Boycott Read online

  ‘Thank you, Deirdre. That will be fine. Please go and inquire if our guest needs anything before preparing dinner.’

  Deirdre curtsied silently and turned to leave.

  ‘Deirdre…’

  The girl stopped in the doorway.

  ‘Deirdre…please don’t become too upset when Mr Boycott raises his voice.

  He doesn’t mean any harm. It’s his army training, you see…he…’ she was at a loss where to go, unsure even that she should make excuses for Charles with a servant, yet she was keen to retain Deirdre’s services. The maid gave an uncomfortable nod, then withdrew.

  Annie heaved a sigh and closed her eyes, opening them an instant later in response to a kick from within. She pulled up her chemise, exposing her drawers and the taut curve of her pregnant form. Her hand felt cool against the warm skin as she searched for contact with the unborn child. And there it was again. A gentle tap beneath her palm. Her own flesh and blood, not yet born to the world yet reaching out to her. Annie’s smile turned to an audible laugh and then almost as quickly to a sob, yet she was at a loss to tell if she felt happiness or sadness. Her emotions had been chaotic these past months, but the doctor had assured her that during pregnancy a woman’s mood was apt to shift with the frequency of the Achill winds.

  The truth was that her emotional confusion had begun soon after she had married. Even now as she lay looking out through the grey evening light at the boggy field in front of their home, she found it hard to grasp she was where she was: married and pregnant. It seemed like she could simply blink and she would be a girl of twelve again staring out the window of her parents’ fine country home with a view of their estate of some nine thousand lush, fertile acres – and not leased like this barren Achill Island earth, but owned by her family for centuries. Oh, the happy years she had spent there in the company of her sisters and brothers, or the times her father, Victor Dunne, had brought her along as he toured the tenants’ homes. Quite unlike her husband, he had always treated the tenants with respect, and with great charity during those terrible famine years. But when she had witnessed the hideous suffering of others on neighbouring estates she felt a profound guilt at their wealth.

  How she missed her parents now – how she wished her mother could have travelled to Achill and kept her company as her time drew near. But her mother had been ill these past weeks with an infection of the lungs sufficient to keep her bed-bound.

  Through the walls she heard the sound of muffled voices. It wasn’t Charles, whose voice carried through walls of any thickness, but probably Arthur talking to Deirdre. There was a clang, as though an enamel basin had been dropped, after which Arthur said something and she heard Deirdre giggling, the first time she had heard the girl actually laugh. Arthur, she reflected, was so unlike Charles it was hard to credit they had the same father and mother. As different as leaf and stone. Looks, temperament, tastes, all so at odds. Their only points of commonality being, as far as she could tell, that they each had a military connection and both had lengthy, twirling moustaches, but this hardly counted. Arthur was much the taller. At over six feet he positively towered over Charles’s five feet, eight inches. In terms of looks, he towered no less, having been blessed with handsome, manly looks and blue, gentle eyes. Charles was neither handsome nor ugly, simply in between, unremarkable. And, as she was learning, he was a small man in so many other ways.

  As she listened to Deirdre’s voice, Annie considered that it was the brothers’ natures that most set them apart, for her husband would never allow such familiarity with a servant. Arthur was charming, charitable and gregarious. Charles usually concealed any feelings he might have within a shield, only rarely lowering his defences, such as those early days of their courtship and the precious few times on their honeymoon. Or when she had told him she was bearing his child. As the months passed, he’d increasingly existed in a closed world where order and discipline were paramount and no quarter given to the enemy, whom she often suspected included most of the rest of humanity.

  She heard a door close followed by Deirdre’s footfalls and then there was silence but for the spits of rain that had begun to pepper her window. The baby kicked again. She wondered if, when the child came, she might be granted sight of another chink in Charles’s armour, a fleeting beat of his heart that she could share. Perhaps, she prayed, the child’s presence might open his heart as never before. She had heard such things were possible.

