Boycott Page 3

  When Geraghty had died, Owen’s fears seemed to be realised. Michael Joyce’s vitriol had finally taken form. From the moment Owen learned of the manner of the man’s death, he suspected that what he’d witnessed that day at the lough was his father disposing of the murder weapon – and a new sense of dread overtook him. His father, and by association his family, had crossed a line – on one side of which they were victims, on the other transgressors, sinners, murderers even. As he recalled the twirling musket fracture the glazed serenity of the lough’s surface, his own innocence was shattered. The water had settled and regained its placid form, but he feared the disquiet in his own heart would ripple on to the end of his days.

  The water rippled again now and he awoke from his reverie. The air had chilled and the sun was low in the valley behind him. The fishing line twitched and darted to and fro. He played out some slack and allowed the fish a momentary illusion of freedom before he began to ease the creature towards the surface. Gently he gathered the line, looping it about his hand until finally he caught sight of the fish’s frenetic struggling. As it broke the surface he heaved upwards. The fish arced through the air and landed, flapping, a few feet away on a boulder. He’d landed a bream, barely a pound in weight. He quickly unhooked the line, re-baited it and cast, hopeful the fish had been one of a school. The sun was dipping and he still had to make his way back up the hillside, but one fish would not suffice.

  An hour later and twilight had coloured the valley red. He had just crossed the boreen with his paltry catch of the bream and a small, glistening eel concealed under his jacket, when the distant sound of a scream pricked his ears. His gaze was drawn to the sight, up the valley, of black smoke creeping skywards and lingering in a brooding cloud. He understood immediately what it meant. Evictions. Harris, Burrell and their men were throwing the cottiers onto the mercies of the world. He was pondering with dread how many weeks it might be before they themselves were evicted when a voice startled him.

  ‘Please sir. Please, in the name o’ God help me.’

  The frail female voice froze him to the spot. His first fleeting thought was that no one had ever addressed him as ‘sir’ before. He looked back to the track where a woman had risen from behind a rock. For a moment he believed God or Satan had again given life to the pitiful wretch he’d buried on the hillside earlier that day and felt a trickle of piss gliding down the inside of his leg. She was about thirty and wore the familiar mask of the wasted, along with a black scarf and a ragged dress of dark blue. In her bare arms she clutched a child of maybe six. The woman moved towards him with a pitiful gait, each step steeped in pain. He stood still.

  ‘They’ve thrun us out…everyone…me home. This little one is all I have left. Me babies are dead. Me husband, he went te England te work. Please have mercy,’ she wept.

  ‘I can’t help you, I’ve nothing.’

  ‘Please, sir, please, I beg ye. Tim went te England. Their harvest is near done now. He’ll be home with money and I’ll repay any kindness.’

  ‘I haven’t anything.’ He turned to leave.

  The woman’s wail pitched higher, panic hastening her words. ‘Please, if we can only get te Westport. He’ll come. She’ll die soon if I don’t feed her. Me name is Maebh Connor. Maebh Connor. From Glenummera, up yonder. Maebh Connor.’

  Owen tried to compel himself to flee but couldn’t manage it.

  ‘Maebh Connor,’ she whispered again, her voice losing hope. She sank to her knees and with horror he believed she was about to grovel for his charity, but instead she simply sat back on her heels and rested her head against her daughter’s.

  Owen realised he could hear his own breathing. He glanced over his shoulder up towards his home and then pulled the tiny eel from its hiding place.

  ‘This is all I have.’

  She looked up at the proffered food, reached out and snatched it. Owen watched as she bit directly into the raw flesh. She chewed and spat the mush into her hand, then began to push the half-chewed fish between the child’s lips. The girl moaned and coughed, parted her lips and allowed her mother press the morsels onto her tongue.

  ‘I have to go.’

  He turned away and set off up the hill as quickly as his bony legs would permit. He thought he heard the woman call something out to him, but it was carried away on the cool evening breeze that accompanied him up the hillside.

