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.’