  Annie closed her eyes and fell asleep.

  Several days passed before the weather improved sufficiently to reveal the island in its natural glory. Charles, who had been avoiding giving him the grand tour, citing the demands on his time, finally agreed after his elder brother’s repeated requests, yet Arthur had the distinct impression he was an inconvenience.

  Their path took them in a winding curve up the steeply sided Croaghaun Mountain across a landscape of uneven, boggy earth and rock and Arthur quickly realised why his brother had selected a sturdy, agile Irish Draught horse for the journey. A number of times his Hanoverian almost stumbled, unused as it was to the terrain. The sky above was a mosaic of blue dotted with puffy clumps of white cloud and the April air felt crisp. The Atlantic wind had abated and the mist being absent, he was afforded a magnificent view across the expanse of Clew Bay towards Mayo’s Sheeffry Hills and the mountains of County Galway beyond.

  ‘It’s majestic, Charles, this place. I fancy there are few places on this earth that could compete with such a canvas of sea, land and sky.’

  His brother grunted. ‘I need to make a brief stop,’ he said.

  Arthur’s musings on the scenery were interrupted by sight of a crudely built cottage set into the hillside ahead. It appeared to be a single room, windowless and with a thatch of gorse through which a plume of smoke rose into the bright sky. A low wall of rough stones defined a field in front of it in which a lone man toiled, his back to them. As they approached, the peasant turned and Arthur recognised alarm on his face. A woman in a soiled dress stepped from the cottage and from within he could hear an infant’s cry. Despite the natural wonder of the place, Arthur was struck by how different a view these people would take of their surroundings. The tiny field would barely support the needs of one man, let alone his wife and child, and he imagined every mouthful of food they ate must be teased and coaxed from the unfertile earth.

  ‘Captain Boycott, sir,’ the man said, removing his cloth cap. He threw a nervous glance in Arthur’s direction.

  ‘Kilbane. Clearly our conversation on the subject of your sheep made no impression upon you. Yesterday the wall bordering my turnip field was disturbed and two rows of new plants were either eaten or trampled. There were sheep tracks everywhere and they led directly up here.’

  ‘But sir, there are five tenants with sheep on the mountainside. And besides, sir, with respect…’ the man said, an audible tremble in his voice, Arthur observed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, sir, ye graze a herd of sheep yerself…’

  Charles rose in his stirrups, his face turning red. ‘How dare you suggest that my animals were responsible! My sheep-herders assure me my flock was nowhere in the vicinity. And as I have informed you, the tracks led in this direction.’

  ‘But I checked me four animals last evening and they were on the western slope, near the cliff. That’s more than a mile–’

  ‘Don’t you dare contradict me.’ Arthur’s brother’s voice carried far across the hillside. ‘The penalty will be a fine of two days’ extra rent, the first day to compensate me, the second as a deterrent to you.’

  The tenant took several steps forward, his hand running over his head, alarm written across his face. He made a desperate appeal for leniency. ‘But sir, Captain Boycott, I can barely meet the rent now and feed me wife and child.’ He gestured towards the cottage. ‘Please don’t take the food from their mouths.’

  Charles wheeled his horse about and looked over his shoulder at the man. ‘You should have thought of that before you
let your sheep roam wild.’

  As the horse turned Charles found himself subjected to the admonishing gaze of his brother. For a brief moment the two men were children again in Norfolk, Arthur reproaching him for some ill-treatment of the local peasant children or for disrespecting the men who laboured for their father. Charles’s resolve seemed to weaken and he dropped his gaze. He brought the horse about and looked down at Kilbane. ‘This will be your final warning. One more incursion and the fine will stand, do you hear?’

  ‘Thank ye, sir, thank ye.’

  Charles grunted, kicked into the horse and took off up a barely discernible path, Arthur following with a shake of his head. The incident had revived uncomfortable memories of their father’s domineering, intolerant nature.