  As he approached the cottage through the deepening gloom, he could spy the flickering of a candle between the cracks in the half-rotted wooden door. With pride, he pulled the fish from beneath his jacket and held it aloft as he stepped through.

  Thomas sat by the far wall, Sally cradled in his arms. His father sat on their sole three-legged stool, staring blankly into the empty hearth. Owen felt an instant chill as he stepped into the space, his arm slowly drooping as though the weight of the fish was too much to bear.

  ‘She’s gone,’ Thomas said.

  ‘But I’ve brought food,’ Owen said pathetically, as if that could right anything. His father never stirred.

  ‘She died an hour ago.’ Thomas hugged his sister tighter as though afraid someone would steal her from him.

  The string slipped unknowingly through Owen’s fingers, the fish making a slapping sound against the hardened earth of the floor.

  Thomas sniffed, stroking Sally’s matted hair. ‘You should have been here.’

  ‘I went to get food.’

  Thomas looked up and Owen saw rage in his brother’s eyes. ‘She liked you the best. And ye ran away.’

  Owen fell to his knees and reached out to touch his dead sister. ‘I went to find food,’ he pleaded, tears spilling freely down his face.

  ‘Ye left her dyin’ te us,’ his brother muttered bitterly.

  ‘I didn’t. I–’

  ‘No food could have saved her. Ye knew she’d be dead when ye came back.’

  ‘Why are you saying that? I wouldn’t have gone if–’

  ‘She was callin’ for ye.’

  Owen wept bitterly. ‘Sally…’

  Michael Joyce spoke then without turning his head or raising his eyes. He continued to stare into the blackened ashes of the hearth.

  ‘We’ll bury her in the morning,’ he said.

  CHAPTER 2

  Achill Island is a treeless place. There are mountains beyond mountains lying against the sky, heather clad or mossgrown; there are small lakes lying at the foot of mountains or between mountains; there are dreary expanses of bog stretching for miles on each side of the road between us and the mountains, and rising out of the bog are wee bits of fields and most horrible habitations.

  –The Letters of ‘Norah’ on Her Tour Through Ireland, Margaret McDougall, 1882

  I may mention that Mr Boycott is a Norfolk man, the son of a clergyman, and was formerly an officer in the 39th Regiment. On his marriage he settled on the Island of Achill, and farmed there until he was offered some land agencies. After some twenty years’ residence in Achill, he elected to take a farm on the mainland.

  –Bernard H Becker, special correspondent of The Daily News, October 1880

  APRIL 1856

  Captain Charles Cunningham Boycott dismounted his bay thoroughbred and landed on the Achill earth with a jubilant bounce, turning to observe as his brother, Arthur, galloped to a sliding stop ten yards away.

  ‘Major Boycott, I believe I was twelve the last time you defeated me,’ he laughed, face bright with the flush of victory.

  Arthur, effulgent in his uniform of scarlet tails adorned with golden epaulets, shared the lightness of the moment and chuckled as he dismounted.

  ‘You truly are a scoundrel, Charles. You knew full well when you challenged me that my Hanoverian was no match for your beast. This is an army horse, not a racehorse.’

  Annie Boycott watched from the window as her husband Charles, Arthur’s younger brother by two years, became incensed, the grin rushing from his face, shoulders sitting back as though an affront had been done to him. In the two years since
their marriage she’d witnessed his abrupt mood swings and bouts of temper only too often.

  ‘Are you suggesting I cheated?’

  Annie was pleased to observe that Arthur’s ebullient good humour doused the spark of Charles’s emotion, as he slapped him on the shoulder and bellowed a hearty laugh.

  ‘Charles, you really do take these things too seriously.’

  A young stable hand approached and loitered, his cap clutched in front of his waist, eyes to the ground, clothing threadbare and filthy. Eventually Charles became aware of his presence and handed him the reins, barking something at the youth that was unintelligible to Annie, although she did notice a grimace flit across Arthur’s face. They turned and approached the house and, anxious not to be observed peeking, Annie retreated, as quickly as her heavily pregnant form would permit, towards an armchair. She gathered her crochet things and looked up in feigned surprise as they entered the room.