  Charles led the way, single file along the narrow track. They travelled in silence for several minutes before Charles spoke without looking back.

  ‘I can sense your reproach, Arthur. You believe I was harsh with the man. But I have my reasons. The rules must be obeyed, discipline maintained, especially in an environment such as this. We’re both military men. We both understand the absolute necessity of knowing one’s station in life and acting accordingly.’

  Arthur almost laughed aloud at his brother’s categorisation of them both as ‘military men’. Their backgrounds in that regard could hardly be more different. He’d left home to join the army aged seventeen to escape their father’s determination that he should enter the ministry and follow in his footsteps. He’d travelled the world, encountering countless cultures, learning to respect them, seeing unspeakable horrors and unwavering courage from comrade and foe alike. With Arthur gone, Charles had become the focus of their father’s ambition, but the reality was that Charles didn’t have the intellect to succeed with the theological studies required. A visiting brigadier had persuaded their father that the army could provide the self-discipline that would help Charles stay true to the path to God. Having little or no say in the matter, Charles was enlisted in the 39th On Foot regiment at eighteen and remained in the army for three years. He never saw action, and hardly ventured beyond the drill yard aside from his posting to Ireland when he met Annie. But he did embrace army discipline like a man possessed. Essentially, Arthur reflected, the army had broadened his own horizons immeasurably and narrowed Charles’s even further.

  ‘The thing of it is, Charles, you’re not in the army now. And your tenants are hardly the enemy.’

  No response was forthcoming and the matter was dropped.

  Their route took them above Lough Accorymore, a beautiful lake nestling in the mountainside. Charles paused briefly to point out the almost palatial Corrymore House below, where he hoped one day to reside. But Arthur found he had to muster enthusiasm in his response. Up still they went, the unevenness and gradient of the ground forcing them to dismount, until finally the land vanished and Arthur found himself staring out at the vastness of the Atlantic Ocean. He secured the horse to a rock and walked to the edge, his brother coming to his side a moment later as he stared dizzily down at the sea crashing with ferocity against the rocks two thousand feet below.

  ‘The western edge of the British Empire, Arthur. Incredible when you consider it, really. One could travel east from this spot all the way to New Zealand and still be on British soil. The magnificent order of it all.’

  Arthur turned and regarded him. He could tell that his brother took a personal pride in the part he played daily in maintaining that order. The view, if anything, exceeded what he’d experienced that morning but the joy of it was lost on him, the earlier encounter with the tenant having left an unsettling feeling in his gut.

  ‘A tiny barren island on the most western fringe of the empire. Yes, Charles, you truly have isolated yourself from the world,’ he said as he turned away.

  After another of her now-daily afternoon naps, Annie awoke to the sound of knocking on her door, the threads of vague dreams of her mother unravelling as she realised that the room had grown dark and the air had chilled. She tried to sit up.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Deirdre, ma’am, with your tea.’

  The girl entered bearing a lamp, poured the tea and handed Annie a cup.

  ‘What time is it, Deirdre?’ Annie asked through a yawn.

  ‘Seven, ma’am.’

  ‘Are Mr Boycott and his brother ready to dine?’

  ‘The gentleman’s in the parlour, ma’am. Mr Boycott’s just returned.’

  ‘Only now?’

  The maid shifted uncomfortably on her feet.

  ‘Thank you, Deirdre.’

  Arthur had been with them a week and yet the three of them had barely shared a meal together thanks to her husband’s insistence on working until the last rays of sunlight had drained from the sky. Charles had made no effort to entertain his own brother and at times she suspected he’d tired of his presence, perhaps unable to bear Arthur’s broad-mindedness and light-hearted manner. But then he was much the same when anyone visited. Even when her parents were here he’d seemed at the edge of his patience until they’d left. On a number of occasions she and Arthur had dined together and while she found his company most agreeable, once or twice talk had again drifted towards her marriage and she had hastened away from the subject. Why, she did not know. Perhaps because he was a man and men were not famed for their understanding of the female heart. Or was that simply an excuse she’d contrived? Was she embarrassed to reveal her fear that she had blundered terribly in marrying a man seemingly incapable of genuine love?

  She washed and dressed, then walked towards the parlour, her gait awkward, a hand clutching at the underside of her belly as though to hold the baby inside. She was halted in the narrow hallway outside the room by the sound of somewhat upraised voices from within, their tones almost acerbic. Charles and Arthur were arguing. She lowered the lamp to a table, hesitated as her conscience was momentarily pricked, then leaned her ear close to the door.

  ‘For God’s sake, Charles, is there no Christian charity in your heart?’

  ‘Charity and business don’t mix, Arthur. You’ve been a soldier all your life, you’ve no idea of the realities of running a business, especially in a place like this.’

  Arthur rose from his armchair and decanted a glass of brandy without bothering to ask his brother’s leave. ‘That’s precisely it. The land here is extremely poor. As are the people who work it. And yet I’ve seen you treat them with contempt.’

  Charles uttered a curt laugh. ‘That’s ridiculous. I no more hold the peasants in contempt than…than I could hold a sheep in contempt. I run this estate precisely according to the terms of the contracts of agreement. The peasants know what is expected of them, as do I. It’s the pre-ordained way of life.’

  Arthur sat again and stared at him. He sighed and shook his head. ‘My God, Charles, you’re turning into Father more and more each day.’

  Charles raised his metal-tipped cane and cracked it down on the wooden floor. ‘And what’s wrong with that, brother?’ he snapped.

  Arthur fell silent for a time, twirling the brandy glass slowly in his hands as he stared reflectively into the amber liquid. Although their father had been dead some three years, the memory of his strict authoritarianism was still fresh in Arthur’s mind. William Boycott, vicar, and Patron of the Living of St Mary’s Church in the village of Burgh St Peter, had been a man of rigid self-discipline who had tried to impose his moral philosophy on every member of his family and congregation by means of verbal and physical intimidation. He had no time for anyone that he referred to as ‘beyond his class or cloth’, and treated the men and women who laboured in the small bakery and pottery workshop they kept as one would treat beasts of burden. Their labourers and tenants had once been so angered by his treatment that a near riot had ensued and over a hundred people had besieged the rectory before order had been restored. Several generations back, their family name had been Boycatt, French Huguenots who had fled the repression of their Calvinist beliefs by the Cathol
ic Church, or so their father had reminded them incessantly. William Boycott not only preached strict Calvinist doctrine from the pulpit, or at least his narrow interpretation of it, but each day their family was told that only the special few had been predestined for salvation, relegating all others to the status of something less than human. Any questioning or dissent was rewarded with the birch and the strap.

  Arthur frowned at his brother’s readiness to leap to the man’s defence. He recalled that as a child Charles had been taciturn, preferring his own company. But there were times when they played together in the meadows of South Norfolk, or spent long hours fishing on the banks of the Waveney River, when Charles had opened up, laughed, talked excitedly of adventures beyond the horizon that they might share when they grew to manhood. And then their father’s shadow would loom over them and Charles would retreat within himself like a clam. Self-isolation increasingly became his sanctuary.

  It was their father’s passing and Charles’s substantial share of the will that had provided him with sufficient funds to leave the army and take the lease on Achill. He had hoped that somehow, with their father’s death, Charles might begin to find a better path. And when he met Annie it seemed for a time that this might come to pass. Her warmth of character, intelligence and generosity seemed to open the doors within Charles that their father had slammed shut. Then they’d moved to Achill and Charles had found himself in a position of authority and responsibility. Perhaps his only means of coping was to resort to his father’s ways. And when he thought about his brother now, Arthur could feel only pity.

  ‘Charles,’ he said softly, ‘our father was a very bigoted man and a tyrant.’

  ‘How dare you speak of Father in that mann–’