  ‘Annie!’ Arthur roared, never a man to observe strict formalities. He held his arms wide as he strode across the room, Annie requiring both hands to push herself up as she rose to greet him. Her brother-in-law was a broad-shouldered, tall man, quite unlike her husband, yet his embrace was gentle and considerate of her condition. She laughed at his jollity and the refreshing air of honesty with which he could fill a room. She had been so looking forward to his visit. Even the limited social contact she’d had on Achill had been curtailed as her pregnancy advanced, and the brightness of Arthur’s character would provide a pleasant contrast to Charles’s reserve.

  ‘My, oh my, Arthur. A major, no less.’

  ‘Oh never mind me, look at you! As beautiful as ever you were. I believe that the Atlantic air has made you sixteen again.’

  Annie sat, blushing despite herself. ‘Sixteen indeed. More like a basking shark.’

  Charles tapped his cane against the floor. ‘Enough of this nonsense, Arthur. You and your smooth tongue. It caused you no end of trouble with Father.’

  ‘I know it only too well, Charles.’

  Charles yanked the cord to summon the housemaid, Deirdre, who appeared promptly.

  ‘Bring tea for Mrs Boycott and a decanter of brandy, girl.’

  Deirdre curtsied and fled without a word, and Arthur raised his eyebrows at the sharpness in his brother’s voice. Annie dropped her gaze from his and pretended to straighten the folds of her dress over her knee.

  Both men took armchairs, Charles sitting forward, his cane clutched upright between his feet. His face was suddenly alive with anticipation.

  ‘So, Arthur. How was it? The Crimea, I mean?’

  Arthur’s boyish grin vanished. ‘Really Charles, I don’t wish to be rude, but if you don’t mind I’d rather not discuss the war. Perhaps another time.’

  Charles looked at Annie in search of support for his mild indignation but she quickly turned away and regarded Arthur from the edge of her vision. She was aware that twenty thousand young British men had perished in that terrible war, many through tactical blundering. She rushed to move the conversation along.

  ‘How is Emily? She must be a young lady by now?’ Annie asked of the men’s sister.

  Arthur’s smile returned. ‘Sixteen and very pretty. Quite the book reader. I believe she wishes to pursue a profession.’

  ‘How wonderful.’

  ‘Absolute rot. Father would have no time with such nonsense. I hope you’ve done your level best to dissuade her, Arthur.’

  ‘Charles. I’ve been away for two years. And Father has gone to his heavenly reward. So I’m afraid if Emily, or William or Frances for that matter, decide on a thing there’s little to be done. Anyway, it’s not so rare these days, women taking a profession.’

  Charles grunted dismissively. ‘Where is that maid?’

  ‘I’m afraid Charles doesn’t like change. He believes in “the constancy of order”, as he calls it,’ Annie remarked.

  ‘And I’m right!’

  A gentle rapping on the door preceded Deirdre’s entry. After a sharp reprimand from Charles for her slowness, she skittered away, tears near to the surface. Annie closed her eyes, fearful they would lose Deirdre, not least because she might need the girl’s help as the day of the child’s birth drew near, but also because they’d gone through four maids since their marriage.

  ‘Do you know, Annie, I still cannot quite believe that my scoundrel of a brother persuaded a girl of your beauty to marry him. How on earth did he accomplish it?’ Arthur said, handing Annie a cup of tea.

  Annie laughed unconvincingly and dropped her gaze. She’d had occasion herself to wonder how he’d accomplished it. The truth of it was that while she had found some degree of contentment in her marriage, it was far from the fulfilling relationship of which she’d dreamt. His regiment had been posted to Queen’s County, where she had then lived with her parents, and she had been first attracted to his uniform, his gentlemanly ways and his ambition. Her parents had thought him a fine prospect from a respectable background and so their influence had hastened her up the aisle at the age of nineteen, quite before she’d known where she was.

  She forced herself to enthusiasm. ‘Oh, you’d be surprised how charming he was. And he promised me that one day we’d be like a lord and lady of our very own manor. What girl could resist?’

  The talk turned to the intervening years since Arthur had last seen them on their wedding day. Arthur’s good spirits were infectious and Annie became effusive in telling humorous tales of their honeymoon in France and Italy. Her enthusiasm betrayed the remembered excitement of young lovers first granted the freedom to indulge their passions and she reddened a little when she glimpsed the smile on Arthur’s lips. Yet the memory of those very early days was precious to her, when Charles had for once surrendered his innate reserve and opened his heart, at least a little, and in that respect the honeymoon was wonderful, new experiences of the mind and body tripping over themselves to delight, terrify and educate her.

  Through all of this Charles sat with a vaguely embarrassed expression, yet Annie could tell that there was a hint of pride in his occasional dismissive grunts, a satisfaction taken that he, the younger and less handsome sibling, was capable of impressing a woman so. Such was the nature of men, of boys, certainly of brothers.

  ‘And how did you find things when you returned to, well, to this remote outpost of the empire?’ Arthur smiled, unfastening the top buttons on his tunic.

  ‘Well, I have to say that I was startled at the energy with which Charles set about the business of managing this estate, such a passion to succeed. Isn’t that right, Charles?’

  She was keen to entice him into the conversation, as she was fearful of being too open, he being of such a private nature. But on this occasion he seemed keen to impress.

  ‘Well, I’ve always believed that if one wishes to succeed in an enterprise one must devote oneself to it with discipline and single-mindedness. Two thousand acres and sixty tenants demands a great degree of dedication.’

  ‘Sounds like the Charles I’ve always known,’ Arthur chuckled.

  Charles rose with a decisive tap of the cane. He pulled his watch chain free of his jacket. ‘And on that subject it’s almost six o’clock and I still have work to do. If you’ll forgive me, brother, I’ll leave you in the good hands of my wife.’

  Arthur rose and Charles snapped a military salute as though still a captain, a position he’d vacated three full years ago. Arthur returned the gesture and his brother spun on his heels and exited without further exchange.

  ‘Charles still pines for his days in the army, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Still wants to play at soldiers,’ Arthur said reflectively as he watched his brother through the window, marching with purpose down the path. He turned to Annie, his expression abruptly serious. ‘It can’t have been easy for you, these last few years.’

  Annie stiffened a little, then shrugged away his concern. ‘Achill? Oh I know it’s remote, but it’s very beautiful. Just wait until you see the cliffs at Croagha
un. They truly are spectacular, highest in Europe some say. And Moyteoge Head is …’

  ‘I’m not just referring to the island, Annie. I do hope Charles has been…’ he stumbled over his words and Annie guessed he was about to drift into a well-meaning, but ill-judged heart-to-heart about their marriage and feared she might find herself in a position of acute embarrassment. She struggled to rise before Arthur could continue.

  ‘Arthur, if you don’t mind, I need to lie down for a time. If you would call Deirdre for me and perhaps assist me towards my room, she’ll see to your needs.’

  ‘Of course. You’re worn out trying to entertain a fool soldier.’

  ‘On the contrary, Arthur, I’m so pleased you’re here. Charles is away from the house so frequently that when he returns I think for a moment a stranger has entered my home,’ Annie said jokingly.

  ‘Yes. I can understand that,’ Arthur replied, but the smile, she noted, was absent from his tone.

  Deirdre helped her to undress and she lay on the bed in her chemise, relieved to be free of the constrictions of her clothes; though they were designed for maternity wear, fashion and decorum still demanded a certain rigidity. The maid then arranged a jug of water and a bowl on the dresser and checked that the bourdaloue was conveniently placed beside the bed. Annie observed the girl as she fussed about without comment, gaze perpetually fixed in a downward slant. She was a timid, homely girl with a coarse complexion, and was missing several teeth. And despite being relatively well fed in her capacity as housemaid, she remained as thin as a rake, a legacy of a childhood lived during the famine.